Note: I hate that can't use double linespaces between paragraphs to indicate a new section without having to use the obnoxious line divider. I've used full stops to indicate instead but it's not the same you know.

Malfoy and Avery finally woke up, two days later.

The story that was told went like this:

The Slytherins had followed James, Sirius and Remus that night, all the way to the Whomping Willow. However, when the latter disappeared, Malfoy and Avery had gone too close to the tree and been knocked about. Hermione had seen them and tried to help. All three of them had been thoroughly whomped by the tree and had lain unconscious for several hours. How James and Sirius got hurt, they didn't know.

Hermione had been nervous that they wouldn't be convincing, or worse, that they would fail to keep secret about Remus or the fact that James and Sirius were unregistered Animagi. However, both boys told matching stories without hesitation, clear-eyed and confident.

"What were you doing out of bed, Miss Granger?" Professor Dumbledore had asked.

She'd hung her head and mumbled, "I was trying to find my friends, Professor." (Which hadn't been a lie.)

"And did you discover where they had went?" Dumbledore's eyes had been unusually piercing when she'd finally looked up.

"I did not find them till later, sir." (Again, technically not a lie. If Dumbledore had noticed the vagueness of her answer, he did not comment.)

"The tree must be removed, Headmaster. My son was almost killed!" Mrs Avery had interrupted sharply. She was a short, thin woman with a large hooked nose and a weak chin; she shared the same dark blue eyes as her son, the only feature they had in common. Strings of black pearls hung from her neck and her hands glittered with countless rings; dressed in traditional robes, embroidered with a fine, gleaming thread that could only be Acromantula silk, she paced the room in agitation.

"Unfortunately, Mrs Avery, that is not possible. The students have all been amply warned not to go near the Willow - it is known to be fiercely defensive–"

"Defensive! It attacked our sons. I demand it to be cut down, immediately." Septimus Malfoy had tapped his ebony cane angrily on the stone floor as he spoke. He had white-blonde hair and a long aquiline nose; his sharp grey eyes flitted across the room, every once in a while landing on something that would cause his thin lips to curl in disdain. His robes were simple, black. As a member of the Wizengamot he had the authority, he reminded them all, to investigate the school's practices.

"Abraxas dear, are you sure you don't remember anything? Septimus, we ought to get the family healer to check on him." Abraxas' mother was a young woman with light hair and light eyes, and soft features; she wore green robes that tightened at her waist and minimal jewellery except for a large diamond ring on her left hand. Her sole attention was on her son, whom she fussed over and clearly doted on, smoothing away his fringe, pressing a hand to his cheek. He resembled her closely, except for his hair, which was his father's. Hermione had smirked when it became clear Abraxas was growing embarrassed over her attentions, turning pink and leaning away from her as much as he could from where he lay, still confined to the narrow bed.

It took a long time before Malfoy and Avery's parents had sufficiently calmed down enough to be escorted out. The tree was not to be cut down but it would be warded, Dippet had promised. Not once had the parents looked at Hermione, or acknowledged her presence, even when she was being questioned.

.

The deal which had been struck between herself and Riddle had taken almost an hour to negotiate. By the end, Hermione had been red-faced and uncomfortably itchy under her cast, which Madam Pomfrey had thankfully removed only a short while later.

"I want you to tell me what you want - now," she had said.

"No. You're the one who needs the favour."

"Fine. Then the three of you need to make an Unbreakable Vow."

He had refused, naturally.

She'd grown frustrated. "You can't expect me to agree to what you're asking, without any assurances as to whether or not Malfoy and Avery will keep quiet. The whole point is to ensure Remus' condition remains a secret and that includes the fact that James and Sirius are unregistered Animagi. Which means that I need more than just a promise and you need to be part of the deal."

"They won't say anything if I tell them not to. Nor will I, despite my opinion that a werewolf should not be let loose every month in Hogsmeade, with its sole caretakers being Potter and Black - I believe they spend more time in detention than out of it."

Hermione had glared. "How can you be sure they won't say anything?"

"I'm sure," was all the reassurance Riddle had offered.

"And another thing. You have to call in my debt within the year."

"Within the next five years, Granger."

"No."

"Ten."

She had huffed. "Fine, five. But you can't make me do anything that causes harm either to myself or to my friends or to any other person."

Riddle had merely arched an eyebrow at this. "Harm is a very broad concept, Granger," he'd drawled.

