Kingdom.2
Prince Thomas, heir to the throne of House Slytherin, twirled the silver cup delicately between his fingers, quietly observing the wine-fuelled merriment occurring around him. Lively swells of music filled the hall, and the torches cast a warm glow on the opulently dressed noblemen and women as they dined on roasted meat and wine.
He scanned their ranks, observing with considerable distaste how the Gryffindor court conducted themselves with little shame. It was a wonder that the Kingdom of Gryffindor had existed for so long. They had little discipline and seemingly lacked any sense of self-respect. He watched, lip curling, as King Godric Gryffindor barked out a laugh, his chest heaving, at the head of the table. He was so very loud and so very obnoxious.
Thomas cast a glance at the other end of the table, where King Salazar Slytherin eyed Godric with evident scorn. Sensing his gaze, Salazar tipped his silver wine cup towards Thomas, and Thomas mirrored the gesture. He tipped his own cup to his lips, coating his tongue with the cloying liquid, and watched as the King did the same.
Salazar looked pointedly away, dismissing the man, and Thomas felt felt his hands tighten around the cup, the metal engravings biting deep into his skin. Salazar Slytherin had only begrudgingly made him his heir when it had become clear that his eldest son, Morfin, had died, leaving him with no choice but to name the bastard child of his pathetic daughter, Merope, as his heir.
People sometimes whispered of Merope's indiscretions, of Tom's mysterious, common born father. Those people often disappeared.
"Prince Thomas?"
He shifted in his seat, eying Godric's daughter warily. She looked at him hopefully, her cheeks flushed pink with wine. She was pretty enough, but he still chafed at the thought of their impending marriage. Here was yet another reminder of Salazar's power. Crown prince or not, Thomas will still firmly under the control of his grandfather's will.
"The dance tonight will have performers from House Hufflepuff," the girl said excitedly, trying in vain to start a conversation. "They're wonderful singers."
Hufflepuff. If there was any group he found more infuriating than Gryffindors, it was the Hufflepuffs. Still, he had to keep the daughter happy. Salazar had made sure to make that perfectly clear. Feeling Salazar's watchful gaze, he forced a smile.
"How wonderful," he murmured, and Lavender blushed.
Really, it was almost too easy. It was stunning how much one could get away with if one had a pleasing face. Dozens of women had fairly tripped over themselves in their haste to please him, and he'd used this advantage many times.
He frowned slightly, remembering the plain-faced woman who had glared at him so angrily earlier that morning. He was fairly sure he hadn't slept with her or even met her, so her surely unfounded anger incensed him.
"Lady Lavender, might I ask you a question?"
Lavender beamed, her eyes gleaming. "Yes?"
"What is the name of your lady's maid? The one with the...sizable mop of hair?"
Her expression fell somewhat, and Thomas hid a self-satisfied smirk. The jealous ones were the easiest to manipulate. "That was Hermione. She's common-born, you know," she whispered, sounding as if she expected Thomas to be scandalised.
"Ah," Thomas said, adopting the expected expression of righteous pity. He wondered how Lavender would react if he told her that his father had been the lowest of peasants. "How good of you to take her in."
Lavender nodded primly and, lowering her voice conspiratorially, added, "Her parents are dead. They opposed the wrong sort, and they were killed years ago."
How interesting. Perhaps her parents had died at the hands of Slytherin forces? But, no, she hadn't looked at Salazar with the same hatred; his stomach soured as he remembered the awe that had fairly glowed on her face when she'd looked at his grandfather.
His hand tightened around his cup, his mood darkening rapidly. He would find this Hermione, and he would demand answers.
A dozen spent quills littered the stone floor, an overturned ink bottle spilling a deep black liquid into the feathers. Several rolls of parchment were stacked neatly at the far end of the central wooden table. A small hand mottled black with ink stretched forward and neatly placed another roll on the top of the growing pyramid.
Hermione Granger allowed herself a long, back-cracking stretch. She rubbed at her eyes, fighting a yawn, and looked blearily at her handiwork. Although she hadn't managed to find anything explicitly tied to magic, there had been some interesting philosophical texts on the possibility of the parallel nature of space. The writings were entirely based on conjecture and lacked any scientific backing, but it was a decent start.
Some of the material she'd found had been fascinating, really. Without the cloud of prior advancements to color their thinking, the philosophers of this time – world? – had created several interesting theories, the most promising belonging to a philosopher by the name of Ignatus Stone.
