Despite being raised as a pureblood witch and regarding her duties as one seriously, Dorea had never been one to lie in wait for things to happen. And so when she was thirteen years old, freshly heartbroken and already betrothed to a man she had barely interacted with up to that point, she was determined to make the best of it.

They fell into a relationship nearly seamlessly, and he was nice enough; things could have been much worse if it had been Avery or Lestrange, after all. But she couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling of dread she felt when she thought ahead to their marriage. And so, she began to research options for love potions, musing that it might be a good option for her if she could keep her head while under it. She wasn't willing to shirk her duties, but didn't want to spend her life filled with unhappiness, either.
She settled on a potion that seemed perfect for her. Rare in its application, it had to be used when one felt fondness toward the object of the option. It was useless for its typical application forcing romantic love from a subject that despised the object. Its effect was subtle, creating nearly real love. But the secondary effect was what she really needed: it eliminated romantic love toward anyone else. The potion wasn't permanent, but it lasted until an antidote was used. And she wouldn't need to use it.

And so, she began to collect the hard-to-find ingredients, which took her nearly two years. By the time she had assembled the components, she was hesitant. She had begun to really love Charlus, even if it was different from the love she still felt for Abraxas. And as she spent less time with the latter, she was increasingly able to convince herself she was over him entirely.

Still, whenever Dorea went to rid herself of the ingredients, she hesitated, burying them deeper in her drawer instead, keeping them for a rainy day.

But the rainy day she had kept them hidden away for came sooner than expected. When she heard about Abraxas's death, she felt herself break, feeling such a depth of loss that she knew she would never forget the strain in her chest or the shakiness of her hand. And she couldn't convince herself that she never loved him, but she no longer wanted to. Taking the potion would be an insult to his memory. Dumbledore had been right; he wasn't close to anyone, really. She would miss him the most. And she had to give him—and herself—that much, at least.

But as Draco spoke to her, conveying with easy frankness his raw heartbreak over Hermione, she knew she could help someone else have lasting love and exact her revenge on Abraxas's killer: by making Hermione fall for Draco. It would be subtle; everything she had read said that it wouldn't even be noticed if administered by a third party. But it would be lasting, and she could give Abraxas's grandson happiness. She felt some guilt over giving it to Hermione, but it was the right thing for her, too. A life with Riddle was no life at all.

All these thoughts and more ran through the witch's head as she held her breath while Hermione drank from her butterbeer. There were a million things that could go wrong with the potion, and Dorea trusted herself, but not so much that she was arrogant. So she nervously asked: "How's the butterbeer?"

"Good as ever," Hermione said in a distant voice. She seemed distracted suddenly.

"Everything alright, Hermione?"

"Um… it's just that, well, Abraxas, I mean, he said he's going to a Quidditch tryout with Lyra."

"And?" Dorea asked flatly, suppressing the hope that was building in her chest.

"Doesn't that sound odd to you?"

"Yes, but your friend is rather odd. Why is it bothering you?"

"Well…"

"You can talk to me, Hermione."

Hermione regarded her suspiciously. Good. She's still herself. It's going to be fine. "It doesn't matter," Hermione said finally. "You said there was something you needed to talk to me about? That required liquid courage?"

Dorea suppressed a frown; she had completely made that up on the spot and didn't have anything. Well, she may as well test out the effects of the potion and go for the jugular.

"I'm in love with Riddle."

/

Was there alcohol in this butterbeer? Hermione felt a strange feeling work its way through her after she sipped the drink. But why would Dorea spike her drink?

Hermione squinted, trying to reduce the light coming in through her pupils as her head felt strange. Dorea asked her how her drink was. "Good as ever," she mumbled. Dorea was asking her if she was alright; was she?

Then her mind wandered over to her ex-boyfriend for some reason, and she kept picturing him with Lyra… why did she let him go off with her? And why did she care suddenly what they did together? She spoke out loud a bit, but stopped when Dorea seemed to be trying to get her to talk. She didn't trust the witch, so she let the subject drop. She was being absurd, anyway. She tried to change the subject but just felt herself falling deeper into confusion when Dorea said: "I'm in love with Riddle."

