Chapter Six: So It Begins

I won't be able to survive here. This is the beginning of the end.

The thought pounded through Hermione's brain repeatedly for the rest of the day. This was an unmitigated disaster, and she could see no way around that. Supposedly she was here on a mission of some sort, but the most logical sort of mission in this era had to have something to do with eliminating the threat of the Dark Lord before he could rise. Now, barely two weeks in, the fledgling Dark Lord himself knew her secret, and worse, he was using it to blackmail her into keeping his secrets. She had surprised him with the revelation that she knew about the Chamber, but after that he had recovered quickly. Indeed, he had willingly confessed to killing his father at once when she accused him of it. She thought she had manipulated him into keeping her secret private by mutually blackmailing him, but afterward, she realized that she was now an accessory after the fact to murder.

I suppose it isn't the first time I've kept someone's illegal secrets in order to get something out of them. Still, she could not quite categorize her conduct to Rita Skeeter in the same box as this.

The only good thing about the entire conversation was that, as best as she could determine, Riddle had not created any Horcruxes. The ring was probably not one because he was still wearing it, and according to Harry, Dumbledore had theorized that he had stopped doing so after that point. And the diary—well, his attitude about that was not at all what she had expected, nor had the item itself looked the way she had expected. It had been a blank book, she had been told by both Ginny and Harry. It was pristine and appeared unused except for the name on the cover. And when one wrote in it, the ink was absorbed quickly. This diary appeared to be… just a diary. A wizarding diary, with memories actually embedded in the pages, but nothing more sinister than that. It was an unexpected boon.

The thought crossed her mind that, in theory, she might actually be able to wipe him out before he could do anything else, and there would be no complications. A simple Killing Curse and that would be that. No Voldemort.

There were just two problems with that idea.

Hermione had not forgot about the disastrous DADA duel. He had finished her with three spells. He had deflected her own feeble attempt with laughable ease. That was a problem. It seemed incredibly unlikely that she could ever get him into a situation where his guard might be let down enough for her to use the unblockable curse.

And that was the other problem. She had cast it in the Battle of Hogwarts, but that was a kill-or-be-killed situation, and she had just watched several of her friends die at the hands of people who had no moral compunctions about using it on anyone. Hermione was ashamed enough of using it even in that situation. She was reasonably certain that it was… damaging… even in that context, based on how it made her feel afterward. There was a certain hollowness and vague feeling of disconnection, almost as if the memories of doing it belonged to someone else. She really did not think she would be capable of casting it cold-bloodedly against an unsuspecting person who, loath as she was to admit it, was not threatening her life and had not actually done anything to her that was deserving of death.

It was so tough to admit, but it was true. Her memories were a paradox now. They represented events that had taken place, but in a different world. Ironically, these events represented her past, and it was a past that was not reality for anyone else here. Tom Riddle of 1944, however sinister and intimidating he could be, was not the deathly white, noseless, red-eyed monster of her memories. He had not done the things that she remembered. It was wrong to kill him for things he only might do.

Hermione finally decided, the following day, that the best thing to do was to talk to Albus Dumbledore. She had been postponing it ever since she was Sorted into Slytherin, feeling vaguely embarrassed, even traitorous in a way to her old House. His House. But it needed to be done.

"Lemon drop, Miss Green?" Dumbledore asked kindly.

Hermione almost burst into tears as she took the candy. Dumbledore looked at her oddly, but he did not ask for clarification. Hermione was grateful for that. She was determined not to tell anyone anything about how far she had traveled into the past or what events had triggered her sudden trip.

"How are you settling into Hogwarts?" he asked.

Hermione did not require explanation of the subtext. "It's… odd, Professor," she admitted. She hesitated, before finally concluding that this was not important information about the future. "In my original time, I was in Gryffindor. I did not expect to be Sorted anywhere else."

The professor nodded. "I suspected that your original House had not been Slytherin, from the face you made when I lifted the hat. You are coping well enough, I hope?"

She nodded. "It has been a bit of a shock to me that I can adapt to it, but… yes. And I knew Professor Slughorn as well from my own time."

"We all have qualities of every House in us," Dumbledore remarked. "There are several reasons that the hat might place you in a different house at different ages. It could be that the hat is making a judgment about what you need to cultivate at a given point, rather than what you want, or what your most dominant personality traits are." He looked sideways at her, as if trying to obtain information without making it obvious. "Professor Slughorn has told me that you have attracted the interest of the Head Boy, Mr. Riddle."

