Chapter 12: Passionate Crimes
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 7:48 pm
Location: Ministry of Magic- Wizarding Pioneers Potion's Gala
Mission: Ron Otter (aka Ron Weasley look-alike)- Con-Artist/ Swindling the Greedy
The night was sweet with the dust of autumn leaves. Their brilliant colors swirled in time to the vibrant musical notes that traveled from the tall windows of the Ministry of Magic. The building's lights sparkled amidst the cloudless sky and hinted of joyous festivities. Normally bustling with politicians, Aurors and other laboring officials, the Ministry of Magic had been transformed for the evening to accommodate master brewers, herbologists, and numerous scholarly celebrities.
The Wizarding Pioneers Potion's Gala was a grand yearly event at the Ministry. It served to showcase intriguing discoveries as well as up and coming prodigies. It was a meeting of science and politics, a combination that led to false pretenses and greed.
It was this combination Ron Otter appreciated. To him, the event provided an ideal hunting ground to ensnare and swindle the glutinous. Enveloped in a shadowy corner of the ballroom, his eyes wandered over the incoming partygoers. Each was a potential target, some more promising than others. As he weighed the pros and cons of each prospective victim, he took a long drag from his sugar dragon and exhaled. The sweet vapors left his mouth in a chilly cloud.
"Excuse me, sir. No smoking is allowed on the premises," a wizard in his early twenties spoke, interrupting Ron's contemplation.
Ron appraised the man. His black hair was slicked back in the traditional style of a Ministry employee, yet his robes carried no insignia. After a moment, Ron determined him a guest, albeit one that worked for the Ministry, most likely an assistant of some sort. "Indeed… Titus?" Ron replied coolly, his eyes flickering at the man's nametag. He then took another puff and exhaled, the vapors hitting the man on the cheek.
He watched as Titus squirmed uncomfortably at his indifference. As he waited for the wizard to speak, he exhaled again, a well-formed saccharine mist exiting the cavern of his mouth. It sprouted a scaly head and wings, flying once around Titus in its dragon-form before being dispersed by the youth's hand. Ron frowned.
Titus looked confused as he inhaled the cloud's lingering citrus scent before hesitantly pressing on. "Yes. All cigarettes must be put out."
Muggle-born, Ron mused, as he heard Titus's statement. Titus shifted, glancing around. It was clear someone had put him up to this. He grinned good-naturedly at Titus, as he pressed the object against his lips once more. Wetting it, his tongue wrapped around the sugar dragon and swallowed the remaining bit of the sweet confection. "All put out." Titus looked on in astonishment.
"I—" Titus gawked.
Ron waved his hand dismissively, "Yes, yes. Now who sent you?"
Mouth still agape, Titus could only point. Ron followed the direction of his outstretched arm, spotting a man in red robes. An Auror, he mentally sneered. He was not surprised. He had counted at least a dozen since his arrival. The extravagance of the event, along with the high ranking of the invitees assured the event would be well guarded.
The lavishness for this year's event was especially noteworthy. It ranged from jeweled glassware, exotic dishes and flowers to expensive performers. Ron was certain they would have lined the floors with gold if they could. The Ministry had completely transformed the rooms normally used to welcome visiting international dignitaries. The space had been magically expanded and decorated with copious amounts of precious jewels, many of which were on loan from Gringotts and The Genie's Gems. The largest room had been structured for dancing and dining with various popular musicians expected to play, from The Celestial Symphony to Tab Deity to Elves Parsley.
Ron grinned at the thought of Elves Parsley, who was indirectly responsible for allowing him access to the event. He managed to slip in after casually informing some witches of the rock wizard's whereabouts. The early access provided him a chance to acquaint himself with the layout of the rooms, the exit routes being the first things he noted in case anything went awry. Gazing at the approaching Auror, it seemed it was time to make an escape. He tilted his head toward the Auror in acknowledgement before heading from the ballroom to one of the adjacent exhibit rooms.
The room was crowded with individuals vying to view the recently uncovered Merlin's cauldron. The ruby wrought item took center stage with other items being dwarfed by its majestic grandness. Ron wove through the small chatting groups silently, attempting to avoid contact with the patrons lest his escape be hindered.
"Yoo-hoo! Ronny, darling… over here!" called one of the women, who could only be described as a plump peacock. Her face was caked with a thick layer of foundation and rogue. Her dress was made of many pink ruffles and stringed with gems. Ron paused, racking his brain for the name of the woman. As she waved him over again, he realized that the friendly, smiling, over-dressed lady was Hepzibah Smith. Surprised at her appearance at the event, he absently started toward her, a smarmy smile plastered onto his face and dreams of Galleons dancing in his brain.
Chancing a glance over his shoulder, his smile turned surly at seeing the man in red entering the room. Observing the Auror so close, he switched directions, giving Hepzibah an apologetic grin before disappearing around the corner into the next room.
The other exhibit room was less crowded with dim lights illuminating the room. It contained very rare and smaller items of interest, a few of which had been taken grudgingly from the Department of Mysteries to be put on the limited display. Ron scanned the S-shaped room for an exit.
His eyes briefly alighted on one of the guests, an aristocratic man, judging by the expensive silken, black robes he wore. Ron heard several giggles. Turning his head slightly to the right, he noted the striking man seemed to have a horde of female admirers observing him. Yet, the man paid them little notice and was staring intently at the inside of one of the display cases. The object inside seemed to rotate to the man's viewing pleasure. It was an oddity that should not be occurring as all the items were charmed against theft and movement. Ron shivered at the demonstration of power done so nonchalantly. Suddenly, the item returned to its original resting place and Ron found himself staring into the eyes of the devil himself. Their unnatural color seared him, a burning red. The man had caught him staring.
Ron gulped, quickly moving away from the fiery gaze. One step backward, then another. Thump. His back encountered a wall. Blindly patting the solid bricks behind him, he searched for an exit. His robes dusted the wall in his slinking. Eyes refused to blink. What seemed like a lifetime, he finally located a door. He turned and dashed through it, hoping salvation lay on the other side.
Ron's unexpected movements startled several people, except the red-eyed man, whose mouth was turned up in a smirk; his eyes of blood reverted to gems of green.
To Ron Otter's displeasure, liberation was not found through the doors. Instead, two truculent goblins stood in freedom's place. Ron groaned; he had forgotten about them. The two goblins, representatives of Gringotts, guarded the most anticipated items of the gala. They stood in front of what was know to party-goers as the room of swag.
It was filled with numerous gold, silver,and copper-plated gift cauldrons. Each cauldron contained thousands of Galleons worth of potions and herbs, some potions of which were not yet available to the majority of the magical community. Yet to the non-scholars and non-potion aficionados that made up the guest list, the most longed for item included in the cauldrons was the all-expense-paid gift trips to various wizarding destinations. Due to the popularity of the gifts, the room was to be opened at an undetermined time that evening to prevent a disaster similar to one that occurred ten years prior, where guests left two minutes after arriving having claimed a swag bag and Apparating away.
At Ron's approach, the stouter goblin bared his sharp teeth. "You again," the goblin growled. "No admittance." The greenish-gray creature then pounded the ground with the staff held in his left hand. A burst of energy was expended from the wooden object, sending Ron sprawling to the ground.
Gritting his teeth, the red-haired man lifted himself up. Sniffing arrogantly, he spoke, "I'm not here for that."
"Then what are you here for?" a familiar voice questioned.
