Present Day
Her legs burned. Her lungs screamed. She could have Apparated, but to where? She sprinted to the cliffs, feeling the wet spray of the ocean on her face. Hermione turned round to see just how little distance she had put between herself and Selwyn—and now she stood precisely in the place where it had all begun, where her carriage had nearly toppled over into the sea. She wanted to laugh, were her lungs not so empty and raked through.
If she had known then what she knew now, would she have stayed?
…Would she have even stopped the carriage from toppling over into the sea?
There was no time for such thoughts. Hermione rooted along the ground for sticks and, with a few spells, Transfigured a small rowboat. The effort of such a trick nearly killed her. Her magic was seeping away...
She would have to travel by sea; she would be found on land far too easily. She hovered the little boat down the hillside, closer to the shoreline, and picked her way through the slippery rocks. She dropped the boat into the black water and was nearly thrown to the rocks by the splash. She clumsily scampered along and fell into the rocking boat; she distantly heard his voice scream her name. With shaking, soaking wet hands, she cast a weak Disillusionment spell, and she faded into the sea.
The boat rocked with the waves as she ventured further into the sea; she watched those dark cliff faces, and saw his figure appear atop them, his cloak whipping behind him.
"Hermione!" he called, one last time, his voice carrying on the wind.
She turned away, her tears mixing with the sea spray on her cheeks. He knew she was there, even if he could not see her, but she could not—no, would not—call back to him.
You must respect yourself above all else, never forget that. But it comes at a cost.
Two Years Ago
Dawn broke.
Hermione had determined how to perform an Undetectable Extension charm, and now proudly carried her entire library of books that she was allowed to take with her. Clad in one of the modest grey dresses that she had taken all night to sew, with a heavy, plain black cloak on top and her normally wild hair pulled back into a severe bun, she towed her belongings—mostly books—to the entrance of the Great Hall.
Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Dumbledore were there to see her off. Snape had begged off, insisting that he did not want to continue to be part of this 'charade.' She had overheard the argument, loud as it was, earlier between the professors.
A black carriage, pulled by thestrals, waited for her by the doors to the Great Hall.
"The journey to Selwyn Hall will be long. There is food in the carriage for when you become hungry. You won't arrive until nightfall," explained McGonagall, pragmatic as always. Her spectacles fogged in the morning air as Hermione realized she was growing emotional. The older woman stepped aside, and Hermione fought the urge to embrace her. It would have displeased McGonagall to have her emotions acknowledged in such a way.
"Have you brought enough books?" twinkled Dumbledore, nodding to her bags which bulged in spite of the extension charm. Hermione beamed at him, then watched as he guided McGonagall back into the castle rather tactfully, leaving Hermione alone in the dawn with Remus. She could not help but balk at this—if he really understood the nature of her feelings for Remus, it was so improper to leave her alone with him…
But Remus stood before her now, a head taller than she, and though his face was young, it was lined prematurely, and his brown hair was streaked with grey before his age warranted it. She knew why he was so aged, so worn and grey, and she loved him for it; she had once read that pity was the heart of love and she knew such words to hold truth.
He was the man who had argued for her position here at Hogwarts—he had advocated for her through everything. She owed so much to him, and though her considerable pride insisted that she take ownership for her own accomplishments, her own self awareness, also considerable, told her that she should be thankful for and humbled by this man's help. In spite of his own burden under which he was cursed to suffer he had given her everything in her life that she now had and loved—including himself.
Their eyes met. Oh, but she loved him.
"You must write," blustered Remus now, struggling with his own emotions. "You must write every single day—Selwyn Hall is so old; there will be so much incredible history to it, so many secrets in its walls. And you must describe Riddle and all of your adventures to me, because the castle will be so boring..."
...Without you... were the words left unsaid.
They stood there, the nature of their relationship pendulous.