And so they had gone back and forth, defining the limits of harm - injury to feelings, indirect harm, things of that nature were excluded. She had refused to do anything illegal or dangerous; he had disagreed, for what did 'dangerous' mean? So on and so on.

Eventually, they reached agreement and set it down on parchment. A magical contract.

Sirius and James had ended up privately 'confessing' to the Headmaster and to Dumbledore that they had gone on a lark with Remus in Hogsmeade, and a nearby resident had spotted them. Thus the knife (which had mysteriously gone missing; Hermione suspected Riddle's involvement) to the back and their injuries from holding back Remus. Dippet had been horrified and appalled. New wards had been placed around the Whomping Willow and around the Shrieking Shack - the boys would be unable to leave the Shack during the night until Remus had transformed back.

.

As for their punishments?

Slytherin House lost a hundred points. Gryffindor lost two-hundred and fifty. Fifty for Hermione for going near the Willow. One hundred points each for James and Sirius for endangering the lives of Hogsmeade residents and detention every Friday with Filch for the rest of the school year. Remus, who had been severely depressed since the night of the incident, hadn't been deducted points since he had not contributed to the night's wrongdoings.

The next day, their fellow housemates had discovered, to their great dismay, the paltry number of rubies remaining in the giant hourglass outside the Entrance Hall. It was the most that had been lost at any time and no one knew why.

But it had to have been worth it, Hermione reasoned. Remus' secret was safe, no one had been permanently injured (though Malfoy acted otherwise, complaining of headaches and getting Parkinson to rub his shoulders in class). James had surprisingly been allowed to play the match against Slytherin on Saturday - Hermione had cheered in the stands half-heartedly with Claire, whose nose had a tendency to go red in the cold. When James had leaned in to kiss her cheek after celebrating their close victory in the common room, however, Hermione found herself pulling away.

The hurt in his eyes had made her feel guilty; she didn't even know why she'd pulled away. It'd been almost involuntary.

It was the little things. Like the way he crumpled his homework into his bag. Or the way he reverted to his usual level of mischief with Sirius after only a week, disappearing behind tapestries while dungbombs went off in the halls or the fact that the Magical History section in the library was still swamped –

But then, sometimes she'd catch his easy smile, the way his eyes lit up when he saw her at breakfast, as though he saw her as this shining, bright, beautiful thing, and she caught a bit of his happiness for herself. Simple. Fleeting.

Nothing in Hermione Granger's life was simple.

She was reminded of this when she passed Riddle in the corridor just before curfew, on her way back from the library, and caught a whiff of something sharp and cloying. She knew this smell - it had clung to her clothes the first time she'd tried a truly Dark spell in the Room, a curse that had ended up eviscerating the practice dummy, leaving thick black globs splattered on the floor and walls. Instantly, she'd faltered, whipping her head around. Their eyes met; she'd known right then, that he had been illicitly practising, like she had. And he'd no doubt seen the flash of comprehension in her eyes, and known too.

Malfoy no longer sneered at her in class. Instead, very rarely, he asked her questions.

"What was the wand movement you did for that beetle transfiguration spell?"

"How did you know to flatten the bean instead of slicing it? Was that in the textbook?"

And: "How do you remember all this stuff, Granger?"

The first time he'd asked her, she'd been deeply suspicious. The second time, she'd found herself explaining and he'd nodded before moving away. Sometimes, even more rarely, she caught him giving her a muted look of admiration whenever she bested Riddle in a duel during Defence.

This didn't happen as often as she would have liked, however.

.

Professor Volanthen had taught martial magic at Durmstrang prior to coming to Hogwarts. This was reflected in the way he taught duelling, which most professors had treated as if it were a competitive sport; Volanthen drilled technique and barked orders as though he were training them all for war. However, his rules were sacrosanct.

"Alright, today we will be looking at footwork, ladies and gents. Watch carefully … imagine each foot is on its own invisible line. Never allow those lines to cross. That doesn't mean your toes have to always point straight, Allsworth. That's it. If you're moving left, left foot first."

Volanthen had made them practise the footwork individually before they implemented it in their duelling. The long flat mat was replaced by a large circular one, and the students were instructed to move along the edge as they cast their spells. "In this exercise, we're focusing on reacting to our opponent's movements. Your partner should be on the opposite side of the circle. Both of you are strictly limited to moving along the edge. Do not cross into the middle. As you duel, one of you is trying to close the distance, the other will be trying to maintain that distance. So if they move left, you move right and vice versa. Understood? The first to three hits wins. Low-level jinxes and hexes only."

