Chapter 8: Bad Ideas
Potterverse
"You can't possibly think this is a good idea," Draco said for the thirtieth time as Harry beckoned for them to follow him into one of the public toilets, conjuring an out-of-order sign and locking the door behind them.
"So you've mentioned," Harry said, casting a silencing spell over the door (already more magic than Draco had seen him use successfully at Hogwarts) and turning to face them. "And so Ron's mentioned, too. But Hermione thinks it's a good idea," he insisted, motioning to where she was casting a rueful glance over the dinginess of the floors, "so it can't possibly be that bad."
Draco bit back a groan. If only he knew.
"I just think it makes sense," Hermione supplied unhelpfully, gingerly avoiding a soggy mass of toilet paper on the floor to stand between Harry and Draco. "It's not like anyone's going to get hurt, right? And if people are being tortured there—at a school," she growled, pursing her lips, "then we can't exactly let them go back, can we?"
Unfortunately for Draco (or fortunately, he hadn't yet decided which), she was fiercely determined in a way that felt very, very in character, even knowing what he knew. It wasn't particularly difficult to see why Harry believed her, though Draco wasn't entirely certain the Hermione Granger he'd known would have taken quite the same stance. Surely there were more logical plans than dismantling such a mammoth form of transit, weren't there?
"What do you think?" Harry asked without warning, directing the question at Theo, who instantly balked.
"What the fuck do you care?" Theo demanded.
"I don't," Harry snapped, ruffled. "But if you're going to be here—"
"Well, if you really want to know what I think, then here it is: I don't understand your fucking plan," Theo said, with perhaps more bite than strictly necessary, though no more than usual. "You're going to intercept a train. So what? No matter what you do, they're just going to fucking fix it, Potter. You can't actually keep people from arriving—"
"No, but we can beat them there," Harry said quickly. "Get to Hogwarts first. You-Know-Who's probably already headed there," he added, grimacing, "as there's almost certainly something there that he… that he wants." He glanced at Hermione, who by then had learned when to nod in agreement and conceded to do so now. "So all we have to do is wait for Ron to arrive with—"
"With what?" Draco cut in, scoffing. "What exactly are you planning to use to stop people getting on the train, much less to destroy the thing to begin with?"
"Well, I'd be happy to tell you," Harry said coolly, "if you would stop interrupting."
Draco resigned himself to moody silence with as loud a scowl as he could muster.
"As it happens, I have some familiarity with train malfunctions," Harry informed them, as if this were any sort of reasonably fun fact. "So, once Ron gets here with—"
There was a crack, and then two figures appeared in the bathroom with them.
"Dobby?" Draco asked, disbelieving, and the elf quickly placed both hands on his narrow, toga-ridden hips, glaring up at him.
"Dobby is a free elf," announced Dobby, somewhat maniacally, "and young master is no longer free to—"
"Hi, Dobby," Harry said, and the elf immediately cut off to look at him, positively enraptured. "So, uh. Malfoy's not going to make you do anything, but I actually wondered if you might do me a favor—"
"Anything for Harry Potter," the elf offered with a slavish wail as Harry quickly shushed him, bending to speak at eye level in something of an awkward crouch.
"Probably should have been nicer to your elves," Theo noted in Draco's ear, observing the way Dobby's wide eyes fixed reverently on Harry with something of a stifled laugh.
"Extremely helpful, Theodore, thank you," Draco muttered, giving him a shove.
"—so basically we can't let the train leave," Harry was saying, "but we also can't destroy it while students are getting on, so we need you to do… whatever you did last time," he said to the elf, who looked sheepishly at his feet. "To keep them from boarding. While you do that, we're going to destroy the engine—it is an engine of some kind, right?" he asked, and the elf nodded slowly. "Right, so, we'll do something about that, and then for however long it takes us to reach Hogwarts first, I might need you to, er. Keep them from succeeding," he exhaled carefully, "in case they try to fix it."
"But how will Harry Potter be arriving at Hogwarts?" Dobby asked with palpable concern. "If Harry Potter will not be taking the train and Dobby will be needing to stay here, if Harry Potter needs him—"
"Brooms," Harry supplied, and glanced over his shoulder at Hermione. "Sorry, Hermione. I just can't think of a better way to get there, seeing as the spells on the castle won't let us apparate."