Remus had been like a father, then like a brother, to her. And had she been any other girl, it would have been so easy, so natural, for their relationship to evolve once more, into something more, now that she was marriageable, now that he was a bachelor, though he was twenty years older than she. The notion that this option existed, however, held little weight. She had no true sense if he returned her affections, and moreover, to marry him would be to sacrifice her independence.
But would it be so horrible...?
She would now turn away from that option, perhaps forever.
It seemed, at the moment, unbearable. He was perfect: he was kind, he was bright, he was loving, he was unselfish. He was patient. He was gentle.
"You have been everything to me," she confessed.
"Well, now, someone else will be everything to you. I must admit, I'm jealous of Riddle—teaching someone brilliant as you is a pleasure," he said softly.
Perhaps there was some weakness in her too, because at his words, something in her ribcage—perhaps her heart—twinged with a singular kind of pain. Would it be so horrible, she wondered, a worn path in her own mind she had traced so often she knew it at each beat of her heart, to sacrifice myself for such a worthy man?
Could it not, possibly, be worth sacrificing her independence to then know what his hands felt like upon her bare skin, to feel his hold on her tighten in the night, to guard him from himself and his curse at every full moon?
They gazed hungrily at each other for a moment longer, each memorizing the other's face. Remus' head began to incline toward hers, and hope swelled within her.
Then, Hermione turned away. She could not say why she did it.
She entered the carriage alone. She heard Remus shut the door behind her, ensconcing her in the darkness of the carriage, and then he uttered a sharp, practiced command to the thestrals—and then the lake and trees were blurring past her, and she was leaving forever.
Hours went by. Hermione wished to read, but the ride was too bumpy, no matter how many spells she attempted to hold her books steady. She hated to simply be alone with her thoughts and fears, boxed into this stuffy carriage, jostled along. She watched the countryside fly by intently; as they traveled south, where winter was not so close, the autumn colours grew more vibrant, those last ecstatic shouts of crimson and orange set aglow by sunlight. They rode along roads lined with ancient crumbling stone walls, under trees that were so red they appeared to be aflame, through tumbling, tangled moor, through flat, tidy forest. But they weren't heading towards London, she was certain of it—if they were, they would have used the main roads.
The flaming sun descended and cast the countryside in stark relief. Everything turned silvered lavender, and even in her carriage Hermione became cold. The countryside grew more wild and ragged, and soon that crumbling stone wall that they had been following disappeared completely. Hermione ate some of the food that had been provided, but her stomach was too unsettled to make much progress.
Hours later, near dusk, they came upon rolling moor.
In the distance, on the crest of the moors, she spotted a lone figure of a tall, lean man, silhouetted in the growing darkness, and her heart shuddered. There was something wrong about him.
They were traveling toward him, she realized. Were they on the Selwyn Hall property yet? Was this silhouette a servant, come to greet her? It seemed an odd place to meet them. Distantly she could hear the crash of waves, but she couldn't see the sea anywhere.
And then, as they approached the man and were mere meters from him—she saw nothing clearly of him but a flash of dark hair—it all happened quite fast.
There was an explosion of sod and grass; the thestrals whined like horses and the carriage was sent flying as flames erupted to the sky. Hermione screamed and grappled for her wand as the carriage rolled and tumbled along the hillside; she cast a panicked spell to stop its rocking, and it abruptly came to a halt. She was thrown to the side of the carriage, which now was facing the ground. The contents of her trunks were scattered everywhere.
Panting and gasping, she rose on shaking legs and smacked the side of the carriage—which now faced the sky—and banged the door open. She stared at it, now able to hear the sound of the waves quite clearly, and able to see the night sky, slowly becoming dotted with stars. Just as she wondered how in Merlin's name she was going to get out, a man's face blocked her view of the sky.
He was uncommonly handsome—for a moment she thought she might be hallucinating—with skin pale as alabaster and hair and eyes dark as ebony, though she was certain, somehow, that he was not the man she had seen earlier.
"The Hogwarts Crest on the carriage—where's my apprentice?" the man demanded. Hermione's stomach dropped.
This was Lord Riddle.
