Kingdom.3

Prince Thomas, second of his name and heir to House Slytherin, paced angrily across the length of his lavishly decorated room. His advisor, Draco Malfoy, eldest son of Lucius Malfoy, watched the prince's movements, holding a crisp white shirt tightly between his pale fingers.

"Prince Thomas," the young man began, his voice a honeyed whisper. Even now, Malfoy was poised to strike, his silvery-grey eyes gleaming with the prospect of information to bring back to his family. Thomas knew what others whispered about his heritage, knew that the Malfoys had been eying the crown for generations. Malfoy reeked of gilded blood and perfumed wine.

Thomas's blood was of a different sort.

Thomas paused, wheeling towards the man. He took some pleasure in the brief terror flickering in the younger man's pale grey eyes, but even that felt hollow compared to the sheer intoxication of his prior brush with that plain-faced commoner. His mouth folded into a deep scowl as he thought again of her infuriating disrespect. What was her name - Hermione? Even the sound of her name was bitter, unsettling.

The feel of it - the soft beginning, the stern middle - felt odd in his mind. It felt like his mind was being pulled in a dozen different directions, like agony and rapture all at once, like -

-it felt like he was going mad.

He let out another half-strangled noise, irate at the ever present gleam in the blonde nobleman's eyes. Before he could dwell on Malfoy, however, the commoner's name echoed again.

How dare she defy his wishes? How dare she have such an effect? He'd never experienced such power before, never felt so - so alive. It was like being reunited with something he hadn't even known was missing. Now, his chest ached from the absence, and he found his hands reaching for something that was woefully gone.

He needed to find her again, to demand how she had had this effect on him. She'd fled before he could interrogate her. She'd left only a single roll of parchment behind. He'd read it a dozen times and ran his fingers over the neat script until the ink began to smear but had found more questions than answers.

All she'd written was madness - talk of spells and curses and Ignatus Stone. It was enough to get her burned for witchery. If Thomas were any other man, it would be enough to get him burned, as well, simply for having held the paper. But he wasn't any man; he was the heir to Slytherin, and, beyond that, he was something that even old Slytherin could never hope to fathom. He was destined for greatness, for power, and the world was merely waiting to unfold at his fingers.

"Your Majesty?" the man said again, and Thomas narrowed his eyes at the intrusion. For all his old blood, Malfoy still lacked the crown.

"What, Malfoy?" he said softly, and his voice was a knife's edge.

He saw the man swallow, but even that wasn't enough to lift Thomas's foul mood. "Will you be wearing that at the ball tonight?"

Thomas waved an impatient hand. Trust Godric to drag out a wedding into a multiple day affair. The actual ceremony was not until the next day, and still he was forced to remain in this gaudy court, smiling nicely at the men who wished nothing more than to see a knife in his back. Thomas took some comfort in the knowledge that, if it came to that point, he would strike first. Malfoy stepped forward to help him out of his brocade shirt. As the heavily embroidered fabric slipped from his shoulders, he heard Draco hiss sharply.

"What now?" Thomas demanded.

"Your - your back," the foolish man breathed. Malfoy raised a tentative hand, his fingers stretching forward, and, upon seeing Thomas's glare, lowered it hurriedly. Malfoy pulled a drawer open in the vanity, extracting a gilded mirror, and held it up for Thomas to see.

Thomas peered into the mirror's surface, a deep crease appearing between his dark brows at the vivid marking that arced between his shoulder blades. Odd. It almost looked like a scar, but he was sure he would have remembered receiving such an extensive wound.

He ran his fingers over the mark and frowned. He couldn't perceive any physical difference between the mark and the surrounding skin, but it was obvious that something must have caused it to appear. There was something familiar about its shape.

Infiniti.

The word sprang, unbidden, in his mind, but when he searched for context, he found only silence.

Thomas thought again of the infuriating lady's maid and scowled, his fingers digging into the skin of his back. She must have caused this, somehow. If he had been religious, he would have knelt on the spot and prayed, for it was obvious that evil magic was at play.

It was fortunate, then, that he'd always been fascinated by the devil.

Prince Thomas grabbed the shirt from Malfoy's hands and, shrugging it on, strode past the shocked guards. He had a woman to catch.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

This was bad - very bad. Hermione groaned for what felt like the tenth time in a span of an hour. How could she have accomplished the very opposite of what she'd set out to do? She'd wanted to avoid Riddle, not capture his attention. If he was anything like his future self, he would not rest until he was satisfied, and Lord Voldemort was never satisfied.

"Stupid," she muttered, drawing the attention of two cooks. After fleeing blindly from the Bishop's library, she'd found herself in an unfamiliar section of the castle and had ultimately ended in the kitchens. Thankfully, the servants, while nonplussed to see a lady's maid, had tolerated her presence, and she'd taken the opportunity to regain her wits.

