Hello all, so glad you've stopped by. I've been working on this since August 2019, so you could say it's been a long time coming. The current pandemic has given me the time to finish, so here it is. I wish it could be under better circumstances.

This is a dark story, but not so dark that all hope is lost. I tried to emphasize the different facets of love/lust (as explained well in the poem at the beginning) and to show how deep the trauma of war can cut. The characters here are all shades of grey and hopefully you will notice how they evolve through the course of the work. There are sections with dubious consent that some may find upsetting. I'll do my best to post a warning at the beginning of those chapters.

As I say in the summary, this is Dramione. That said, the relationship between Tom Riddle and Hermione plays a major role in this story and can't be ignored.

I hope you'll give it a try. Much love in these troubled times,

The Corrosive Pen

Where the Broken Ends Meet

"Love seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay

Trodden with the cattle's feet,

But a Pebble of the brook

Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only self to please,

To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

-William Blake, The Clod and the Pebble

~*~ One ~*~

It was over.

They had been on the brink of total annihilation for months, but it was well and truly over now. Hermione's breath was a ragged pant as she reached the top of the Astronomy Tower stairs, her tattered and bloody robes billowing behind her in the chill fall breeze. It was barely dawn, the inky tendrils of night still clinging to the sky, but the battle had been raging since the previous twilight, the final push of the Death Eaters to finish off the Order. The air was laden with ozone and blood, the vestiges of spells best left unknown.

Hermione took a steadying breath as she reached into her pocket, pulling out the miniature hourglass attached to the delicate chain. It had been burning a hole in her side for months now, ever since she managed to nick it during a ministry raid. But it hadn't been warranted. They'd lost so much, but it hadn't been over. Not like it was now.

Her hands trembled as they draped the chain about her neck and gripped the slender hourglass. This was utter desperation; the last resort of last resorts. But it was over and now there was no other choice, no other path toward salvation. No, there was only a trail of sightless eyes and loss so infinite it filled every corner of her soul making her ache in ways she couldn't begin to describe. So she spun the hourglass in its frame, carefully counting the rotations. Too many and she'd risk jumping through time forever, too few and it wouldn't matter.

A blast of green illuminated the stairway followed by the telltale thump of a body toppling down the remaining stairs. Heavy footsteps echoed as the victor continued the trip up the tower. Hermione didn't take her eyes off the spinning vial of sand as she backed away from the stairs. There was no stopping now no matter who emerged. Her finger caught the hourglass as it finished its final rotation.

An instant later a silver mask was in front of her as strong arms tugged her against a solid, very male frame. His robes were stained with blood and gore, the stench enough to induce nausea in the feint of heart. But Hermione no longer noticed the smell, no longer felt the urge to purge everything within her at the sight of bile and flesh.

There had been a time, years ago now, that she'd vomited for days on end, that she'd been overwhelmed by the realities of battle. But three years of war had stolen such sensitivities from her. They'd also stolen Ron and Ginny. It had barely been a year into the war when Ginny had fallen, cut down by some masked figure merely doing his duty to the enemy. Harry, Hermione and Ron had raged, turning the loss into something visceral to fight with. But that had only lost Ron to a burst of green as well. Indeed, the green glow of the Killing Curse no longer caused her pulse to race or her chest to tighten. It was simply another reality of war, merely a green light that signaled another drop of life into a well of eternal death.

After Ginny and Ron passed, the well just kept filling. The faces she'd seen at school gradually thinned until Hermione knew only a handful of the people she fought beside. Even the enemy evolved, fewer Death Eater's voices eliciting the sting of recognition. Life became a struggle, a bottle of Firewhiskey and the moans on Harry's lips as he buried himself within her over and over until neither of them could remember Ginny or Ron.

But she'd seen Harry fall, minutes ago, as he stood between a horde of masks and the battlements of the castle. She'd seen his body tip over the edge, a lifeless bird as it tumbled to the ground, rustling the fallen leaves below. It was over.