"That's exactly what I came to talk to you about," she confessed.

"Oh?" There was concern in the professor's voice.

"Yes," she said. "In my time, he is… someone I know. Not personally, but…." She hesitated.

"But you don't particularly like him," Dumbledore guessed.

Hermione laughed at that understatement. "No. But I was thinking about what you said when I first met with you here, about how you think there is a reason I'm here. It has occurred to me that the reason probably relates to him. He… I hesitate to tell you too much, Professor, because you have to understand, this he has not done anything that—his older, other version—did in my time to make me dislike him. I don't want to prejudice you against him for things he has not done here. But at the same time, I don't know what type of path I ought to take to address the issue, if my guess about why I am here is correct." She paused again. "His 'interest' in me is not altogether with my consent. It's been rather unwelcome, in fact."

Dumbledore looked sharply at her. "Miss Green, are you implying that he has been forcing—"

"Oh, no," she assured him at once. Best not to mention that cheek kiss in the hallway, especially since she still was not able to file it away as a wholly unpleasant memory. And I don't want to get him in trouble for—

Hermione ended that thought at once. "No, nothing like that," she continued. "I do mean 'interest' in the literal sense. He has been intrigued by my presence here."

"I see. Yes, that would make sense. Mr. Riddle always has been determined to understand everything going on around him. More than understand, in fact."

"Control," Hermione murmured. "Yes. So—as Professor Slughorn mentioned, he is now staying near me because of this interest he has."

"And his proximity is undesirable to you."

"I don't know," she confessed. "I almost feel that I should allow it, because of my guess about why I am here. And I have to admit, I have been ostracized by my roommates. It's understandable; they have been through six years of school and grew up together, and they don't know me. But that doesn't make it easy. And also, we don't have a lot in common. Riddle is at least someone I can talk to about things such as advanced magic." Wait, where did that come from? she thought in panic. That thought had not crossed her mind before, at least not at the conscious level, but it still tumbled from her lips before Albus Dumbledore.

He considered. "I think you are correct," he finally said. "I have had… concerns about Mr. Riddle for years. If he is interested in you and it feels benign—or relatively benign—then it is probably best that you encourage it. But if you ever do feel threatened or otherwise in danger from associating with him, please come to me, Miss Green. I know that Professor Slughorn is your Head of House, but when it comes to the subject of Mr. Riddle, he is…." Dumbledore trailed off. "He is very fond of Mr. Riddle," he finally said diplomatically.

You have no idea, Hermione thought. "I understand, and I will be sure to do that."

If he had actually been Hermione's real boyfriend, Riddle would have been outwardly the perfect one. He walked her to and from every class, opened doors, sat with her at meals, attended Slug Club dinners with her, and held hands or linked arms whenever they were in a public place. That was almost the entire extent of his public displays of feigned affection. He never forced a kiss on her again and only occasionally put an arm around her. It was very, very proper.

Hermione had to wonder why he didn't try to force her into anything. Did he have a moral objection to sexual assault, despite having no problem whatever with murder and torture? She supposed that it was possible. It was known to happen among Muggle criminals, definitely. And she realized that in all her reading in the 1990s about Voldemort, not once had she come across a reference to him, himself, using sexual violence as a tool of power. Certain of his followers did, but not him. And his mother raped his father, she thought uncomfortably. If he knew that by now—she was unsure what the Muggle Riddles and Morfin Gaunt would have told him, or if he would believe anything they said—then that could be a compounding factor.

His demeanor during classes was entirely different from the hostility that had been in place for the first two weeks. In pair projects and class practicals, he was helpful and friendly. Disturbingly, she found that her blurted statement to Dumbledore was becoming prophetic: In DADA, she was actually learning more from him during their practicals than from Professor Merrythought. More than I even learned from Harry in the DA, she thought unhappily. She sometimes lost herself in their in-class conversations about complicated magic.

However, Hermione had a bad feeling that she was now seeing the same "charming gentleman" front that he had put on for everyone for the past six years. She knew that underneath it, their "relationship" was based on mutual blackmail and threats. She knew that she was consorting with the same person who opened the Chamber of Secrets, unleashed a monster in the school, and killed his Muggle relatives. She knew that, even if he had not made any Horcruxes, he unquestionably knew how to and was interested in the idea. She knew that he was the leader of a pack of snobbish, entitled pureblood boys and that he hated people like her.

