FIRST EDIT: 20 May 2014
SECOND EDIT: 30 December 2015
Chapter Playlist: "I Walk the Line" — Halsey
II. STEUERN
"You will always be fond of me.
I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit."
—Oscar Wilde
1 September 1943
The Headmaster's Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
"Have you completed your five years in Durmstrang without any disciplinary troubles?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever come in contact with the Dark Arts?"
There was an abrupt pause. Then, "No."
"And you are well-acquainted with the...political uproar that is happening in England?"
"Yes."
Hermione bit her lips. The so-called "little interview process" that the old man was conducting, sitting across from her, was getting way overboard.
Why, exactly, did her opinions matter on non-academia issues like this? And of all the things, her father had never warned her about the tricky "admission" process in Hogwarts. Now she was stuck in the Headmaster's Office, trying to whack her brains out for some answers that may not seem to be too suspicious.
Headmaster Dippet, luckily, seemed to take no notice of the girl's sudden discomfort as clasped his aged hands together in a somewhat excited manner, and scanned down the parchment in front of him quickly. His grey eyes danced in contentment and pride. "Excellent! Excellent! Miss Granger,"—Hermione flinched at the surname—"I'm sure you will fit right in with our students!" the magical trinkets clattering under his booming voice.
Hermione wasn't sure which pitch was more annoying: the sound of Dippet's happy exclamations, or the screams of her father's prisoners.
"Thank you, Headmaster," she inclined her head like Grindelwald had taught her to do. Show humility, child – even if you don't mean it, the memory of his voice whispered against her ear. The proximity of the voice was frightening; as if he had been standing right next to the chair the whole time. Watching. Waiting. Just like the perfect hunter, obscured by the snow and the night, anticipating its prey. It was not a pleasing image. Under the care of Grindelwald, she had never enjoyed the privilege of personal privacy. A part of Hermione had secretly hoped somehow that the protections of Hogwarts would bring about security, for once in her life.
The idea itself was utterly ridiculous, of course, for no matter how hard she tried, the assigned mission will always linger in the back of her mind and tugging her closer to a place she didn't know. Besides, her conscience reasoned, power and control will always outweigh personal comfort. She cannot let a short-term interest get in the way of her goal.
"Your academic record showed that you had earned three Outstanding Student Magical Achievement award in only one year?" Dippet asked incredulously, pushing his glasses further up his nose to scrutinize the parchment in front of him, "Incredible!" his dilated pupils darted back and forth on the content of the files hungrily while he murmured to himself, as if he was a child seeing the world for the first time. "What are some of your magical hobbies, if I may ask?"
"I like doing research on lost or obscure magic. Potions, of course, is also a favorite in my family." Hermione answered promptly, finally coming upon a question that she has been preparing for.
Dippet, however, seemed to be more interested in the Granger's family history than in Hermione's application. "Yes! Your, ah, great-grandfather, ah – Henry? – Yes, Henry Dagworth-Granger," the old man nodded knowingly, self-content with his apparent excellent ability to recalling names, "I've heard from my colleagues a lot about him. Great man. Yes, definitely. An extremely talented student in Potions, if I may remember correctly," Pausing for a moment to think, he added on, "It was a disappointment that he was not my student. Very smart child he used to be, you know! Miss Granger, you are a very lucky student."
Hermione stared at him, unblinking.
Part of her wanted to correct the old man: it was Hector. Not Henry. And a part of her wanted to hex him on the spot. She hated the last name; she was no longer a Grindelwald, the family of wizards that invoked the sense of fear and authority when spoken by another pair of lips. The only thing Granger had achieved was to give off a sense of pureblood the name itself was screaming for confusion and controversy. Hermione knew very well what the word "granger" had meant in plain English. And of all the things in the world, Hermione Grindelwald will not be seeing as a Muggle Farmer.
1 September 1943
The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
She hated it.
She hated the idiotic school and its even-more-idiotic policies. She hated the students, with their expressive selves and hearty laughter. She hated their delighted chatters. The professors' friendly glances and their attempts to make a conversation. The tempting aroma of the Opening Feast. The pleasant ambiance. She hated them all. It was way too warm for her liking. Hermione preferred withdrawn abandoned gothic castles stashed away from civilization and carried with them unspeakable secrets, forever buried in history. She wanted the glacial winters of Scandinavia; the proud, cold aloofness of Grindelwald Manor. Not any of this.
