She perched atop a stack of crates in a back alley in 1351's Krakow, Poland, twirling a Transfigured pair of sunglasses in one hand and holding her wand by her side with the other. Piles upon piles of rats surrounded her, all dead. Many were horribly mutilated, from being turned entirely inside out to being trussed up by their intestines. Her hands were bloody. It wasn't enough.
The sunglasses spun, around and around, several times nearly slipping off of her finger. Hermione stared at the destruction she caused.
Harry had gone to Voldemort, as he was always meant to do. Apparently. But he never returned. Voldemort threw his body at their feet and crowed. Neville took care of the last Horcrux, and it was Professor McGonagall's curse that finally killed the Dark Lord. They mourned Harry, and celebrated the end of a tyranny. It wouldn't be easy to repair society, but it would be worth it.
Supposedly. In theory.
Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to help rebuild. She didn't want to see a future with Harry as a martyr.
They were supposed to succeed together, Ron, Harry, and her. Ron still lived, with most of his family intact. He was sad, sure, miserable, but his family helped ease the pain. He would heal, just like everything else.
Harry was gone, and there was nothing she could do to get him back. Harry was gone. He'd left her. After everything she'd done to keep him alive, he'd slipped away from her and met death willingly. Gladly, even. He wouldn't have thanked her even if she were able to change things. As much as she wanted to be angry with him, Hermione had to admit to herself that he deserved to finally rest.
She couldn't be angry with him, but she could be angry. Therefore, rats. Not that it helped a whole lot.
The blood was starting to dry and become sticky. She'd already taken an excessive amount of rats from miles in every direction, and Summoning more would solve nothing.
In a wink, Hermione was gone from Krakow and safe within the plane between times.
She lay prone on Alphard's bed in 1961's Cardiff, Wales, running her fingers over her bare stomach. Alphard was passed out beside her, snoring peacefully. The sheets were damp with sweat, and Hermione could see even in the dim light the proof of their exertions. Her body was sore. It wasn't enough.
Her skin was soft and smooth, and she traced around and around her navel. She stared at the bliss she'd caused.
Alphard was still gorgeous. He'd probably be gorgeous as a thousand-year-old man. It ran in his family and was especially strong in him. It was a wonder he never got married. Or maybe it wasn't. Here she was, in his bed, her legs still entwined with his. She was his first. She would be his best. The look in his eyes when he looked at her was wild and adoring, and Hermione knew instinctively that it was love. Maybe that was why he never married anyone.
She could learn to love him. It wouldn't be easy to overcome her inhibitions, but it would be worth it.
Supposedly. In theory.
Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to stay with this one man. She didn't want to see a future where she was a housewife, or even a kept woman. No matter how safe it would have felt.
They weren't supposed to be together forever, Alphard and her. She knew how his life ended, and she wanted no part of that. He would be upset at her distance, but he would move on. Everyone does, eventually.
She couldn't love him, no matter how often she tried to convince herself in the meeting of their bodies. It hadn't helped a whole lot.
The sheets were starting to become cold and clammy. She'd done this too many times already, and trying any more would solve nothing.
In a wink, Hermione was gone from Cardiff and alone within the plane between times.
She stood with one foot pressing down on a man's chest in 1826's New York City, United States, watching him struggle for breath. They were alone in yet another dingy back alley, hidden from view from the street. The mans face was turning purple, and several of his bones were cracked. Power thrummed in her blood and tingled on her skin. It was starting to be enough.
He looked up at her in horror, eyes dark with mingled fear and, oddly, desire. The Muggle couldn't move through the Petrificus Totalus, which Hermione supposed wasn't exactly sporting but she couldn't bring herself to care. She lifted her foot and placed it on the ground beside his hip, moving the other foot forward as well. Then, slowly, she kneeled, sitting on his stomach and leaning forward so her face hovered above his. Oh, it was definitely desire she saw- what could she do to make it go away?