The con-man stiffened. Cracking his knuckles, he slowly turned toward the voice and blinked. It was an Auror, but not one he expected. Harold Easley. Ron rolled his eyes. Instead of replying, he casually adjusted the cuffs on his deep purple robe, regarding the outfit with disgust. The garment was a far cry from his trademark black leather robes—robes he should have worn, seeing as a simple change in his wardrobe was insufficient in disguising him. He started walking silently back to the main room, the Auror following along in amusement.
"You do realize you cannot hide," Harold spoke again as he removed his spectacles and cleaned them with a handkerchief from his left breast pocket.
Ron rolled his eyes at his temperamental acquaintance. The two had been close friends growing up until different professional desires pulled them apart. He finally acknowledged the Auror's presence, his tone sarcastic. "Ah, Harold, always a pleasure. Come to arrest me again?"
"Do I have reason to?" Harold queried, perching the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.
"You've never needed reason to before," Ron replied churlishly, recollecting being taken into custody at least seven different times by the messy-haired man. Seeing a tray with drinks float by, Ron grabbed a sparkling glass laden with alcohol that was ten times more potent than regular Muggle wine. He quickly downed its contents, instantaneously switching the empty champagne glass with a full one.
"Ah—not still sore about that—are you? You were the most logical suspect given your … history." Harold bit back a grin at Ron's attempt to avoid the question. The Auror was well aware of the man's scheming mind. After all, Otter had managed to swindle numerous wizards and witches in the Thestral Con of 1952. It was largest con to date. Yet, still he protested his innocence, despite four years in Azkaban and an abundance of evidence to the contrary. Auror Easley's train of thought was broken with Ron's reply.
"And thus the one trussed up like a Christmas goose?" Ron questioned, sipping his second glass of hard liquor more leisurely, his demeanor more relaxed.
At this, Harold could not hold back a bark of laughter. "I thought you looked good trussed up like a Christmas goose." He shrugged with a gamin grin. Not even a week out of prison, Ron had returned to fleecing clients. Harold had caught him posing as a young witch. He chuckled. "Even in that remarkable and, dare I say, disconcerting disguise."
"Many thanks, monsieur. Then are you planning to tie me up again?" Ron answered, waggling his brow suggestively. He smirked at seeing Harold pale in response to his innuendo. Ron paused for a moment or two. He then snorted. "Relax. Honestly, humanity takes itself too seriously." He took another sip from his glass and gestured to the other individuals standing near them. "It's the wizarding world's greatest sin. You do realize if Merlin had known how to laugh, history would have been different."
Harold rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "If the wizarding world behaved like you—well, I shudder at the consequence."
Reentering the ballroom, the redhead disregarded the man's pointed barb as an angelic vision entered his line of sight. Licking his lips, he elbowed Easley.
"Who's the lovely filly in white?" Ron asked, raising his glass in the sitting woman's direction.
The woman looked particularly regal. Masses of brown curls were piled high on her head with several plump ringlets framing her delicate face. Ron appraised the empire-waist silk dress, raising his brows as she shifted in her seat, revealing a long slit that traveled up the right side of her dress, ending mid-thigh. Matching long white gloves covered her slender wrists and reached her elbows. Her heels appeared to be made of silver, their straps coiling around her ankles like snakes. Ron squinted slightly; serpents seemed a common theme in her outfit, especially in her jewelry. A platinum and diamond necklace with matching earrings completed the ensemble. He nearly grinned at the contradiction of her outfit. The innocence of white coiled in a serpent's tight grip.
Ron turned toward Harold who was still scrutinizing the woman. He coughed, rousing the Auror from his musings.
Harold leaned forward. "That filly—as you call her—is Captain Hastings's date for the evening—Mirage Greenhorn," he reported in a low voice, his tone taking on the confidential air of a man who had access to official secrets and has been warned against passing them on.
"Mira? Impossible," Ron gaped, glancing at the woman again.
The spectacled man looked at Ron curiously. "Are you two acquainted?" he queried, suddenly worried about the welfare of his boss. Due to the con-man's profession, the majority of his acquaintances were of the less savory variety.
Tension filled Ron's body, the grip on his glass tightened. "It would be quite unfortunate for her if we were."
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 8:19 pm
Place: Ron Otter in the Ballroom with a broken champagne glass
New Mission: Greet an old acquaintance
.oOo.
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 8:00 pm
Place: Wizarding Pioneers Potion's Gala- Ballroom Table
Mission: Hermione Granger (aka Mirage Greenhorn)- Avoid trouble when parting Hastings with wand
"It turned out the penguins had stolen the pineapples," Hastings guffawed, his right hand striking the top of the hand-carved oak table several times in mirth, the vibrations rattling and moving the silverware.
Hermione nodded absently as her fingers closed in on her fork, which had been teetering precariously at the table's edge. Saving the utensil from meeting a dirty end, she gave the Auror a small, tentative smile. The unbridled enthusiasm that poured from his normally dour demeanor unnerved her and left her to ponder over the possibility of possession. Even Colin quietly questioned if his upbeat attitude was the result of a poor Polyjuice disguise.
"Yes. Who would have thought?" Colin spoke uncertainly. Hermione could see that Hastings's light-heartedness had him rattled. He tugged on his tie and succeeded in loosening its knot. "Sure makes one think twice about trusting a penguin," he babbled.
"I don't believe you'll have to worry too much about penguins in England, Cicerone," Minerva said dryly before taking a sip of her pumpkin daiquiri. Turning to Hastings, she added, "What an interesting array of events, though it seems Auror Moody bore the brunt of it. I do hope he's all right."
"He's in perfect condition and currently engaged in another mission as we speak." Hastings speared a breaded mushroom hors d'oeuvre with his toothpick.
Hermione watched as his teeth gnashed together, ripping the mushroom apart. The unnatural grin adorning his face heightened her growing unease. She debated his awareness of her task. Since arriving at the gala, she had attempted several well-placed spells, including Summoning his wand and loosening his holster, all to no avail. After a desperate attempt to separate him from his wand by ripping his robes, which failed miserably as well, she had no doubts as to why Riddle assigned her to the task. The wand had to be retrieved manually.
Hermione mentally calculated the disadvantages of failing to complete the task set before her. She knew with complete certainty that failure would not be tolerated and yet, she still had difficulty predicting Riddle's reaction. Would he follow through with his threat? If her time traveler status were revealed, it would be a fate worse than death. A fate that could be summed up in two words: Joyce Jenkins. Joyce had been a witch that claimed to be from the year 2098 and was subsequently locked up in the Department of Mysteries until her death in 1994.
It was a miserable end that Hermione was desperate to avoid. Imprisoned, she had no chance of correcting wrongs. Especially considering the smashing job she was doing so far, Hermione thought sarcastically. She highly doubted Harry or Ron would have ended up in her shoes. Why couldn't Riddle have been a drunken hobo that no one would take seriously, she mused silently. Perhaps there was a silver lining… she was at least at a ringside seat on some of his activities. Now if she could only figure out how to set things right.
She heaved a sigh, her mind returning to the task at hand. How hard could it be? After all, she was a quick study and good with her hands. That and a certain steel-coated charm had helped her achieve success. Weren't the same basic abilities required in crime?
"Eh-hem." A nervous cough broke through her musings. Looking up she noticed a man in red robes standing at Hastings's side. "Begging your pardon, Captain." The man paused, attempting to gauge his boss's temper.
"Come now, Dawes. It's a wonderful occasion." Hastings rose from his seat and clapped the younger man on the back. "You should be enjoying yourself." Hastings waved one of the floating trays over. Grabbing a Firewhiskey for himself, he offered a second glass to Dawes, unperturbed by the Auror's uneasiness.