It had to be.
But she had imagined their meeting, and her consequent explanation, to be a little less chaotic than this. She had imagined stepping out of the carriage, garbed in her plain but new clothes, in a stately and refined manner. She had not imagined appearing at the bottom of a carriage, mussed and bruised and dripping blood. She smiled weakly up at him.
"Right here," she confessed. "I stopped the carriage but I'm not sure I can get out." She paused, her eyes meeting his. "Who was that man—"
"You're the apprentice. Really." He swore an oath she'd not heard before though she was clever enough to interpret the meaning, and her cheeks flushed. "No wonder that stupid old man looked so amused." She guessed he meant Dumbledore and she gasped at how he spoke of Dumbledore. His face disappeared from view as she heard him jump off the carriage.
Fearful that he wasn't going to help her, she mentally scanned through all of the spells she knew, and then braced herself as she cast one to hopefully roll the carriage once forward.
There was more force than she'd expected, and she was pitched forward. She smacked into the door and felt something hot trickle down her forehead. Dazed and in pain, she stumbled out of the carriage on weak legs to find Riddle standing before her, looking shocked, silhouetted by brilliant flames, and she heard the roar of the sea behind her. She looked back over her shoulder.
The carriage sat pendulously on a cliff overlooking the sea.
One more roll and she would have fallen in.
The impact of the carriage against the rocks would have likely killed her. There was no sign of the thestrals.
"Who was that man?" she asked again, looking back to Riddle, her heart racing. "There was a man who caused some sort of explosion—"
"There was no man," said Riddle, as he approached her. "You stopped the carriage by yourself—so you're not entirely useless." He studied her as she studied him, too in shock to bother herself with manners. Absently she cast a complicated dousing spell and Riddle glanced back at the now-doused flames in further surprise.
He was tall—taller than even Dumbledore, perhaps—and wearing a fashionably-cut, well-made coat with both Muggle and Wizarding elements of style. He had a tall, elegant physique and shrewd dark eyes and pale lips, his jawline and cheekbones almost too sharp. Out here in the dark smudged landscape, he looked like a rare jewel among weeds.
Just beyond him there was a gash in the ground—remnants of the explosion. He led a gleaming black horse, which stood calmly—too calmly—behind him.
"There was a man," she pressed on, "standing on the hill, and he—"
"You have traveled a long way and hit your head," he said now, as he swung himself up onto his horse with ease. "I will send for a servant to fetch you. Please stay there."
"So you'll accept me as—" but her words died on the wind as she watched his horse set easily into a gallop over the hill. She gathered her skirts and trotted towards the crest to watch, and there, on the next hill in the distance, Selwyn Hall rose up like a fortress before her.
Riddle, on his black horse, his traveling cloak cast out behind him, moved like a ghost along the landscape.
Having gingerly gathered her things and done her best to mend the gash in her forehead, Hermione stared out at the thrashing sea. It was quite late now—it had to be at least eight o'clock. She at last heard the clop clop of horses and turned round to see a hunched, stout cloaked figure on a muddy brown horse, holding an enchanted lantern and guiding another silvery-grey horse towards her. The man's hand was revealed as he held the lantern up, slowing to come to rest before her. The hand gleamed in the spare moonlight—it looked to be made of some kind of metal but moved fluidly, liquidly. Her stomach turned at the sight even as some sort of thrill raced in her blood.
Only dark magic could create something like that.
"Can you ride a horse?" he rasped with little authority. In the dim light she could see he had a mousy, whiskered face, partially obscured by the hood of his cloak. He seemed a timid and pathetic sort of man, in stark contrast to Riddle.
"Y-yes," she said, unsettled by the metallic hand, though a deeper part of her deeply admired the powerful magic undoubtedly behind it. He waited, making impatient noises, as she slung her bags upon the spare horse's saddle and unsteadily clambered onto it. The horse was docile enough, and soon they were moving at a canter towards Selwyn. "Has Riddle accepted me as his apprentice?" she called above the winds as they rode. The man rode ahead of her and said nothing.