Couple of students had already noticed her presence, and murmured quietly amongst themselves while sending her some inquisitive glances. Their curiosities were met with her indifferent gaze – which Hermione tried to not transform into an angry glare. Standing next to the Professors' Table, it had given her an advantage to survey the students without being overly awkward.
She had never seen so many teenagers gathered in one place before. But then again, Hermione had never really met anyone else her age before Hogwarts, either. The sudden shift of environment was absolutely dreadful.
This is getting nowhere, Hermione moved her eyes away from the students, choosing to focus her attention on the mesmerizing ceiling.
"Now, Miss Granger, if you please," it seemed that Dippet had finally finished his mile-long speech. He was now gesturing toward a crooked, half-broken stool in front of all the four tables for their respective Houses. Hermione highly doubted the stool's ability to withstand her weight.
Sending a last contemptuous look at the squirming First Years behind her, she strode confidently to the Sorting Hat and its loyal three-legged stool. The Sorting Process, her father had said, would place potential students into four different Houses: Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff.
Not much detail was given about the latter two. The only thing her father had revealed was the fact that they were the "Houses for the weak." That statement was enough to make Hermione wrinkle her nose in disdain.
Gryffindor was supposed to be a place for the foolishly impulsive – or so he had said. And Slytherin, "Slytherin, Hermione, is where you want to be. It is the House destined for greatness; in it, you shall mingle with the crème de la crème of the Wizarding race. It is heaven for the shrewd and ambitious. It is the embodiment of power." Her father's ghostly whisper rang loudly.
"Why, hello there," A hoarse yet soft voice spoke from somewhere on the top of her head as the tattered Hat was dropped onto her head. Hermione sat, seemingly unfazed, facing the students of Hogwarts – countless pairs of eyes bore into her. The attention alone was making her palms starting to perspire. Always watching. It was déjà vu all over again; that intense feeling of insecurity and hesitancy. The knowledge of knowing that she had an audience to entertain.
Slytherin. Slytherin. Slytherin. I want – no, need – to be great. I need to be feared. I will be invincible. Slytherin.
"A brilliant mind, matched with immaculate magical skills. Some may say that you are a prodigy, Miss…Granger," The Hat let a chuckle. It was having a private joke of its own. "But there is one thing standing in your way to greatness: your virtues. Miss Granger, you are rather torn between two entities: between the nobleman you were born to be, and the Machiavellian you have grown to be—"
Stop. You do not know what you are talking about.
The Hat, it was capable of freethinking! It had defied all sense of logic that an inanimate object could not move, let alone function like a normal human. Grindelwald had clearly underestimated its ability. Hermione let out an involuntary shudder; if such simple object could supposedly see her persona, then wouldn't her charade and her entire plan be lying out in the open in all their glory, for a hat to know? And, who's to say that it won't speak to Headmaster Dippet, or worse, Professor Dumbledore, about all the information it had gathered?
Hermione clenched her jaw. This was not a good situation to be stuck in. Not only would the Hat know her better than herself, but also for the first time in sixteen years, she was being dissected. She had never felt so powerless.
"You do well in Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, you know?" The Hat continued, choosing to ignore the internal turmoil within the girl. "The good ol' Ravenclaw, where the wise and the intelligent dwell! My girl, you shall never be bored there, I guarantee." Hermione's eyes blazed with anger and disbelief, but the Hat continued its chanting, "Gryffindor! The House of bravery, chivalry, and courage; where those pure of heart would find their likes! All of their kingly aspirations shall be fulfilled, you shall be amongst those who always enjoy a good adventure—and perhaps a little mischief, if you ask me…"
Someone's ought to give you an award for your impeccable persuasion skills, Hermione chided sarcastically.
She could feel her heart slowly drifting in the other direction, where her father would be disappointed to know. However, after all, she was doing this for him, wasn't she? She has got to follow through with his intentions – not of her own.
Her choices and needs did not need play a role, in anything. Ever.