Many of the students had been delighted that they were finally doing practical work instead of writing long essays on cursed objects, however, over the weeks, began to wilt under Volanthen's harsh criticism.

"Is this a duel, Miss Parkinson? Or a waltz? Don't flounce and don't overcomplicate it. Keep the distance - why are you pointing your wand at the ceiling?! Is Miss Cartwright on the ceiling? Aim your wand at your opponent."

Volanthen grumbled at the next pair as well. "Mr Macnair. Do not hunch so, like an ape."

Ophelia's partner was Rodolphus Lestrange, who towered over her as he prowled along the edges of the mat; she almost had to sprint to maintain the distance. He also kept flicking vicious Stinging Hexes at Ophelia and seemed to enjoy her yelp of pain when one of them hit. (Stinging Hexes were slow to heal; the skin remained swollen and inflamed for several hours, as Lestrange knew.) When his third hex landed on her ankle, Ophelia howled and fell. Lestrange lifted his wand to cast again but was stopped by an irate Volanthen. "Mr Lestrange! Can you not read the board? Rule Two! What does it say? 'Act honourably and follow the conditions of the duel.' You stop when you land three. Do you understand?"

Volanthen was no doubt surprised when Hermione and Riddle turned out to be the most well-behaved; they stuck to the rules and cast only mild jinxes. However, that didn't mean they weren't any less ruthless. Now, within the confines of Volanthen's rules, they tried to trick each other: feinting in one direction, doubling back, disguising their wand movements; their spells were fast and accurate - all it took was a tiny misstep, or a delayed reaction, and one of them would be hit. Hermione took a laughing jinx to the sternum and cackled like a madwoman, before she cast the counter-spell and sent a Jelly-Legs Jinx curving his way. Riddle at one point misread her movement and her spell hit him right on the nose, causing long leeks to sprout of his ears. The consequences were deeply amusing to the rest of the class, but the duelling exercise wasn't over yet - neither of them smiled.

Hermione had been working on her footwork on her own already, but it was different against Riddle, who moved with an agility that surpassed hers and with a cunning that the practice dummies did not possess. Not that her footwork hadn't improved - it was neat and precise, most of the time. But, as she'd discovered, circling the edges of the mat, her eyes trained on Riddle, it didn't come naturally.

But where Riddle excelled in agility, she excelled in endurance. Her daily runs had slowly, over the past few months, built up her endurance to the point that she had begun to notice subtle changes in her body. She could run much faster than before, for longer periods of time. Her legs felt stronger; lean lines of muscle were now visible under her skin where there'd previously been nothing but skin and fat and bone. Recently, noticing her upper body strength to be lacking, she had also started doing push-ups and hand stands and various physical exercises she'd remembered her father doing at home. She stood straighter now, with a greater sense of balance.

Hermione doubled back multiple times until she spotted Riddle's reaction begin to slow. Then, seizing the opportunity, she landed her third spell. Riddle was suddenly hoisted up into the air by his ankle and the look on his face was mutinous.

The next lesson focused on taking advantage of the environment in a duel. Their desks and chairs re-appeared in the classroom, along with tall bookshelves they could use as cover instead of conjuring shields. Riddle had beaten her in that duelling exercise by corralling her into a corner behind an over-turned desk, before blasting the desk away and Stunning her. Volanthen had Rennervated her and she'd opened her eyes to Riddle standing above her, holding out his hand to help her up.

Despite her annoyance at having lost, she'd been reluctantly impressed. He moved with deadly efficiency and without hesitation, repositioning every time she took cover, taking aim from unexpected angles.

She took his hand and, as she stood up, found herself reluctantly saying, "Not bad."

He stared at her for a moment, a slight crease between his brows. "Thanks."

She had to admit - even when she lost, she learned more with Riddle than she did practising by herself.

Professor Slughorn was a stubborn man.

"Miss Granger, I'm very put out that you haven't attended any of my parties since the beginning of term. There's another one this Friday evening - I insist you come this time, you can't miss it."

"I–of course, Professor. I've just been really busy–"

"My dear, your studies are important and your end of term exams are near, I know, but it will do you some good to relax. Network! I shan't accept any more excuses!"