The Death Eater's grip on her tightened as the world began to spin. There was a rough pull at the chain around her neck and then the loop extended about his broad shoulders as well. Hermione would have protested, put up at least of modicum of a fight, but the risk was too great. The timing was precise and she could ill afford to ruin this last, desperate hope. So instead she stood stiff as a board, ignoring the burn of her skin where he pressed up against her. When they arrived, she would deal with him.

The world stopped rotating at a blistering pace in an instant. Hermione swayed on her feet a long moment before sense returned and she quickly yanked the Time Turner over their necks, nearly tearing the delicate chain in her haste to conceal it from her stowaway. Only once the delicate hourglass was safely in her robe pocket did she spring into action. Her shoulder crashed into his sternum with a thump that had her wincing and him falling back a step. Her elbow was next, cracking across his chin and forcing his mask askew. She yanked the offending object away with her free hand, flinging it to the ground.

Her hand froze on its path to her wand when the features in front of her finally coalesced. Her pulse skipped a beat, then another, as familiar eyes the color of angry December skies stared back at her. His jaw was sharper than she remembered, but in away that complimented the high cheekbones and full lips above. Hair that managed to still look sinfully soft hung in dirty tendrils, just brushing the line of his jaw. Streaks of red and brown hid much of the distinctive of platinum, but Hermione knew exactly what color it would appear without the grime.

Holding her gaze, Malfoy shed his outer robe, the Death Eater garment that had been coated in nothing but charred flesh and fresh blood. He dropped it unceremoniously on top of the mask she'd discarded. Hermione couldn't hold back the flinch as his wand slipped down from a forearm holster, but he didn't point it at her. Rather, a quick flick and the clothing on the stone erupted into flame, the metal of the mask contorting as the fabric below burned.

They stood in total silence until the robes were no more, even the stench of death gone. Malfoy's features were inscrutable as he asked, "When the bloody hell are we, Granger?"

"1943."

Malfoy repeated the date under his breath, a storm gathering behind tempestuous eyes as the pieces fell together. She'd always secretly admired his ability to problem solve, to come up with clever solutions when he thought his fellow Slytherins weren't watching. But now, now that sharp intellect was staring at her with all the horror their situation warranted. "We're at Hogwarts in 1943. I assume you are perfectly aware of who else resides in this castle at this time."

Hermione didn't even blink as she nodded. "Yes. That was rather the point."

"And what exactly are you planning to do?"

She didn't need to answer him; didn't need to explain her plan to a man who was a notorious Death Eater. But he was also the only other human being that knew who she was here. Was it wrong that the appearance of his cold eyes and marble features had filled her with relief before decaying into dread? He was not a friend, not even an ally, but neither was he a stranger. They'd lived together for six years in this castle and she knew him, perhaps not the man he'd become, but the boy he'd been.

"I plan to destroy him using whatever means necessary."

Malfoy blinked slowly as if he couldn't quite believe the words coming out of her mouth. "Have you lost your bloody mind?"

"It's been three years of war, Malfoy. Do you still have yours?" Between the constant death, the inexorable use of the Killing Curse and the slow decay of her soul, Hermione was running on fumes. She was serious when she'd told Malfoy whatever means necessary. Her life hardly mattered now, its light long since snuffed out. She would find a way to set the world right and then she would be done, able to melt away from the pain until nothing remained and she was free at last. What the world did with that second chance would not be her concern, for if Hermione had learned one thing over the past three years, it was that destruction was inevitable and there were no such things as the good guys, only a million shades of gray that tortured the soul.

Malfoy stared down at his left leg for a long moment, as if peering into an abyss only he could see, before nodding. "I suppose not. But that doesn't explain why you're doing this. It's a suicide mission at best."

"There is the possibility of returning. It's not well documented, going so far each time, but it's not impossible either." She sighed, running a hand through tangled tresses. "But it's over, Malfoy. You were there. You know. The only way to save them is to change this, eliminate him from the equation."

"To save Saint Potter you mean." If his eyes had been stormy skies before, they were jagged icicles now. "Rumor has it Potter's been shagging your brains out every night for the past two years, Granger. Can't live without a good fuck, is that it?"