It was easy to forget all of these things when he was being so polite and considerate, though. She was relieved that he was not forcing himself on her physically, because that would have made it repulsive, but at the same time, there was only so long she could spend time with an outwardly perfect gentleman who was also an intelligent conversationalist—and handsome to boot—without having the thought cross her mind that perhaps if he drifted his arm just a bit lower down her back….

It was troublesome and embarrassing, but this was the exact sort of thing that could not be fixed with magic, so she tried not to think about it too hard most of the time.

Hogsmeade weekends began, and for the first one—in the first week of October—Hermione had expected to go with him to pretend to be a couple. But when it came time for the students to be allowed to go to the village, he had come up to her scowling furiously.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"That miserable old codger pretending to be your cousin—"

"Hush!" she hissed, looking around to be sure that no one had heard.

He glared. "Dumbledore wants me to do hall duty. As a prefect."

Hermione frowned. "I didn't think Dumbledore even liked you."

"He probably doesn't like that we're…." Riddle trailed off, apparently unsure what word would be most appropriate to use.

Hermione thought about it. "He hasn't said anything to me to that effect."

"You told him about—this?"

"Obviously Dumbledore knows all about 'this,'" Hermione retorted, evading the question. "He is observant enough. Half the school gossips about it: the dashing Head Boy and the fascinating new girl who is related to the Deputy Headmaster," she said scathingly.

"I don't want you to go to Hogsmeade," Riddle said abruptly.

"Excuse me?"

"We're a couple," he hissed, "and that means you're supposed to be so devoted to me that you'll stay in the castle where I am instead of having a fun visit without me."

Hermione regarded him frostily. "No, you just want to control me."

He smirked. "It's nothing personal. I want to control everyone."

"I'm well aware. That doesn't mean you'll do it. The last time I was in Hogsmeade—" She broke off as memories of the invasion just before the Battle of Hogwarts filled her mind. "I want to go," she said at once. "And you won't keep me from it."

He glared again. "Then look properly sad that I'm not by your side, and for Merlin's sake stay away from any other boys." He smirked. "And if you wanted to buy me a gift, it wouldn't go amiss."

"Right," she said disdainfully.

He sniffed. "In a couple of hours, then." He turned and stalked off.

Hermione was actually very relieved to have something to do that did not include Riddle trailing after her like her keeper. When he stormed away to terrorize first and second years in the halls, she practically danced out the gates as she headed to the village with the rest of the students.

The shops and pubs were too similar to those in her own time—at least, before the Death Eaters invaded everything. Hermione felt Harry and Ron's presence in every corner. As she stepped up to the bar of the Three Broomsticks, she felt a pang.

They're not dead, she told herself. They haven't been born. And I'm going to save them, somehow.

The proprietor of the Three Broomsticks in this day, a plump matronly witch, peered at Hermione. "What'll it be?"

She could not bring herself to order butterbeer. It was just too much. Too many memories. "A shot of Ogden's," she said firmly.

The witch raised her eyebrows but did not argue as she poured the firewhisky into a rocks glass. Apparently it was perfectly obvious to her that Hermione was of legal wizarding age. I do look much older than eighteen, she thought sadly. As she received her drink, she sipped it and had the thought that even her birthday had arguably changed. She had not traveled back to May 2, 1944, but to September 3. She had not lived a full year since her last birthday. She would have to figure out what her "new" birthday was when she was back in the castle.

Hermione finished the firewhisky and pushed the glass forward on the bar. Her head felt a little dizzy. Riddle was not going to be happy to see her tipsy, she thought idly, and then wondered why she cared.

She stepped out of the bar and ambled up an alley, heading vaguely in the direction of the Shrieking Shack—until she remembered that it had not been built in this time. She looked around; no one was nearby. Just some trees.

Hermione's head was spinning from the firewhisky and the chill and the sense of overall wrongness about all of this, her Hogsmeade but yet not. She did not see the figure ripple into visibility, his Disillusionment Charm fading. She did feel it when he grabbed her and Disapparated. Then there was a curse, a flash of intense pain, and she perceived nothing.

"Ah, you are awake," a cultivated European voice said. "I'm glad. I have thoroughly punished that fool, Miss—Green, is it not?"

Hermione blinked. She was in a draped bed in a room that appeared to belong in a medieval castle. A fire crackled in a large hearth, and assorted banners and tapestries adorned the tall stone walls. Was this somewhere in Hogwarts?