Hermione smiled tentatively at the two cooks, who glanced at each other before returning to tending a large, roasting pig. There was to be a large dance following the wedding, and preparations were already under way.

Hermione groaned again, burying her head in her hands. If she was to have any hope of surviving this mess, she would need to analyse the situation, even if the thought made her want to bury herself. Riddle had confronted her in the library, they'd exchanged thinly veiled threats, he'd tripped her, they'd touched…

She shivered. How was it that touching Riddle, of all people, made her feel so dangerous? She barely knew the man. Even in her own time, her only contact with the murderer had been through wearing the locket, and even that had entailed only sinuous whispers she'd tried her best to forget.

And those threads - what had they been? When she'd touched Riddle, she'd seen them everywhere; some whisper thin, some as wide as her arm, and all shimmered with a different hue. She'd felt as if she were nestled in a great, glittering spiderweb. It had been both comforting and terrifying to see.

Now, she saw nothing.

Hermione held her hand out, trying to stop the violent trembling in her fingers, and formed a fist when she failed. She felt even emptier than before. She had not known that her magic composed such an integral part of her, but now, in its absence, she could think of nothing else.

Nothing, that is, save her friends. She could only hope that Harry and Ron had escaped.

"-thank you, Dobby, is what he would say, if his mouth weren't stuffed full of pumpkin pasties."

She'd know that voice anywhere. She stood from the wooden table abruptly, her eyes growing wet as she saw a familiar, unruly head of hair. Harry Potter was walking towards her. He was dressed more nicely than she'd ever seen him, yes, but his green eyes were as bright as ever. Beside him, Ron brushed at his mouth, and her heart ached at the sight. She'd missed them both terribly.

"Delicious, yes," Ron said. "Thank you, Dobby."

A short man - Dobby? - dressed in an expansive linen apron beamed. "You're very welcome, my lords!"

Dobby slipped away, leaving the two noblemen to walk past Hermione.

She couldn't help herself. Before she could think, she surged forward, flinging her arms around her two best friends -

-only, they weren't her two best friends, were they?

"Er," said Harry, and the sound was so familiar that she burst promptly into tears. She knew they weren't her Harry and Ron, of course, but she couldn't bring herself to break the fantasy any sooner than she had to.

"Miss? Are you alright?" Ron tried. Harry patted her awkwardly on the back, and she pulled away, sniffing.

As much as she wanted to tell them everything and ask for their advice, she knew she couldn't. She had no idea whether this Hermione was friends with Harry and Ron or whether, worse still, she could trust them. As much as she wanted to believe they were the same as her Harry and Ron, they weren't, and she couldn't escape this universe if she was imprisoned for madness.

So, swiping the tears from her cheeks, she said, "My sincere apologies, my lords." She briefly considered attempting a curtsey but, remembering her earlier difficulty maneuvering in her impractical dress, opted instead to assume a bashful smile.

"My - er, I've just received poor news from home," she lied. "And you two resemble two of my closest childhood friends and, well, I suppose grief has made me a bit confused."

Well, it wasn't entirely false. She coughed, peering at the two men from out the corner of her eyes. Harry was looking at her suspiciously, and Ron looked dumbfounded.

Hating that she had to uphold this subterfuge, Hermione sniffed loudly. Harry softened, saying, "I'm sorry for your loss."

Ron smiled sadly, adding, "I've lost loved ones myself."

She froze. "You have?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"My brother," he said. "Fred. He was killed in the war."

So Fred had died in this world, too. Ron said it too brightly - like he was merely commenting on the weather and not the loss of a family member. Hermione wished desperately to hug him again, but she suspected that would only cause her more trouble. So, instead, she settled for an insufficient, "I'm so sorry to hear that. Truly."

Ron blinked and, shutting his eyes, released a breath. "Well," he said briskly. "You're Lady Hermione, are you not?"

Was she? She'd only read two books on medieval England back in primary school, and she was sorely regretting her ignorance on the subject. If only she'd continued to read about the nobility instead of pursuing that interest in black holes! But eight-year-old Hermione had been enraptured with the idea of spacetime with the capacity of capturing even light to continue reading about kings and queens. "Yes," she said after a moment's hesitation.

"So you know Ginny!" Harry said, and she hid a smile at his eagerness. This, at least, hadn't changed, and she drew considerable comfort from this continuity. The man blinked and, rubbing at his hair, amended, "That is, Lady Ginevra."

"Yes, I know Ginny," she said. "That is, Lady Ginevra." She smiled to show that she was joking, and Harry returned the gesture. Wanting to do some good in this world, Hermione added, "She's mentioned you, Lord Harry, with only good things to say."

Harry's smile broadened, and beside him, Ron turned his eyes upward in mock disgust. "Yes, well, my sister and Harry have known each other for a while."

Harry coughed, looking only mildly chagrined, and Hermione hid her smile. Some things, at least, were constant. She suppressed the urge to fling her arms around them and never let go. One hug could be explained away; two, less so.