Perhaps this was a bit of an overreaction for drunken sexual assault. A bit of groping and leering was all it was, but she'd dragged him out here to have her wicked way with him, fully prepared to leave his mind and body broken or even lifeless. Had she come too far? Was she truly unhinged? Did it even matter? The Muggle still looked at her as if he would do it all over again, and that just couldn't go unpunished.
"Crucio," she said, lazily, in the same tone as if she were answering a stupid question. It was basic, but basic was all he really deserved. This would still be the worst night of his miserable life.
She could leave right now, and try to get back to the land of morality. Never do this again. Try to fix whatever had gone wrong in her mind that she would do this even knowing how awful it made her.
Supposedly. In theory.
Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to stop this. This was the only thing that had given her even the tiniest bit of joy since Harry had left her.
There wasn't anyone meant for her after all. She was meant to walk between moments alone.
The man's eyes were wide and crazed, filled with all the panic of an animal dying. He couldn't move even to scream, even to close his eyes. Hermione danced her fingertips across his cheek, over his lips, up to his temple, down to his neck.
Should she kill him or leave him alive? His mind was gone already, she could see it. No point anymore. He would just be a nuisance to everyone around him.
"Avada Kedavra." Fondly, oh, so tenderly, she ended his suffering. It was like writing the final line in an essay, adding the signature to a painting, delivering the punchline in a joke. Closure. Finality. Triumph. It helped.
His corpse was becoming cold. Dead bodies held no appeal for her, but she would do this again.
In a wink, Hermione was gone from New York City and happy within the plane between times.
She waited with a bored expression in 1943's Diagon Alley, Great Britain, sipping Masala chai genteelly outside Rosa Lee Teabag. The future Dark Lord was strolling through the crowded street, arms laden with books. He appeared to have just come from Obscurus Books. To Hermione's mild surprise, he was alone, although she'd gathered that by this time in his life he had cronies aplenty, most of them with more money to their names than Hermione had seen in her entire life. His mouth was set in just such a way that he appeared friendly without actually having to make the effort. He didn't see her. That was fine.
The tea was growing cold. She stared at the boy gliding down the cobblestone road.
Hermione had grown tired of having no purpose, of being entirely unmarked by the physical world. She was tired of a lot of things, but most of all she'd grown tired of grieving. Not that she thought she would ever truly stop, but there was nothing she could do to fix things and so there was little point in tearing herself to pieces. She would make peace with this. She would study his murderer.
She would learn everything she could about Tom Riddle, and she would begin to heal.
Supposedly. In theory.
Hermione wanted to test this. She wanted to be happy again without needing to hurt something. She wanted her future to be bigger, more encompassing than that.
Time would take care of her, alone or not. It always did.
Perhaps Riddle finally felt her eyes bore into him. She'd like to think that was the case. He met her gaze steadily for one second, two... and then away. There was no reason for him to set her apart from anyone else in Diagon Alley, not yet.
Leaving her empty teacup on the delicate metal lawn table, Hermione disappeared, moving immediately to later that night. Much later. The sixteen-year-old boy slept in his tiny cot, a worn copy of The Dark Forces cradled in his arms.
"Wake up, Voldemort," she said into his ear, smirking widely. His reaction was entirely as amusing as she'd thought it would be: he sat bolt upright so rapidly Hermione thought she could hear his bones creak, his eyes searching for her frantically. She was already on his other side, though, and she waited for him to realize. He turned his head forward once again before he caught her in his peripheral vision and startled wildly.
"Who are you?" Riddle demanded, breath heaving in his chest. "How do you know that name?"
Hermione crawled onto the cot, ignoring the loud squeaking of the springs, and settled at the foot of the cot with her legs folded. "Guess," she suggested, leaning forward so her elbows rested on the thin mattress. Her hands propped up her head. If she was correct, she appeared to be the perfect image of carelessness.
"That's a ridiculous expectation and you know it," Riddle snorted, starting to calm down. His muscles were still taut, Hermione noticed. Good.
"Is it?" She looked up at him, quirking one eyebrow. "Do I? How can you be sure?"