"It's fine," she said neutrally, shrugging.
Ron blinked. "Wh- really? But the last time I tried to get you to fl-"
"This is rather important, Ron," she sighed loudly, having hastily caught her mistake. It was a very lucky thing, Draco thought yet again, that when a person was behaving strangely, 'alternate person from a parallel universe' was unlikely to be the go-to assumption for an explanation. Lucky too that she'd already thought of some reality-resembling stress disorder to fill in the gaps. "I think I can stomach my discomfort for something this important," Hermione added pointedly, "don't you?"
"Yes, and wonderful note, Potter, but may I just point out," Draco said, hurriedly drawing attention away from Hermione's misstep and back to their horribly mismanaged plot, "we don't actually have any brooms?"
"We can't go back to my house," Theo warned, which was certainly true enough. For one thing, part of Harry Potter's inane episode of chaos had involved leading Nott Sr to believe Theo was going back to school as normal, and for another, Draco didn't want to go back there again for as long as he lived. "First of all," Theo continued, "I don't have any brooms. Second of all—" He paused. "No, just the first thing."
"Dobby?" Harry asked the elf hopefully.
"Dobby could be getting Harry Potter some brooms," Dobby said warily, frowning in thought, and then brightened. "Oh, Dobby knows! WINKY," he called loudly, and with another crack, yet another elf appeared, her little legs wrapped tightly around a bottle of butterbeer.
"Oh, Winky," Dobby lamented disapprovingly, as the female elf gave a tiny, indelicate hiccup.
"What you be wanting, Dobby?" she demanded suspiciously, rising to her feet and immediately collapsing back onto the ground. "Winky is not wanting any more of Dobby's intervenings—"
"Interventions?" Hermione asked.
"WINKY IS FINE," the elf bellowed, as Harry hurriedly shushed her, turning in what looked to be an achingly-uncomfortable stance until he could place his hands carefully on her shoulders.
"Yes, good thinking, Dobby—listen, Winky, we need your help," he said to her, as her wildly-oversized eyes struggled to focus unsteadily on his face. "Do you think you could bring us five brooms?"
"Why not just have her take us?" Ron asked, frowning.
"Dobby would not suggest Winky be transporting Harry Potter or his friends in her current state of beings," Dobby said, as Winky passed him an impatient glare.
"WINKY," she shouted in obvious distress, "IS F-"
"Winky is fine, yes, yes," Harry assured her, "but still. Can you get us some brooms?"
She glared at him, submitting herself to another violent hiccup. "Horses," she said nonsensically, and then added sternly, "You be holding thems."
She disappeared.
"She's a peach," Theo said.
With a crack, Winky was back.
"Here," she said, handing Harry a single ordinary kitchen broom.
"Oh, sorry," he said awkwardly, "my fault. I meant, um. The brooms for flying? I think Madame Hooch keeps them in the—"
"YOU SHOULD BE BEING MORE SPECIFIC," Winky admonished him, smacking the backs of his knees with the broom before disappearing a second time.
"Also, we need five of th- ah, she's gone," Harry lamented, turning back to the others with a shake of his head. "So anyway, once we get to Hogwarts—"
"Yes, what an excellent consideration," Draco declared, turning combatively to face him. "What is going to happen once we get to Hogwarts, Potter? Because as far as I can tell, you've figured out approximately zero percent of a plan."
"Zero seems unfairly low," Harry replied, frowning. "I mean, I have at least fifteen percent of this thought through, which is honestly more than I usually have planned—"
With that, Winky reappeared, laden down with an entire bouquet of racing brooms before toppling out from beneath them.
"Where'd you get those?" Ron asked, eyes widening at the sight of the newest Nimbus models, and Draco groaned.
"The Slytherin locker room," he muttered, as Harry's troubling grin only broadened again.
"Well, that's ideal," he mused, hefting one up and tossing it to Draco. "I take it you know how to ride one, Malfoy? A generous assumption," he added slyly, "seeing as I've never witnessed it before."
"You're the one who can't stay on a broom," Draco reminded him, as Hermione looked on between them, rolling her eyes. "I'm not the one who consistently crashed to the ground during every single match, as I recall—"
"Maybe you two can compare brooms later?" Hermione suggested blithely, and Theo buried a mocking peal of laughter in his hand, abruptly turning it to a cough.