"You would have done well in Gryffindor, Hermione,"
Cease your insolent chattering, you old fool. You do not understand a thing.
The Hat went silent. Hermione twitched slightly at its unexpected quietness. "It's your own life," it started, out of its moment of pensiveness. "A life is a human's great gift, wouldn't you agree? —No, do not answer that— My point is, Miss Granger, in life, we undergo many, many things. It is not what happened to us that matter, it is how we react in those circumstances that make us who we are. And sometimes…" its voice dropped to a whisper, a soft echo with the wind, "The void that is within us could not be simply be knitted together by desires. You could numb the emptiness, but it will never go away."
What are you now, a reincarnation of Socrates?
Hermione felt sick. The red, yellow, blue, and green drapes danced around in her vision. The swishing of black student robes stealing away her attention, it was so similar to the dark abyss she was used to. Right now, all she wanted was to escape – to get away from the chaos she was trapped in.
The Great Hall was suddenly so claustrophobic, and the Sorting process was taking longer than she would have liked. Even the professors were getting nervous.
"In life, pain is inescapable, but suffering is optional." The Hat continued to be voluntarily oblivious to Hermione's angry outbursts. It spoke in its usual calm, soothing voice that possessed an omniscient aura. The Hat, Hermione realized, was everlasting. Not only so, but it had endured centuries of knowledge, sitting on the heads of millions, if not billions, of students with various backgrounds. She was, ultimately, nothing but a grain of sand. Despair overtook her senses.
No. She will not allow that to happen. She will be remembered. Her name would be engraved onto stones, bolded in textbooks, awed upon by the generations yet to come. She would be—
"Slytherin!"
Applauses erupted in the Great Hall as the Hat was lifted from her head. There were no more philosophic ponderings, no thought-provoking whispers or annoying tsks ringing in her ears anymore. There were only the silence in her mind, and the cheering of her new Housemates as she stumbled to the table of green. It was also Grindelwald's favorite color.
As she sat down, blending in with the rest of her unsuspecting peers, Hermione finally came to the solution of the problem that Hat had proposed.
Suffering is optional, too, if one is incapable to feel.
9 September 1943
The Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
Father,
All is going well.
The students here are tolerable – though, their etiquettes need severe reprimands. I have yet to locate the owner of the Stone.
I thought you might be glad to hear that I had successfully made acquaintance with your nemesis, of whom, for the sake of your honor and my safety, I shall not name. They are rather brilliant, if I may say. It is a shame that such great potential is going into waste.
As you may have heard, I am sorted into Slytherin.
How are things going in Monaco for you? One of my classmates mentioned that the Muggle Royal Family there had unknowingly meddled with the affairs of a Pureblood aristocrat. Can't wait to see how the useless Ministries would react.
I hope everything happens in your favor.
H.
P.S. You were right; Hogwarts is a rather awful place. The professors are incessantly inquisitive and ever nosy.
Chapter Playlist: "Black Mambo" — Glass Animals
30 September 1943
The Slytherin Common Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
The attention on the new student has not died down—even when it has almost been a month. The arrival had not only proved to be an interesting case study of teenage social behaviors, but also a new topic for the Hogwarts gossips.
"Do you think, Deirdre, that her family is as wealthy as us?" a petite blonde girl asked nervously, her green irises constantly flickering over to the Black Family heiress.
"Merlin, that's some genius there. Merrythought had never given O's to anyone before on an essay – not even to Riddle!" Antonin Dolohov, a gangly Sixth Year who lacked proper brain cells, barked loudly in his Eastern European accent to another lanky, quiet boy next to him. Theophilus Nott.
"—but of course, who would've thought a descent of Dagworth-Granger would be in Slytherin! Hah!"
"Did you know that Hogsmeade opened up a new boutique recently? I've heard from Mother that it's…"
"Goodness gracious, what an absolutely atrocious skirt! Jeanie dear, what had I told you about the fashion columns in Witch Weekly?"
"Damn, I think I forgot my textbooks in Slughorn's classroom again. That little old man is probably the strangest creature I have met. Let me tell you, just the other day…"
"But granted, she's not that repulsive. I, for one, find her to be very—"
"Lestrange, do you ever think before you speak with that disgusting mouth of yours?" an annoyed blonde sneered at the dark-haired boy who sat across from him near the fireplace. His hands were folded neatly together on his lap, and his legs were crossed at the exact one-hundred-degree angle; the perfect posture for a pureblood. He was able to remain in this state for hours without a flinch.