Hermione had accepted her defeat with a strained smile.

The food at least, was lovely. Slughorn's office had been expanded again, lit with numerous floating candles that hovered above the tables laden with a variety of cheese and cured meats, small bite-sized chicken pies, crispy croustades filled with curried vegetables, devilled quail eggs and profiteroles. Instruments played by invisible hands provided soft, classical music that blended into the rivulets of conversation. Very Important People (according to Slughorn) stood around the edges of the room, where a space had been cleared for dancing, holding glasses of sherry as they talked. The Head Girl, a Slytherin, was chatting to a middle-aged woman with glasses and a rather unpleasant mien.

Despite Claire's protests, she'd worn trousers this time. No heels, no waves of chiffon. A simple silk blouse tucked into her trousers, with a slim leather belt. She'd allowed Claire to do her usual charms on her face and hair, however. There had been some pointed looks when she'd entered, but she'd ignored them.

When Hermione spotted her favourite vol-au-vents, she found Riddle already standing there, filling up his plate.

"Mind passing the tongs?"

He picked up one more before passing it to her.

"Do you think the house-elves provide all this?" he asked, picking one off his plate and biting into it.

"Probably."

"Hm."

She was forced to talk to him again later when Slughorn found them and introduced them to the woman with the glasses. "Mrs Angela Dearheart is a senior member of the Department of Mysteries, graduated in 1922 if I remember correctly with an Outstanding in Potions."

Slughorn beamed fondly at the woman, who gave him a rather pinched-looking smile.

"If any of you have any Ministry career-related questions, now's the time!"

Hermione did not have any aspirations to work in the Ministry, but the Department of Mysteries had always fascinated her.

"Are you allowed to tell us a little about what you do, Mrs Dearheart?" she asked politely. Hermione picked up a glass of punch that had drifted towards them on a silver tray.

"Depends. What are you curious about?" The woman was Scottish and her cadence was warm, at stark odds with her demeanour.

"Is it true that there is a room full of prophecies?"

Mrs Dearheart frowned. "Where did you hear that?"

Hermione blushed. "Oh, a rumour." She was regretting taking the glass of punch, as now she was standing there holding both her plate and her glass in each hand, feeling foolish. She took a sip of the punch to mask her discomfort.

"I can't tell you what artefacts the Department possesses, it's against policy. Besides, I work in a different division."

Hermione nodded and sipped more of her punch.

"May I ask what division? The Department of Mysteries has always seemed so fascinating, I've heard that it is at the forefront of many exciting magical discoveries," said Riddle politely.

The woman turned her gaze to him and to Hermione's surprise, she smiled genuinely.

Flattery gets you everywhere, she thought.

"Oh, it's surprising to hear that. Not many people are interested in our Department. Every year the Wizengamot calls for our budget to be cut even further. They seem to think we're all half-mad reclusives. Some of us are odd - the Love and Happiness division especially. They like to croon love songs in the elevator at half-six in the morning."

She was very talkative now. Hermione rolled her eyes discreetly as Riddle gave the woman another charming smile. Dearheart pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and smiled back, angling her body towards him.

Hermione looked around, wishing there was somewhere she could set down her plate, or her glass. She couldn't decide which. She sipped more of the punch, feeling left out of the conversation. Would it be awkward to step away without a word? Or would it be more awkward to just stand there silently?

This was why she didn't like Slughorn's parties. Networking. Bah!

Riddle let out an amused chuckle at something Dearheart said. "Really? Sounds like a good time."

Hermione caught the eye of a very pale-looking wizard with sunken eyes, standing alone.

Finally, an out.

"Mr Gamp!" she cried, waving at him exaggeratedly, as if she had recognised an old acquaintance.

She left the conversation ("I'm sorry, I'll just be a moment!") and walked towards him.

The man furrowed his brows. "My name is not Mr Gamp. Do I know you?" He spoke softly, in an accent she couldn't quite place.

"Oh, I'm sorry. What is your name?"

"My name isss Sanguini. And what is yoursss?"

"Hermione Granger. Are you an alumni?"

The man tilted his head at her with an air of curiosity. Up close, she saw that his skin was very pale, almost translucent and his eyes were so dark the pupils were almost invisible.

"No. I'm here at the request of an old friend, Bartleby, he made me accompany him."

