1951
Her first class of the day is with the Sixth Year Gryffindors and Slytherins. She dared not go to breakfast, so she sat at her desk and ate breakfast biscuits and sipped her orange juice while she waited for them to file in.
They were a bleary-eyed lot, about twenty in total. Mostly boys, she noticed. Was Potions still considered a masculine subject these days? She wasn't sure.
A Gryffindor boy with sandy hair sat on a girl's desk, winking at her and then passing her a flagon. She looked annoyed, her black, kohl-ringed eyes flashing.
Hermione coughed pointedly and the boy took his seat. She glanced at her seating plan and was surprised at the name emblazoned on the seat.
"I'll take that, Miss Black." She held out her hand. "We don't drink in the potions laboratory for health and safety reasons."
Dorea Black, Alphard's niece, handed over the steaming flagon with a single bored look. She rolled her eyes at the boy, who watched her the entire time. Hermione unscrewed the flask and sniffed it. It was black coffee, pungent, sweetened with brown sugar. a label was attached to the lid. It read
Black like your heart x
Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes too. Teenagers.
"Do I need to test this for Amortentia, Mr Potter?" She said dryly.
"No need, Professor." He flung his arms over the back of his chair, eyes scanning the room for approval from his fellow students. "I can get all the girls I want without any, erm, pharmaceuticals." A few Gryffindor boys chuckle at this.
"Ah, I see. That being said, I think I'll hold onto this. You can have it back at the end of class." Dorea shrugs nonchalantly, examining her painted nails.
"You can spit out your chewing gum too, Mr Potter." Hermione added sternly, returning to the blackboard. Potter bowed his head in mock-consternation and sent his chewing gum whizzing into the bin with his wand. He smiled widely at her, baring braced teeth.
"A point from Gryffindor, I think. For your cheek." Hermione raised an eyebrow as the other Gryffindors groaned.
"Cheers Charlie" grumbled another boy.
"Yeah, thanks a lot Charlie." said a Gryffindor girl.
Charlus Potter mumbled something that sounded a lot like Slytherin bias.
"Settle down" Hermione said, frowning. "Welcome to Advanced Potions. This is the first year of your N.E. . This class will be difficult. I will not baby you. I expect your full co-operation in ensuring this year goes as smoothly as possible. As such, you will receive an inordinate amount of homework. There will be reading every week. I suggest you get used to it." She tried her best to channel Tom and found that she found it quite enjoyable to stare down her nose at them.
They just looked at her, horrified.
"Now, lets get started with the first potion on the curriculum. The Draught of Living Death." She gestured towards the iron cauldron to her left. It sent spirals of grey steam towards the ceiling, the potion a thin, inky black. "Who can tell me the function of this potion?"
A slightly sallow boy raised his hand. Hermione glanced at her seating plan again. "Yes, Mr... Black."
"The Draught of Living Death is a powerful sleeping potion. It simulates death." Marius Black had the same dark eyes as his sister. Judging by the colour of his tie he was also a Slytherin, not that the Black family tree would've accepted anything different. She imagined that there hadn't been a generation of Blacks in a different house since its inception.
"And how is it made?" She questioned.
"By adding a liquid infusion of wormwood to powdered root of asphodel. It is then simmered with valerian flowers which are removed before completion." He said politely. She thought she heard Potter scoff under his breath across the classroom and fixed him with a steely gaze. He quelled immediately.
"You would achieve a more potent mixture with crushed valerian root, but yes, the principle is the same." She rolled down the blackboard to where she had written the instructions earlier that morning.
"You have two hours. All of the ingredients you need are at the back of the classroom."
The group immediately scrambled, and her first lesson was underway.
They produced passable potions at best. Tom would've sneered at their incompetence. To her annoyance, the Potter boy had produced by far the best approximation, his draught the prerequisite inky black but a shade too viscous for full marks.
Dorea was not far behind him, just failing to produce the exact lilac colour required at the half-way point. Too much flirting. She had left the valerian root to simmer in the mixture for a fraction too long, Hermione thought as she eyed the crystal phial.
She watched Dorea eye Potter's potion with poorly concealed dislike, or maybe it was jealousy?
The students were hushed and tense, waiting for her to proclaim the winner. Slughorn had always done it like this, she remembered from her own studies. Of course students had to be ranked, had to view themselves as their competition rather than friends. It was the Slytherin way.