Rudolphus Lestrange let out a snort, drawing unwanted attention to the two from several corners of the Common Room. "Oh please, Abraxas, like you are any better!" He waved his hands around excitedly, "Courting girls from Ravenclaw, because you had already played with our girls, eh? Shamelessly talking – pardon me, persuading – that Gryffindor McGonagall, so she would lend you her Charms essay? Oh! What about the time when you were caught snogging Prewitt on the Second Floor? Mate, you are no less holy than you would like to think,"
"I am flattered that you have decided to invest so much of your energy in digging up my personal affairs," Abraxas replied coolly.
"Nay, nay," his partner leaned back into the leather sofa. The glint of fire danced in his chocolate eyes. "I care for my…friends, after all." Lest range grinned cheekily, running a hand through his mass of dark curls. "By the way, where is Tom?"
23 October 1943
The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
The morning owls arrived as per usual. A swirl of earthy colors flocked above the heads of Hogwarts students, each carrying letters and objects (and occasionally a Howler) to their intended recipient. It was a routine that neither the students – nor the owls – were ever tired of. A familiar barn owl swooped down to where Hermione was sitting at the Slytherin Table. She recognized the animal almost immediately. It was her father's favorite amongst all his messenger owls; not only could it fly faster than the rest, but it was gifted at avoiding attacks and had an average, unsuspecting appearance. She nicked the parchment from its leg gingerly, and handed the owl a tiny biscuit, which returned Hermione's gesture with an affectionate coo.
"A clever owl you got there, Miss Granger," someone sitting adjacent from her spoke, the voice was laced with amusement and lightheartedness. Her heart immediately dropped in dread.
This was not good; she was to be invisible, undetected and unsuspected by others. Nobody should have initiated a conversation with her. She was supposed to homogenize with her fellow Slytherins. Hermione Granger was to be seen as a civil yet aloof witch (even haughty, if necessary), a genteel girl raised in a refined pureblood household—the type of person that was hard to associate with, despite the current era of feminine activism. In short, she was to be untouchable—if not outright invisible.
Back when she lived with Grindelwald, no one had spoke to her unless it was an order – or a plea. Having other students so casually talking was pushing her impulses to an overdrive as her fingers grazed over the wand, waiting for her command in her robe pocket.
"Thank you, Mister Rosier," she nodded at the Seventh Year, ending the chat as quickly as it had started.
The letter, fortunately, was used as a method of distraction. Hermione unwrapped the standard black silk that was tied around the perfectly rolled parchment, so much like her father's constant need of flawlessness. A rush of nostalgia flooded into her. She had missed the days in the lonely libraries, the silent dinners, a confined sense of liberty, even the pumping adrenaline in her veins as an Unforgivable was cast. Merlin, even the petty servants and her father's little hate speeches were missed.
Fräulein,
I'm glad to hear that you have earned His trust, even as a Slytherin. A bit of a conniving old coot, isn't he? I am very proud.
How is the book he had given you? (Not too useful, I would presume.) In any case, you must do anything possible to delve deeper into his psyche.
Speaking of which, any news on the Stone? Hermione, you know that it is our last resort. I cannot overstate its importance. Both of our lives will be in danger if the Deathly Hallows are not conquered. Immortality and absolute power are the only two available options left. My days—and yours soon too, I fear—are numbered. The curtains are finally drawing to a close; it is up to you to finish the grand finale, which I am sure you will.
As you are reading this letter, I am no longer in Germany. An asylum in Iceland had offered me shelter, under the guise of a mental patient, of course. It shall provide a dreamy sanctuary for sure. I wonder, for some entertainment, how long I could keep my act as a sufferer of schizophrenia.
But no matter—it will be safe. No wizard could reach me there, unless this information is somehow leaked. Please do not write to me until you have received another letter from me, confirming my safety, or if an emergency arises.
I trust that you shall destroy this letter immediately upon finish reading.
May all your endeavors be fulfilled without difficulty.