Riddle sighed, a condescending huff of breath that Hermione could easily imagine being coupled with an eye roll. "I've never seen you before in my life, in any context, and therefore can't be expected to select one of the infinite possibilities."
"Not entirely correct, but I'll allow it," she said flippantly. "Besides, I suppose you wouldn't be so stupid as to actually guess, knowing that it would be difficult to avoid giving away information to a stranger for free." Her head cocked to the side, but she kept the same serene expression. "There's also the whole sexism thing."
"'Sexism thing'?" Riddle parroted.
"It's the forties, mate. Most people have been conditioned to view women as factory-built toys who have only the same prerecorded phrases and not a brain cell to their names. You're one of those people, though you do also have that classism thing going against you. Not that that's really an excuse, but it does make me feel better about it. Everyone needs inferiors, right? And there are women everywhere. Easy targets."
"And why does that matter? How dare you think you know me?" Indignance was beginning to eclipse confusion, she saw. Fine.
She grinned. "I do know you, darling," she lied. "And doesn't that just make you itch? That I know you but you have no idea who I am? Of course it does."
Indignance was becoming anger. Hermione could see his hand clenching, clearly missing his wand. "Who are you?" he growled.
"Please. You couldn't do anything to me even if you were allowed to use your magic. Won't you thank me? I'm being nice, and not doing anything to get you in trouble. I could, you know. Just a little focused willpower is all." How easy leverage was when Traces were put on Muggle residences. How very, very, disappointingly easy. "But then again, you bore me. Even that might not even be worth the trouble."
Anger was becoming fury. Boring, indeed. "How dare you?" he hissed, barely above a whisper.
"You don't even know how to respond, do you? You're entirely off balance. Maybe now you'll resort to-" Riddle lunged forward, hands going around her throat. Finally. "Violence," she choked out, still smiling, and then she disappeared.
She reappeared in an empty seat in his compartment on September 1st, weeks later. As always, no one noticed or reacted to her abrupt presence until several moments after.
"Out," Riddle commanded, murder in his eyes. It was clearly an order to his toadies, not to her. As if she would obey him anyway. Several boys took their leave of the compartment as quickly as they could, almost tripping on one another in their haste to remove themselves from the room. The compartment door slid shut. "I have my wand now," Riddle remarked, twirling the thing idly between his fingers.
Hermione chuckled. "Bully for you," she said. "I suggest you not try anything. This conversation would become a whole lot less fun for everyone involved. Well, maybe not everyone. I'm positive I would be vastly entertained." She slid over to the window and peaked out, turning her back on Riddle entirely. "It's actually nice today. Who would have thought?" It was sunny out, and looked fairly warm. The green of shrubbery and trees passed into and out of her line of sight so quickly it was a blur.
"You're magical, obviously," Riddle told her, completely ignoring all of her statements. "In an unTraceable way, given that I wasn't cited for unauthorized use of magic."
She still didn't look at him, but she could see in the ghost of a reflection that he was still seated across from her. "Good boy. However did you reach that conclusion? Some great leaps of logic there. Truly commendable work." She couldn't see his face, but she hoped it was beginning to cloud over with irritation.
"The sarcasm is entirely unnecessary," he responded coolly. "As I said before, I don't have enough data to piece you together just yet."
Maybe he'd learned from his first experience with her, or maybe he was just boiling on the inside. She'd find out soon enough. Unsettling this teenage boy should be simple. "I'm flattered. See, you'll have to actually work when you're with me. I have knowledge, and you want it, but you have to earn it. You're a quick learner, though. The gods know this would be such a chore otherwise."
"What kind of knowledge?" He disguised his greed well.
She stood and stepped closer before sitting lengthwise across his lap, tucking her feet between his legs and the seat. "What kind do you want?" Flustering him really was laughably simple. Still, it was the forties. She should give him some credit for not climaxing on the spot. Apparently even sociopaths were still just hormonal teenage boys in the end.
"Everything," he said, not quite hiding the husky note in his voice. Admirable effort, though.