"Fine, yes, okay, so—" Harry reached into his pocket, pulling out a small beaded bag and thrusting it into Hermione's hands before gathering the remainder of the brooms from Winky. "We'll just, um, keep these in here, and—"
Draco caught the furrowing of Hermione's brow as he realized the bag must have been magically expanded, and likely by her, which she probably didn't know.
"Really, an undetectable extension charm, Granger?" Draco drawled loudly, hoping she'd get the message. She seemed to, as she hastily opened the bag, leaving the rest of them to catch the sound of several large objects toppling over. "You do know those are illegal, don't you?"
"Not any more illegal than anything else we've done today," Harry remarked, tossing in the brooms as Hermione held the bag steady, carefully schooling her curious expression into something appropriately un-rapt. "Anyway, let's see—we'll have to get onto the platform first, and then Dobby—"
"Dobby will seal the entrance to aid Harry Potter's madness," Dobby supplied proudly.
"—right, yes, and then we'll just have to figure out how to disable the engine, but that shouldn't be too difficult, right?"
"Make go boom," Winky contributed dizzily, from where she was lying on her back on the floor.
"She seems to have it," Theo said approvingly. "That is basically the crux of the plan, though I hope we have something more refined in order?"
"Well, we'll see," Harry said. "And anyway, when we get to Hogwarts—"
"Harry." Ron looked pale and uneasy. "What are we supposed to do if we run into You-Know-Who once we've gotten there?"
A valid point. Draco and Theo exchanged a glance, both obviously suffering the same wave of crippling dread at the thought.
"It's really more of a when than an if," Harry supplied with a painfully false brightness, "and we'll sort that out when we get to it. It's not as if we have much time to plan for anything else, do we? And besides, maybe Hermione will think of something by then," he added to her, sparing a small, affectionate smile that she seemed thoroughly warmed by. "She always does."
Draco hoped only he had caught her brief flicker of hesitation. "True."
There was a moment of unsteady silence; clearly there was something Ron wasn't wanting to point out in Theo and Draco's presence, but it seemed the abominable Chosen One had already made up his mind. Whatever Ron Weasley wasn't saying, it was clearly going to remain unsaid, at least for the time being.
"We can't let things continue as they are," Harry reminded Ron, and Draco noted Harry's gaze had flicked momentarily to Theo as he said it. "We have to do something now. Ginny's there," he pointed out, and Ron grimaced, "so we can't—I can't," Harry amended, exhaling, "live with myself if I simply do nothing. And it's not like we really know what else to do next, do we?"
"I suppose," Ron replied morosely.
"Well, good. So," Harry announced, briskly forging ahead, "let's go then," and that was that. Without much further argument, the five of them were making their way through the already-bustling platforms of King's Cross, slipping through the barrier at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters with Dobby's help.
It was around the time that Harry was telling Dobby to be careful (and advising Winky to drink some water before apparating back to Hogwarts) that Draco realized Hermione was far more vulnerable than anybody else might have realized. He waited until Harry and Ron had walked ahead, muttering rapidly to each other as they made their way towards the engine, before discreetly taking her arm.
"Wait," he said, pulling Hermione towards him and ducking briefly out of sight between the train cars, letting Theo walk ahead of them. "Use Stupefy to stun someone," he told her quickly, voice hushed. "Expelliarmus to disarm them—"
"Oh, Latin, easy," Hermione murmured, nodding along. "Got anything to, you know. Cause some damage?"
"Confringo," he supplied, "which is a blasting charm. And Expulso—"
She cut him off; kissed him briefly, swiftly, and with a ruthless certainty he might have diagnosed as insanity before pulling back, a smile playing brilliantly across her lips.
"Thank you," she said, breathless, and rested a hand on his chest, making sure he felt it. "Really. Thank you."
"You're welcome," he replied, slightly dizzied, and then she grabbed his hand, pulling him back towards the engine as they hurried to follow Harry and the others. Theo lifted a brow, questioning, and Draco shook his head in warning.
"She doesn't know how to defend herself," he murmured under his breath, and Theo nodded slowly, a brief moment of concern registering in his brow as Harry continued inspecting the train's engine.