Ignatus Stone had written several long treatises on what he called the parallel realities of life. According to Stone, each life lived ran in parallel with countless other lives, all with differences varying from the smallest of changes – a tendency to favor sweets over savory, for instance – to monumental alterations like one's continued or discontinued existence. Most interesting – and troubling – of all, Ignatus Stone was convinced that, if planned properly, one could access the closest alternate reality through a carefully planned death. This last theory, predictably enough, had apparently been quite controversial, as she'd only managed to find the vaguest of hints towards the ideology, and even then the scrawled comments had been nothing short of condemning.
She didn't know what Ignatus Stone's fate had been, but his writings stopped abruptly after the first mention of his theory on mortality. Remembering Lavender's visceral reaction to her earlier slip up, Hermione frowned. Stone had probably been killed for his blasphemous writings on death.
Her fingers went, unbidden, to her chest, pressing against the thick fabric of her embroidered dress to feel the sharp outline of her collarbone. Logically, she knew she ought to be dead. The man – whoever he was – had stabbed her. She'd seen the blade plunge into her chest – worse, she'd felt every agonizing inch.
Perhaps she was dead, and she was currently in some odd sort of afterlife. Hermione's gaze flicked to the cramped room. There were barely any hard-bound books in this collection, and those that were bound were covered in soft, stained leather. Although there were more rolls of parchment, the scrolls were well-worn at the edges and showed signs of water damage. Well, if this was her afterlife, it was a poor one. She quite hoped that her afterlife would be home to limitless books and an endless supply of tea.
She shook her head. No, this couldn't be a traditional afterlife – after all, why would Ginny, Parvati, Harry, Ron – why would they all be here? She hadn't seen Harry and Ron, yet, but from Ginny and Parvati's excited whisperings, she knew they existed. The more she saw of this strange world, the more she was convinced that Professor Babbling and this Stone fellow were correct – this was no afterlife.
A million different universes. As Hermione began to grasp the sheer scope of her predicament, she felt traitorous tears begin to burn in her eyes. How was she ever to return home? Even if she did figure out a way to leave this world, how was she to pick her world out from millions? She had no magic, here.
Well, wallowing in self-pity would do her no good.
Resolving to locate more interpretations of Stone's theory and any mentions of Crowe's strange, depthless blade, Hermione Granger scooped up her sizable stack of parchment and, with practised ease, stuffed the rolls into the small, unadorned satchel she'd taken from her bedside table earlier that morning. It was no substitute for her beaded, magically expanded bag, of course, but it was sturdy and suitably concealed its contents from curious eyes.
She hoisted the bag onto her shoulder and, after swiftly checking the room to ensure that she had placed everything back in its rightful place, strode to the room's exit. Just as she was passing through the stone archway, however, she collided into something solid and warm.
"Sorry," she muttered, struggling to steady her bag, which, at the sudden movement, had transformed into a rather formidable projectile.
A pair of pale hands caught the bag before it could spill its contents on the dark stone floor.
She followed the path of the long, elegant fingers to the finely embroidered black sleeves encircling the man's wrists. On the chest of his shirt, located right over his heart, was a coiled snake stitched in silver. She chanced a glance up, catching a glimpse of his intent stare, and cursed inwardly. Of all the Slytherins, she'd had to run, quite literally, into Tom Riddle.
She swallowed the automatic "thanks" threatening to fall, treacherously, from her tongue, and instead gave a semi-courteous nod of acknowledgment.
The man – even more handsome this close, she noted with considerable annoyance – blinked, a brief flash of confusion marring his otherwise blank expression. He had probably expected her to fawn over him. Bollocks - she'd have to be more careful; he seemed frighteningly perceptive, and she couldn't risk drawing his attention with her glares. She took a deep breath and forced a passably pleasant smile. "Thank you, Prince Thomas."
"Please," he said softly, his lips pulling into a crooked smile. "The fault is mine."
Hermione swallowed a scoff. Yes, she thought, the fault was certainly his. She'd thought herself – and the world – rid of the monster, and here he was again, unnervingly well-liked by all and, worse still, alive.
This thought summoned another, far more terrifying, idea: was there a world, somewhere out there, that had Voldemort winning? A world where the Boy Who Lived perished under the Dark Lord's ruthless hold? She couldn't quite hide the shiver that ran down her spine at that thought.
