EDITED: 30 December 2015

Chapter Playlist: "Duet" — Philip Glass

III. UNVERMEIDLICH

"There is no suspense in inevitability."

—Damon Lindelof

3 November, 1943

The Library, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Destiny has a strange way of revealing itself to the fortunate ones. Tom Riddle twirled the quill in his hand mindlessly as he smirked satisfactorily to himself. So far, everything has been going according to his plan; his Death Eaters were able to compile for him a wide array of information on the matters he was rather invested in, and the wealth of the Slytherin families did not hurt, either, for he was quick to use the galleons to bribe and blackmail Ministry officials.

It was only a matter of time before he could finally escape this shameful, degrading existence and transcend inching something higher, more powerful and capable than anything the Wizarding World has ever known.

"Lord Voldemort," Tom whispered to himself, his voice soft as the wind. The name sent an excited shiver down his spine. It was more tantalizing than anything else he had known, and much more worthy than those useless little romantic escapades or exotic rendezvous he occasionally participated in with the rest of the Slytherins. Tom leaned back in the chair, content of his current position. He had never felt so close to his goal.

His icy emerald eyes scanned the old library like a soldier raiding a town, taking in everything and noticing every little detail and mishap completely and without a miss. He had an observant eye and acute analytical skills, and he was not afraid to use them to his advantage. All the nights he had spent here, under the protection of parchments and leathers; all the research, the reading, the years he had poured into his work was finally coming into fruition.

Soon, he licked his lips, soon this will all be mine.

The only obstacle left was the wait, and Tom hated waiting. Patience was never a virtue of his; he wanted his prize at this instant. He wanted all the power and control and the glory and the fame in this rotten world. And he wanted more. There could no peace in him until he could finish what he has started. One by one, he will make each and every wizard bow to him as the blood of each mudblood dripped beautifully, their lips moved in unison in a cult-like manner, all chanting for him.

Lord Voldemort.

Tom gripped his seat. Even the vision itself was enough to fill him with adrenaline and ecstasy. Nothing can stop him now.

"Oi, Tom," Lestrange slid into the chair adjacent from him, tossing down several textbooks that were severely mistreated and overused. "You look happy today," he noted, almost with a hint of amusement as he pulled out a piece of parchment and an eagle feather quill with an engraved "L" crest. Taking a suspicious glance around their surroundings, Lestrange leaned closer to his master. "My lord, the thing you wanted. It has been done."

"Excellent." Tom replied in his low, husky voice, before clearing his throat, "Now," he raised his voice, attempting to create an illusion for other students in the Library that he was only having a normal conversation. "That dreadful essay for Defense Against Dark Arts, what do you say we get started on it, Lestrange?" The question passed as a private joke among the two. But nevertheless, the other dark-haired boy nodded with a smile.

"Of course, Tom. I've got all the books ready."

With that, neither of the two Slytherins spoke. Each was absorbed in his own thoughts. Tom used his opportunity to review his plan for the rest of the year again. His eyes, however, remained alert as they watched the library like the night-watchers of the Palatine Hill. His mind worked quickly and tirelessly as his pupils shifted and focused on every single student who among a blinding mix of red, green, yellow, and blue, or sometimes noting with curiosity of an interesting-looking piece of literature for a brief second. Somehow, when human interactions were nothing but a bore and a responsibility, he found them especially intriguing today.

The two had stayed in the Library for the rest of the afternoon, tending to their own businesses and remaining uninterrupted by others. It was not until five after six that Lestrange suddenly interrupted their little quiet session by a rather peculiar remark.

"Hey, isn't that, what was her name again? Granger?" He cranked his neck in an odd angle, squinting his eyes at a figure behind Riddle.

"What is Granger doing in the Restricted Section?" Lestrange continued ponder out loud to himself, raising a curious eyebrow at the sight. It was rare to see a student in that dark corner of the library. "I mean, I know she is favored by the professors and all, but—" he was immediately silent after seeing the look on Tom's face. Lestrange shrugged, and went back to his essay. At this moment, he was still focused on other subjects to be envious of Granger's special privileges.

It wasn't that he was jealous or anything. It was just strange to Lestrange how a female could get away with luxuries that belonged to males, especially when when his peers, all intelligent and wealthy and powerful, had not been granted free access to the Restricted Section. Tom Riddle was the exception, of course.

As if Tom sensed Lestrange's small discomfort, he looked up at the Death Eater with a blank expression. The information in the Restricted Section was for his knowledge only; Tom despised the fact that there were other students that could be outstanding enough to also earn his privilege. But unlike Lestrange, Tom's chair was facing away from the Restricted Section, and he could not risk being caught snooping if he decides to turn around to investigate what a girl like Granger was doing in his corner of the library. But it won't matter anymore soon. All those students will be underneath him, either as his allies or as dead bodies. For now, he only needed to keep up appearances.

Riddle didn't look up from the Potions book he was flipping through.