"Well, I doubt it has a fuel tank," Harry commented, turning to Ron with a grimace. "That'd be easy, only I assume a magical train hardly needs a muggle source of energy, does it?"
"Most trains run via some form of combustion," Hermione supplied, crouching down to look. "There'd be some sort of diesel engine here," she added, pointing, "and a radiator over there, some sort of air compression system—"
"And a driver," Harry said, frowning. "But if there's no engine and no human conductor, how—?"
After a second of pained confusion, he broke off, sighing. "I really thought this would be easier."
"Could transfigure it," Theo suggested. "Make the train into a cat and I doubt anyone's going to be able to board it."
"Can you transfigure an entire train into a cat?" Ron prompted.
"I don't hear any of your brilliant ideas," was Theo's icy response.
"What if you divert the rails?" Draco asked, frowning.
"It would help," Harry murmured, "but that's probably easily fixable, isn't it? Who knows if the train even requires rails to run," he sighed, and Draco shrugged, not particularly experienced with the muggle contraption on which the magical train had been based.
"It has steam," Hermione pointed out, gesturing up. "So there's something making this run—"
"Oi," called someone behind them, and immediately, Harry went rigid, the frame of his shoulders freezing in place. "What are you kids doin' out 'ere this early? The train won't be leavin' til—"
There was a smack against the ground as Hermione whipped around, aiming a rapid Stupefy and knocking out what must have been a Ministry official on the first try.
"What?" she asked when Ron's eyes widened, startled. "It's not like we could let him see our faces!"
"Check him," Theo suggested instantly.
"For what?" Harry demanded. "You think he carries around some sort of pocket manual for how to destroy magical trains?"
"Do you have a better idea?" Theo countered brusquely. "Maybe he's at least got a badge or something we can use, or—"
"Yes, badges, precisely what we need," Harry muttered, and before Theo replied with something about putting Harry's helpful comments back in the posterior chasm they rightfully belonged, Draco wandered over to where the Ministry official had fallen, taking a moment to nudge the man onto his back.
Draco reached into the inner pocket of the wizard's robes, sighing, and pulled out a thin book, holding it up for the others to see.
"The Official Ministry Handbook for the Operation and Maintenance of the Hogwarts Express," Theo read aloud, smirking irreverently at Harry as he strode over to pluck the book from Draco's hands, licking a finger and briskly turning a page. "Ah, look, who would have thought it, a diagram of the engine—"
"Give me that," Harry growled, snatching it from Theo's hands and gesturing for Hermione to look at it with him. "The engine is definitely an engine," he said, showing her the anatomy of the train, "but we were right. It doesn't have fuel."
"It looks like it still relies on combustion, though," Hermione said thoughtfully, as Theo and Draco (and, briefly, Ron) exchanged glances, thoroughly bemused. "There's still water involved, which means there's still maybe a way to corrode the insides? Though it might take awhile, and there could be more people coming." She frowned. "Maybe if you destroy the boiler, you could—?"
She paused, sighing. "You know what? Confringo," she determined without warning, aiming her wand, and before Draco could think to explain that was probably not the best idea from this particular distance, they were all blown backwards upon impact, soaring through the air to crash against the ground before being forced to duck beneath enormous particles of metal.
"Protego," Draco shouted, throwing up a shield charm overhead and dragging Hermione under it as Harry, Ron, and Theo did the same, all of them struggling to hold the spells beneath a veritable storm of rubble and bits of steel. It went on for several seconds, pieces blown and scattered to ash, until the popping sounds of bursting too-hot metal eventually faded, the dust gradually clearing from the platform.
"Well," Harry said, coughing, as the ruins of what had been the train's engine revealed themselves to be little more than a pile of refuse on the rails. "That was—"
They all froze, a loud crack echoing through the platform from somewhere overhead.
"Uh," Ron said with discomfort, pointing up. "Harry?"
"Shit," was Harry's apt response.
"BROOMS!" Theo boomed impatiently, as it became increasingly clear that the train station's ceiling was going to be the next to crumble, having been hit with the radiating impact of Hermione's blasting charm. Obviously Hermione's completely untrained use of magic had been a bit (read: considerably) larger than she'd intended, and judging by the voices approaching, the magnitude of the damage wasn't going to go unnoticed for long.