"Remember," she told him, breath misting over his throat, "You have to earn it." Satisfied with the melodrama of the moment, Hermione touched her lips to the underside of his chin and vanished.
Playtoys weren't the only ones occupying Hermione's time. Often she visited Circe, a sorceress immortalized in legend. Her specialties were Transfiguration and Potions, though Hermione got the feeling that she wasn't exactly deficient in knowledge of the other subjects as well.
Circe did live on an island, in as opulent of a mansion as magic could provide. She was jealous and vindictive, wickedly funny, and devastatingly beautiful. Those things were true. It was also true that she used sex to gain and exercise her power. However, she didn't fall in love with her victims as the stories would suggest.
"He was handsome, to be sure," Circe told her of Odysseus. "Once all the dirt was gone. But he was arrogant and unfaithful, and I took him and destroyed him."
"And Penelope?" Hermione asked.
"I'm no virtuous woman. I knew full well I was wronging her, but I didn't care. I still don't. But he was witty enough, and if the gods wanted to help him then I could only assume he had something significant to offer." Circe scratched one nail into the wood of her table.
"Did he?"
"No, not really. He was boring in bed, too. He stayed with me a year- a whole year, can you imagine? He told me so often that he loved me, and it was all I could do not to laugh." Circe did laugh, pure mirth and no bitterness at all. "I pity his wife."
Hermione shared the sentiment. Any person who could be teased away from a person they claimed to love didn't deserve them. Didn't deserve anyone, really. She resolved then to never enter into a commitment without first verifying that she would never stray. Most likely that meant Hermione would never do it, because any one person couldn't satisfy her.
She visited Circe often. She taught Circe of patience, and Circe taught her of manipulation. A valuable trade, in Hermione's opinion.
The great men of history were so frequently the same in temperament. Sure, some were more wise and some more rash, but the ideas rarely changed. The hardships were similar. The reactions similar. It wasn't their fault; as long as history had existed men were squashed into the same mold. Women were as well, but where some bent to the pressure others twisted around the mold until the image was something else entirely.
Gods, but she loved women. Their kindnesses, their vengeance, everything. The good and the bad.
In a way, Hermione supposed they freed one another.
Sorceresses, she discovered, were made out to be evil creatures. Sorceresses, she discovered, were human. People.
Morgana le Fay, for example, was quiet and compassionate. She healed people and animals alike, whether or not they looked down on her. She hated being ignored. Unlike Circe, she fell in love easily. Every man was The One, and she gave them everything she had. These men didn't love her. They used her for her body and her adoration and refused to acknowledge her anywhere but in private. She was made to feel worthless.
Guinevere knew of this, and tried her best to keep Morgana from humiliating herself. Morgana, foolish girl that she was, didn't take well to the interfering.
The woman regretted her folly, and regretted making an enemy of her former close friend and confidante. She just felt too much. Empathy to the extremes.
Knowing the women behind the stories was fulfilling. Hermione couldn't help but feel that she was one of them, just as human. Perhaps they were villains, and perhaps the backstory didn't excuse the actions, but somehow knowing that people aren't simply born evil made her feel better.
Oh, yes, she knew she was rapidly approaching "evil". She'd killed people for sport, so what else could she possibly be? It was pointless to try to convince herself that she was good at heart.
The most useful thing she'd gained from these experiences was sex. Sex to disarm, sex to convince, sex to manipulate. No one was truly comfortable with sex without forcing themselves to be, so that kind of control was magnificently effective.
Tom Riddle would beg for her; she would make it so. She would drive him mad with touch and with words until he could think of nothing but touching her. Twisted, yes. Absolutely. But she could hardly torture him and killing was obviously not an option, so the humiliation of temptation would have to be enough.
She amused herself by appearing when he would be least prepared to handle her. Armed with a powerful Notice-Me-Not tailored specifically to not include Riddle, she would appear in the middle of class and bother him. Sometimes it was just staring at him from across his cauldron, and sometimes it was little tantalizing touches. She made sure to appear often, though not often for longer than a minute or two.