"The author?" she asked. She faintly recognised his name. He was a travel author, if she remembered correctly.

"Yesss. And you are a student, I presume? One of Slughorn's favouritesss?"

Hermione tried to ignore the odd prickling feeling that brushed the back of her neck. Something about the man wasn't quite right.

"I - well, no, I wouldn't say that," she laughed nervously.

She was just beginning to plan her second escape when she was saved by the sound of Slughorn clearing his throat loudly over the noise.

"I can see we're all having a jolly time, I'm glad! Now that we have all properly mingled, I think it's time for a bit of dancing. Our special guest, the Phantom Quartet, have prepared a few special pieces for us. As a demonstration - should we start with our youngest members? Tom, Hermione - ah, there you are." He nodded at them both. "Fear not if you don't know the steps," he said, as Hermione paled. "The Quartet will guide you!"

"Well, that's rather unfortunate," she said, turning to her companion. "Pleasure talking to you, Mr Sanguini."

A cold hand gripped her forearm and she stopped in shock.

"Ssstay. You haven't told me about yourself. I am most interested to learn more about you." He leaned forward menacingly.

She wrenched her arm away just as Riddle arrived.

"Granger." He nodded shortly at Sanguini before taking her elbow and guiding her to the middle of the room.

"Striking up conversation with a vampire, Granger? How bold."

"A vampire? … That makes a lot of sense," she said, scowling. "And I don't know how to dance, this is ridiculous. I'm almost certain Slughorn is hell-bent on torturing me, it's as if he knows."

As the music began, her arms rose up automatically of their own volition, her hand moving to rest on his shoulder. The other was held by Riddle, who frowned as his own hand moved to her upper back, his fingers settling between her shoulder blades.

Her eyes widened as her feet began moving.

"What is this magic?" she asked, as they turned on the floor together in time with the music.

He glanced down at her, his jaw tense. "I've been told it's inspired by Veela song."

He lifted their joined hands above her head and somehow her body knew to spin in the right direction, her other hand landing perfectly on his shoulder again as they swayed back and forth.

"Compulsion?" she asked, scrunching her nose as they turned in a circle. The dance was stately, elegant. A waltz perhaps. She was moving with a grace she knew she did not possess.

Warm hands jumped to her waist, startling her as he lifted her briefly. Slughorn clapped delightedly and motioned for the others to join.

Around them, people began to dance in perfect synchronisation. She caught glimpses of the quartet as they whirled around: the bows of the violins sweeping across the strings, the cello as it swayed, the viola as it began its solo.

Hermione was uneasy with just how at ease her own body was. It was powerful magic - could they stop if they wanted to? Or could the music compel them to keep dancing, even after they got tired, like something from the Grimms' fairytales? She swallowed her alarm. It was a party, Slughorn wouldn't allow that to happen.

The tempo of the music changed suddenly and their steps quickened. They moved swiftly together, her stepping back as he stepped forward, knees almost brushing, as they spun around, weaving between the other dancers. Hermione had no doubt that if it wasn't for the spell they were seemingly under, there would have been a few crushed toes.

The pace was relentless and when the dance finally ended, Hermione was almost out of breath, her cheeks flushed. She curtseyed, he bowed and it was over. She felt the muscles of her back become tense again, her arms stiff by her sides.

Everyone clapped and she joined in briefly, reluctantly.

"Tom, Hermione. Sadly as you are fifth years, the evening is at an end for you both. I hope you enjoyed yourselves," said Slughorn, looking at her expectantly.

Hermione nodded and lied. "Of course, it was … great. Thank you for inviting me, professor."

"Wonderful, wonderful. Have a good night both of you," he said jovially.

Sanguini hovered nearby and Hermione glowered at him as they left.

Outside, away from the warmth and the noise, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

She eyed Riddle warily as they walked in silence.

"You never told me why you gave me that brochure."

He turned, his eyes flashing with annoyance. His jaw was still tense. "And I told you, I don't know anything about it."

She scoffed. "Of course. Who else could have given it to me? Malfoy? Avery? I doubt it since they were so surprised I'd found them."

He didn't reply, instead turning back to face the corridor ahead. A muscle at his jaw twitched.

When they reached the end of the corridor, he stopped abruptly. "Good night. I trust you can reach your dorm unaccompanied."

The polite mask was back in place. He dipped his head briefly and began to walk away.