"Er—sir—I'm on duty. You assigned me yourse—" At the Captain's hard look, Dawes faltered. Taking the proffered drink, he held in his grasp awkwardly, "Um—yes—thank you, sir. I came to inform you about Rosenhopper."
Seeing the Captain fix his eyes on him in question, he hurriedly continued. "He's at it again. Challenged two wizards to duels."
"I thought I made myself clear before leaving the office… The man's nearing 120, surely you can take care of the situation." Hastings downed his Firewhiskey, setting the empty glass onto the table. "In case you've forgotten, tonight is my night off," he explained impatiently, unlatching his wand from his holster in a quick but complex series of movements and waved it in front of Dawes, who gulped visibly. "See this wand. It's not signing off on any arrests tonight. And why is that?"
"Because it's your first night off in two years and it's my duty as your second to investigate all disturbances, fulfill all arresting obligations, and not come to you for any reason short of an apocalypse. Even then, you can read the report in the morning." Dawes took a deep breathe on finishing. As the Captain gave him a pointed look, he flushed embarrassedly. "Yes, sir—very sorry—sir." He bobbed apologetically before turning to leave.
He was stopped by Hastings, "Dawes?"
"Yes, sir?" Dawes swiveled back toward the Captain, eyes shining hopefully.
The older Auror waved his free hand at the drink still in Dawes' hands. "No drinking on duty."
"But—yes, sir," came Dawes' morose reply as he handed the drink back to Hastings and disappeared through the crowd in search of Rosenhopper and another fellow Auror.
"I do apologize for the interruption," Hastings spoke, directing his attention back to Hermione, Minerva, and Colin, all of whom had been following the conversation in interest.
"Rosenhopper?" Colin questioned.
"Hmm—ah yes—interesting fellow." Hastings placed the Firewhiskey next to the empty glass. "But first—another round of drinks—" Raising his wand, he beckoned another floating tray of drinks over. When the tray arrived, he set his wand on the table and lifted several drinks from the tray. "Long Beach for the lady," he stated as he positioned a tall red drink in front of Hermione.
"But—" Hermione protested as she looked fearfully at the goblet, which contained at least five different wizarding alcohols.
"No buts, love," he shushed her protests. "For the pain." Hermione knitted her brows together in confusion, but before she could question him further, he had already turned to Minerva. "Another Pumpkin Daiquiri, my dear?"
"Mmm, actually, I had been thinking of trying a Flaming Dragon," Minerva declared as she finished her first drink of the evening.
"An excellent choice," Hastings snapped his fingers at the tray that had begun meandering away. "One—make that two—Flaming Dragons." He ordered on, gaining the hovering object's attention.
In the meantime, Hermione felt a nudge at her ankle. Directing her gaze to Colin, she saw him gesturing madly with his head. Following his gaze her eyes stopped at Hastings's wand, which rested no more than a few centimeters from her.
"Are you alright, Cicerone?" Minerva questioned gently, noting his odd behavior.
"Huh? Oh, yes. I'm fine." Colin rushed to reassure her. "Just a twitch. The drinks are sure strong tonight." Colin took a large swig from the glass before him and shuddered in exaggeration as the liquid coursed through him.
Minerva looked at him curiously. "But you've been drinking water all night."
Knowing he had been caught, Colin's jaw dropped in faux outrage. "What? Damn ministry watering down the drinks. I should—"
Grateful for Colin's distraction, Hermione directed her attention back towards the wand. First, she needed a decoy. Glancing at Hastings, she was grateful to find him still preoccupied with the drinks. Discretely removing her wand from a holster that was strapped to her right thigh, she Transfigured her fork into an exact replica of Hastings's wand before adding a final touch. The duplicate soon radiated with a magical aura. Satisfied with the results, she slipped her wand back under her dress.
She hesitated, her eyes wandering around the table once again. Colin and Minerva still appeared to be occupied with the issue of drinks. Her eyes moved to Hastings.
"An extra shot of flames in mine," the Auror requested as two fiery drinks finally appeared on the tray, sending green and blue sparks in the air. After a moment, one of the drinks turned bright red as a small fireball burst forth from the liquid's depths.
Realizing she did not have much time left, her hand casually crept toward Hastings's wand before stopping dead, her hand frozen just above the wand, her mind whirling. Perhaps the wand was charmed or jinxed. After all, she was not able to remove it from his person by magic. What made her think she could do it by hand?
She watched motionless as Hastings slowly lifted the drinks from the tray and began turning his body back to the table. Knowing she may not get another opportunity, she braced herself for the worst as her gloved fingers curled around the wand.
Yet, the worry was for naught. The wand remained docile within her firm grip. Relieved, she tucked the wand safely into the holster just as Hastings set a Flaming Dragon in front of Minerva and an orange juice in front of Colin.
Colin brought the glass close to his nose and took a suspicious sniff.
The Auror looked at him slightly disparagingly as he sat down. "Juice, Levy. Juice. Any man that can't tell the difference between liquor and water should not drink." Shaking his head, he reached for the faux wand and placed it back into the holster at his side with a series of clicks.
Colin looked at him in annoyance, "I most certainly…" He trailed off momentarily, spotting the anxious look Hermione gave him. "SHOULD NOT.. which is why.. YES… why I'm grateful for your thoughtfulness." He raised his glass toward Hastings before taking a large gulp.
Eager to escape the conversation, Colin then stood and turned to Minerva, "Would you forgive my quarrelsome nature and do me the pleasure of dancing with me, Prof—Minerva?"
Minerva smiled. "Certainly, I'd be delighted, Cicerone." Rising from her seat, Minerva smoothed the fabric of her red dress before taking Colin's offered arm. The two set out for the dance floor. The Celestial Symphony was currently playing their last waltz and preparing to turn the floor over to Tab Deity.
"A very lovely couple," Hastings remarked offhandedly as he watched them disappear amidst the swirling dancers. "I do apologize; I'm not much of a dancer."
Hermione did not doubt his claims. "No apologies necessary. I'm not much of a dancer myself," she replied politely. She was relieved that he did not spot the switch, but at the same time, his behavior set her on edge. Why did he agree to have her accompany him? Or more precisely, how did Riddle set them up? Riddle was a man she knew Hastings was far from fond of. She mentally cursed Colin for abandoning her. Her anxiety was heightened at being left alone with him.
After Colin and Minerva left, the dialogue at the table became stilted, with Hermione's eyes sweeping the room ever so often for signs of Riddle. Forcing her attention back to the man in front of her, they made small talk about the late September chill before descending into an awkward silence. Hastings restlessly played with the navy-colored napkin in front of him, as Hermione closed her eyes in thought.
"Was she happy?" the gruff tones of Captain Hastings slashed through her ruminations.
Hermione's eyes fluttered open, her brows drawing together in confusion as she looked at Hastings. "I'm sorry?"
The older man looked distinctly uncomfortable at repeating himself, "Was she happy—my daughter?"
Hermione gazed at him mystified. Her eyes darted to the sides, curious to see if by chance he was speaking to someone else. Yet, they were alone. The Auror's gaze seemed to pierce her. "I don't—" Hermione stumbled over her words, unsure what to say to a man that appeared so certain. "I mean—" She paused. Did she know his daughter? She mentally flipped through the people she had recently met. She was convinced she had not. The only Hastings that she remembered from history was "Natalia."