Her favorite thing to do, however, was show up in the middle of the night.
On one such occasion, it was nearly the end of the school year. He was exhausted from studying, and final exams had taken place that day. Riddle, she guessed, just wanted to sleep in peace for one night. Of course he couldn't, not when it would amuse Hermione so to drive him to violence.
"My Lord?" she hummed, her face hovering above his.
To his credit, he no longer woke in a panic. She did this far too often for him to be truly surprised. "What do you want now?" he asked, blinking sleepily.
"Don't you want to know my name?" she pouted, lowering herself until she skimmed his body. "And I have a surprise for you."
His hands grasped her wrists, keeping them anchored exactly where they were. Hermione didn't mind; he'd finally accepted that he couldn't control her. "What surprise?"
"Oh, not much," she breathed against his mouth. "Just some little things about Horcruxes, is all. Not terribly interesting to you, I'm sure." Her tongue snaked out and traced his lower lip before drawing his lip between her teeth and nipping gently.
"What's your name?" He was trying so hard to conceal the interest she'd sparked in him. That was one of the first things Slytherins learned, after all. Hermione knew better.
"Andromache," she said, pulling back just a few inches.
He understood immediately, to her delight. "Who am I, then, Pyrrhus?" His eyebrows furrowed, gaze still locked with her own.
"Not exactly," Hermione said. "I have nothing for you to threaten, much less a son."
Riddle glanced down at her lips and then back up to her eyes. "I should think you more like Hermione than Andromache."
"Do you think so?" Hermione purred. "So you are Orestes?"
"Perhaps." His grip on her wrists tightened, as if she'd tried to pull away. She hadn't. "Are you so changeable as Hermione is?"
"I'd hardly be a good judge of that, would I?" Hermione said. "Are you not curious about my gift for you?"
His hands twitched, a barely perceptible clenching and relaxing. "I am," he said. "Tell me."
"You haven't forgotten, have you?" She brought her face close to his again. "What will you do to earn it?"
Too fast for Hermione to react, Riddle released her wrists and pulled her head down to his. He kissed her like she'd imagined he would: teeth and bruising and pain. She hadn't thought she would like it, but a part of her that she didn't feel inclined to analyze at that moment returned every favor, savoring the taste of his tongue and his breath. His taste was unusually strong, bittersweet like dark chocolate.
She pulled away after a few seconds, reveling in the groan that tried to follow her mouth. His hands were still in her hair, and she could see in his face that he wanted to use the leverage to pull her back down. She could admire his restraint, for now. She would have him begging yet.
"You believe I would reward you for seeking your own gratification?" she asked. "Arrogant, aren't you?"
Riddle was intelligent enough to figure out what it was that she wanted from him. Possibly he already knew, and was testing to see if anything else would work. Unfortunately for him, Hermione wasn't easily swayed.
Training a person was remarkably similar to training a dog. She would handle Riddle in the same way that she would an excessively dominant dog: force him into a submissive position until he no longer fought it. Where she would make the dog lay down at her feet until she decided he could get up, she would make Riddle plead.
"There's no one here but me, Tom, and you already know that I surpass you. Who better to show your humility to than me? This knowledge can only be attained through me, and only one way to convince me to share it." His eyes were clouding over with defiance. Good; she'd expected a challenge from him.
"No." His grip on her hair tightened, and Hermione had to ignore the net of pain across her scalp.
Instead of the grimace she knew he expected, Hermione smiled. "We'll see." And then she was gone and in Alphard's room. Teasing Riddle always got her worked up.
It occurred to her, laying down to sleep in an empty bed in an empty house, that she was doing wrong by everyone in her life. She dropped in and out of Alphard's life and his bed, keeping him fixated on her to the point where he would never even look at another woman. He didn't deserve that. She'd seen into his head, and she knew he loved her wholeheartedly, innocently, unreservedly, purely. Maybe he thought she loved him back. Maybe he didn't. Hermione wasn't sure which would be more sad.
