A/N: Thanks for the reviews and follows. This one's a bit late, but hey, it's longer than the rest :) A reminder that I've given this story an M rating for future chapters.

~oOo~

Hermione went straight to her room, though the worst of the anger had already gone by the time she arrived. What was left was a terrible emptiness, and for a moment it was like losing Harry and Ron all over again. She undressed for bed, not even bothering to brush her teeth, and rummaged around in her trunk for her pyjamas.

They didn't fit.

Of course they didn't fit – she was six years older than last time she put them on! There had been so much happening earlier that she hadn't given much thought to the practicalities of ageing. She examined her previous outfit more closely. It was definitely the same knee-length, round-collared blue dress she had been wearing all day, but equally definitely it should be much too small. Some skilled alteration must have taken place. Now that she considered it, she thought perhaps she remembered it tearing just before she passed out. There was only one logical explanation, and it really put the cherry on top of the way she was currently feeling.

Zorion had seen her totally naked.

~oOo~

Church and the Sunday chores seemed to drag on forever, but finally he was free. London blurred under his feet as he ran – unencumbered by a suitcase this time. Last summer there had rarely been a specific destination in mind, but now there was only one street in the city he wanted to visit.

Diagon Alley was just as good as he remembered. Even after a year at Hogwarts it was a bit peculiar to pass shops selling owls and broomsticks and cauldrons, and lots of the window displays contained objects whose purpose he still had no idea of. A familiar sort of voice startled him out of his examination of a table of used books outside Flourish and Blott's.

"Him?" The speaker was a middle-aged man, and though Tom had never set eyes on him before it was immediately obvious who he was.

"Yes," said Abraxas, who was a miniature version of his father in every possible way.

"Sweet Merlin. He's dressed like a muggle, Abraxas, honestly. I thought I'd raised you better."

"Yes, father."

Tom was frozen to the spot; there was no crowd to disappear into and Malfoy senior was blocking the entrance to the shop. He felt completely helpless with the knowledge that he could not even use magic.

"You, boy." He raised his eyes out of habit, then wished he hadn't because otherwise he might have missed the terrifying expression on the pale man's face. "Answer me when I speak to you!"

"Yes, sir." It was out of his mouth reflexively before he had even had time to think – his old schoolmaster had always used the same phrase, and the cane would tend to follow.

"You. Are. Not. Fit. To. Serve. Him." He jabbed Abraxas roughly in the shoulder.

Tom's silence earned him a triumphant sneer, followed by a sensation not unlike a giant electric shock. It was worse than the cane, but he refused to react to it. The sneer turned icy.

"If it were up to me, you'd rot in Azkaban. Luckily for you, the Headmaster has decided to protect you – this time. But if you… if you so much as look at my son again –" he took a step forward, looming over Tom. The final words were hissed directly into his ear. "They will never find your body."

They were gone in a flourish of extravagant robes. He was shaking slightly – whether with anger or fear was hard to say. The sunny street had somehow gone cold; passing people's expressions now seemed hostile and the hooting of the owls was no longer cheerful. He returned in a daze through the Leaky Cauldron and didn't look back once all the way to the Vauxhall Bridge.

~oOo~

Dear Tiggy,

I hope that you are having a lovely summer so far. I have been staying at my uncle's house for a week now, and it is very pretty. There are so many flowers in the meadow and there is a pond with big fish in it. I have been walking in the countryside and it is a nice change from Hogwarts, but I miss your company.

Have you found any new books to read? I will try and bring you some in September. Take care of yourself, and say hello to all the others for me.

Love from,

Hermione

She sealed the envelope and gave it to the owl, who she had taken to calling Luna in spite of the fact that she had never seen it wearing earrings made of out vegetables.

Her days, apart from time spent with Nifty, had been solitary. She explored the house and the garden, then the meadow and woodland. Strong wards protected the property, which was looped on three sides by a small stream; beyond, farmer's fields of wheat and barley extended in all directions. The weather had been dry and bright, but today grey rain fell in sheets and pooled readily on the hard ground. Luna took one lazy look outside, then stretched as if for comedic effect and closed her eyes again. Hermione couldn't really blame her.

