Note: I may have said that last chapter wrapped up 1944 but I got ahead of myself. And I've been remiss so far in my portrayal of minor characters, to my eternal chagrin. I will try to improve, I promise.
On the first day of the winter break, Hermione woke to the sound of quiet sobbing.
The rest of the girls in her dorm had gone home for Christmas: Amelia to Diagon Alley and Josephine to her family in Surrey.
Except for Claire.
Claire, with her long blond hair and ice in her eyes, who was always ready to cut Hermione down with a sharp word and a nasty smile.
Claire, who never ever cried.
If ever someone dared to say something mean to Claire Dubois, she was never one to cry about it, she'd merely say something nastier back. Hermione had always tried to limit their interactions, as much as was possible living in the same dorm.
Claire would rather worry about looks than grades, as though her appearance were a special type of achievement; this was an irredeemable personality flaw, as far as Hermione was concerned. All she ever seemed to talk about was who was interested in whom, when she wasn't talking about herself – so-and-so had smiled at her the other day, she was positive he was obsessed with her, he wouldn't keep away, always sat facing her at mealtimes, oh goodness, he glanced at her just now; he was in Slytherin, which was a shame, really, why were all the good-looking blokes with family castles in Slytherin? Et cetera ad nauseam.
Whilst the Dubois family was the oldest pureblood family in France, her father had married a half-blood English witch, thus disentitling himself. And so Claire, thankfully, was not brought up with any concerning ideas about blood purity, merely an eye for family fortunes.
That was the extent of Hermione's knowledge, and interest, in Claire Dubois.
So Hermione remained in bed, quietly listening to the sound of her dorm-mate's muffled sniffling. When the sniffling became heaving sobs that did not abate, Hermione became alarmed despite herself.
She got up and approached the other bed. With a tentative hand, she drew back the heavy red curtains and saw Claire curled under the covers, her pale hair splayed on her pillow, eyes screwed shut, a hand clutching the silver necklace around her neck.
"Claire? Are you alright?"
Immediately, Claire's eyes flew open. She lifted her head off the pillow and stared at Hermione for a moment – vulnerable, confused. Then, abruptly, she sat up and wiped her eyes, tucking her hair behind her ears before replying with a trace of her usual spite:
"I thought I Silenced my bed. What's it to you, anyway?"
Hermione stared. What did she care? Claire certainly wouldn't have cared if she had been the one to find Hermione crying.
Still, what had made Claire cry? She found herself curious, despite the now resentful glare the girl was giving her.
"It's two days till Christmas," Hermione said. And with that astute observation, she faltered before asking, "Do you miss your family?"
Claire sniffed angrily. "None of your business." Then with a derisive look seemingly directed at the state of Hermione's slept-in hair, she climbed out of bed stiffly and left the dorm room.
As the door closed, Hermione glanced down and caught sight of a crumpled letter. Eying the door again, she decided a little peek wasn't going to be harmful. (Nosy? Most definitely.)
She plucked the letter from the bed and as she did so a photograph that had been attached fluttered down. It was of her family, she assumed. She set it aside to read the letter.
It began without pre-amble, without so much as a "Dear Claire".
"Your childishness knows no bounds. You say it was your mother's but your father gifted it to her when he had no right to the Dubois vaults – it has been three years since she passed, it does not belong to you. Return the necklace or we shall not expect you for Christmas."
The letter was unsigned.
Her eyes dropped back to the photograph. As she picked it up, she realised it was a newspaper cutting. The caption read, "Above: Lord Alexandre Dubois and Lady Elaina Dubois née Selwyn, pictured celebrating their daughter's second birthday (also pictured)."
Claire's father had re-married, she realised. The Selwyns were an old English pureblood family, part of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight of Britain. Surely it hadn't been Elaina, her own step-mother, who had sent this coldly written letter of demand? Surely her own father wasn't privy to such malice to his own daughter? Hermione hadn't even known that Claire's mother had passed. She thought back to the silver necklace Claire had been clutching. She had worn it everyday since third year, which was when her obsession with boys and marriage had started.
Hermione put the letter and the photograph back, feeling a little sick. She shouldn't have snooped. It wasn't any of her business.
The guilt roiled in her stomach.
Claire's treatment by her family made it clear – beliefs about blood purity ran deep and far. Being in Gryffindor had shielded Hermione from most of it, she realised.
Sirius had been labelled a blood-traitor and burned off the Black family tree. His banishment from his family home was why he was staying with James this Christmas, as he did every year since second year. So was Remus, although Hermione didn't quite know why he wasn't with his family. He usually stayed behind during the holidays, except for the summer, when the castle closed.
The Gryffindor table was much quieter without James and his friends, she found.
With such sparsely populated tables and no company (barring Claire who sat as far away from Hermione as she could), she felt herself more observant than usual. Almost all the students that had stayed behind this year were Muggle-borns like herself. It wasn't just because of the Muggle war, either. Grindelwald was still at large, in the throes of his twisted 'revolution'.