"Oh?" He murmured, merely as a general courtesy of reply to Lestrange. There was no curiosity behind his cold voice.

12 November 1943

Girls' Dormitory, Slytherin Dungeon, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Fräulein,

The letter began with the usual greeting just as she had expected. Hermione's facial features remained motionless as she slowly read the familiar calligraphy. Her stomach flipped in an uncomfortable twist as she continued down the letter.

How are our goals? You haven't responded to my previous letter. I do hope you are doing well and that this new letter is delivered to you securely.

Nothing else has happened besides the fact that I had to relocate again, this time to the tropical climate of Naples. The Italian M.O.M. is rather hostile towards Dumbledore's objectives. I hope could be useful to us. Its idiot minister has also agreed to offer me shelter for as long as I need, to which I kindly accepted. Perhaps you could chance a visit during Christmas holiday? The Italian Wizarding Community is rather curious about you.

Do fill me in on your progress.

Yours,

G.

14 November 1943

Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts School Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Much to Tom's dismay, the night sky was clear as his crystal globe. From his little window on the Astronomy Tower, he could see how the stars hung gracefully onto the dark horizon in a way that reminded him of the small diamonds fixed on a rare necklace.

Although he was not the top student in Divination, he could foresee effortlessly what his future in the next hour is: staring blankly into the sky with the rest of his Astronomy class, attempting to identify nonsensical constellations and hidden moons. To make matters worse, his Astronomy professor was not the most easygoing professor in Hogwarts. One mistake and Tom just might be taken off of the professor's supposed "secret list of excellent students".

Like his classmates, Tom walked aimlessly around the Tower, pausing at random telescopes or parchments and scribbling down notes on information that he will probably never find useful again in his future pursuits. It was a waste of his time.

Tom gritted his teeth. He should be in his dorms or in Borgins and Burkes, advancing his plan, not be stuck in a stone building and observe stars, out of all things. Outwardly, however, Tom Riddle remained the perfect student. No sign of angry or impatience was shown. The act was painful to keep up, yes, but Tom didn't mind it. He liked the fact that he could manage to fool students and adults alike, and manipulate them effortlessly like what a child would do to helpless dolls.

He stopped at the silver telescope. He lifted the eyepiece to his left eye and adjusted the focuser and the alignment screw to bring the image into focus, a process he was all to familiar with after six years of sitting in the Tower, and possibly the only thing he learned from the class. Instantly, a full view of Mercury appeared before his eye as he peeked through the eyepiece. The silvery coloring, the familiar craters, and the perfectly circular planetary shape was still the same as the last time he saw it. The planet emitted a translucent light that was almost blinding to the naked human eye — its physique was immortal.

A pile of useless rocks, yet it will outlast mortals' existence. Tom swallowed, and looked away from the telescope.

The students were engrossed in their works, often pulling the professor to their sides and exclaim childishly at some grand new discovery. Tom scoffed at their efforts. No one will be able to outshine his immaculate grades and intelligence. Concealing a smirk, he cast a sweeping glance at the student next to him. The student was half concealed by the night's darkness, but he could see the paleness of the hand holding the quill, moving furiously around the parchment, sketching what appeared to be Cassiopeia's stars. Tom admitted that it was a rather good drawing, but it was nothing than a child's graffiti when compared to his own masterpiece.

The student leaned back, and examined the sketch silently. The moonlight cast upon the student's face revealed her to be a fellow female Slytherin in Tom's year. For a millisecond, he saw her gaze flash towards him quickly, then back at the parchment again. No hint of emotional or physiological were displayed. It was as if it was simply a stranger's passing.

Tom tilted his head curiously; he had seen and heard of her before, and for many times. But it was strange how he had never really noticed her until now.

"I saw you in the Restricted Section two weeks ago," He remarked simply. His right hand grazed over his quill as he read over the moon charts. All of his actions created an illusion of nonchalance and innocence on his part, yet he was closely watching the girl's movements in the corners of his eyes.

Granger's face remained impassive, but Tom saw a minuscule movement in the eyes that gave her away: in a split second, her eyes had widened in surprise before they returned to their cold, normal state.

"That's nice," She merely answered before moving onto the next telescope. Tom raised an eyebrow.

It was a simple reply that he wasn't expecting, but then again, Tom noticed that his previous statement didn't really leave much room for the girl to much more. Nevertheless, her lack of enthusiasm was disconcerting. It was rare for him to initiate a conversation and be ignored.

He waited until the girl finished writing before speaking again, choosing his words more carefully this time. "It looked like if you were doing some researching. I'm happy to help if you ever need a hand." He offered, "I mean, I have a lot of time right now, and whatever you are doing that requires the Restricted Section must be a fascinating subject."

There. Tom smiled brilliantly, his sparkling green eyes twinkled liked the stars, and the moonlight gave his alabaster skin a mesmerizing glow. He knew people liked him even more when he smiled.

