Kingdom.4

Hermione ran blindly through the dim corridors. The windows here were so small, mere pinpricks against a backdrop of dark stone. She wouldn't miss them, when she left.

When, not if. For this hope, this conviction was the only thing keeping her from breaking down completely. She wouldn't allow herself to consider a reality in which she was stuck in this medieval world.

The hallway opened into a broad entrance hall with a high, domed ceiling inlaid with gold. She sped through the thick oak doors, ignoring the shocked stares and whispers from the members of the court. She would deal with the consequences later; for now, she needed to escape the castle and the man it housed.

She ran without thought, without reason, passing the line of peasants waiting to gain audience with king, passing the carts filled with food for the night's banquet, passing the small, cobblestone bridge leading to the forests beyond the wall.

She barely registered the change in the ground below her slippered feet, the way the uneven cobblestone gave way to marshy grass. Above, the light began to dim as sunlight filtered through trees thick with leaves the colour of rust. A stray breeze ran its fingers through the gnarled branches, sending leaves spinning to the ground. A large, half-rotten maple leaf landed on Hermione's foot, and she shook it off, frowning at the wet stain on her leather shoe.

She came to a halt in a small clearing. Her breath rasped against her clenched teeth, and she had the sudden fear that she was going to hyperventilate right then and there and that would be the end of it. No one would know what had happened to Hermione Granger.

Her bodice was like a vise around her waist and, half-crazed with the need for one good breath, she scrabbled at the ties. Thankfully, she'd been the one to tie them that morning, as Ginny had already left for the day, and she was able to pick apart the knots. When her outer layer fell loose, she heaved a sigh of relief, drawing in her first good breath in what felt like ages.

Now, having established that she was not in fact going to die from oxygen deprivation, Hermione stood straight, surveying her surroundings. A circle of trees looked back at her solemnly. Not even the wind stirred anymore, and Hermione felt a prickle of fear. It had been foolish to run blindly into the woods - especially now, when each tree looked identical to the next, and the fallen leaves effectively obscured any semblance of a path.

She squashed down her mounting panic. She had made a mistake, but it did no good to wallow in self-pity. Thankfully, it was still early in the day, so she had some time before nightfall to find her way back. Besides, surely Ginny and Parvati would notice her absence. She thought again of their frantic hurrying, of their scramble to prepare Lavender for the wedding.

Perhaps not. No matter; Hermione Granger could save herself. She hadn't been running long; twenty minutes at most. Given her physical condition and her dress, she doubted she could have traveled more than four, maybe four and a half kilometers. She could walk that easily; now, it was only a matter of choosing the correct direction.

The outer layer of her dress slid further, and the slide of fabric made her eyes gleam. Taking the delicate silk firmly in hand, she ripped a long strip of the scarlet cloth and tied it firmy around the closest tree trunk.

Then, clutching the excess fabric to her chest, she began to walk, making sure to mark her path regularly. As she made her way through the forest, her thoughts lingered on Riddle. Why was it that he, of all people, seemed to trigger this feeling of power? She'd felt nothing out of the ordinary when she'd touched Harry or Ron or Ginny. Was it because he was a powerful wizard in her own world? Still, she doubted that could be the explanation, as her friends were hardly weak. Her Harry had beaten Voldemort, after all.

Ignatus Stone had hypothesised that there existed millions of parallel universes. Unless she was entrapped in one long, very bizarre hallucination, that hypothesis appeared true. She couldn't have been transported back in time, as all of the people from her own time appeared quite at home in this world. Stone hadn't mentioned anything about a knife, though, or runes - although she supposed he wouldn't have much knowledge about runes.

She thought back to her last night in her own world. Crowe had carved something into Babbling's back. She hadn't caught a good glimpse of it; she'd been too distracted by the shock of seeing the Unspeakable and the rapture of hearing her voice. Hermione shivered. She'd never heard of a spell or potion that could make one's voice so intoxicating. She'd been willing to do anything Crowe asked; the compulsion had gone beyond the Imperio, as she'd been happy, desperate even to make Crowe like her if only so she would keep speaking. Could this compulsion have stemmed from the runes?