Her last word was nothing but a hushed murmur, but it was a word, a name, that appeared to reverberate through Hastings like a thousand stallions thundering across silent desert sands. "Natalia," the name slipped somberly from his tongue. A faraway look appeared in his eye. "Natalia… my little angel." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
His gaze turned flinty. "I know you don't like to talk about the ambush, but I have to know why." He discarded the napkin he had been fiddling with, the fires of determination filling him. "Did she do something? Her letters were always vague and of course brief." He shook his head. "Such is the life of a magicheologist."
A magicheologist? Natalia? Hermione's jaw nearly dropped. His words had evoked a tsunami of information that tore through her. She was flabbergasted as she pieced together the identity of his daughter. She shook her head, reaching for the sapphire-studded goblet laden with alcohol. Natalia Hastings, a witch greatly renowned both in Potion and Historical circles for her discoveries, was his daughter!? She gulped down the cool liquid in her glass.
To say she was taken aback was an understatement. She had read Natalia's journals, which had been published nearly thirty-five years after her death. The witch was an adventurous spirit that frequently broke the rules in her expeditions. From Hermione's readings, the magicheologist appeared to be a world apart from the generally dour man in front of her.
Weariness exuding from every line. Caution shading his every smile. He held the demeanor of a man consistently beaten by life's twists and turns. The harder she looked, the easier she could identify the bruises painting his soul and the call of death shadowing his silhouette. Yet, he was far from broken. His face held a hopeful sheen. His eyes radiated a desperation of a father longing to know of the last moments in his daughter's life. What lies had Hastings been told about her? He seemed to adamantly believe that she held key knowledge to his daughter's death. Factually, she knew most of the story, but it was knowledge she was not supposed to have, had she actually resided in this time.
Natalia and all those in her party were fallen by their greatest attributes. The brave was crippled by their sacrificing ways. The greedy was swallowed by their gluttony. The magical battle left a dark stain. Hermione pondered over the facts she recollected, debating how much to reveal to Hastings, if anything at all. Deciding the man in front of her deserved to know and that she could hardly change history anymore than she already had, she spoke. "They wanted the founder's journals…. The collection Mathos Elktwin had hidden hundreds of years ago, along with dozens of other Dark Arts texts."
Puzzlement colored Hastings's face, "The journals impossible..." His voice took a bitter turn, "..they were perhaps the only items not disturbed at the campsite. I've locked up the foul things up personally." Hermione's eyes grew wide as she took in this little fact. Shaking her head, she continued, "Yet, they were the target of—" Hermione hesitated "—the cause of …everything that happened." The 'everything that happened' amounted to perhaps one of the most mystifying crime scenes in wizarding history.
"How?" Hastings demanded.
Hermione looked at him grimly. "I don't know." Natalia's journals spoke of the greed surrounding individuals of her party, as well as how she had overheard a plan involving her demise, but the final scene was littered with mysteries. Any possible witnessess had left before death rained down onto the camp. It was speculated that the artifacts incited the final killing blows to the rest of the group after Natalia was struck down.
Silence rained at the table, both individuals lost in thought. Hermione swirled the remaining alcohol in her goblet and watched as the liquid danced against the glass. As her mind wrapped around the story, a sinking feeling filled her belly. Riddle was aiming to possess the founders texts. Why else would he want Hastings's wand? She had to return it. No matter the consequences she may face, she could not let Riddle get his hands on them.
The stiff silence was broken by an arrogant voice.
"May I have this dance, Miss Gr—?"
"Ron!?"
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 8:23 pm
Place: Hermione Granger in the Ballroom, mouth agape
New Mission: Rid a ghost and return a wand.
.oOo.
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 8:26 pm
Place: Ministry of Magic- Potion's Gala- Dancing with Ron Otter
Mission: Conning the Con Artist
"You're mistaken," Hermione mumbled confusedly as a man resembling Ron Weasley escorted her across the glinting dance floor. His familiar freckled features, red hair, and surprisingly identical first name had succeeded in deceiving her, however momentarily, and allowed her to plummet into her currently precarious situation. She was trapped. The man had skillfully cemented her in his firm clutches, prohibiting any escape.
"I admit to my doubts," Ron Otter revealed as his eyes narrowed on her. "Yet the way your lips spoke my name and the way your sweet face grew pale on seeing me … what other conclusion could I come to?"
He hushed Hermione's further protests, placing an index finger on the rosy pillows of her lips. "And now … your incessant denials … Mira, glamour charms can only hide so much."
Hermione huffed with righteous indignation, "You're an idiot."
"So you always say," Ron ran his hands down her form in an intimate fashion, much to Hermione's disgust.
As she attempted to halt his wandering hands, she wished Hastings had put up some form of protest on her behalf. Instead, so engrossed in his thoughts, he barely acknowledged her departure from the table.
Perhaps, she could bargain with the leering man to leave her alone. "I promise—"
With those two simple words, Ron underwent an abrupt transformation. His hands tensed at her waist. With his jaw set, he sent her a scathing look. "I wouldn't take your promise if it was wrapped in angel's wings."
"Wha—why?" she asked, startled at the anger that washed over him.
He snorted.
"You just want … " She stopped, not wanting to express the thought that was becoming more and more clear. Whoever he suspected her of being did not seem to bode positively for her.
"I just want what?" Ron challenged, lifting her gaze to meet his.
His eyes of ice chilled her very core. She suddenly understood exactly what he wanted, "Revenge."
He smiled. She never thought a smile could be so menacing. "Very perceptive of you, Mira."
Hermione gritted her teeth at his callous threat. Despite the mix-up in identities, Hermione steamed with righteous indignation at the man's bullying demeanor. She was certain his fury was directed at some ex-flame. The poor woman was most likely forced to use glamour charms to avoid the brute in front of her. Hermione glared at him.
"I won't let you—"
"Oh, you won't?" Amusement crept into his voice. "And just how do you think you will prevent it?"
Though she longed to blast the man before her off his feet, it was neither the time nor the place. Her ears strained to hear the closing notes of the upbeat piece, eager to free herself from the madman's arms without arousing further ire. Her eyes blindly searched the crowd around her for an exit route. Ron's grip on her wrist tightened at her inattention, which elicited a soft hiss of pain from Hermione. The sound was drowned by the wailing vocals of Tab Deity. "With a Goblin yell—he cried—you're poor, poor, poor."
Ron swiveled his hips briefly to the music, before crooning casually in time with the singer, his mad gaze piercing her. "I gave you all, and have none, babe." He pulled her close, his voice tinged with resentment. "Isn't that right, Mira? You cheated me, you heartless harpy. I guarantee you will receive your just desserts." Pushing her away from him, he whirled her around … right into the waiting arms of Tom Riddle.
"I believe I'll take this dance." Riddle trained his gaze on Hermione as his large hands glided down her sides to the welcoming curves of her waist and tightened their hold. He coolly dismissed the red-haired man that stood behind her.
Ron released a squawk of dissatisfaction, both at the blatant display of ownership and at having his double-crosser torn from him. He desired comeuppance and he would not let her escape so easily.
Hermione sensed his rage and was for the first time happy to be pressed possessively against Riddle's dark form. She placed a hand against his chest and glanced between the two men worriedly. Despite her fierce dislike of the crude Otter, she prayed the red-haired man would abort his suicidal strike.
Ron appeared to heed her silent plea. He backed away from Riddle, the color draining rapidly from his face. He narrowed his eyes and took a final glance at Hermione before disappearing into the dancing crowd.
Relieved, Hermione turned her head and settled her gaze back onto the man that currently held her. Riddle's lips were drawn into a self-assured smirk of victory. Meeting her intent look, he spoke, "It seems like you've been enjoying the evening."