The blood in her veins froze for an instant in the wake of his cruel disdain before heating to a fever pitch, roiling beneath her skin. "Shut up, Malfoy. You have no idea what you're talking about it."

His lips pulled up in a smirk that was damningly familiar, a refined version of the one she'd endured for years within these halls. "So it is true. You're nothing but Potter's whore. It's a shame about him dying and all… not sure what use you'll be to the world now."

That she'd been prepared to give him a chance, to perhaps even allow him a part in her mission seemed absurd now. How had she forgotten the viciousness behind those crystalline eyes?

Her wand was digging into his throat before she even thought about moving. Hermione watched his pulse hammer against the wood, but he gave no outward sign of distress.

"Do not, for one bloody moment, think you know anything about my life, you vile cockroach." She dug the wand deeper until he was forced to swallow, until his breathing wasn't quite as even as it had been. "Just because you got on your knees for Voldemort doesn't mean the rest of us were such cowards."

Malfoy's hand closed around her wand and in one quick twist of his wrist it tore away from her fingers. Her heart stuttered as he moved fully into her, his breath hot against her prickling skin. "Listen very carefully, Granger. I am not the boy you once knew. Perhaps you aren't the pathetic girl anymore either. It doesn't matter. Do not ever threaten me again. You're woefully ignorant of who I am and of what I am capable."

A throat cleared in the doorway and suddenly her wand was back in her hand with Malfoy a respectable distance away. Hermione watched those brittle silver eyes crack into a million shards of glass and she knew. She knew who stood behind her, what cerulean eyes alight with hypnotic twinkles awaited her.

Hermione turned, not giving herself the chance to retreat from this man who had once meant so much to her. In the years of war, the endless struggle to make the good side win, she'd discovered much about Albus Dumbledore. The most important of which was he was no good man at all. Oh, he was good for the cause, loyal to the defeat of Voldemort at every turn, but that was different than being a good man. He'd used them, Harry most of all, to fight a seemingly unstoppable evil. And it had been the right call, for the greater good, for the fate of the wizarding world. But hardly for Harry, Ron or Hermione. It had taken years of bloody strife, the deaths of Ron and Ginny, for Harry and Hermione to come to this uncomfortable conclusion. They'd both believed in him so bloody much that realizing he'd been a man of flaws, so utterly banal in the end, had been like ripping the foundation away from a building, leaving it teetering in mid-air. Everything they'd believed had shattered after that, destroying whatever worldview they'd had left from their childhood.

Yet she couldn't bring herself to be angry with the man who stood in front of her, not this version of him or the version that would die on this very tower 54 years later. Hermione understood now what it meant to put the world first, to use others to achieve impossible aims. It was repulsive and yet inescapable when the stakes were so very high. When infinite war was the cost.

"There was a disturbance in the wards." Dumbledore's keenly intelligent stare swept over Hermione and then Malfoy. "I believe I have found its source. It is highly unusual to be able to arrive within these castle walls. The wards do not allow apparation or portkey entrances."

Hermione nodded. She was prepared for this conversation. "True, Professor, but perhaps we have not come from outside the castle walls."

Malfoy shifted beside her, moving his weight fully toward his right side as Dumbledore approached them. His beard was mostly brown, only streaked with a hint of silver, but his eyes were as she remembered, sharp as jagged glass behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Your attire is most unconventional," Dumbledore offered after making a slow circle about them. And in 1943 it surely was. She was wearing tight fitting jeans with scuffed black combat boots. Her black sweater was slightly more apt, but still cut to reflect a different sensibility. Malfoy was better off, his gore splattered charcoal slacks and black button-down timeless in comparison. If Dumbledore had noticed the pile of ash smeared across the stone where Malfoy's other clothes had burned, he hadn't shown it.

"Our mission is rather unconventional." Now the gamble began. Hermione's heart nearly thumped out of her chest as she stared deliberately into curious blue eyes.