She held up the final potion, a claggy, lumpy mess. She pushed up the parchment tacked onto the phial to reveal the name of the student. The parchment revealed it belonged to Marius Black, written in glossy silvery ink. She frowned. With all the tutoring the Most Noble House of Black could buy, she'd never heard of an incompetent Black. He'd known the steps too, why had it gone so wrong?
She found her answer almost immediately, underneath his name a skull devouring a snake was lovingly sketched.
Hermione felt sick with disgust, her breakfast biscuits rising to greet her once more. He was a mere child, to know this symbol... What had Alphard been teaching his family members?
"I believe Professor Dumbledore was very clear in his instructions at the Welcome Feast, Mr Black. Detention." She said stiffly, dropping the phial back onto the desk with a hasty clatter. "Report to this classroom at 7pm tonight."
The Slytherins immediately broke into shouts of protest. "But Professor Granger!" Dorea started, looking indignant, tossing her mass of black curls behind her shoulder.
"Silence!" Hermione felt a little deranged, the presence of the symbol had sent a rush of dread right down to her toes. "Unless you wish to join your brother in detention, Miss Black, I suggest you quieten your tongue."
Dorea looked like she had swallowed a lemon but did not say anything further. The other Slytherins glared at Hermione, mutinous. No doubt they felt scorned by their Head of House. Marius had not said anything, preferring instead to stare at a particularly interesting stain on the floor. He had a soft smile on his face. He was an odd one, she thought to herself.
Charlie Potter, however, looked positively pleased. He had his feet resting on the corner of the desk and crossed one ankle over another. "So, Professor, who's the winner?" He loosened his tie and grinned at Dorea, who scowled.
Hermione's lip curled. "Another five points from Gryffindor, Potter. Get your feet off my table unless you want to join Mr Black in detention." He swept his legs under the desk at once. Hermione continued, rage trembling her voice.
"There is no "winner" in my class. You are all rank, arrogant amateurs. Not a single one of you produced a potion capable of an Outstanding at N.E.W.T. level. At best, we have two potions worthy of an Acceptable. I see we have a lot of work to do, frankly, I fail to see how any of you passed your OWLs. I expect two rolls of parchment on the Draught of Living Death by next Monday."
More groans. Hermione ignored them, her own bad mood like a poisonous fog. Her hands twitched for the diary she knew rested in her breast pocket. The bell chimed, saving them all.
"Now get out of my classroom. I shall see you on Thursday." She cried. They scrambled out of the classroom, shoving messenger bags over shoulders, quills and parchment carelessly shoved in them.
Merlin, she hated her job.
The rest of the day passed quickly. Her Second Years were much more compliant than the NEWT class - a mixture of Ravenclaw and Gryffindors made for a much less volatile mix. She had chosen to skip lunch, the thought of going up to the Great Hall had made her stomach roil with anxiety.
She itched to contact Tom, to tell him that this was a terrible idea and she, Hermione Granger, could never be a Hogwarts Professor and she was all wrong for this. She pulled out the diary from the inner pocket of her robes and stared at it. It was the same as always, a soft black leather binding, glossy parchment inside. The name stamped in gold mocked her. Tom Marvolo Riddle. She put her head in her hands.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Rap Rap. It made her jump, and she hastily stuffed the diary underneath some papers on her desk.
"Come in!" She said, her voice unnaturally high. Great, Hermione, very inconspicuous.
Marius Black stood in the doorway, the door swung open. He was short and thin, with slightly jaundiced, sallow skin. He looked, frankly, a little unwashed. Like he needed to spend a few days in the sunshine.
Hermione checked her watch, surely it wasn't 7pm already? The clockwork dial revealed that it was 6:58. In her reverie, she had missed another meal.
"Come in, come in." She beckoned Marius into the room. Much to her unease, he shut the door behind him with a click.
He inclined his head in a sign of respect and swung his bag onto a desk, taking a seat several rows back. "Professor Granger."
Hermione took a deep breath. She really didn't want to have this conversation. "Do you know why you are in detention, Mr Black?"
He shrugged. "Not really."
"You defaced your assignment with a Dark symbol." Hermione started. "One that Professor Dumbledore has expressly forbidden."
"He hasn't." Black said obstinately, clenching a salt-and-pepper coloured quill in his hands. "He's only banned the Knights."
Hermione pursed her lips. "Mr Black, you know as well as I do that that symbol is the symbol of the Knights of Walpurgis."