The re-emergence of that tiresome charade was infuriating. She found herself calling after him angrily:

"Stop pretending, Riddle! I know you did it. I just want to know why! You could have stopped Malfoy and Avery yourself. You don't even care that any of us could have died, do you? You wanted me to find out and do your dirty work for you, and for what? For your own amusement?" Riddle had frozen halfway down the corridor. He turned slowly around, pale with rage. His eyes were like sharp black stones.

"You know, Riddle," she continued, feeling irate, "I absolutely loathe you. I'm sick of you pretending all the time. You hide behind those false smiles, that perfect schoolboy image - why bother with me? I already know who you are."

Riddle advanced down the corridor back towards her, his anger rolling off of him. She stood her ground, glaring.

"Well?" she asked, stamping her foot.

"Are you calling me a liar?" he hissed.

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying-"

"Do you think you're the only one beholden to the truth? I have never lied to you. I told you the truth, my secret, when you asked it of me. To my own detriment, clearly. And would you prefer me to sneer at you openly, as you do? Laugh contemptuously at every silly little thing you say?" His face was inches from her own. She could feel his magic rising within him, roiling, blackened by fury. But then, all of a sudden, his face shuttered completely, as though a switch had been turned off. He jabbed his finger at her. "You don't know me, Granger. You don't deserve to know me. Be honest, would you have done differently? If someone perished because of their own misfortune, would you have taken the blame? Allowed them to expel you from Hogwarts? Snap your wand in half? Push you back into the Muggle world, back to nightly German raids and food rations, a world where people die from cold and from infection, starve like rats. A world where you," he pointed at her again, "aren't special?"

She could only stare at him.

"Lie to yourself all you want, Granger."

He stalked away into the shadows.

She thought about it later in bed, unable to fall asleep.

She hadn't realised how angry he was.

But she was the one who supposed to be angry. If he hadn't opened the Chamber, eager to prove that he was the heir of Slytherin to his housemates, Myrtle Warren wouldn't have died.

Why had he been so desperate to prove it? Had he known what lay within?

With a Muggle surname, he couldn't have even known that he was a half-blood until he discovered his ancestry. Would he have been called a Mudblood like her? Had boys like Malfoy sneered at him, called him names?

She couldn't imagine it, couldn't imagine him being ostracised.

Coming from where he did (an orphanage, she recalled glumly), he must have been overwhelmed by Hogwarts, where lavish meals appeared three times a day.

She remembered when she'd gotten her letter. Her secret 'superpowers' as she'd taken to calling them privately had suddenly made sense. And to discover that there was a school where she could learn magic … She'd read Hogwarts: A History cover to cover, five times. When she'd first set foot in Diagon Alley, the flames of excitement and hope had only increased. She'd held her wand for the first time and felt something warm rush through her body, all the way down to her toes - a profound sense of belonging. At last.

The first spell she'd attempted, a Reparo to a boy's broken glasses on the train, had garnered impressed looks from other years, especially when she told them it was her first time.

The happiness had been indescribable, filled her to the very marrow.

She had been accustomed to feeling out of place, the lone figure who read by themselves in the playground. Here, she had felt like she could belong. Having tasted this feeling, it had ached terribly when it was taken away, the moment Malfoy had sneered and pointed at her when she gasped in wonder at the moving portraits on the walls.

Look, another Mudblood. They'll let anyone in, these days.

And just like that, she'd realised: in this new and exciting world, there was a ladder and she was clinging to the bottom rung.

Hermione rolled over in bed.

Riddle must have felt the same.

She rolled over to her other side and punched her pillow into shape. The difference was, she'd been sorted into Gryffindor and he'd gone to Slytherin, a house whose very history was stained with bigotry.

And yet another difference: she wouldn't have blamed another boy for Myrtle's death, making him take the punishment she would have deserved.

She tossed and turned in her sheets.

She wasn't a self-righteous hypocrite as he'd accused. He was wrong.

The thought of her wand being snapped, like Hagrid's, however, made her tremble. She slept poorly.

Though Riddle was angry at her, he did not show it the next day.

But his mask wasn't as perfect as it was before. She'd managed to crack it slightly and it remained flawed.

Her own anger at him, however, had seemingly vanished. She reached for it, dug deep, whenever he corrected her in class. When he managed to land a hex in Defence. Whenever he smiled insincerely. She searched for her anger, tried to dredge it back up. But it wasn't there anymore.