She fumbled with the bag, and without much pause, Draco aimed his own wand for a summoning charm. "Accio brooms!" he shouted, each of the others catching the brooms that leapt up from the bag before hurrying to mount them.
"Are we really doing this?" Theo shouted over the sound of another loud crack from the building's frame, and Draco glanced apprehensively at Hermione.
"To steer it," he half-whispered to her, "you just have t-"
But she'd already mounted the broom, eyes widening as it jolted forward.
"Oh no," she said, looking queasy, but by then Harry had flown up towards the ceiling, beckoning the others with him.
"It's already breaking," he said with a grimace, glancing at Hermione for reassurance as a number of people (most of them Ministry workers with panic-stricken faces) began to stumble onto the platform. "So I guess we might as well just—"
"DUCK—Confringo," Theo yelled, blasting a hole through the ceiling, and with a rapid launch of speed, Harry led them out and up as the glass and steel and brick above them shattered to pieces, falling steadily to the ground below.
Draco, who internally likened the experience to the time Marcus Flint had forced them all to play through quaffle-sized hail, did the best he could to create a trail of sorts for Hermione to follow behind him; to his relief, Ron did the same, and after a few seconds of extreme proximity to death by massive head trauma, all five of them emerged from the train station into the clouded London sky above, gasping and breathless and panting.
"What now?" Theo shouted at Harry, who glanced around, orienting himself.
"That way," he said, pointing, and gave them a hardened smile that Draco was beginning to realize was a very discomfiting sign, letting out a whoop at the sight of the chaos below them. "Alright, Hermione?" he asked her jubilantly, and though she was looking down, obviously terrified, she managed to spare him a nod. "Perfect. Let's go find Tom Riddle, then—"
"Who?" Draco demanded.
But by then, Harry had already taken off, rushing headlong towards Hogwarts with a trail of sunlight streaming from the path of his broom.
Grindelverse
The last time Hermione had been in Borgin and Burkes, it had not been a particularly wonderful experience. This time, much to her immense displeasure, was somehow exceedingly worse. While Knockturn had always been an exceptionally seedy place, the version of Knockturn under Grindelwald's militaristic regime managed to be even more disarming. It was a bit more like a covered marketplace, structurally speaking, as if concealing itself from prying eyes above, and rather than shops as there had been in Diagon, there were merely small woefully-curtained stalls. Each of the occupants within them peered beadily around, clearly prepared to flee at any given moment.
Wizards bearing Grindelwald's symbol walked the perimeter of Knockturn's borders, but Hermione could see they were patently uninterested in anything going on inside. They seemed uneasy themselves, rarely standing still, and before Hermione prepared to slip through to Knockturn's winding alley, she turned to a concealed Draco beside her.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked him, breathing it out in agitation and pulling her hood tighter around her. "What if they stop me?"
"They won't," came Draco's crisply certain voice, and though she was hardly convinced, she discovered he'd been right. Nobody even glanced her way as she slid through a narrow passage between crumbling buildings, intently focused on keeping one foot in front of the other. "They'd have the Knights to deal with if they did," he added in her ear as they walked, keeping to a brisk, uninterrupted pace.
"The Knights?" Hermione echoed, whispering it.
"The Knights of Walpurgis," Draco confirmed, guiding her with a touch at her elbow. "It's something of a loosely-formed organization run by Tom Riddle and the other Knockturn crime lords. Grindelwald doesn't spend enough time here to know it exists."
Hermione frowned. That seemed quite an irresponsible oversight, even for someone whose primary interest was seated on Europe's mainland. "But—"
"The rules are simple," Draco breathed impatiently in her ear. "Don't look at anyone, don't disturb anyone, and for the love of fuck don't speak a word against anyone, and in return they won't disturb you."
"How do you know all this?" she asked him.
"I just do," was his hopelessly ambiguous response, ushering her forward.
Borgin and Burkes was one of the only permanent structures that had not been affected by decay of any sort. It was a building of old brick and cobbled stone, just like any she might have found in Diagon. On the door, however, there was a single carved symbol that was enough to lessen Hermione's pulse to nothing; a skull, with a snake running through it.
She paused before the knocker on the door, watching the eyes of the snake snap open.
"Who callssssss?" the snake asked.
"Penelope Clearwater," Hermione said, bracing herself. One of these days it was bound to work.