Yours,
G.
Hermione grimaced unceremoniously. "May all your endeavors be fulfilled without difficulty"? That was a rather sarcastic statement. A father and daughter's blind hope, nonetheless. Folding the parchment into a tiny square, she tucked it into her robe and making a mental note to herself to burn it with Fiendfyre once out of public scrutiny.
Grindelwald's warnings has been clear: for reasons unknown, he was in danger, and she wouldn't last longer either, unless her resourcefulness and survival instincts could somehow save them both.
She had to pinch herself on the thigh to make sure that this wasn't all just a dream.
Sighing discreetly, she was snapped out of her reverie when more students began pouring into the Great Hall, levitating the degree of noise to a whole new level. As hard as she tried, Hermione would not – and could not – ever get used to the sloppy, unorganized, and blatantly obtuse teens of Hogwarts. She never understood how one could retain the sense of complacency and remain blissfully ignorant for such a long time, like the students.
Or, perhaps, a new argument slowly formed in her mind, she was the one who had been out of place—and experienced too much for someone her age, this whole time. As her contemplation slowly drew into the external world, she noticed that someone had taken a seat opposite of her, next to Rosier (Why am I surrounded by people? She thought furiously). Her rising wrath was pacified by the sudden unexpected warmness of her wand, a sign that…Hermione's hazel eyes widened.
The Stone was near.
No. Hermione's hazel eyes blazed. She could feel her cool exterior leaving her; her heart skipped and her stomach turned. Panic was not a friendly emotion.
Where is it?! The morning gloominess was gone; her sleepy brain jolted to a wake, her knuckles turned into an unhealthy shade of white as her grip on her wand tightened. Hermione swallowed. There has to be a least four hundred students in Hogwarts, how was she supposed to search them all?
Remain calm. You must keep calm. You cannot let others see your sudden reaction. She took a gulp of the pomegranate juice; the iciness had temporarily chilled her thoughts. The Great Hall was not a place to act, not to mention the watchful pupils of Albus Dumbledore that had the ability to spot evildoeres kilometers away. All Hermione could do was to curse her luck that the Stone was in a public scene, of all places.
"Finally woke up, eh Tom?" Another boy plopped down next to her. Hermione froze instantly. Only more Slytherins shuffled in, slowly closing in on her personal space. It seemed that this was the only place at the table where it was not crowded. Hermione cursed her luck again.
Of course, like all the other students of Hogwarts, she had recognized them all: Mulciber, Malfoy, Riddle, Nott, Rosier, Avery. The usual posse of Slytherin strutting around the school with the tips of their noses so upturned one could practically see their nasal cavities, and haughtily referring to themselves as the Knights of Walpurgis, a name that Hermione found to be as abhorrent their personalities.
"Yes, last night was rather uneventful," Another silken voice (Hermione assumed that it was "Tom") answered Mulciber. Hermione did her best to keep her eyes low, focusing on the toast in front of her. "Your night went well, I hope?" he asked nonchalantly.
Of all the things Grindelwald had taught her, socializing was never brushed upon. She was an expert at navigating courtly conversations among pureblood gatherings, but shallow small talks and teenage interactions were foreign concepts to her. If anything, the mere sight of Hermione's wand alone was able to make anyone tremble and plead and acquiesce to whatever demands she had in mind.
Bur right now, brandishing Dark spells in front of Hogwarts professors and students may not be a good idea. She sucked in a sharp intake of air
Sinking further into her seat, Hermione tried to put her attention on anywhere but the six Slytherins who just happened to be sitting near her.
"Ah! Miss Granger! What a pleasant surprise to have you joining us! Having a good breakfast so far?" Avery asked jovially. And, all of the sudden, Hermione found herself to be in the center of the Knights' (unwanted) attention. She wanted to crucio someone. Namely, the sandy-haired wizard who is grinning good-naturedly.
She inwardly scoffed; if there was one thing she knew about her housemates, it was that they never seem to smile. They smirk, and their eyes would have a certain menacing glow to them. If Avery was going to put an act, he should at least script his performance beforehand.