Hermione hadn't heard of such a thing, but she supposed it was possible; she hadn't read every text on ancient runes, after all, and now she was sorely regretting that decision. And that knife - it hadn't looked terribly special. It was a regular, medium sized blade, and yet Crowe had touched it lovingly, covetously, like she would die to keep it by her side.

Hermione had seen various papers reporting the connections between runes and the tools used to create said rooms, but she'd only skimmed the abstracts. Now, she wished she'd read them more carefully and thought to contact the authors.

The sun was beginning to sink, and the light filtering through the branches was beginning to seep crimson. She shivered, feeling a sudden chill, and reached to tie another strip of ribbon around a tree. Hermione felt the cloth and, pulling, realised with a start that it was her last strip. Merlin; how long had she been walking?

Certainly long enough to walk four kilometers - long enough to walk triple that distance, even. She bit her lip, surveying her surroundings. Perhaps she should have stayed in the clearing; wasn't that the first rule of getting lost? Stay in place so people can find you? Only, she hadn't known if people would even notice her absence. Ginny and Parvati seemed to be her only close friends here, and they would be too caught up in wedding preparations to notice her absence - at least, not until it was too late.

She shivered again, casting a nervous eye up at the sun, just barely visible through the dark branches. She had no desire to be out at nightfall. She doubted this forest contained any magical creatures, but even non-magical creatures could be dangerous.

She had just made up her mind to double back when she heard a loud rustling from somewhere in the distance. She squinted, trying to make out the source of the sound, but the rapidly falling darkness made it difficult to see far. Panic, bitter and strong, clenched her throat tight.

Be strong, Hermione.

Be brave.

She hurriedly untied the ribbon from the trunk and, shaping it into a form of noose, gripped it tightly. The fabric was slick with sweat between her fingers. She could only hope she remembered Ron's tips correctly; he'd given her self-defense lessons after she'd gotten mugged by a Muggle last winter. She crouched behind a fallen log as the sound grew louder.

When she heard the person - for it was a person, judging by the regular footfalls - approach her hiding spot, she sent a silent prayer up before leaping forward. Before the man could react, she'd latched onto him like a barnacle, hooking her legs around his waist as she slipped the rope around his throat and pulled.

The man hissed, and his hands reached up automatically. She was ready for this; she bent her head down and bit, teeth sinking into his palms. All the while, she yelled, hoping that someone would hear the scuffle. To his credit, instead of trying to dislodge her iron grip with his hands, dove to the ground.

Hermione let out a yelp as her head banged against the wet ground. Her grip loosened, and he shook her off. His arm was at her throat in an instant, his weight bearing her into the ground.

She was about to spit in his face when she froze. She should have been half-delirious with pain; her head had hit the ground hard, and under normal circumstances, she ought to be feeling at least slightly dizzy. Instead, she felt fine - better than fine. She felt invincible. Power flooded her veins, sharpening her senses.

There was only one man who could make her feel this way. She forced herself to take her first good look at the man, her heart sinking when she took note of the familiar, sharp jaw and tousled black hair. Riddle.

He bared his teeth at her, his breath coming in quick rasps, but his eyes were focused on something below her neck. She reached up a hand, feeling the bare skin of her shoulder, and flushed. Without the structural support of her bodice, her dress must have slipped in the fight, leaving her skin exposed.

She made a sound of protest, trying to shake him off. His gaze sharpened at the movement, flicking to hers. "You have a mark," he said hoarsely, and the sound of it, fervent and low, sent a shiver down her spine.

A mark?

Her fingers darted to her collarbone, where she knew the rune was burned into her flesh. His other hand, the one not pinning her down, stretched out towards it, and she was struck with a fresh wave of fear. She was alone in a forest with Riddle - Voldemort - and no one knew where she was. She had no magic to protect her, no one to come to her rescue.