She'd left Ron behind to deal with the fallout on his own. Hell, she'd left everyone behind. Ron had lost both of his best friends in a single day. By choice, the both of them, though Hermione hoped he didn't know that. It wasn't so much leaving as going, she supposed.
Of course she was doing wrong by Riddle, but he was the only one who deserved it. She couldn't even bring herself to feel guilty for exposing him to knowledge that would help him in his campaign. It had already happened, in a way, and things worked out fine on the macro level. Dark Lords are inevitable, and at least she had the power to shape this one.
Did she feel remorse? Shame? Sorrow? Not really. She'd turned things like that off for a little while. She slept peacefully that night.
Hermione popped in and out of Riddle's daily life just often enough to keep him on his toes. Sometimes she made sure only he noticed her. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she invaded his personal space. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she reminded him of her offer. Sometimes she didn't.
She made damn sure that Riddle knew he couldn't just ignore her. There were no wards he could use to keep her away, no spell he could use to hurt her, no options. She would bother him until she decided she was bored with it, and that would take an awfully long time.
Seven months it took him. Seven months of persistence and pestering and prying before he finally said that one measly word.
"Please." His face was entirely expressionless, as if masquerading as marble would make up for the vulnerability of his begging.
Rather than gloating, she just smiled and said, "Hepzibah Smith possesses two of the Founders' relics, Slytherin's Locket and Hufflepuff's Cup. She's a sucker for a pretty face, and you certainly have that."
"That's all you have, then?" Riddle asked, unimpressed.
"Oh, no!" she laughed. "I have so much more than that. But for a single word, that's all you get. Pretty pleading promotes plentiful profit, don't you know."
As if he'd realized at last that they were only words, Riddle seemed to immediately resign himself to his situation. "I beg of you, give me that I desire."
"Not horribly specific or expressive, but definitely improvement. Deserves a reward, don't you think?"
When it became clear that it wasn't a rhetorical question, Riddle nodded impatiently.
Hermione seized the front of his robes and tugged him close, kissing him fiercely in exactly the way she'd discovered he liked. "I'll give you a few minutes of my time, My Lord," she murmured against his mouth. "Undress me." She double-checked that the glamour on her arm was still intact.
He didn't need any encouragement, it seemed, because without even breaking their kiss he set to work on unbuttoning her robes. Hermione wore several layers of clothing, usually, so even after her robes lay crumpled on the end of the bed she was still in a skirt and a blouse. Rather than waste more time on tiny buttons, Riddle grasped the fabric on either side of the collar and pulled, tearing it off of her.
Taking pity on him, Hermione unclasped her bra herself. Having her breasts bared before him only caused the slightest twinge of discomfort, and even that vanished at the sight of the pure greed in his eyes.
"I'll tell you when to stop," she said.
She watched him make his Horcruxes. It was a sickening process, to be sure, but Hermione wasn't nearly disturbed as she should have been. What did that say about her? Plenty. It meant that she'd gone too far. Further than killing perverts in alleyways. Further than fostering a Dark Lord.
It meant she might as well be just like him. Not stupid or egotistical enough to try to take over, but just as reprehensible of a person. Dark, evil, truly and completely.
How did she get here? Was this side of her lying dormant her whole life? Or was it how she reacted to complete freedom?
Circe laughed at her, laughed until tears came to her eyes. "It took you this long to realize? Anyone who knows you can see it. It's not a bad thing, not really. Things like that are decided by those with weak minds, those who fear being hurt. You might be evil, but that's fine. The story needs villains, too."
Hermione shaped Time and Time shaped Hermione. What was there left for her but to surrender to it? Gods, but she was tired. Exhausted and exhilarated. She'd never been so fulfilled.
She was many years old and many different people by the time she gave in. She was the mysterious figure walking alone in the park, the charismatic vixen who charmed men at parties. She was a seductress and a murderer and a demon.
It was okay. Everything would be okay. After all, Time chose her for a reason, right?