Not in the mood for faux pleasantries, Hermione decided to come straight to the inevitable topic at hand, "I don't have it."
"No?" he questioned. His lips thinned. She saw the change in his eyes and felt the sudden tension in his fingers. Her heart began a slow, insistent thudding against her ribs.
"No," she gave him a defiant look.
Taken aback at her rebelliousness, Riddle studied her, a slow grin creeping across his face. "Hmm, I see. Perhaps you wish me to search your person." His lips neared her ear. "I'll happily oblige."
Hermione pressed both of her hands against his chest, demanding release. "And I'll happily give you nothing."
A cold wintry rage settled over Riddle. Taking a step back, he loosened his grip on her, enabling Hermione to slip away. She did not get far as Riddle bared a pointed look at the playing band and snapped his fingers. The crisp sound resonated commandingly with the instrument holders and like puppets on strings they performed for their master. The upbeat tune immediately turned sensual and dramatic.
Startled at the abrupt change in atmosphere, Hermione chanced a glance behind her, searching for its cause. It was a fatal error that would prove her undoing.
She was drawn into hell's fires as strong hands seized her shoulders and pulled her into their blazing depths. It was an intimate position so familiar yet so foreign and she could do nothing but shiver. Her back pressed against his firm chest. The tidy up-do she had worked so painstakingly on was rapidly becoming unraveled. His heat scorched her as his black, leather gloved fingers smoothly ran down the bare expanse of her arms and continued over the silken cloth of her own gloves. His breath was heavy in her hair.
Unconsciously leaning back into him, she felt his lips moving against her thick curls, a sweet massage that offered no relaxation as she heard his heavy whisper. "You gave me your word that you would obey me in all things. If you wish to renege on that promise, tell me now." His words burned through her. " I will not have my plans upset."
At the mention of his plans, she brushed away his exploratory fingers. Damn whatever secrets he knew about her. It was a promise she never should have made and one she reneged on wholeheartedly. As she moved from him, she doubted he would accept this stance.
Sure enough, she had not taken but two steps from him when he authoritatively grabbed her right forearm, and twirled her back into his arms…into an obscenely suggestive embrace.
His lunging figure looked down on her heatedly. Her breasts pressed up against his firm chest. Her legs straddled his partially bent right knee. Yet still this pose did not seem close enough for Riddle as his right hand pushed against the small of her back, forcing her closer still. There was no escape. There never was. Her hand rested on his chest as she steadfastly tried to deny the intimate closeness of the embrace.
The man before her made no such denials; instead, he traced her form with his eyes as he spoke again, "Think of this, Mira, before you give your answer. And if you don't wish to think of yourself, perhaps you will think of others … If you desert the plan now, you forfeit all chances of seeing certain acquaintances ever again."
She froze, her mind latching onto one name, "Ron?" she questioned absently. Yet, even as she spoke his name, she knew it was not the right answer. In fact, she felt with growing certainty that Riddle knew nothing of her and like Otter mistook her for another, a foolish mistake that she foolishly followed.
Riddle scowled at her utterance of the name and tightened his hold on her, "No—an acquaintance more diminutive in size, with a bit more fur."
Hermione's breath hitched at his words. He had captured Beeper, the tiny Nargle. Her lips quivered at the news.
It was a barely perceptible twitch the Dark Lord seemed to delight in. "I thought that ill-bred furry termagant belonged to you."
As he talked, his left hand danced over the curve of her hip, down the silken fabric, pausing only when reaching the naked flesh of her leg. His eyes radiated dark pleasure at the unexpected surprise. His voice turned husky, "I see you've modified the dress."
His hand fingered the slit's opening, before it continued its skimming course down the bare creamy expanse of skin on her right leg, "It suits you well."
Hermione held her breath as the cool leather caressed her. She knew he would soon discover the wand and braced herself for whatever turbulence would ensue.
Riddle did not disappoint. He soon located the item of desire, his fingers toying with the petal opening that clutched the thick wooden rod. He teasingly stroked it until its shuddering release. His licentious gaze fueled an unknown fire within her, burning her with its intensity. Inch by inch, she felt him withdraw the long wood. His whispered words were like winds blowing on smoldering embers, promising to ignite a fiery inferno of passionate pleasure. "Let me."
The roaring turmoil he inspired shook her very core. "No," she gulped, "you've no right to the journals."
Stopping his movements, he raised a brow at her words. "Mmm, it seems you've found me out. Clever girl." His final words were mocking as he analyzed her. Then, wasting no more time, he pocketed the wand, unnoticed by all who dared observe.
She waited for him to discard her, now that his objective was attained, but he did not release her. His right hand remained tight around her lower waist preventing separation. Instead, he proceeded to grab the underside of her right knee, hoisting up the shapely limb to dangle near his waist. Shifting his weight, he straightened his right leg, forcing her to abide to his wishes. Leg on leg, knee to hip, a tangle of limbs, all supported by him.
"Follow me," he ordered commandingly. Releasing her leg, he grabbed her resting right hand with his left, before pushing her off him.
Hermione started from her daze at his imperious tone and abrupt movement. She had nearly fallen. All that had kept her from slipping was his right hand on the small of her back, holding her in the crook of his arm. His eyes pierced hers in silent challenge. His movements were crisp and clean. They twisted and turned in pure fluidity, her legs mingling with his, a harsh and soft duality as if lovers in sheets.
She was soon twirled rapidly into a backward lean in his arms. Her left hand grasped his neck, they paused there but a second, their breaths heaving. "You'll meet me again at Gwendolyn's Fountain in an hour." He instructed.
Her body grew warmer as his eyes penetrated hers. Caustic and demanding, he was slowly eroding her good sense. Senses that told her to run—not only from the intrigue planned—but also from his wanting gaze.
Obedience.
Submission.
Domination.
She did not believe she could satisfy the cravings that appeared to consume him. "I can't—"
Yet, she was unable to continue as Riddle, sensing her struggle and quiet aversion to capitulation, did not wait for her to continue and instead interrupted imperiously as he lifted her from the leaning repose and twirled her away.
"You'll come because it suits me to have you there," he stated domineeringly as he pulled her back to him and held her in the crook of his arm. Leading her across the floor in a curving pattern, he continued, "…and I'm accustomed to having what suits me."
His arrogant words wakened Hermione from the intimate trance she had fallen under and her head snapped up in fresh anger. "I've already done enough damage. Find another lackey."
"How quickly we forget, Miss Greenhorn, about the lives of others. Then again, I'm certain you agree it is only ourselves that matter."
Anger receded slowly at his words, and she dropped her eyes shamefully, staring at the ground while she considered his statement. How could she have forgotten so quickly? She knew she would not sacrifice the nargle.
A ghost of a smile spread across his face at her silence to his statement. Taking the opportunity, he increased the swiftness of his steps.
She immediately matched his daunting pace and soon found herself wrapped around him in a lover's embrace, as the hand that had been claiming her waist hooked her right leg around his body then brashly trailed upward… gliding over her curves before coming to rest momentarily on the sides of her firm young breasts.
Lingering his thumbs caressed in a slow circle, then trailed once in a lazy arch over the subtle curves, pausing at their fullness before moving to rest under their soft swell. Her lips parted, but she found no strength to protest against the unfamiliar intimacy, her body responding to his touch, eclipsing her will. Abruptly, she found herself being propelled forward. Her hands clutched his shoulders automatically to compensate for the loss of gravity.