There was also the mystery of who had given her the brochure. For some reason, Hermione believed Riddle when he said he hadn't done it.

I loathe you, she had said.

She chanted it to herself as she passed the beetle eyes to him in Potions. And again, when she watched him accept a kiss on the cheek from Victoria in the Great Hall. And again, as he wrote his arithmancy proofs neatly on the board, earning ten points from Professor Vector.

I loathe you.

I loathe you.

I understand you.

It was the second week of March. Winter was ceding to spring and the change in weather was subtle. The sun was rising a little later each day and though it rained often, there were brief moments when the sun would emerge from behind its grey clouds and infuse everything with a little bit more colour.

Hermione inhaled through her nose and exhaled out through her mouth in a steady rhythm. Even though her legs were burning and she was getting tired, she concentrated on her form, relaxing the muscles of her upper back, keeping her arms bent, her hands loose.

Cold air filled her lungs. She slowed as she reached the path leading to the greenhouses. Lit by the early morning sun, the glass panes were dirty and she could see the long, swaying silhouettes of the plants within.

And in the distance, the Whomping Willow, now covered by shimmering wards.

Bending down, she grasped her knees as she panted.

She recast her warming charm on herself and checked her watch.

It was still very early, only half six in the morning.

The perfect time to practise.

On the side of the cliff on which the castle stood over the Lake, there was a small hidden cove she'd discovered on one of her runs.

It wasn't a cove, exactly. She wasn't quite sure what to call it. It was a small divot in the rock face, a groove, like the hollow at the base of one's throat, about two or three metres wide.

Pebbles crunched beneath her shoes as she carefully edged her way into the cove. The air smelled of damp stone and green moss; not quite fresh, almost musky.

The water lapped gently at the edge, which dropped sharply into the dark depths of the Lake. A dense mist had draped itself over the water and it looked almost as if the Lake was steaming.

Most Western magical education focused entirely on spells with Latin incantations; how to flick one's wand in a precise pattern and turn a mouse into a teacup, a matchstick into a needle. Spells ruled by technique.

What Hermione wanted to learn now was wandless magic.

She could conjure fire but her abilities were limited outside of that. She could summon her wand, but not other objects. Sometimes, she could make certain things change their properties - like causing her pumpkin juice to boil. She'd always dismissed those incidents as bouts of accidental magic, embarrassing and childish. She couldn't really do it on command, either.

Records and accounts of witches and wizards before the first millenium were rare; not much was known about them. According to Professor Binns, wand-crafting had only a roughly eighteen-hundred year history. Which meant that the earliest witches and wizards had not practiced magic with wands. An historian by the name of Magnus Sorenson had written about some primitive Nordic settlements in the third century - according to legend, they had mastered the element of water without wands, using it to guide their boats and catch fish. This knowledge was said to have been passed down from the first witches and wizards.

Those settlements were then pillaged by Muggles (the Vikings) and the knowledge was now lost.

Elemental magic was not taught at Hogwarts. She thought that perhaps, since she'd been struggling to learn wandless spells, she could make a breakthrough by exploring wandless elemental magic, since she was already able to do it with fire.

Water seemed like the next easiest element, and she was standing by one of the oldest bodies of water in Scotland.

Hermione kicked a pebble into the water, watched it splash and then sink.

She didn't really know how she conjured her fire. There was no thinking involved, no technique, no incantation. Just … feeling.

Intention.

Hermione stood at the edge of the cove and conjured a small blue flame on the tip of her finger to remind herself of the sensation.

Extinguishing it, she concentrated on the water before her, lapping at the toes of her shoes. The water was dark, murky, cold. She imagined lifting just a drop of it, tried to picture it gathering into shape.

The surface of the Lake remained flat and unyielding.

After a moment, Hermione stepped back, at a loss.

With her wand, she drew the Nordic rune for water, laguz, in the air, as she stared into the water, thinking.

She tried once more. Visualising it, wanting it. Nothing.

She crouched down and dipped the tips of her fingers into the cold waters of the Lake. Hermione traced the rune again in the water, watching it ripple.

And this time, she felt it.

It was subtle, just a tiny stream of bubbles on the surface. When she dipped her whole hand into the water, she felt the water move, an invisible current that swirled around her fingers, caressing the backs of her knuckles and her palm.