The round-arched window of her bedroom looked out over the vegetable garden. The room had a particularly clean sort of feeling, leading her to believe that it had been out of use for some time and then scrubbed viciously ready for her residence. There were no decorations except the torches on the walls, but it was pleasant enough.

It took her a while to notice that she had used magic to dry the ink on the letter. It was such a habit; being a furious writer with pigment ink had led to far too many mishaps years ago. Had she used any other spells…? Bluebell flames! She hadn't even thought about it! Her heartbeat started to accelerate as she remembered Harry's dreadful Wizengamot hearing all that time ago.

Logically, though, nothing seemed to have happened. How long would it take for something to happen? Would a letter arrive one day? Or could they not detect magic here? Did the Trace even apply to her at all? Without knowing how it worked, she couldn't predict the answer. The only thing to do was wait to be sure.

~oOo~

Zorion couldn't work out what would be the right words to make it all better, or if that were even possible. The next day turned into the next week and still every time he heard her footsteps he found himself retreating in confusion. She was out of the house most of the day so they saw each other only at dinner where there was a tense sort of formality to their interactions.

The elves loved her. Perhaps it was that they had never had a visitor before, but he thought it were more than that. Nifty, particularly, could be found trailing around after her everywhere. Apparently Miss Hermione was teaching him to read; he wondered why he had never thought of that. The more time he spent anywhere near her presence, the more he came to like her. She was quite unique – in even more ways than he had anticipated, from the way she could recite something he told her six months ago to the fact that she would seek the companionship of house elves.

However, it was neither her mind nor her personality that had begun to keep him awake at night, and perhaps that was the true source of his instinct to flee her company. If only he had never given her back her true form. If only he had foreseen her bones breaking and growing until her clothes didn't fit anymore. It was some comfort to him that his intentions had been nothing but honourable – but that didn't erase the sight of her naked body from where it had taken up residence just behind his closed eyelids.

Living for a millennium had given him a rather confused idea of morality, certainly, but he was pretty sure anyone would struggle in this situation: it was quite exceptional, after all. Was it him being so old that made it wrong? Perhaps, although it wasn't as if he could fantasize about someone his own age. Was it the fact that he had seen her at eleven? Well, he certainly hadn't been having these thoughts then. And anyway, she hadn't truly been the child she appeared to be. Was it the fact that she was staying in his house? It wasn't like they were related. Anyway, she would never know; he wasn't about act on it outside the privacy of his own mind.

In truth, there was really only one thing making him feel ashamed as he lay in bed, heart racing in the aftermath: memory. It felt like a betrayal in a way that imagining himself with nameless women did not. He had been faithful to his love for a thousand years! A thousand years, even though she would not speak to him. It had been the thought of their reunion that kept him going through everything; she would see how much he had changed and surely, surely everything would be forgiven. That had always been all that really mattered.

Always… until now. It was strange to acknowledge it – terrifying, even – but that night in the courtyard, he had cared. He had cared about Hermione's future, cared about her opinion of him, cared enough to want to protect her, even from himself. In his mind the scene replayed, but this time his hand did connect with her wrist. He pulled her small frame into his arms and soothed her and told her he would never leave while she still wanted him to stay. Then his mind would run further and further away with him, until he had her writhing in his bed and breathing his name – his true name – over and over in her soft voice.

Oh.

Oh, Odin. Odin and Zeus and Jupiter and every other name ever taken in vain.

He was utterly doomed.

~oOo~

After the trip to Diagon Alley, Tom spent a full week in his room – if it could be called a room. His old one had been given over to a more permanent resident of the orphanage, leading to his relocation to a previously unknown corner of the attic space. It was also home to most of the spiders in London, and water tended to seep into one corner every time it rained, but neither of those things particularly bothered him.

He was confused and bored, which was a uniquely frustrating combination. Muggle London, which he had been so voraciously exploring since gaining his freedom at the age of ten, no longer held so much appeal. He had always known that he was different – better – than everyone he had met growing up, but it transpired that people in the magical world were just as stupid and just as prejudiced. He didn't want to admit that he was a little scared of going back to Diagon Alley, so he told himself that it was silly to go when he had no money anyway.