He raised his eyebrows in challenge, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do I?"
Hermione did not answer him, frowning deeply. He continued. "Do you, Professor Granger?"
"Yes, I do." She said firmly. "Members of staff were briefed on spotting signs of Dark magic before term started." Her heart beat a little faster than it had before.
He changed tack, posture a little more upright. "Do you know my Uncle Alphard, Professor Granger?"
"I fail to see what relevance this has on our current conversation." Hermione said tightly, she moved to hide her shaking hands underneath the desk subtly.
"You see, my uncle always has lovely things to say about you." His words were carefully chosen, measured. Hermione could hardly believe what she was hearing. Was she being blackmailed by a student? He shrugged again. "And his other friends, if you know what I mean."
"How about the Weasleys? Do you know them?" His sallow face flashed slyly.
Hermione was out of her chair before she knew what had happened. She was leaning over his desk, her wand out and jabbing into the soft white skin of his neck. "I suggest you don't finish that sentence." She hissed angrily, feeling blood thrum around her eardrums.
Black swallowed, his eyes closing tightly with a grimace. "I'm just saying. Maybe be a little bit nicer to us Slytherins in the future. Show a bit more respect."
"Yeah? I suggest you keep your mouth firmly shut, if you know what's good for you." Hermione pushed her wand further into the hollow of his neck, rage and panic clouding her head. Rage at his daring, panic for his safety. For hers.
Her voice lowered to an almost imperceptible level. "You seem like a smart boy. Hear this. The Dark Lord will slaughter you and your entire family without blinking if you fuck this up. You love your sister, huh? Your mother?"
He grimaced tightly at the pain and nodded.
"So I suggest you conveniently forget everything you know about your Uncle Alphard's activities. Stop sabotaging your potions to get attention. Incompetence is second only to blood traitors in your Uncle's book."
She removed her wand from his neck and strode over the door, pushing it back open. Her breathing was hard and hurried. She ran a hand over her robes, smoothing them back into place. Panic continued to burn and ebb in her stomach.
"Now go and get some cleaning supplies from the larder, you're going to scrub the cauldrons we used today."
An hour later she resolves that she must contact Alphard. But how to do it? She walks to her dormitory in a haze, her mind busy. Owl-post is too risky, she bets that the owls are searched before they can leave the school grounds. Floo is out of the question, she found out yesterday that all Floo travel must be pre-approved by Dumbledore himself. Something about some sixth-year Gryffindors flooing to Diagon Alley whenever they fancied a pint. She bets it's that Charlus Potter.
Hermione paces the floor of her sitting room with impatience. It was pitch-black, she hadn't even taken the opportunity to light a candle, anxiety tunnelling her vision.
It's too risky. She should've just obliviated the boy when she'd had a chance. The missed opportunity takes root and makes her bones ache in fear.
The diary sits on the coffee table and taunts her. Could she? No. She dismisses the idea immediately. Tom would kill him, torture him at the very least, to find out what he knew. Then Alphard would be next for the chopping block, for his carelessness, and anyone else who'd been complicit.
She curses him loudly. Children! Involved in Dark Magic. Marius was seventeen, for God's sake. How could Alphard be so blasé?
A black and terrible thought creeps into her brain. Unless, it wasn't carelessness at all? A memory surfaced in her brain. It was Tom, dark and horrifying. He was ranting about Dumbledore, a sneer on his porcelain face. Dumbledore thinks that the key to winning is converting students to his cause. His face had been angry, disgusted, full of hatred. Well, we shall see about that. His lip had curled.
She throws the book with a frustrated howl and it hits a mirror with a crash. Glass tinkles to the floor. She feels a sharp pain in her cheek and realises that a small shard has embedded itself into her cheek. Her hand comes away wet and shining with blood in the darkness. She wipes her hands on her robes, unfeeling.
Who could she trust?
She thinks about Black's impassioned face, his rapture for Tom Riddle. He wouldn't blab his secrets willingly. That meant that Marius knew deliberately, that Alphard had been given instructions, Tom had done this deliberately. She could tell nobody. There was nobody she could trust with this information.
She screams into an embroidered throw pillow and feels better, resolving to find Marius and use Legilimancy to find out all he knows, then cast a memory charm to make him promptly forget all of that. Children would not be involved in the Dark Arts under her watch.
An impatient knock sounds at her door and it makes her jump, the second time this evening.