But though she felt the water move, felt a connection, she could not get it to do what she wanted.

Frustrated, she stepped back.

Perhaps, the Lake was too big, and she needed to start small.

Hermione cupped her hands together and scooped up some water.

She concentrated, staring at the slightly discoloured liquid.

Just a ripple. Come on.

The surface of the water remained flat.

"Laguz," she tried.

"It doesn't work like that, little witch."

Hermione jumped, whirling around, almost losing her balance and nearly falling into the water.

There was no one else in the cove … and yet the voice had been so near...

"Up here."

She looked up and saw the tabby from the infirmary, sitting on a ledge, staring down at her with its luminous green eyes.

"You?!"

Yes, me.

She squinted. The cat's mouth wasn't moving. "How are you … talking? Do all cats talk?"

The cat's tail flicked in annoyance. Without answering, he leapt nimbly down and landed by her feet.

I'm not a cat.

Then, as if it hadn't just said something demonstrably false, the tabby began to groom its paw disinterestedly.

Hermione stared.

"Are you speaking in my mind?" she asked suspiciously.

It didn't deign to respond.

"I've seen you before, haven't I? Before the infirmary. I saw you in Hogsmeade."

The cat continued grooming. Yes.

"If you aren't a cat … then, what are you? An Animagi?"

The cat stopped licking its paw and raised its head, narrowing its eyes. Do not insult me.

"Are you - what are you then?"

An interested party.

Hermione sighed. The warming charm was beginning to wear off and it was almost eight o'clock. She'd have to shower and get changed before breakfast.

"Alright then," she said and started to leave.

Ilya told you, soon.

Hermione stopped abruptly.

Soon, is now.

"It's been three months," she said, turning back angrily. "I've almost died, twice. And you've just been watching me, this entire time?"

Not all are worthy. I was making sure.

"And? Am I worthy?" she demanded, nostrils flaring.

The cat's green eyes were unblinking. I do not know yet.

Hermione let out a groan.

No one ever truly knows whether they are worthy until they are at the brink.

"What does that mean?"

I'm saying, little witch, that all of us have at one point thought of ourselves as worthy. And we have paid the price a thousand times over. Perhaps more.

"Are you … like Ilya?"

I am one of the Fallen, yes.

"When did you …"

I am older than Ilya, if one can measure us by years. The difference is meaningless now, of course.

"Because you're immortal?"

No. Because our souls cannot move on.

It was rather odd, talking to a cat like this. Especially when the cat gave no indication that it was listening to her, except for his voice in her mind. (It was definitely a male voice.)

"Why have you decided to appear now?" she asked.

I had actually decided some time ago, when you came to Hogsmeade. However, the cat turned its head away, sniffing, you did not notice me.

It sounded miffed.

"I was looking for Jolanda … Do you know her? Is she also like you and Ilya?"

Yes and no.

Hermione huffed. "What happens when you … 'fall'? I'm not sure I understand. Are you still human?"

The cat suddenly hissed, flattening its ears. She took a step back.

If you wish to learn, do not be so disrespectful.

Hermione swallowed. Ilya had reacted the same way as well.

"I just want to know if it's a spell or a ritual or something, so I know not to make the same mistake!"

It is none of those things. The cat's ears resumed its normal position, though it still looked annoyed; its tail was swishing back and forth on the ground.

It was caused by more than error of judgment or a mistake. We condemned ourselves because we were flawed.

"But everyone is flawed!" she cried.

Some flaws cannot be overlooked.

The cat was being purposively elusive, she thought. "Ilya said it was temptation."

Yes.

"… For? For what?"

The cat's tail stopped moving.

It is different for each person. Now, stop talking or I'll get the squid to come here and drag you screaming into its watery lair.

Hermione gaped. "The squid?"

The cat looked smug. An old friend of mine.

"So you're here to … help me? How did you find me anyway?"

Your magic draws me. You should be careful - not all of us who sense it will have good intentions.

"Can animals feel it too?" She recalled the way Fawkes had sung to her and the way the werewolf had sniffed the air before backing away.

Some. Now, do you want to learn or not?

"Yes! Yes. I mean, I have to go back to the castle now – when can I see you again?"

I'll find you. The cat turned and began to slink away.

"Wait!" she called desperately. "Um - what is your name?"

It blinked its green eyes once. You may call me Darragh.