"And what issssss it you wishhhhh?" the snake asked.
"I—" Don't ask for him by name, Harry had instructed her that morning. He definitely won't speak to you if he thinks you're actively looking for him. "I'm not sure," Hermione said, glad at least that for once, the statement was extremely genuine. "I just—I need something. I need to find something. I need help."
The snake blinked once, then twice.
"One moment pleassssssse," it said, and disappeared back into unanimated wood, eyes falling shut.
"Hold the door open," Draco said in her ear. "I'll be right behind you—"
I know, she would have said if she could have managed to speak, only the door had already swung open, revealing a startlingly familiar face in the frame.
"What?" asked the person Hermione was quite certain was Remus Lupin; only who couldn't have been; only who almost certainly was. He was dressed in an old, faded leather jacket and a pair of black trousers, his hair pulled back in a knot at the back of his head; strangely, the scars on his face were stark in an almost curated way, as if he'd put them there on purpose.
"I," Hermione began, and swallowed. He looked younger than he had when she'd known him, though aside from a few key details, the resemblance was scarcely recognizable. "You are?" she prompted carefully.
"Me? I'm the one asking questions," Remus muttered, glancing behind her. He gave a slow, careful sniff. "There's someone else here," he determined, giving her an impatient look. The golden-flecked eyes she remembered were less sad, but considerably less kind. "I advise him to show himself."
Hermione felt Draco tense beside her.
"Maybe I'm not making myself clear," Remus said after a moment of expectancy, folding his arms over his chest. The knuckles of his fingers were tattooed with a series of runes; protective enchantments, she realized. "I know you're there, so show yourself or leave in pieces."
He toyed pointedly with the sharpened nails of his hands, and Hermione winced. Harry and Theo had offered quite a bit of preparation, but still; they hadn't accounted for a werewolf.
"I'll remove the spell when we're inside," Draco's voice returned, apparently having made a decision to reveal his presence. "I can't be seen outside this shop. Surely you understand why."
"I don't like secrets," Remus said, eyeing his nails again. They were stained in a way Hermione suspected was something more morbid than purely dirt. "Find them distasteful."
"Well, to each his own," Draco replied. "Personally, I don't care for threats."
To that, Remus' eyes narrowed, displeased.
"Remus," came a coolly impassive voice behind him, "let them in. It's impolite to keep guests waiting. Were you raised by wolves?"
Remus scowled, but rolled his eyes. "That joke doesn't get any funnier the more times you tell it, you know," he growled, but conceded to clear a space in the frame, stepping back.
Hermione, meanwhile, stepped inside the shop tentatively, waiting for Draco to reveal himself beside her. Once the door shut at their backs (prompting her to a lurch; she half-imagined the click of a heavy lock and struggled not to panic) she permitted a glance at Draco to register that he'd transfigured his clothing, dressing himself in something similar to what Theo had worn the night before.
He'd intentionally rid himself of the Grindelwald insignia, she noted, as well as the Malfoy seal.
"You'll have to excuse my guard dog," came the low, purring voice of what looked to be a middle-aged man with raven-black hair, his hair flecked with silver at the temples. "He was just leaving, I believe. Weren't you, Remus?"
To that, Remus rolled his eyes. "Might as well stay," he grumbled, falling into a clawed armchair that was seated opposite a crackling fire. The store under Tom Riddle's dominion had been designed to resemble the Slytherin common room, Hermione realized, or what she assumed was the Slytherin common room, based on Harry's description of it from their second year. The walls were covered in blinking portraits and medieval tapestries, and the black leather furniture was about as inviting as a suit of armor, though Remus certainly looked comfortable enough.
"You're going to have me do the procuring anyway," Remus pointed out drily. "Might as well not pretend."
"Well, I do feel much better when you're here," chuckled the man Hermione was quite certain was Tom Riddle, who beckoned for her and Draco to have a seat on a stiff Victorian sofa. "You were saying you needed something, Miss Clearwater? Alias forgiven," he added, prompting her to yet another internal jolt. "Understandably, not too many people choose to use their real names in this business."
He was entirely too pleasant. It made her stomach twist with anguish.
"You do," she noted, and then added, "Tom."