Desperation made her strong; somehow, she managed to shake him off, knocking away his hand before he could touch her. His eyes darkened. Rage settled deep in the fine lines of his face.

"I am your prince," he hissed, and this time, she did spit. It landed with a satisfying splatter on his cheek, and she was up in an instant, limbs shaking from the loss of his touch.

He leaped to his feet, eying her warily. "I could have you killed three times over for this," he said.

Hermione forced a shrug. "You won't," she said, and his mouth pulled into a disbelieving sneer.

"How can you be so sure?" he said.

She gestured between them. "You feel it too - this weird connection. It fascinates you. You won't kill me before you figure it out."

She knew he felt this way because she felt it, too; loathe as she was to have Riddle around her, she wanted it, too. She wanted to understand what place he had in this mystery and, although she'd never admit it aloud, she craved the feeling of certainty, of power, that accompanied his touch.

The man blinked, and she knew she'd hit true. Riddle straightened, the very picture of royal arrogance, and commanded, "Then touch me, so we can both be done with it."

She hesitated. "How did you find me?"

He waved an impatient hand. "I noticed your absence during lunch. You seemed the type to run, and the woods were the logical destination. After that, it was merely a matter of following the ribbons."

Was it her imagination, or was he looking at her with faint approval? She squashed her automatic flutter of pleasure, a remnant from her days as a schoolgirl eager to gain her instructors' approval.

"Come," he said and, seeing her expression, added, "You dislike this pull as much as I do. If we are to rid ourselves of this dependency, we must study it."

Riddle's eyes gleamed; he had no desire to undo whatever pulled them together, only to possess it and carve her out of the picture. She had no doubt that the moment he found he could recreate the sensation without her, he would be rid of her.

Still, she desired knowledge as much as he did, and it was this selfish pull that drew her feet slowly towards him. She looked away from his satisfied smile, hating that she was obliging him in any way, and extended her hand to meet his.

As their palms met, she sucked in a breath. It was a wonder how strongly the feeling hit her, and she felt she'd never tire of it - of feeling powerful, of feeling like she could affect the world because she was her, she was strong, she was Hermione Jean Granger and that was all the proof she needed that she could accomplish remarkable things.

He felt it, too. He had an almost giddy smile, and the expression made him look even more dangerous than usual; his eyes promised ruin and destruction and greatness. Impulsively, although she knew it had failed before, she murmured aloud, "Aguamenti."

Nothing happened at first, and she felt the disappointment even through her euphoria. Then, when she was forcing herself to accept that magic was no more, she saw it - a trickle of water, muddy brown with silt, slipping sinuously from a low-hanging tree branch. It slipped between the gleaming threads, which hung like spiderwebs in the air, before landing on Riddle's linen shirt. He let out a cry, looking up in confusion.

Hermione swallowed; she had magic. She had magic. She let out a whoop, and Riddle looked at her sharply. She was too giddy to care; with magic, she had hope. She could try to craft a way back home. She could be her, again, for magic and Hermione Granger had become intertwined.

"You are insane," Riddle said.

She looked at him, then, a terrifying thought springing forth; she could kill him easily this very moment. She would be doing this world a favor, she was sure; he was Voldemort, after all, and surely she had a moral obligation to dispose of him before he realised the truth.

But Hermione Granger was not a murderer, and the thought of killing an unarmed man, even one as despicable as this one, left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Riddle was glowering at his dampened shirt, now semi-translucent. Hermione's eyes caught on an angry red mark now just barely visible on the curve of his shoulder, and her breath caught. Did he have a rune, too?

Her breath quickened; perhaps this was why he was able to make her feel this way. Stepping forward, she pulled the collar of his shirt down before he could protest. The fabric slid down easily, revealing the dark red scar covering the upper half of his back.