"This isn't going to work, you bloody moron," Malfoy hissed under his breath. She could feel the full force of his disapproval prickling against her skin, but didn't spare him a second glance.

"What isn't going to work?"

Malfoy had enough sense not to reply to the professor's query. "He's worried about the integrity of our mission. It is a delicate matter concerning a resident of this castle."

Dumbledore continued to survey them silently for a long moment before something shifted deep within his gaze. "It is irregular, but not unheard of that the ministry would require such business be conducted within the castle walls. There are several clear difficulties I foresee. The first is that you and your companion are clearly no longer of school age."

"Our own schooling was disrupted by the Muggle war and the exploits of Grindelwald in the South of France. We're looking to complete our education at wizarding school that hasn't been ravaged by either of these forces."

Dumbledore's lips pursed. "And how exactly is your French?"

"Pour mon cas il n'y aurait aucun soucis; j'ai grandi en parlant français. Par contre, en ce qui concerne ma chère compagnonne incapable, eh bien... Je peux seulement vous suggérer de lui trouver quelque autre origine. C'est une cause perdue." The words rolled off Malfoy's tongue like melted butter and it occurred to Hermione that he truly was fluent, or something close. She'd never heard him speak French before, but there'd been rumors of the Malfoy family vacationing there during their Hogwarts years. And he was right, from what little she could understand of his reply. Her French was terrible, but Grindelwald hadn't ravaged the continent anywhere else yet, so it was the best story out of a slew of awful ones.

"Perhaps a cousin who was visiting you in France when the occupation began?" It was clear Dumbledore was certain she would not pass for a French girl.

Malfoy's mouth contorted grotesquely for a moment before he managed to growl, "We are not, nor shall we ever be, related. Fictionally or truly and that is non-negotiable."

Hermione didn't particularly appreciate the disgust gleaming behind brittle silver, but she shared the sentiment. Malfoy may have played along thus far, but there was no way either of them could pretend to be kin. Just the thought of having to look at him as if he were family made her skin crawl.

"He's right. We can just say I was on vacation when Grindelwald began his attack, visiting relatives who are all dead now." That was closer to the truth than anything. All of Hermione's loved ones were dead. The thud of Harry's body hitting the dirt below echoed through her memory, sending a fresh wave of horror cascading beneath her skin.

Dumbledore's brow furrowed, a sympathetic glint entering his sparkling stare. "There is much death in these terrible times." He turned to Malfoy. "This brings me to the next issue. You bear a striking resemblance to one of my current students in Slytherin house. I would recommend making some sort of non-magical alteration to prevent this from becoming obvious to all."

"Abraxas," Malfoy murmured.

"Indeed." Dumbledore took a long moment surveying Malfoy, but the blonde didn't volunteer any further information. With a world-weary sigh, the professor turned away from them. "There is a set of spare rooms at the base of this tower, reserved for guests. I would advise you to clean the death off of you and make appropriate changes to your appearance. The sorting ceremony will be held at six sharp in the Great Hall, in which you will both be expected to participate. I will inform Headmaster Dippet of your arrival, but not give any more details than required. I sincerely hope you know what you're doing, Miss Granger."

Hermione could hardly keep the smile from tugging her lips as Dumbledore began to descend the stairs. It had worked. She'd done her best to offer eye contact whenever possible, but there had been no guarantee that Dumbledore would take the bait. Indeed, the naïve Hermione of her Hogwarts years would have been dismayed with the alacrity Dumbledore had shown in plundering her mind, but the war veteran had been counting on it.

She could feel the tension radiating from Malfoy as he moved to stand beside her. "How much does the bloody old coot know, Granger?"

Hermione allowed the grin to fully capture her lips as she turned to stare into the storm clouds roiling within his eyes. "Everything, Malfoy. I was a bloody open book."

His only response was a growl low in his throat that stole the smile away as quickly as it had appeared. That part of the plan might have worked, but having a Death Eater as an accomplice was something else entirely. Hermione glared a hole through Malfoy's head the entire way down the stairs.