Still, she accompanied them as they left the warmth of the kitchens, listening to their easy banter. There were some differences between her friends and these men, of course; her Harry never stood quite so tall, and this Ron seemed quicker to laugh. She was wondering whether Ron still favoured chocolate when the conversation shifted from Molly Weasley's pumpkin cakes to Lavender's wedding, which was due to take place early the next morning.

Her breakfast of honey cakes turned sour in her stomach. Could she really allow Lavender, who had never been her closest friend but was still someone she'd grown up with, someone she knew, marry a monster? She forced herself to reconsider. Perhaps Riddle wasn't a monster here; there'd been no mention of any Death Eaters or Voldemort. She thought of the hunger burning in his eyes and shuddered. Magic or no, Riddle was a dangerous man.

"I don't trust them," Harry declared, breaking her from her thoughts. "I know this alliance is to save us from war, but surely letting the snakes into our home is not the correct move."

Ron nodded his agreement, swallowing the last of his cake. "They're Slytherins. You can't trust them. They'll betray you at the first instance."

"The second instance," she said automatically. When the two men turned to look at her with varying degrees of disbelief, she added, "They'll help you in the first instance to secure your trust. It's the second instance you have to watch out for."

The men exchanged looks. "She has a point," Harry said, and his voice was heavy. "Lady Hermione, have you had much experience with Slytherins?"

Hermione blanched. She had to be careful, here. She, of course, had had ample contact with the worst of the Slytherins, but she imagined this Hermione might not have had the same. Parvati and Lavender had been struck dumb by Riddle's appearance, so they must not have seen him recently, which meant it was unlikely that this Hermione had had much interaction with Salazar's forces. Riddle had not seemed to know her, either.

Just as she was opening her mouth to say no, actually, she was only parroting gossip she'd heard in the kitchens, she collided into the two Gryffindor's backs. She nearly fell from the shock but somehow managed to right herself, cursing her heavy skirts.

She readied an angry retort - who in Merlin's name thought it was a good idea to stop so abruptly? - when she saw the reason for their sudden halt.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Or, rather, Prince Thomas of Slytherin. He was wearing a simple white linen shirt, almost modern looking with its clean lines, and his hair fell in waves across his dark brow.

Harry and Ron looked at the man with barely disguised venom. "Your Highness," Harry said, his voice cool.

Riddle gave him a cursory nod, but his attention was fixed on -

On her.

She let loose a stream of silent curses. She knew it was foolish to hope that he wouldn't seek her out - not after whatever had happened when they'd touched. If Riddle was anything like himself, he would be unable to let that brief flash of power go.

Truth be told, she wasn't entirely willing to let it go, either.

His gaze was intent. Hermione felt both powerful and powerless under its pressure, and her mouth was suddenly dry as parchment.

Harry noticed the Slytherin's attention, and he shifted so that he blocked her view. Freed from the pull of his gaze, Hermione let out a shaky breath. Thank Merlin this Harry was just as observant. She had no desire to prolong any contact with the Slytherin, no desire to pique his interest more than she already had.

How long had she stood there, staring at the man? She flushed, staring down at the hem of her gown. Ron and Harry must think her enamored. She pushed down the sudden urge to clear any confusion, to deny vehemently any sort of attraction on her part -

She stared at Riddle not because he was beautiful but because she knew, somehow, that he held the key to her magic.

The world was a funny place; someone had a twisted sort of humour.

The hallway was still stiflingly quiet. Silence pooled, thick and suffocating, around the four. She wondered how they would react if she turned on her heel and ran.

She wondered how he would react if she flung herself at him and placed her hand on his.

That thought sent a shiver down her spine. A shudder, really, bristling with revulsion. She tried to convince her of this fact, to remind herself that this was the man who was to become Lord Voldemort, but it was hard to remember when he was looking at her so intently, even above Harry's shoulder, and when her hands ached to feel that power again.

"Miss Hermione Granger," Riddle said, and all thoughts of fleeing vanished from Hermione's mind. She was a Gryffindor, anyway, and flight had never been her style and, oh, what would it hurt to just brush up against him? Surely she could make it look like an accident. She needed a second encounter, anyways, to collect more data.

Data, she repeated silently, staring at the man. Dimly, she was aware of Harry and Ron's attention. Harry was looking between the two with a furrowed brow, and Ron's face showed open confusion.

"Riddle," she croaked, and she saw a glimpse of shock flit through the Slytherin's features. She'd made a mistake. He was a king and to be addressed with some flowery greeting she had yet to master, and suddenly all of it was too much, and Hermione Granger turned on her heel and made not a retreat but a tactical withdrawal.

She couldn't quite hide the trembling of her hands.

Author note: how does time slip by so quickly? I can't believe this fic was started in 2015. How is this allowed? Anyway, thanks all so much for your patience! I am determined to finish this story (and my others). Please consider leaving a review - I love reading them! :)