"Thank you," said Granger, in a mechanical fashion that revealed her to be saying those two words too often, as if it was robotic automated response. She continued to write extensive notes on the parchment adding on tentatively, "It's, er, for a project that my grandfather is working on. His research team is preparing a serum that gives the drinker a youthful disposition."

Her speech, Tom noted almost disappointingly, was quick and precise. Revealing him nothing too useful. Although "youth-giving serum" certainly had a tempting zing to it. His options quickly expanded in his mind. From the sound of her answer, it seems as if her family is well-connected in the medical research field. An acquaintance with such connections would definitely be beneficial for his plan.

Tom knew she was new to the school, being a transfer from Durmstrang and all that, but it always struck him as unusual to transfer to Hogwarts so late; the sixth year was the most crucial school year besides the seventh year. He was sure that Hogwarts was not even allowed to take in new additions beyond the third year.

He kept his penetrating gaze on the Slytherin girl. Hermione Granger was one of the more common topics in the dorms of Slytherin boys, and perhaps it wasn't hard to realize why. She was new, and new toys often held their own distinct magnetism. She was tall — taller than most girls in Hogwarts, and her long legs are further accentuated by the supposedly modest Hogwarts uniform. Tom was sure that this alone was enough to ensure her the attention of several depraved males.

But what he found was most compelling was her face. A face scuplted with sharp, Eastern Europe features that held an exotic allure he had seen before, but on someone else. It was highly possible that he had seen a brief outline of the face in The Daily Prophet or a magical history textbook, but it was too mundane or unremarkable to hold his attention.

She crossed her arms and looked at Tom calmly, her face betraying no sign of her thoughts, almost as if frozen in time. After a few seconds, she sighed, almost in defeat, "If you would like to help, then of course. One more brain is always better than one, right?" Hermione replied softly, returning Tom's smile with a small grin of her own, which, he observed shrewdly, never reached her eyes.

15 November 1943

The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

Father,

I have good news to report. Not only have I located It, I have also became acquainted with its owner. Progress is finally being made. As for Dumbledore, I discovered that the only way to maintain his good graces is to excel in his class, Transfiguration. This should not be hard to do, considering that the students are still learning Kramer's Transitive Theory.

Hermione lifted her quill from the fresh parchment, pausing to read the content so far. She was taking a huge risk to write the letter to her father in public, but last night's event has unnerved her even more than she had imagined, and she had forgotten about composing a reply to Grindelwald. She was satisfied, however, by her early wake. So far, there are no other students at the Slytherin, Gryffindor, or Hufflepuff tables; the only people present were two seventh-year Ravenclaws whose noses were buried in textbooks. Privacy shouldn't be on the top of her concern right now, but it was. Hermione could not forget the owl she had received last time — Grindelwald claimed that she never replied to his previous letter, which was a blatant lie for she always replied to every single piece of writing he had sent to her.

Hermione furrowed her brows, attempting to pull out every memory her brain held of her days in Hogwarts. Her brain never failed her; Hermione could recall everything within seconds from texts to instructions to conversations to writings. Her hyperthymesia was a rare ability that was practically nonexistent among adults. But somehow, she could not remember a single thing about receiving and replying to her father's letter from late October to early November. Granted, she had thought the lack of communication from Grindelwald for such a long time was unusual, but it never dawned upon her until now that Grindelwald's letter might be somehow missing. Hermione almost wanted to laugh at the thought of her father's letter being misplaced; he has always used the best owls, and she has always paid attention to the morning arrivals of newspapers and mails. There was no way that Gellert Grindelwald's letter to his own daughter was missing unless he never wrote it, or—

Or, Hermione caught her breath. No way. There was no possible way in Merlin's beard that someone has caught Grindelwald's owl and read the letter before she did. There was no way that someone could know she was in Hogwarts, looking for the Deathly Hallows. She swallowed, looking around the Great Hall quickly to see if anyone else had saw her small mental breakdown.

Nobody could have possibly hijacked the owl; there are thousands of owls coming in every morning, the chance of finding Grindelwald's modest owl was almost zero compared to some of the most ostentatious owls she had ever seen from the other pureblood families. She smoothed the silver feathers on the quill, her breath getting more and more rapid with each inhale as she tried to control her panic.

There was no way that anyone else knew her secrets. Yes, she must have been careless and missed the owl, even though she had been so, so careful. Or maybe the owl was getting old and died on its way, or maybe it was experiencing a weather obstacle so it had to stay behind. Hermione's hand as she looked down on the parchment, slowly writing down the last few lines of her reply:

I must have missed your previous letter. I will check my trunk just in case.

Best,

H.

She let out a breath that she did not she was holding. The past few days has been an absolute disaster; her plan was going in directions that were not what she was expecting, and now she has to improvise. She had everything down to the smallest detail, every encounter, every happening, every action, every word, and it all went into pieces.

For the first time since she had met Tom Riddle, she was fearful.