She moved to pass the man, halting abruptly when he shifted slightly to block her path. A curl of fear writhed deep in her stomach. She had no reason to believe Tom Riddle was any less evil in this world, and if he was anything like the monster that had haunted them for so many years…
"What is a lady's maid doing with so many scrolls?" Riddle asked, his dark eyes intent. Hermione cursed inwardly; the blasted man had felt the lumps in her bag and correctly discerned its contents. She would have to be careful in choosing her response, for she risked piquing his interest further if she was too flippant. Even the most lavish of attire couldn't hide the underlying coldness, the savagery, lurking within his gaze. I will discover each of your secrets, it promised. And, when you possess nothing of your own, I will destroy you.
No, it was better to be underestimated. She forced what she hoped was an embarrassed expression and, offering a timid smile and ducking her head, said haltingly, "I'm – beg pardon, your Grace, but I am – am collecting all I can to prepare my lady for – for the wedding night."
Riddle stared at her, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "And what titillating information, pray tell," he said dryly, "can be found in the Bishop's library?"
Bollocks. She'd wondered why there were so many religious texts, but she'd assumed the abundance was merely a byproduct of the obviously medieval time. Her mind worked furiously to create a believable explanation. "My lady seeks methods to remain true to her Lord," she lied. "She – she wishes to preserve her purity, if not in body then in spirit."
Riddle arched a dark brow. "Interesting," he said. "I had thought my betrothed to have a far different reputation, but it appears I am mistaken."
This time, Hermione's blush was real. "Er – yes," she said, clutching the bag to her chest. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"
To her great relief, Riddle inclined his head and stepped smoothly aside, waving her forward with a gallant gesture of his arm.
She scurried past the man, back rigid, and promptly stumbled over something, sending her bag and its carefully packed contents spilling onto the stone floor. Her limbs smarting, she pushed herself up roughly, looking back to cast an accusing look at the man. He'd tripped her, she was sure of it. Riddle, however, merely wore an expression of innocent horror.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his brows furrowed in concern. Prat. He knew exactly what he had done, but what could she do? If she accused him of tripping her, she would only draw his attention for being outspoken. Blast it all. Without waiting for an answer, Riddle knelt deftly and began gathering the scrolls, careful – she noticed – to turn each roll slightly so that he could scan the first few lines of each.
Her stomach went cold. If he suspected who she really was, he would never leave her alone. And if – no, when – she returned home, he'd surely want to return with her…and she couldn't unleash another Voldemort onto her world. One had proven nearly fatal. She could only imagine what a second could do.
She surged forward, moving to snatch the rolls from his grasp. She'd risk offending the heir to the Slytherin crown if it meant stopping him from discovering the truth.
"That's private," she said, trying to pull the scrolls from his reluctant hands. In her haste, however, her bare hands brushed his, and her eyes went wide.
Dear Merlin.
Every hair on her arms rose as something utterly intoxicating swelled in her chest. She felt as if she'd been living in a world of drab monotone and only now had reached a world of sharp, dizzyingly vibrant colour. The nagging absence that had dogged her incessantly, leaving only a sense that she was finally where she belonged, that she now possessed the power – for that was the correct word for this sensation, power – to do anything she wished.
Anything she wished.
Without even realizing that she was gripping onto the heir of Slytherin for dear life and that he appeared to be doing the same, Hermione took a deep breath, still half-drunk with the sensation, and thought fiercely, Avis.
To her utter disappointment, no bird appeared - not even the smallest canary. Instead, she saw something completely different. If she squinted, she could just make out shimmering, whisper-fine threads glinting in the flickering light of the torches bolted to the walls. Hermione reached out a hand automatically and, holding her breath, made to touch the closest one, a dark blue thread that stretched between a cobblestone and the stained glass window. Her hand passed through it without resistance, and she was left feeling strangely disappointed. The feeling, however, didn't last, for she was too full of this newfound wonder to care.
"Dear God," she heard Riddle murmur, his voice rough. She looked at him, then, and saw that he was staring at their joined hands, his dark eyes gleaming hungrily.
The sight was enough to knock sense back into her, and she yanked her hand away before he could protest. Immediately, she felt the loss of it, the dull, empty ache in her chest returning with a vengeance. She clutched her hand to her chest, looking at the red marks left from Riddle's grip. When she looked at Riddle, she saw the matching marks where her fingers had dug into his skin. The emptiness was overwhelming in its pressing urgency. She almost wept at the loss, but, seeing Riddle's enraged expression, scooped up as many rolls of parchment as she could and ran, her footsteps ringing hollow in the narrow passageway.
She was so intent on escaping that she didn't notice the half-balding bird that flapped listlessly at the ceiling...or the shifting hand that, plunging out of the plaster wall, crushed the bird between its smoking fingers.
AN: Thanks all for reading! :) Please consider dropping a review and letting me know what you think - all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter! c;