"The food is lovely. I hope your salad is delectable in your favor too, Mister Avery," Hermione smiled forcibly, and was glad that her voice did not betray her internal hatred and nervousness. She wanted to leave the Great Hall, to get away from artificial chitchats and pointless twaddle—even the mourning laments of her maids compared to this were sufferable.
All Hermione wanted was to finish off Dumbledore, steal the Stone of Resurrection, and retreat back into her hermit shell in Norway. Perhaps, even set the school on fire along the way too.
Avery, however, did not seem to take the hint. He continued to talk to Hermione as if she was his long-lost best friend, "The morning salads are usually satisfactory. Though, sometimes, those House Elves overcook the chicken right here and leave a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. Disgusting stuff, you know? I wonder what would happen if that happened in my household. Surely, Father would…"
The rest of what Avery said, she would never find out. In the interest of her own sanity, Hermione had successfully tuned out all the vocal expressions of the wizard, and hopefully would never have a run-in with him again. She would nod and respond with oh or ah I see at suitable statements, seemingly committed to the silly conversation and inflating Avery's ego and his confidence. If it all works out well, she would have an affluent, pureblood on her side, executing all her wishes and perhaps lessen the demands of the mission.
Hermione pondered, the corners of her lips made a slight movement as an idea sparked in her mind. She was angry at herself for not thinking of such a genius plan before. Why would she have to be the one taking on all the burden of her father's expectations, when the others could do the dirty work and she would take all the credit? Why would she risk her own safety when someone else could easily accomplish what she wanted, without the added threats?
After all, if Avery was so keen on keeping his nice-guy façade, then two could play a game.
To win against a snake, one must first act and think like a snake. If Slytherins prided themselves on their conniving abilities and shrewd dealings, then there would be no reason why Hermione shouldn't be like one of them. In fact, she would enjoy a stimulating mind game very much. Being under the same roof with a sociopathic, power-lusting, coldly calculating, and yet irresistibly charming man as her father wasn't exactly the ideal growth environment for a child – but it had refined Hermione's own art of craftiness, a gift she considered to be priceless, contrary to what the Sorting Hat believed. She was confident that she could surpass the students with ease, and a few professors, too.
The lost sense of confidence has finally found its way back to Hermione. She reminded herself that she was the daughter of Grindelwald. The Norwegian and German Ministries backed her undertakings, influential men wanted her hand in marriage, women fought over her heritage, claiming to be her relative. From the moment she was born, Destiny had paved the road of gold and greatness for her. There was nothing to fear, she told herself, for Fate would be on her side, just like it had been for her before.
"But that idiot Potter just had to ruin it for us," Mulciber spat venomously. "I'm telling you, those Gryffindors had it in for them. Right, Tom?" the burly wizard nudged the figure next to him. He seemed to be brimming with such passion and sentiment that Hermione found to be quite funny.
"Yes, quite," Tom finally nodded; his voice was bordering on an arrogant drawl and cold sarcasm. Of all the Knights, he was the one who spoke the least – yet; all the members had sought after his opinions, fighting solely for his attention. It was a strange hierarchy that played out in front of her, making her wanting to know just what kind of authority this Tom person had over the other four equally (if not more) powerful, prominent wizards born to high society.
She had never heard of his last name, Riddle, before. Her father had made sure she was erudite on the Original Twenty-Four, the families with only the purest of blood running in their veins, and Hermione could bet on her life that the Riddle Family was not of pure origin.
Plus, Tom was an awfully ordinary first name for a pureblood child. There were no rich history behind the name, no constellation named in its honor, and it did not even appear in any of the myths. Tom Riddle was a mediocre and normal boy; the most he could be was a half-blood. And that had made Hermione peculiarly assured.
More importantly, if the Slytherins, and the rest of the school, for that matter, are willing to worship someone who's status is less than pure…then she, Hermione Grindelwald, would surely dominate the Hogwarts population with ease. Heck, they would be kissing the hems of her robes. Her ego hummed in satisfaction at the imaginary outcome.
It would be much more than imaginary. She would make sure it would happen in real life. Having sovereignty over Hogwarts would be the first step to a world of absolute power and single rule – despotism.