Then her eye caught a banner she recognized. It was in the middle, clearly the centerpiece of the collection. Dark grey, almost black, with a very familiar gold symbol in the middle: a triangle with a circle inside and a vertical line ascending to the peak of the triangle.

Oh, no.

Hermione turned her eyes to the wizard before her. He had faintly greying blond hair and his face might one time have been merry, but at the moment his features seemed melded into a permanent smirk that vaguely reminded her of Riddle.

"Grindelwald?" she whispered.

"I see I require no introduction," the wizard said, beaming. "Indeed, Miss Green."

"Why am I here?" she asked bluntly. "What do you want with me?"

Grindelwald's eyes twinkled so reminiscently of Dumbledore's, it made her stomach turn. "There is no need to worry. I have no intention of harming you, and I have taken care of that idiot who cast such a curse to knock you out. Wholly unnecessary. There was no other harm done, Miss Green." Grindelwald looked pleased with himself, even expecting thanks.

"That doesn't answer my question," Hermione snapped.

Grindelwald frowned. "Why do you think you are here? You're a clever witch, I hear. What is your guess?"

She glared back at him. "Dumbledore, I expect. You want me as a hostage to draw him into a fight, because I'm… his cousin, and his student."

Grindelwald smiled grimly. "Miss Green, you are not Albus Dumbledore's cousin. I knew Albus's family. Now, I cannot deny that he did a remarkable job of modifying documents, but he could not modify the memories of everyone who knew him well. Fortunately for him—and for you—there weren't very many such people, and even fewer who still live, but you are nonetheless in the presence of one of them."

Hermione stared. Did Grindelwald know she was a time-traveler too? First Voldemort, and now Grindelwald? That was just perfect.

Her thought-question was answered at once. "What I want to know, Miss Green, is who you are, and why Albus Dumbledore took the trouble to create a cover story for you at all. It is… rather uncharacteristic of him."

Hermione leapt to his defense instinctively. "Professor Dumbledore is a caring man who protects his students."

Grindelwald laughed. "Oh, you cannot actually believe that. No, I can hear it in your voice. You know things about him." He peered at her interestedly. "You know the sordid history, do you not? You do. I don't know how you do, but you do. Fascinating. So you know exactly what he is, and these statements you make do not convince me any more than they convince yourself."

"What do you want?" Hermione asked again. "Just get to the point."

Grindelwald gave her a calculating look. "Impatient, aren't you? Very well. What I want is information."

"You want a spy," Hermione guessed. "A spy right under Dumbledore's nose."

"Correct," Grindelwald confirmed. "And I want it to be you because, believe it or not, I have your best interests in mind."

Hermione scoffed. "You don't even know me."

"No, but I recognize value when I see it, unlike that old fool, who thinks it is a mark of virtue to turn aside anything special or valuable. You have a secret that Albus Dumbledore is willing to lie to protect. Now, I am hardly claiming that lying is an unusual activity for him, but a lie of this magnitude… well. The last time I saw it, he was hiding his sister in the basement."

Hermione leapt up, enraged. Grindelwald flicked his wand—the Elder Wand, she thought—and pinned her to the bed again.

"I have your best interests in mind," Grindelwald repeated. "I bring Miss Dumbledore up for a reason. How well did Albus's lies turn out for her?"

"Ariana Dumbledore died because of you!" Hermione exclaimed. "You dueled them, and you probably killed her—"

"No, I did not," Grindelwald said, and for once, there was a note of sadness in his voice. "It was not my curse. I know that for a fact, because unlike Albus, I had the courage to cast Prior Incantato on my wand to find out. My previous wand," he said with a grin. "And do you really imagine that that barkeeper brother of his was capable of powering a deadly curse after his fourth year of Hogwarts? No, Miss Green."

Hermione closed her eyes. Somehow, she had known it all along in her heart, but it hurt nonetheless to have the dark suspicion confirmed.

"There is something you need to understand," Grindelwald said. "Albus Dumbledore is not your friend. He does not know what friendship is. He champions love, but he knows nothing of it. His greatest regret is—what? That his sister died? Why was she even there, Miss Green? Why was she not in St. Mungo's, or some other magical hospital, in the care of Healers, who might have been able to help her?"

Hermione opened her eyes and gazed helplessly at Grindelwald. She had often wondered that very thing herself.