His lips curled up slowly. He was wearing a strangely archaic black suit, the chain of a pocket watch tucked into a waistcoat, and he looked almost like some sort of gentleman-dandy as he lowered himself into the chair opposite her, sparing her a long, sweeping glance.
"I won't ask your real name," he said, "but you're certainly free to use mine. Only liars use personas." Interesting you would say that, Hermione thought morosely, though he continued without pause, and she didn't interrupt. "I like to establish my relationships with clients based on trust."
"Trust," she echoed.
He smiled.
He was an abominably handsome man, even at his age, which must have been… she calculated quickly in her head. Seventy or so? He certainly didn't look a day over forty-five, and Hermione wondered briefly how he was doing it—only she was distracted by the sudden motion of Tom crossing right leg over left, summoning a platter of tea that landed abruptly beside her face.
"Earl Grey?" Tom prompted genially.
Hermione swallowed, glancing at Draco, who indicated nothing. He was yielding to her lead; a makeshift part of the act, she assumed. Harry hadn't wanted him to come at all, but he'd insisted. "I'd rather just get to business," she said to Tom, trying to avoid Remus' scrutinizing stare, "if that's okay with you."
Tom's mouth twitched. "By all means. Whatever makes you comfortable."
The platter beside her delicately sprouted wings, fluttering away. Somehow, it made her even angrier that Tom Riddle's magic was so beautiful; particularly in the rare instance that it was not being made to murder her and everyone she knew.
"I need to find something," Hermione said in a low voice. "Something once belonging to my family."
"Mm," Tom said. It must have been something he heard a lot. "Some sort of heirloom?"
"A stone," Hermione supplied. "I, um, lost it." She carefully cast a gaze at her hands, speaking quietly to her fingers. "I had an unfortunate stroke of poor luck."
Gamblers never admit to gambling, Theo had advised her, just as addicts never admit their addictions. Only someone ready to be fixed can put the problem in words, and you have to be far from fixable.
"I see," Tom said. "What sort of stone?"
"Well, it, um." She swallowed. "It gave something like visions to the bearer. Visions of people from their pasts."
Don't act like you believe in it, Harry had advised. We can't give him a reason to want it more than you do. Pretend you don't know what it actually does.
"I need it for sentimental reasons," she continued. "It belonged to my mother, who just passed." She dropped her gaze to her hands again. This was her own personal addition. Tom Riddle hated his father; perhaps he would sympathize with a dead mother—if he were at all capable of sympathy. "I need it back as soon as possible," she said, taking a deep breath and looking up, "and—"
She trailed off, something catching in the light as Tom folded his hands beneath his chin.
"Yes?" he prompted, and Draco turned, glancing at her with something like concern, but she couldn't speak.
Tom Riddle was something of an ornamental man. The pocket watch, the chain, the style of dress; he garnished himself appropriately as the collector of rare antiquities he purported himself to be. He wore a watch, and possibly a necklace. But most importantly, on his right hand, he bore a single ostentatious ring on his pinky: a signet ring of black and gold.
A ring, in fact, that Harry had once described to her in great detail.
Immediately, her mind began to buzz.
Hermione had always wondered what could have possessed Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of his age, to put on a ring he'd known perfectly well to be cursed. He'd known it was a horcrux, and that it had been altered by Voldemort, and yet he'd tried it on anyway. She'd wondered through all her sleepless nights on the run why anyone would have done so, consumed by the inexhaustible pricking in her logical brain that no reasonable person would ever dream of putting such a thing on their finger. It had belonged to a man whose expertise seemed to be largely in death. The ring itself was the symbol of mortality, in as much as it was a tool for immortality. There was a death attached to it; it was a tragedy by virtue of existence. Why would anyone put such a thing on?
Only if it had another use, her mind whispered.
Like, say, a deathly use.
A hallowed use.
"No," she breathed out, her stomach twisting itself in knots, and Draco glanced at her as she sat paralyzed, wondering what to do next.
Unless Hermione was very much mistaken, Tom Riddle had already found the resurrection stone.
a/n: Dedicated to Colubrina, a brilliant pal for whom I coincidentally wrote one of the stories in my new anthology, Midsummer Night Dreams. It's now available on my website (olivieblake dot com) if you have any interest—which I do recommend having, if only to witness the beauty of Little Chmura's illustrations.