Tom liked whinging and whining about as much as he liked watery porridge and having to talk to idiots, but he still found not fair Not Fair NOT FAIR getting stuck on a loop inside his head. He was related to Salazar Slytherin! He was smarter and more powerful than everyone else in his year. He worked harder than anyone – had started out with less than anyone. He deserved better.

He had had enough; slamming the door with more force than was strictly necessary, he stomped downstairs with no destination in mind.

"Erm. Hello?"

It was a red-headed girl, maybe slightly older than him, and he had almost walked right past without even seeing her.

"Hi," he said, still walking. Nobody ever spoke to him round here – she must be new. He noticed with irritation that she had begun to tag along.

"Sorry, I think I'm lost. Mrs Cole sent me to fetch some towels from the laundry room… Um. I'm Elizabeth, by the way." She spoke with an accent he couldn't quite place, and in fact that was probably the only reason he had been listening at all.

"Like the Princess." What the bloody hell? Did he really just say that? She smiled in confusion and he turned his face away to get his expression under control.

"Well… yes, I suppose. I was named after me mam too… What's your name?" Since he was still reeling from the previous ridiculous outburst, he blurted out "Tom," but managed to stop just short of adding that he was named after his (stupid) father. Since they had reached the laundry room, he directed her inside by way of extricating himself from the conversation; it backfired, she kept chattering, and he ended up carrying half the towels.

"Where you going, anyhow?"

"Out." He couldn't have been more specific even if he had wanted to – which he didn't. He hadn't anticipated her cheerful expression.

"Oh! You can show me around! I've never been here before, I'm from Newcastle, me dad worked on the dock, but when he died mam brought us here to be with Jessie except –" Tom tuned out. He had never heard someone talk so much, all at once, without taking a breath. It was hard to think, and soon they were at the front door and he hadn't found a reason why she shouldn't come with him.

"Wait there! I'll just put them towels down."

He couldn't explain why he waited, but somehow he did, and then they were strolling along Kennington Road side by side. By the time they reached the park he had stopped bothering to think of a way to get rid of her.

~oOo~

The first time she dreamt of Zorion, the only surprising thing was that she was not surprised. Probably the only reason she hadn't been doing it since Christmas was that he had not, at that point, had any visible form to dream about.

She liked the way he looked: at least, there was nothing to dislike, except the fact that it was not really him. Her brain chose to ignore this mildly unsettling fact, instead fixating on his dark eyes and strong hands and quick mind. As if that were not enough, he had said he liked the way she looked. Alright, not in so many words, but it was still the best compliment she had received since… She couldn't remember the last time someone had noticed her – not counting Ron, who never had actually voiced it. It was probably at Slughorn's stupid party. No wonder she was desperate.

The dreams were vague, at first. She remembered snatches of images; moonlight and soft kisses. Later, she began to imagine his hands undressing her as she did the same to him, the mood becoming more and more frantic. Twice, she woke up just as he began to enter her body, and could have cried out in frustration. Perhaps it was her subconscious deserting her at the point her real-life experience ended, but her imagination was more than able to continue once awake.

She was sure he must know her thoughts just by looking, since she probably went red every time they saw each other. If he did, though, he made no mention of it. In fact, they had hardly spoken at all since the first night. It didn't feel like he was waiting for an apology, not that she was about to offer one despite her initial anger having worn off. Equally, he had not brought up the subject of Death again. He seemed rather lost in thought, and she could only wonder at exactly why.

The dreaded letter from the Ministry never came, and buoyed up by this fact she used her wand for a few deliberately simple spells. When this seemed to produce no reaction either, and three weeks of summer were already gone, she decided it was worth trying to venture further afield. The thought was surprisingly daunting: she needed a plan.

~oOo~

If anyone had ever told Elizabeth that Tom was not someone to be friends with, she had evidently paid them no attention. As soon as their chores were done she was always right beside him, asking where they were going that afternoon. He told himself he was tolerating her presence because her sister often stopped by and gave her a shilling which she would inevitably share; in truth, he also liked the way she hung on his every word in between her own constant chatter.