Hermione regarded Riddle carefully, taking in his countenance by detail. His cheekbones were pronounced, but not overly so, finely accentuating his smooth alabaster skin that would make any models scream in jealousy. Carefully combed dark hair that curled or clung in all the right places, and highlighting the flushed lips and equally mesmerizing green eyes, only a shade lighter than the Forbidden Forest. There was no denying that he was one of the few most enticing male specimens in the school (not that there were many); she found no fault that could tarnish the image of symmetry and perfection. Tom Riddle was startlingly handsome, if not outright angelic.
No, she decided firmly, the last thing Riddle symbolized was something holy. There was something in his aura, she could feel it. It was similar to Grindelwald's, projecting authority and dominance, but also a dark and inhuman desire. She could detect such a strong magical presence anywhere.
He was not angelic; he was demonically enticing. Tom was the archetype of the sly snake in the Garden of Eve: tempting, alluring, captivating. The fall of mankind; corrupted and depraved, a priest's Lucifer, a girl's Adonis, a society's Dorian Gray. Yes, Tom Riddle could possibly take over the world just by his appearance alone. He was that good-looking.
Hermione's lips thinned. This student was dangerous. For a place like Hogwarts, where the quality of education lagged severely when compared to her private tutors, it sure could breed some formidable beings.
"I wouldn't count on Miss Black being too amused by your tactics, Rosier. Perhaps another method," Tom – their leader, their king – murmured, puncturing through the bubble Hermione's own musings. His voice had an eerie calming effect on listeners; it was soft yet deep, melodious, as if he could replace the Choir of Angels. For someone who had the blood of Muggles in his veins, Riddle was ridiculously skilled at masking it. Hermione almost believed that he was, maybe, the remaining pureblood heir to an extinct family.
However, it was neither his charm nor his blood status that attracted her to him. It was his hands—pale and smooth, unmarked by any callouses or heavy handwork. The fingers were long, elegant, the type that would be fitting for a pianist or a conductor. Nails impeccably manicured. Skin like marble. Her wand buzzed with excitement. Hermione caught her breath.
Time seemed to be have frozen as she sat, sandwiched between Mulciber and Nott, squished by other bodies of students, and facing the wizard who held the key to her survival – or death.
Nothing else seemed to matter anymore; not when her objective was right there in front of her. She wanted power, she wanted immortality, she wanted knowledge. She wanted the Stone, which was on the ring finger of Tom Marvolo Riddle's left hand.
A/N This is over 6000 words! Gah. Ok, so, I figured that I have some explaining to do about the story itself and Hermione.
First, Hermione may seem OOC at times. But she has been living with freakin Gellert Grindelwald for sixteen years. And we all know how various nurture environments produce different type of personalities in children, without the need to take Child Growth Psychology or fancy stuff like that. Also, Hermione didn't have a mother. She lacked the emotional and self-confidence support of the traditional maternal role. She is not in touch with her feelings and could not interpret them properly. Therefore, she retorts to the only option available: she cast them off aside, viewing emotions and sentiments as human weaknesses.
The broken family had left a gap within her and she seeks to mend it — in anyway possible. The fact that her father places so much importance on power, and raised in an environment where hierarchies and power politics are second nature, it is only a natural instinct for her to see the world as a cruel, black-and-white fighting ground: either you win or you lose. The winners are everything.
As she slowly integrate into the Hogwarts culture and away from the suffocating, trapped life she had led before, we will see the Gryffindor slowly seeping through...hopefully.
About Grindelwald — I want to make him seem human. Hermione is his child. As cruel and sadistic he may be with Dumbledore and his enemies, he is still a human. It is within our instinct to care for our offspring (I hope). Though, he may not have been the best parent; manipulating Hermione to his own advantage, lying to her about his intentions, neglecting her needs, etc. Whatever. The bottom line is, however, for this story: Gellert Grindelwald, albeit his deceptive nature, loves his daughter. He wouldn't do things that would hurt either of them. I know this may be a surprise since JKR (and most of fictional authors) has a tendency to portray villains/antiheroes as unfeelings, unloving beasts. That may be true in same case, such as TMR/LV, but Grindelwald is fully capable of emotions.
Yes, even remorse and bravery, as we had seen in Deathly Hallows. From a moral stance, I think he surpasses Voldemort. So it would be safe for us readers to assume he has humanity in him.