"Put me down." The order emerged as a trembling whisper, and his smile grew wider.
"No," Riddle growled, causing tremors to run along the length of her spine to the very tips of her toes.
Shaking herself of the feeling, she focused on the topic at hand.
"Hastings will find out," she stated determinedly.
Riddle appeared unmoved and unconcerned as he released her from the intimate hold. "Then you will become the consummate actress. You will act as though nothing happened. You will speak with respect."
Defeated. She was silent, choosing to nod her acquiescence.
"At last," he said in a lazy drawl, which she was coming to detest, "you appear to understand the seriousness of your position. Think about it, Mira. I have you in my power. There is no one here to save you."
Glancing about the room casually as if to confirm this statement, Riddle proceeded to withdraw from her. "No, we won't discuss this any further."
Then, as if dismissing her, he turned away, disappearing into the dancing crowd.
Uncertain as to why, anger reached her face at the minor slight and turned it a glowing pink while her dark eyes seemed somehow darker for it.
.
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 8:47 pm
Place: Left standing in the middle of the ballroom of the Ministry of Magic Potion's Gala
New Mission: Bang head against the wall at letting events and her heart spiral hopelessly out of control
.
.oOo.
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 8:58 pm
Place: Ministry of Magic- Potion's Gala
Mission: Colin Creevey (aka Cicerone Levy)/ Scout Party/ Keep Hermione out of trouble
"Grab a partner and drag-on round!"
Colin glanced toward the booming voice of the musical presenter, who was urging as many witches and wizards as he could onto the dance floor for a magical hoe-down.
He grinned as he observed several couples, including the Captain and Minerva, stumbling clumsily on the floor with their silken robes and pearled gems attempting to dance to the carefree tune that Colin concluded was decidedly out of place at such a formal affair.
Turning his head, the jaunty look that had spread across his face disappeared as quickly as it had come, when he spied Hermione's forlorn one seated next to him.
Forlorn…and disturbed was perhaps the best word that captured his friend's present state. Her fingers were absently dancing over the silverware, counting the times of the forks, before curling tightly over a butter knife, a wicked smile briefly gracing her face as she examined the blades uncommonly sharp edge.
Colin shuddered at the uncharacteristic expression that had crossed her face. He was fully aware a battle had been waged and was grateful to not be the opposing foe.
Seeming to sense the scrutiny, she set the blade down on the covered table, her fingers ghosting across the rest of the utensils again. Colin gazed at her actions consideringly as he quietly sipped the citrusy juice from his goblet. He couldn't blame her for her conflicted appearance. He had seen the rather steamy tango between her and Riddle. The intimate dance and its heated undertones were impossible to miss.
Their black and white figures had twined like ying and yang, causing quite a stir off the dance floor. Colin had nearly choked on his pumpkin-brownie when he heard several older witches forming a betting pool on when the passionate duo would wed.
Yet, as odd as it seemed, Colin could not deny that the two were eerily compatible, both clever and powerful in their own right, insisting on changing the world.
Colin mentally snorted at the random image that appeared in his head at the thought of them wed. A dark comedy in the making—Voldemort trying to convince his beloved wife to invite her friend, Harry Potter, for tea, while Hermione strolled around Riddle's fortress freeing house elves with knitted hats and socks.
He shook his head of the mental image, as he amended his previous statement. They were compatible in many ways, excepting the most important…goals and priorities. He shivered at the thought of them ever joining forces and working for the same cause.
Colin turned his head back to the dancing crowd and continued scanning over the faces passively, searching for any hint of trouble that might beseech them later. Theirs was a chaotic situation. Yet, Colin still felt a resounding note of hope, despite the stacked odds.
He paused as his eyes alighted on a set of angry blue orbs, gazing menacingly in their direction. He nudged Hermione, "He's staring again…. are you sure that's not Ron…or at least his evil doppelganger?"
While dancing with Minerva, he had seen the red-headed man approach Hermione and had been struck by the man's uncanny resemblance so much that he had initially thought Ron had brilliantly found them and had come to bring them home.
"Huh—who?" Hermione lifted her head startled.
Colin flicked his head toward the extremely irritable Ron Otter, who currently stood at the edge of the ballroom casting foul looks toward the duo, while conversing with another wizard. "Red hair…extremely pale…murderous glare… looks like—huh—do you think Ron may be a vampire?"
"What?" Her face was incredulous as she followed Colin's gaze to the scowling Otter. "No!" The exclamation rang firm tinged with disbelief.
"But it would explain a lot," Colin protested.
"Like what?" Hermione drew her face from the plotting con-man to Colin and raised a questioning brow.
Delighted to be able to share his theories, he angled his chair toward Hermione. "Like when he pulled an Edward Cullen and used his brute strength to rescue you from that troll," Colin stated leaning closer to her his voice slightly hushed.
A confused look crossed Hermione's face before she sputtered disbelievingly, "Where did you hear that?"
Colin frowned, "He did rescue you from the troll, didn't he?"
Hermione gaped, "Yes, well—"
Whatever she was about to say was quickly interrupted by Colin, "Then there's the fact he acted strange around Professor Lupin. It makes sense now considering the werewolf and vampire relationship."
Hermione shook her head disbelievingly, "What in the—you know what—never mind—because he's not. You do remember Ron aging…walking around in the sun."
It was Colin's turn to look baffled. "Yes." Pondering for a moment his expression brightened. "The aging could be a vampire illusion, and as for the sun… it rains quite a bit in England… are you sure he wasn't out only on the cloudy days?"
"Positive." Hermione grinned wryly.
A dejected look settled across Colin's face at the dismissal of his theory. He had been so certain that he was close. Glancing at Ron Otter again, he narrowed his brows. The wizards were shaking hands, seemingly satisfied about something, dispersing quickly as an Auror approached. Colin had seen many devious men in his line of work and recognized the tell tale signs of an illegal deal being made.
"I don't like him. He's up to no good." He pursed his lips in thought.
"You mean, unlike all the other men I've met in 1956, who are bursting with good intention." Hermione stated sarcastically.
"Yes…no….I mean Riddle's evil and all, but at least he doesn't look at you like he wants to turn your insides out."
"That's up for debate," Hermione murmured.
"Speaking of good intentions, when are we going to rob the Ministry?" Colin anxiously spilled out. He was eager to set upon the plan they had haphazardly put together the day prior. The Sebal Stone, the second ingredient in their time traveling potion, was located somewhere within the Ministry halls and they were determined to find it.
He mentally grinned at the hypocrisy they were committing. He knew Hermione had chastised Riddle for his plot to steal from the Ministry. Yet, they had created their own plans to do the same.
Though judging by Hermione's expression those plans were far from her mind, as she appeared startled by his words.
After a moment, she sighed, "We still haven't worked out where the Ministry is holding the stone. The more time we spend searching, the greater the likelihood that we'll be caught. "
"True." He sat forward on the edge of his chair and folded his hands. "If we didn't know where the stone was held."
He watched as Hermione's eyes brightened as she processed his words. She leaned forward to meet him conspiratorially. "What did you find out?"
"It's in Unspeakable Winthrop's office. It actually had been on display for a short while, in the room by the swag, until one of the Auror's noticed the wards had been circumvented." Colin recollected. He had overheard Dawes ordering a discrete investigation, while searching for a lavatory earlier. The tone of the Auror's voice had been frantic. "Anyway, they immediately removed it and are investigating and guarding it on the Seventh Level."
The hopeful look Hermione had held earlier dimmed. "How many?"