She wipes her eyes and unlocks the door with her wand. It is Oscar Rossi.
"Do you think you could keep it down?" He starts, tone a bored drawl. "It's late, some of us are trying to sleep." Indeed, she notices he is wearing burgundy flannel pyjamas and no shoes.
She looks up at him, eyes shining with unwanted frustrated tears. His expression changes at once. "Granger," His voice is soft, "what happened to your face?" He traces the line of her jaw with the space between his thumb and first finger. His fingers return stained with scarlet blood.
She starts at the touch of his hand. "Nothing. I broke a mirror." Her voice is hoarse and shifty and she knows it.
He crowds her, hands on her shoulders, pushing her into the sitting room. "In here." His voice is firm but warm. "Before the students see."
The shards of mirror crunch under her shoed feet. Rossi hisses, red blood blooming on the sole of his foot. "Bugger it, I knew I should've worn shoes." He hops over to the sofa and pulls out his wand from the waistband on his pyjama trousers. Hermione raises an eyebrow, to which he replies "So what? You never know when you're going to need it."
"Sounds like a good way to hex your privates off." She runs a hand across her cheek.
He waggles his eyebrows. "And women everywhere would weep."
She laughs, a choked, wet sound. "Not with those pyjamas."
He glances down at them. "Hey, I told you I thought I was going to be in Gryffindor." Sure enough, a golden lion is embroidered into the breast pocket. She rolls her eyes and says no more.
He heals his own injury quickly and vanishes the shards of mirror scattered around the room with a flourish of his wand. She is standing with her back close to the wall, a little afraid to get any nearer. She has a strange man in her rooms, she realises.
Rossi runs a hand through his mousy curls. His face is lined, weather-worn, she realises. The thought comes to her unbidden, almost violently. It bares no resemblance to Tom's cold porcelain features.
"How'd you get in this mess, Granger?"
"Bad day" her smile is self deprecating but firmly closed. He frowns momentarily and then chuckles.
"Remind me not to piss you off."
He stands up, loping towards her with an easy grace. She takes several steps back, alarmed by his closeness, until her back hits the wall. He frowns again, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. He pulls her closer by her jaw, two large and warm hands gently cupping her face. She flinches at his overly familiar touch.
"Damn, Granger. Who hurt you?" He means it as a joke but it cuts her deeply.
"I don't-" She swallows, her voice thick. "I mean- I haven't - I'm not."
He shushes her, his voice soft. "Relax, Hermione." His eyes are wide, earnest, concerned. "I'm just going to fix your face. I'm like, the best Mediwizard in the world, or something."
He traces fingers over the cut on her cheek and a faint starry glow emanates from her skin. She feels hazy and warm, magic dripping down her spine. She sways on the spot.
A hand stays on her cheek, thumbing her chin. "Better?" He murmurs.
Her eyes flutter drunkenly. "Better." She mumbles, looking at the floor, suddenly shy.
His hand drops to his side and she feels the warmth leave her. The chilly Autumn night spills cold water on the moment. Her senses come back in a rush. She can't believe what just happened, what almost happened.
"Well, thanks for your help, Mr Rossi." She says breezily, sidestepping him and heading towards the door. "Have a very good night." Her tone is formal, she opens the door, a clear dismissal. She has to get him out.
She expected anger, obstinance, a refusal to leave until he found answers. She found none of that in Oscar Rossi. He smiles at her, his posture relaxed and easy.
"You're welcome." His smile is slightly lopsided, she realises. He lopes out of the threshold and turns back to face her. "Night, Granger."
She shuts the door before she can answer him and sinks down onto the floor, a sigh leaving her lips. She rubs her cheek, it still tingles a little.
Damn you. She thinks morosely and lights a nearby candle, bathing the room in flickering candlelight.
She is too wired to sleep, she thinks. Instead, she reads on the floor until her back hurts and her bottom is numb. The cushions feel too warm, too soft, too comforting. She craves something uncomfortable to keep her anchored.
Thirty minutes later another knock sounds at her door. Her eyes roll and she answers the door with a little attitude. "Rossi, I swear, if that's you again-" She starts.
But there is nobody there. Instead, a silver tray rests on the floor. It is laden with food - bread and soft brie cheese, gooseberry jam, winter strawberries, a slice of pork pie, a steaming teapot of lavender tea painted lilac.
A small note rests on the saucer. She plucks it with cautious fingers.
Eat.