On the first Friday in August, as ever, they were all shepherded onto the coach to Eastbourne. Years ago he had thought it as fascinating as Diagon Alley had seemed last summer, but now it felt unbearably childish. Even if it was sunny the sea was freezing, the smaller children spent the whole bus ride shouting, and the tuppence they were each given tended to last about five minutes on the pier amusements. All in all, he hadn't been much looking forward to it.

That was until he saw Elizabeth in a swimsuit.

He didn't know where to look – well, he did, and that was the problem. It was producing a reaction that had never happened when looking at any of the other girls in their inevitably badly-fitting, second-hand outfits. He ran into the water until it was well above his waist, despite not really being able to swim, and for once praised the arctic temperature.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and by the time they were sat together on the ride home he could just about look at her without going red. He had simply been taken by surprise, he reasoned – next time, he would be able to control his reaction and enjoy the moment without embarrassment. He just needed (somehow, in the last few hours, it had become his number one goal) to make sure there was a next time.

~oOo~

It had been almost a year since she had last apparated herself, so it was a relief to appear in Diagon Alley in one piece. The passageway behind Ollivander's was absolutely identical to how she remembered – neighbouring popping sounds indicated that it was still (or, rather, already) a popular place to arrive. She moved along quickly.

The busy Wizarding district was largely unchanged; Flourish and Blott's, Gringott's and Quality Quidditch Supplies still occupied the main street and mothers ushered small children past ice cream sellers and displays of pets and broomsticks. Even the fashion in robes, while perhaps moderately more formal, was much the same to her eye. Today, though, her quarry was muggle in nature.

Outside the Leaky Cauldron, the differences of the era were startlingly more apparent. The road, jammed with cars all day in her original time, was unoccupied except for a solitary bus and several people on bicycles. The buildings across the street were totally changed; bombed out in the war or knocked down at a later date, she supposed. Wanting to blend in, she began walking briskly.

As a lone female she seem to attract a few strange looks, but ignoring them she continued down one street then the next, passing St. Paul's and Smithfield Market and Sadler's Wells. So many buildings were unfamiliar to her, and yet somehow the city felt mostly like she remembered.

Islington was… cramped. Washing fluttered from every high window; children chased through the streets, dodging pedestrians, the odd car and even a horse and cart. Shops and houses crushed together in no apparent order, the smell of baking bread and motor oil and fish mingling oddly in the breeze. Life everywhere. Perfect. Now to choose my home. Since she had had to fight off TB – without antibiotics – for the sake of a cover story, she thought she might as well go the whole nine yards. Nobody would ever find out her secret unless she wished it.

~oOo~

The Kennington Park lido was bright – that was the only word for it – all white and blue tile and white concrete and sparkling water. Convincing Elizabeth to spend half of her latest shilling on getting them inside had been surprisingly easy, so in return he made a valiant effort to listen as she talked about the beach at South Shields and how her brothers had taught her to swim and how she missed them but they had jobs and families of their own now and couldn't come to London to visit but at least she had Jessie.

It was the hottest day of the year and every inch of grass around the pool was covered with people reclining in the sun, a high wall shielding them from the picnics and football games of the park beyond. To his hormone-clouded mind, the sight was infinitely more interesting than all the attractions of Diagon Alley. For probably the first time ever, he forgot about the magic humming along inside him; forgot that he was any different to anyone else who had come to enjoy this inner-city oasis.

Elizabeth tried her best to teach him to swim – an occupation he encouraged as it meant she stayed very close – but he wasn't quite as focussed on the task as he might have been. When his uncoordinated efforts had worn him out, they retreated to a tiny spare patch of grass and she even let him share her ice cream. It was strange, but for a moment he was not angry about anything at all. He wondered if that was what happiness felt like.

~oOo~

DEar miss HErmionE,

thank -you for your lEttr. nobody EvEr sEnd lEttr to hogwart Elf bEforE thE others thort must bE mistak.

your nEw housE sound vEry nice. is to qwiEt hErE.