Colin thought for a moment. "Six at last count." He felt quite certain of this number, as he observed the Aurors attempt to slip out of the rooms unnoticed, their attempts at stealth being laughable. "Though I'm not sure why. Whoever did it wasn't interested in stealing it."
"What makes you so sure?"
"I examined the warding work. High-grade level magic." He had actually been impressed with the Ministry's security. Considering how easy it had been for people to enter it when he was Hogwarts, especially teenagers, he had thought this time period would be no different. Yet, he had been surprised. He absently wondered what had changed over the years that created such a shoddy Ministry.
"To take it down, meant that whoever it was is quite powerful. They didn't even trigger the alarm." The discovery had raised his hackles. The wards had been obscure. The only reason he recognized them was due to a one week internship with the Goblins in Gringotts. They had kicked him out after he accidentally triggered a protection ward on one of the vaults that ended up decimating the entire contents of the vault, injuring two goblins, and scorching off his eye brows. "I'm sure that if they wanted to take it, it would be gone. Instead, they moved it a bit, enough to be noticed by the guards on their rounds."
"A set up?" Hermione furrowed her brows in question.
Colin nodded. "Probably. Diverging attention from their real objective."
"Wouldn't the Ministry have shut down the event?" Hermione glanced around the room, as if certain they would be escorted out any second.
"And risk losing Galleons? Hardly." Colin scoffed.
"Riddle," Hermione spoke thoughtfully. "It had to be him. With Captain Hastings down here and the rest of the Aurors preoccupied, it would make it that much easier for him to steal the journals. This just makes our job harder. How will we get past the Aurors?"
Colin scratched his head. Her theory made sense. Riddle was the most likely culprit. He was certainly more than powerful enough. Colin gazed around the room, hoping for an answer to appear about their new crisis with the Aurors. None seemed forthcoming. He sighed. "Not really sure. I was hoping you would have a plan on that end."
Hermione snorted. "Obviously, you're forgetting that cat-burglary and movie-worthy heists are not exactly my forte. "
Colin grinned at the imagery of Hermione breaking into some rich schmoes mansion and robbing him blind. She'd probably leave cookies of apology. "No Kung-Fu'ing the Auror Department then?"
"No." She joined his grin.
"It shouldn't be too hard. Most of them are tipsy anyway." Colin gestured to several men on his right, who were obviously very inebriated, doing a dance which seemed to be a mixure of the hustle, the locomotion, and the hula. Returning his gaze to Hermione, he nearly jumped as a small hand appeared to be groping the table cloth. When he blinked, the hand seemed to disappear.
"Even the ones on duty?"
Colin's face snapped towards her. She raised her brow at his abruptness, before continuing. "Speaking of …even if I had some great plan to defeat them, there are still the Aurors posted outside the ballroom to deal with."
Colin wrinkled his nose at the thought. "But Riddle—"
"—has most likely been planning this for some time," Hermione stated pointedly, "and has everything figured out. We would most likely need to trigger—"
"—a distraction," Colin finished her line of thinking. It made sense. Riddle had created one. Why couldn't they? A smile spread across his face as he envisioned a solution.
His wiley grin was noted by Hermione. She peered at him suspiciously. "What did you have in mind?"
Colin opened his mouth to reply, yet as his eyes brushed over the table, his expression flitted to one of surprise and worry, "My camera. It's gone!"
Hermione, somewhat ignorant as to his plight, nodded her head thoughtfully. "That would work, I suppose."
"No, it's really gone!" Colin searched around the table desperately for the familiar rounded edges and black metallic sheen of his camera. His heart began to plummet within his chest. "This is horrible."
The camera had been brought with him when he was hurtled into the past with Hermione. He considered the Centaur 610 his lucky camera. He briefly puzzled over its disappearance, until he recollected the small hand he saw moments before. "The elves must have taken it." He stated sorrowfully.
Confusion spread across Hermione's face. She surveyed the surrounding area. "Elves. What elves?!"
"The ones in the suits. Three of them. They came by earlier...trying find some cleaning supplies—mops—I think." There was no way he could forget them. They didn't look or act like any elves he had ever seen before. They had worn dark custom made suits with large wide-rimmed hats, if he didn't know any better, he would have thought them mobsters. Perhaps due to the event, the Ministry required the elves to dress more formally around the guests when doing chores? They had asked for the location of a mop, seemingly certain that he knew its whereabouts.
"Mops?"Hermione asked curiously.
"Yeah—they were really passionate about it, too—told me I'd end up eating dirt if I didn't tell them were the mops were. Though I don't know what they were worried about. This place seems pretty immaculate to me." Colin quickly glanced under the table, in hopes of proving his theory wrong and that the camera had fallen underneath.
"Wait—but why do you think they took your camera?"
"They had been admiring it earlier… they thought it was yummy or something like that." Colin remembered how the head elf had glanced over his shoulder and on seeing the camera had barked out 'yum', which obviously intrigued the other elves, as one of them came forward to inspect his camera. "They then decided to change their plans and get tequila instead."
"Change of plans." Hermione mused.
Colin nodded. "Yeah—who knew house elves were big drinkers?" He paused, remembering Winky and her bottles of Butterbeer. The poor elf had been a sobbing mess. In afterthought, he added, "though I suppose their jobs can get depressing."
His thoughts were diverted from the elves as Hermione spoke again. "Do you know if there are any blind spots?"
"Oh—with the Aurors?" Colin glanced around the room, mentally recounting the posts and schedules of the Aurors he had gleaned earlier, when a blue spark caught his eye. "Yep. Northeast exit should be empty in three minutes."
Hermione looked upon him in surprise, "That's precise. How do you know?"
Colin's eyes trailed from the brilliant glimmer of light back to Hermione. "There are only two 'guards' posted there tonight and from the looks of it they're going to abandon their posts to deal with Rosenhopper." As if on cue, two shouts rang out, as the Aurors guarding the Northeast exit left their post to deal with the rowdy elderly wizard, who had just challenged another wizard to a duel.
"Great. Cover for me, Colin." With those words, Hermione hurriedly slid from the chair and, with a swish of her dress, disappeared into the crowd.
"Cover? I thought I'd help..." He grumbled, privately pouting at being left behind, before grabbing the goblet of water before him and taking a large swig.
"Help what, Colin?" A sweet voice rang behind him. Looking up he saw that Minerva and Hastings had returned from the dance floor and were looking at him expectantly.
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 9:03 pm
Place: Colin at the dinner table choking on his water
New Mission: Entertain Captain Hastings/ Distract Minerva/ Cover for Hermione/ Get camera back from elf/ Avoid death before birth
.oOo.
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 9:02 pm
Place: Hermione leaving the dinner table
Mission: Retrieve Sebal Stone
"Great. Cover for me, Colin." Hermione pulled away from Colin. Her mind was made up. She would retrieve the item.
Hermione skirted through the crowd until she reached the exit that would lead her to the seventh floor and, hopefully, that much closer to the future.
After all, to spend the rest of her life engaged in this pursuit, never again to be free—the thought was intolerable. Not to mention thoughts of the man himself. Her life, her future to be driven by him. Belong to him. She'd sooner die.
.oOo.
Date: September 29, 1956 Time: 9:22 pm
Place: Ministry of Magic- Potion's Gala
Mission: Hermione Granger - Avoid getting killed
Silence reigned over the three figures in the hall. One of whom had no choice in their speechlessness.
Hermione looked dumbly at the dead body sprawled before her. It was an unmoving role she was supposed to play only moments before. She shivered as she glanced back up at her savior and nightmare—Tom Riddle.