She thought of Remus, of McGonagall, of her four-poster bed in her own room in the castle. She reflected on all that she had left behind. And, as they reached Selwyn, she wondered at what she was possibly taking on, and whether she was prepared for it.
Selwyn Hall was certainly old—perhaps from the time of kings. Its stone facade overlooked a sparse lawn, its pointed arches spiked upward into the night sky. Beyond the right side, she could see what once must have been a fine garden, which rolled towards the sea. On the manor's left, there lay tangled woods, already barren of leaves.
Though intimidating, there was an ancient, thrilling beauty to it. Hermione's horse slowed to a trot as the man led them around the right side, through the remains of the gardens. The autumn's last roses dotted the masses of thorns and leaves among the gravel paths. They wended through the gardens and eventually came to a side door. From inside, jewel-like light cast squares of gold onto the dusky path. Finally—a sign of warmth, of life!
"Go there. Lady Lestrange will be waiting for you."
Hermione slid off the horse, grasping her things, and watched the stout man lead both horses away, presumably to stables around the back. She thought the name 'Lestrange' sounded quite elegant—she must be the head of the house, she surmised. She imagined an elderly, stately housekeeper with a dainty lace cap.
Hermione opened the door into a low-ceilinged, packed kitchen, which smelled strongly of magical herbs. There was no one in the kitchen, though pots on top of the stoves bubbled away merrily, and there was a roaring fire in the hearth. Feeling the first tinge of relief, Hermione set her bags down.
"Hello?" she called out.
House Elves appeared with resounding cracks and clamored towards her, but a shadowed figure appeared across the kitchen and they were immediately silenced against their own will.
She was voluptuous and slightly plump in a sensuous way, with wild black hair hanging down her back, and heavily-lidded eyes lined with kohl, and a rebellious dusting of freckles along the bridge of her nose. Her gown, though black, was made with high-quality satin and lace, and did far more for her figure than Hermione's did for hers. They clearly viewed clothing as having very, very different purposes. "Are you Lady Lestrange?" The woman took a few steps into the room, her skirts swishing sensuously, as she regarded Hermione like she was a horse for sale and likely not worth its price.
"I am," she said now, her voice like a blade. "I will show you to your room."
Only somewhat put off by Lady Lestrange's lack of manners—she had spent the better part of ten years in Snape's acquaintance, of course; she was rather accustomed to poor affect—Hermione gathered up her things and followed the woman.
That night, she lay in her bed, listening to the night sounds of Selwyn Hall. Try as she might, she could think of little else but the man's silhouette atop the hill.
Riddle must be hiding something, she decided. There was no doubt in her mind that she had seen a man, and that that man had caused the explosion. Who was he, and why had he caused such a thing? It hadn't been Riddle—the man had been slightly shorter, he hadn't been garbed in fine clothes; he had lacked that self-possession that Riddle had. There had been something wild and unsteady about that silhouette.
And why was Riddle denying it? Why had Riddle refused to even listen to her?
She rose from her bed and went to the desk below the window. She was cold—the manor was even colder than Hogwarts—but she was too determined to care. She lit her wandtip and sat at her desk, and retrieved parchment and a quill.
A strange, alien thought occurred to her—what if her letters were read before being posted with the manor owl? She had never had to concern herself with such a thought before. But if Riddle truly were involved with the Dark Arts…
I'll send the owl tonight. It won't take all night to fly back to Hogwarts, she reasoned. They won't even know it was gone.
She began to write with fervor.
Dear Professor Lupin—
I have arrived at Selwyn, though not altogether safely.
Hesitating on how best to explain the evening, she dove into a quick, factual account of it. At the end, she added a note:
So far, Riddle has not turned me away. I suppose we shall see what tomorrow morning holds…
Love,
Hermione Granger
She folded up the parchment and tucked it in her dressing gown. Her stomach growled—Lady Lestrange had not offered her any food, and she'd not eaten anything aside from the small meal on the road.