"He was prepared to give up his ambitions, his great plans, to make a martyr out of himself, in order to stay at home and 'care' for her—which meant keeping her shut up without proper expert care for the rest of her life, had she lived. And he regarded that as the 'right thing to do' and a manifestation of familial love. Miss Green, Albus Dumbledore is a liar and a hypocrite. He uses people for his own ends and then denies having any such ends in mind. Spins stories to himself about how wrong it is to have plans and ambitions, and tells people that he is using them as pawns because he 'cares' about them. And the worst thing is, I think he believes his own words. My point, Miss Green, is that Albus Dumbledore is not to be trusted. You have trusted him so far with your own story, and, well…." Grindelwald trailed off, opening his arms wide to indicate the room that Hermione was currently in.

Hermione was at a loss for words. She really could not argue against anything that Grindelwald was saying. Was this not exactly how he had treated Harry in her own time, giving him pieces of information—what he, Dumbledore, thought Harry should know, rather than the whole story—and then throwing him to the wolves? All the while blathering on about how much Harry meant to him?

"I don't know who he loved, but it wasn't me," Harry had said. Hermione had not wanted to agree with him at the time, but….

"My brother wanted a lot of things," Aberforth Dumbledore had said.

And he had treated Snape the same way, she remembered.

"You have used me."

Hermione closed her eyes. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. This was Grindelwald, forerunner of Voldemort, and currently the leader of the blood-purity movement.

"I still can't be your spy," she said, opening her eyes. "I am against your agenda. No, your agenda is against me. I can't work for you."

"Tell me, Miss Green, what exactly do you think my agenda is?"

"Blood purity, of course," Hermione spat. "The purebloods are the natural rulers of all mankind, Muggle-borns aren't real wizards, Muggles should be oppressed, and—"

Grindelwald laughed. "Is that what they say in Britain? Does that come from that appalling newspaper you have, the Daily Prophet?" He chuckled. "No, my dear, you should never believe a word that that rag says. I do not deny that my agenda includes ruling over Muggles, but… well, you cannot argue that the Continental Muggles have made quite a hash of their affairs, have they not? Muggles are incredibly destructive, and this is our world too that they are destroying. But as for the rest of your assumptions, you should read more, Miss Green. I will say no more than that. Read more, and then we may talk again."

Hermione appeared on the outskirts of Hogsmeade next to the forest. The sky was dark. Her stomach felt unsettled and twisted. The henchman that Grindelwald had ordered to Disapparate with her did not perform curses on her, but the whole incident had upset her.

She realized that, all the past month, she had been regarding Dumbledore as the person she had known who died in 1997. The wizard who had known her for six years. The wizard who had the outcome of a war invested in her best friend, and who was relying on her intelligence to help guide that friend.

Albus Dumbledore of 1944 was none of those things. Why should Dumbledore care anything about her? From his perspective, she turned up in the castle as a time-traveler a month ago. He knew nothing else about her. His biggest problem at the moment was Gellert Grindelwald. His second-biggest problem, he probably considered to be Tom Riddle.

Hermione shivered and huddled closer. Something else had just occurred to her. Why had Dumbledore separated Riddle from her for this Hogsmeade visit? It was Dumbledore who had ordered him to do hall duty at this specific time.

No, she thought, willing herself not to entertain the idea that was crawling at the edge of her subconscious. No. I won't think it. If he had a purpose in mind, it was to give me some time away from Tom so that he doesn't hover near me all my waking hours.

She stumbled away from the trees into the road and made her way toward the village as best she could. Shouts arose as she approached Hogsmeade.

"There she is!" a loud male voice carried over the din. Hermione recognized it.

Riddle was furious, holding his wand aloft with its tip lit. He extinguished it and grabbed her as she approached. "What happened to you?" he shouted. "People have been looking for you for hours when you didn't come back with the others!" Hermione could not help but note, with some surprise, that he seemed genuinely angry and concerned.

"I think I was cursed," she said lamely, for the benefit of the crowd standing around her. She noticed that it included Slughorn and Dumbledore himself. "I was exploring the outskirts of the village, and I felt something hit me. Probably a prank. That's all I remember." She glanced at Riddle, willing him to Legilimens her, to understand her message: I'll tell you the truth later.

He seemed to. "Well, at least you're here now," he said. "All right, everyone, back to the castle." He kept his arm possessively around her waist.

She realized quickly that she was glad of the feeling.

As she walked back to Hogwarts, she also realized that she had just lied to Dumbledore and promised to confide the truth to Riddle.