Tiggy try to rEad but somE othErs makE fun say Tiggy not work hard nuf Tiggy scrub flors for punishmet.

Tiggy miss frEnd.

He hadn't particularly meant to read the letter, but it had been left on the table in the courtyard and was in danger of blowing away. The writing was shaky and uneven – done with a pencil that was blunt enough to tear occasional holes in the parchment. On the reverse, the words of Hermione's original message marched along in neat rows. Her kindness to the elf was oddly touching.

Hermione. She had thought of him, the way he had thought of her. It was written all over her face whenever she looked at him, and he didn't know how much longer he could resist the temptation. He told himself that the holidays were almost over; she would be twelve again and far away for months. Plenty of time for him to get over this…this… whatever it was.

~oOo~

"You said you've been Death for about a thousand years, but Pythagoras must have lived… more than two thousand years ago," said Hermione pensively, as they were sat with a glass of firewhiskey after dinner one evening. She had never before seen the appeal, but now found something sensual about the burning sensation. That and she swore he always watched her drink it – subtly – as if it were something erotic. Or was that her imagination? She stared into the amber liquid and wondered what it would taste like on his tongue.

" – Are you even listening?"

"Uh – um... Sorry. Miles away." It was lucky it was getting dark, because her face was burning and that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"Honestly! I said –" and here he looked straight at her, playfully, as if to make certain of her attention – "I wondered when you were going to ask that. Actually, there were three others in between us."

"Oh! Who were they?" It was fascinating, almost forbidden knowledge, and she was desperate for it. He chuckled softly.

"You ask too many questions."

"You don't give enough answers." They stared at each other for some while, and she was increasingly aware of her own heartbeat. Was this what flirting was? Was the tension really there or was it all in her head? The moment was broken as he smiled and reached into his jacket pocket.

"Good God, do you carry around the whole set in there so you can always have the right one for the occasion?"

He smirked and handed her the card, and she felt the brush of his fingers as if they were on fire. Surely it was possible to hand a card over without touching. Had it been deliberate? Oh, get a grip, you're going insane!

"Aren't you going to read it?" His teasing tone made her wonder if he could sense the direction of her thoughts.

Nero Germanicus (1st Century AD) was a notoriously vain wizard who tricked muggles into making him the Emperor of Rome. When they became angry at his poor governance, Nero faked his own suicide and went into hiding. His fate remains unknown.

"Oh, I've heard this story before. It was a big mystery, wasn't it?"

"So I've heard. He was the most famous wizard of the age – no wonder, pulling a stunt like that. Some said the muggles found him. Some said that he was killed by wizards for damaging muggle relations."

"But you know what really happened."

"Naturally." His expression was terrifically smug; she felt it ought to be annoying but somehow it suited him and that was causing something in her brain to short-circuit.

"Tell me." He remained silent, and she added, "Please." It came out quietly, a bit like begging, and suddenly she wasn't quite sure what she had been asking for. Did his eyes become even darker? He leaned towards her and extended his hand; for a heady second she thought he was about to kiss her, but he merely took back the card from her limp fingers. When he spoke, he no longer looked at her, and the change in tone made her wonder if she really had been imagining the whole thing.

"Nero was always power hungry. Obsessed with his own image, he feared ageing more than dying. He had heard the legend of the Order of Eternity, but in the end he stumbled upon it totally by chance. Travelling southwards away from Rome, he planned eventually to reach Egypt… Well, he never got that far because he chose to stop in Crotone, where Pythagoras established his school."

Hermione was barely listening – too busy wondering if she had done something wrong. When she came to the conclusion that she hadn't, some time had passed and Zorion appeared to have entirely disappeared into himself.

"W-what happened then?" She asked tentatively.

"Oh. He touched a carving in the guildhall, quite accidentally – summoned Pythagoras, who asked if he wanted to live forever. Apparently he was the first in five centuries stupid enough to say yes."

She was sure there was a bit more to it than that, but the subject was clearly closed. Once the silence had dragged on to a point of awkwardness, she decided to call it a night. It was strange to think that tomorrow she would be twelve again and back at Hogwarts. She was definitely not looking forward to it.

~oOo~