He had killed the man before her, a man who had been talking to Ron Otter not an hour before, a man—she discovered—who had been paid to destroy her.
She had been so close to attaining the stone. A few more moments and she was certain she would have had it in her hands. The dead wizard had caught her entering the unguarded room. She initially thought him an Auror, a mistake that left her wandless. She blanched on recollecting his beefy fingers searching her person for her wand, a process the man declared he enjoyed doing manually. She swore she could still feel his rancid breath near her neck and shuddered to think what might have happened had Riddle not appeared when he did. She shook her head of the image. "How'd you find me?"
Riddle did not answer. Instead, kneeling down next to the deceased wizard, he began to search the wizard's robes for something. Pulling out a small book, he flipped through it before quickly pocketing it in his robes. The same was done with the wand.
Hermione cleared her throat attempting to garner his attention.
"How'd you find me?" she repeated, trying to discern how close he had been and if he had been able to steal the journals.
Finishing his search of the man, Riddle rose quickly. He turned toward her, his face of lurking danger hiding beneath calm seas.
"Who—was—he?" he bit out halting through his teeth, as if trying to reign in his temper. He flicked his head toward the limp figure. "A scorned lover maybe? Or maybe a wizard who grew tired of playing games?" The last words were spoken bitterly.
Baffled at the searing intensity of his voice, it took her a moment to process what he was asking. On realization, fury erupted, "Lover? Games?!" She felt the angry color rise in her cheeks. She marched toward him. "You conceited ass. I have no lovers and I don't play games."
"No? Like Ron Otter? I saw how you made eyes at him."
"Ron?" A look of confusion crossed her face, until she realized he was discussing the meeting earlier with the redhead. She glowered at him. "What a filthy mind you have. It was a misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding? Really? Well, I'm certain a few more minutes of misunderstanding would have found you on your back with your dress around your waist."
For a moment, Hermione was speechless, taken aback by his crudity. "You presumptuous pig. A man accosts me then sends one of his minions to kill me and you think—you think—I was contemplating doing—that—with him. Are you completely addled?"
Riddle was silent as he considered her stormy rant. His face continued being expressionless as he turned back in the direction of the prone figure. Lifting his hand, he pointed it towards the wizard.
"Flamma Nex."
The spelled words were emotionless. Black flames leaped from his palms, consuming the husky body that lay on the floor. The fiery blackness wrapping itself around the body continually, eating at the remains until nothing was left of the body but ashes, which speckled the floor like dust.
Turning back to her, his voice remained even. "Mind what I say, or suffer the consequences."
Hermione shivered at his cruel display and allowed him to drag on her arm, pulling her along the wall away from the unidentifiable remains until they turned the corner where he released her. He looked fleetingly over his shoulder to see if anyone followed before turning his attention back to her.
"What would you have done, had I not arrived?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
She made a scoffing sound. "I know how to take care of myself."
Riddle did not appear mollified. Rather, the statement seemed to rile him, his handsome face becoming harder and his mouth grim. To Hermione's never-ending surprise, he reached for her, and she sucked in a strangled breath as his gloved hands closed over her bare arms. The heat they generated was alarming, as was Riddle's abrupt metamorphosis. Right before her eyes, Riddle changed from smooth emptiness to something threateningly feral, and Hermione blinked in amazement.
Held by his hands and his glittering gaze, Hermione felt caught between dread and titillation, between the heat of his touch and the cold of the shiver that ran up her spine. Would he punish her? Set her aflame like the wizard moments before?
"Impetuous wench," he growled. "Are you deliberately thick-headed? You disregarded my orders."
"Well—I—" Hermione opened her mouth to protest.
This was not at all how she imagined things to go. She didn't imagine meeting him, or being rescued by him, yet again. But then Riddle was always doing the unexpected. And this moment proved no different, for as Hermione watched with widening eyes, his head dipped, his features blurred, and he kissed her.
Hermione had been kissed before, once by Viktor, and then once by Ron, but both had never aroused in her any enthusiasm for the intimacy. In fact, after Ron's kiss, she had always thought it rather distasteful to have someone place their mouth on her own. Until now.
Quite simply, Riddle put them to shame. He played upon her lips like a master, his first touch a mere brush, a featherlight caress that surprised her and left her aching for more. And instead of giving it to her, he grazed the line of her jaw, her cheek, her eyelids, and her forehead where a curl had fallen. Then, he pressed against the errant lock with a deliberate caress that hinted of delights untold.
"You are quite the sumptuous feast, are you not?" Riddle whispered against her hair, before his lips returned to hers, enticing and molding them until Hermione heard a low moan that shocked her as her own.
She unconsciously lifted her hands to Riddle's embroidered silk robe, drawing in a giddy breath at the heat emanating from his muscular form. He was so warm, solid, and sleek that Hermione could not help running her palms around to his back, beneath his cloak.
His mouth was dominant and sure. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as the force of the kiss held her in its prison. All was lost in the dark demand of need. His teeth nibbled at her lip, shooting sparks of flame through her vein.
As if her explorations encouraged him, Riddle touched her with his tongue, and she gasped with surprise only to feel him enter her mouth in a smooth invasion that seemed to affect her body in the most peculiar ways.
Curious that someone so corrupt could be so delicious. Hermione thought, for Riddle tasted better than anything. Hermione could liken him to none she had ever had before, his flavor a dark, rich embodiment of...passion?
As her thoughts made its way through her dazed senses, she realized that she should not be clutching onto Riddle in such a manner. She should not let one of his elegant hands clasp the back of her neck while her head fell back, her mouth opening under his. She should not push so close to him that her breasts were smashed against his robe. And most of all, she should not be moaning wantonly at the bliss found in his arms.
With a final hard, brief kiss, he stepped away, and Hermione's arms fell to her sides, empty and anchorless.
"They have gone," Riddle whispered against her ear.
It took her fogged brain a full minute to comprehend his statement. What had been a surprisingly wondrous experience for her had been nothing but a plot, a distraction, for him—something to not rouse suspicion of prying eyes. She gazed at him, her lips still burning, her breathing uneven, her legs still unable to obey the commands of her brain.
What a fool she had made of herself, responding as she did. She was dragged away from her thoughts when Riddle spoke again.
"Now tell me what is so important about the stone you were about to steal?"
.
.
A/N: I wish to thank all my readers and reviewers: Jen103, Azera-v, Cook, sorael, j:), Belle86, fdrfhy0, blindfaithoperadiva, flamelm, Ekaterina2324, sexy-jess, claerwen, BookishBrains, anon, greatstars, PourLaVie, rollingthru, and everyone that made this story a favorite. Your support kept me plugging away at this fic.
Another big thank you to my wonderful betas SerpentInRed and Hajnalmadar, and their unending patience with me. /Hugs/
And thank you to Nnmous ()- I made the change you suggested. /grins/ You're right Colin is more of a smuggler then a transporter...especially after seeing the Transporter movies I can definitely say he's definitely no Frank Martin, and would end up running at most signs of conflict.
Again I wish to apologize for the length of time it took to get this chapter up and hope it doesn't take away from the story.
A/N2: In regards to this chapter, the"Goblin Yell" song Ron Otter was singing along to was a spoof of "Rebel Yell" by Billy Idol.
The tango between Tom and Hermione was inspired by the first 50 seconds of the Shakira music video Objection (Tango) /grins/ though I think Tom and Hermione do the dance more justice...you can watch it on youtube under /watch?v=8C6xDjQ66wM