Hermione felt nothing. And not even an hour ago she had been snogging him, ready to finally be with him. What in Merlin's name? Hermione snapped out of her thoughts and looked up at the strange woman across from her. "I have to go." She stood and started putting on her gloves; though it had warmed up, it was still too chilly for her fingers that tended toward ice.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned around to see her lost expression reflected in Dorea's dark eyes. "Hermione, I wanted you to know first."

Hermione flicked her eyes up and down Dorea. "Tom doesn't love you, Dorea. Why are we talking about this?"

"I want to know if it's okay to pursue him. I know he doesn't care for me like I do for him."

It was such a strange conversation, and perhaps Hermione would have focused more on its oddities had her own brain not felt even more foreign to her. She didn't care if Dorea pursued him. She pictured them kissing, snogging, groping—nothing. "I don't care what you do, but I really need to go."

"Okay."

Hermione wandered away from the village and conjured a cushion to sit on, putting warming charms on herself and the gray seat.

She sighed, her breath slightly visible in front of her. Well, so much for winter ending.

Hermione heard soft crying behind her, steadily closing in on her. She considered moving before the person saw her but thought it might be too late, so she turned around to appraise her options.

It was Olive Hornby. She was wiping away tears as they fell with pink mittens. The imprecise method seemed more effective at spreading the tears than anything else, though. The usually irritating witch hadn't seen her yet, and Hermione could probably extricate herself from this interaction, but instead gave in and conjured another pillow next to her. "Would you like to sit?" She offered flatly.

Olive looked startled, but nodded. She seemed thrown off enough where she didn't make any snide comments, at least. "Thanks," she replied meekly. Hermione responded by hitting her with a warming charm. Olive half-smiled in response, but the effect was lost when her cries moved to sobs.

"What's wrong, Olive?" Hermione found herself asking. She told herself that she was trying to be a decent person, but in truth, she welcomed the distraction.

"It's M—Myrtle. She won't leave me alone. I've complained to the Ministry again, but they don't seem to be able to do much, or they just don't care."

"What does she do?"

"Just follow me around everywhere, reminding me that it's my fault that she's—" Any further words were muffled by Olive sobbing into her shirt sleeve.

Hermione awkwardly reached out and patted her. "Olive, you didn't hurt her. It's not your fault."

Olive scoffed. "I never hurt her? I hurt her every day. I know that oaf Hagrid killed her, but it doesn't make the guilt disappear. It doesn't change the fact that if she weren't there—if she weren't crying—she would still be here."

Oh Merlin. If I hadn't been kissing Draco, Abraxas would still be alive. Perhaps this numbness with regards to Tom is delayed processing of what I should have known all along: that he killed again. Even though I told myself I wouldn't dare hope, I thought maybe he had changed. Instead he's killed another person years before he did in my timeline, and I'm partially to blame. Maybe loving only makes Tom more erratic and dangerous, and part of me knows that.

But what about the remorse?, Hermione asked herself. I thought it was enough. I guess I don't know my heart as well as I thought I did.

Hermione turned to Olive. She didn't appear to need a response, though. She was steadily crying into her own lap.

After a while, Olive looked up, pushing away her curtain of hair to reveal eyes made somehow greener by her tears, as though they were plants that needed watering. "Thanks for listening." It was quiet; so quiet, that Hermione might have missed it if not for the distance they were from the hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade.

"Anytime." Hermione paused and bit her chapped lower lip before continuing. "You know it's okay to forgive yourself."

Olive smiled sadly. "I'm not trying to bury myself in my own guilt, Hermione. I keep trying to forget, but I can't. Myrtle won't let me."

"Have you tried apologizing?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Olive half-shrugged, her dejected expression conveying all she needed to. For Hermione's part, she felt the same. Just hours ago, she had been so hopeful, and now all she could feel was sorrow. There was no ghost haunting her; so why did she feel this way, and so suddenly?

The two women walked back together silently, separating before they closed in on the village.