Perhaps she could have a small meal while she was at it.
On stockinged feet, Hermione left her room, her wandtip lit, as she padded along as silently as possible. The corridors were narrow and cold, and lined with faded, nameless portraits.
Was it quite wrong to write "love" at the end of her letter? It had seemed natural at the time, and as she recalled how she and Remus had gazed at each other before she had gotten into the fateful carriage, it felt right. But it was empty—no promise could be built on it; it spoiled a thing of innocence, didn't it?
Conflicted, she reached the bottom of one of the stairwells. She had no idea where they might store their owl. If she received a stipend, perhaps she would purchase her own, though she dreaded asking such a question, after Riddle had more or less been made a fool by Dumbledore.
The kitchen was bereft of House Elves. Moonlight streamed in through the low windows, casting long, deep shadows. Her best guess was that the owls were kept in the stables. She went to the door from which she had entered hours earlier, and her hand lingered on the door's handle for a moment before, decisively, she pushed it.
Once upon a time, years ago, she had received a lecture from Professor McGonagall for her behavior. She was too independent, she trod on people's feelings too much. She couldn't simply do as she pleased, McGonagall had explained; she had to learn to think of how her actions were perceived.
She entered the night air, which froze her very bones. She could taste the salt of the sea on the air and the wind whipped her flimsy dressing gown about her frame as she picked her way through the stones towards the stables.
She thought of that same lecture now. McGonagall had told her that she had been called 'meddlesome' and 'entitled' by someone...she knew that someone to be Professor Snape. The lecture stuck out to her now because, at the time, she had almost agreed with the accusations—but she had not found them to be problematic.
She was certainly being meddlesome and entitled now.
She had learned to use her own resources to get by in this world. She had learned to do what she found to be right, to act and bear the consequences. Often she turned out to be right, anyway. Sneaking out in the dead of night to use the house's owl to send a letter—particularly when she might not even be here by the time the owl returned—might seem presumptuous but such an accusation meant nothing to her in the face of being able to achieve what was needed. She didn't need to appear a gentlewoman; she did not need anyone to like her, least of all a man.
But is it prudent to risk offending the man who now holds your future in the palm of his hand? a tiny voice in her mind queried. She let out a huff, the breath clouding in the air, as she reached the stables at last, her skirts and dressing gown sodden at the hem with dew and frost. She thought once more of that mysterious man on the hillside, and the flames that had so rocked the carriage—the incident had almost killed her.
Prudence was not the point, she decided, throwing open the door. There was something off about that man and she would find out what it was and, moreover, who he was. She would not be stopped.
She never had been before. She thought of Remus, thought of his smooth lips, and pushed the thought down.
She found the owls. She tied her letter to the talon of a handsome tawny one and watched it flap off into the night, and for a moment took comfort in picturing Remus' hands untying the parchment, smoothing it out, and the furrow that would appear between his brows as he read her letter.
She left the warm comfort of the stable, and ventured back into the night. From this angle she looked at the back of Selwyn Hall, her brown eyes roving over its many windows and wings.
At the very top of the manor, barely visible in the night air, which would soon grow grey and purple with dawn, candlelight flickered in the window.
There, at the very highest window: a face.
And then it was gone.
She let out a shuddering breath as the hairs on the back of her neck tingled. It was likely one of the house's many inhabitants—after all, Riddle employed a full staff—but there had been something so very eerie about it. And after all, who would live in such an attic room, anyway? Could it be Lady Lestrange?
But never mind that—now she had the concern that she had been seen.
I'll just explain that I suffer from occasional sleeplessness and like to walk at night… she decided, wiping her now clammy palms on her dressing gown. She hastened back to the kitchen and opened and closed the door as silently as possible. She held her breath, ears pricked, listening for any other night walkers, but she heard nothing. Satisfied that she was safe, she tiptoed back towards the staircase, and hurried back to her room.
She never saw the dark shadow standing in the doorway, watching her movements.