Merlin. He had one, too. It was fully dark, now, and she could barely make out its lines. She couldn't risk casting a lumos; water could be explained away as evening dew. A sudden light, however, would surely rouse his suspicions. She had a sudden, terrifying thought. Could it be that he was also capable of casting spells? He did have this rune, but he'd shown no sign of recognition, no sign of belonging to her world rather than this one. Surely he was as non-magical as the rest of them. Surely.

It wasn't a rune she recognized, but it was almost identical to the one on her collarbone. Where hers had three oblong dots along the upper right corner, his had three lines. Other than that, though, they were the same.

How she wished she had a copy of Yuri Blishen's Advanced Rune Translation. She caught a glimpse of his startled gaze, half-threat, half-curious over his shoulder and swallowed. Then, under his watchful gaze, she reached out a hand. Her fingers ghosted over the raised edge, and Riddle jerked away with a cry, breaking their connection.

Before she could mourn the loss, however, she was suddenly aware of the pressing darkness. How long had they remained in this spot? Riddle hadn't brought a horse with him - or, she realised with a sinking heart, a lantern. His face was turned away, so she couldn't see his expression; was he also realising their dire predicament?

He, at least, was the heir to Slytherin. Surely Salazar would be sending troops for them at any moment. She was in the midst of deciding whether this would be a good or bad thing when she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.

She straightened, back stiffening, and stared.

The air by the nearest oak tree kept shifting, and as she stared, she thought she could see glimpses of teeth and bone flash in and out of existence. As she watched, it seemed to grow, joined by two flanking shapes. It hurt her head to look at them for too long, like they were so wrong, so unnatural that it was painful for them to even exist.

They were fast approaching, far quicker than she could think. Riddle was still just standing there; had the loss of her touch shocked him? Either way, he didn't seem to have noticed their imminent danger. She cursed and flung herself at the Slytherin, snatching his hand tightly. There was no time to linger on the consequences. She took a deep breath and, looking the beings squarely in the eye, for they now had a dozen entirely black eyes weeping scarlet, shouted, "Confringo!"

There was a weak burble, and for a terrifying moment she thought she lacked the ability to cast the curse, and then there was a series of loud pops as a wave of energy flung from her chest. The beings screamed, and Hermione wept at the sound. She forced her eyes open and watched as bone turned to ash and whole trees came crashing to the ground.

The silence afterwards was deafening.

She felt Riddle's hand twitch in her own. She faltered; he was sure to condemn her for witchery. Wasn't that what they'd done in those days? Burn witches at the stake? She could of course cast a non-burning charm, but that was assuming Riddle would be willing to stand in the flames with her. That thought forced a hysterical bubble of laughter from her chest, and she clapped a hand to her mouth.

Well, she might as well get it over with. She craned her neck up. Riddle still looked shell-shocked, which she supposed was only natural. He'd just witnessed magic, clear and undeniable. Was he wondering whether he was mad? No, he didn't seem the type; more likely, he was wondering how he could harness the power for himself.

Before she could even attempt an excuse, the man looked directly at her. The force of his gaze took her aback; there was something different about his eyes. They were a little too sharp, a little too knowing -

Several things happened at once.

"Well, fuck," Riddle said.

She blinked and, before she could react, the clearing filled with the sounds of stomping hooves and men's shouts. A squadron of knights galloped into the forest, forcing Hermione away from Riddle. She narrowly avoided being trampled and coughed, raising an arm in vain to shield herself from the debris.

"Thomas!" she heard the man at the front say, and she realised with a start that it was Godric himself, resplendent in his gold armor. At his side, Salazar regarded his heir silently, his black eyes reproving.

Riddle didn't respond. He was looking directly towards her. Godric and Salazar followed his gaze, and Hermione felt herself wilting under the pressure of their gazes. Merlin, this was not good.

Riddle smiled.

Author note: thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter and for reading! all reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter ;)