Suddenly, the war with Grindelwald didn't feel so far.
Isabella Crowe, whom she used to sit next to in Herbology before Hermione had switched classes, was sitting by herself at the Hufflepuff table, not even bothering to lift her spoon to eat her porridge. Isabella's parents were Muggles and her father, Hermione remembered, her insides twisting, had been conscripted shortly after the war had begun.
Her eyes wandered further, to the Slytherin table. They were drawn inexplicably to a certain dark-haired boy before she forced herself to slide her gaze over him, as if she hadn't seen him. Next to Riddle sat two boys in their year, Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini; she had never even spoken a word to them in the five years of attending Hogwarts.
They were blood-purists. All of Riddle's 'friends' were blood-purists.
She wondered with a vicious smile to herself how they'd react if they knew Riddle had kissed a Mudblood. Twice. Oh and Abraxas Malfoy, how could she forget that little inbred mutation. (He wasn't here, he'd bragged loudly during Potions about his family's high society Christmas Ball: "Members of the Wizengamot are coming, old friends of the family. They're clamouring for Father to take up a seat next year.")
She wondered why Nott and Zabini weren't at their family manors this Christmas.
Would all of them still treat Riddle with that cautious, careful respect if they knew? Come to think about it, surely they knew Riddle was a half-blood at best? Did it make no difference to them because he was a Slytherin? Or because it was clear he was their superior in every way?
And how did that line up? Surely, with their beliefs about the superiority of their own blood and lineage, they'd at least be a little resentful. And if it was intellect and achievement that stopped them from sneering down their noses at Riddle, then where was the respect for her? They had the same grades! (Except in Defence, but that was a one-off.)
No, there must be something else going on.
Zabini glanced up and caught her looking thoughtfully at them. His eyes narrowed and he nudged Nott who turned to give her a cold stare. Riddle followed their gaze and Hermione felt her chest tighten uncomfortably when their eyes met. Her brows furrowed and, feeling a sudden surge of dislike, she looked away with a barely disguised grimace.
And where did Riddle stand in all this? He certainly wouldn't want them to know that he had put his hand on her neck and kissed back. That he had let her touch him, let her run her fingers through his immaculate hair.
Knowing him, he probably hadn't even been ruffled by the gossip. Whereas Hermione had had to deal with the rumours with a display of lashing temper and hexed-off eyebrows, he hadn't had to do anything. His indifferent expression, his mask of calmness, of disinterest, spoke for itself. Besides, his loyal Knights wouldn't even dare.
She certainly didn't want anyone to know either. It had been curiosity, not romance. Hermione Granger didn't do romance, especially not in her OWL year, she decided. She'd been surprised about how the kiss had felt, that was all. Now that she knew that lips weren't gross, that lips could be soft and warm, even if they were a boy's lips, even if they were Riddle's, there was nothing more to it.
She'd beat them all in the next Defence practical exam, get all the Outstandings she was due and make her own way in the world.
It was with this renewed sense of determination that she found herself in the library on the first day of the holidays. Her favourite spot, the hidden alcove overlooking the Quidditch pitch, was unoccupied. The carving of the snake was still there on the floor and she looked down on it with disgust, wondering if the mysterious vandal had also been a blood-purist.
The next day, she obtained permission from her Head of House, Professor Dumbledore, to go to Hogsmeade.
"Last minute present shopping?" he had asked amiably, picking up an impressive-looking quill.
She smiled, "Actually, yes. Will you be staying over for Christmas as well, Professor?"
He didn't pause as he signed his name on the permission slip. "Even I look forward to our Christmas feasts, Miss Granger." He then looked up at her and winked.
Suddenly, she remembered something. "Professor, did you ever find out what happened to the wards in the Forest?"
At that, his quill paused.
"No," he said gravely. "But the wards have been strengthened. The centaurs are watchful creatures, their leader promises to alert me of any further unusual activity."
Hermione strained to think of a way to tell him that the intruder had been a werewolf without casting suspicion on herself. It hadn't even been a full moon that night.
"Do you think it could have anything to do with Grindewald, sir?" she ventured, cautiously.
Something flickered behind his piercing blue eyes. "It is unlikely," he said slowly, "as his efforts are centred on France at the moment."
She nodded numbly. She could see no way of telling him the truth.
"Miss Granger?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You are safe at Hogwarts. There are many ancient enchantments in the castle that will protect our students – wards or not. However, those enchantments do not extend into the Forest, which remains forbidden unless in the company of a teacher." His voice was gentle but his gaze remained sharp.
She suddenly found the paisley patterns in the carpet very interesting. "I–thank you, sir," she mumbled.
Hermione dressed warmly for Hogsmeade. It was the day before Christmas and Hogsmeade was busy. Witches and wizards milled about on the cobbled streets, which had been spelled to be impervious to snow, clutching their shopping bags, looking about excitedly at all the enticingly displayed wares, draped in sparkling tinsel and holly.
There was a shop furthest from the main street, right next to the entrance of a shady-looking alley, that caught her eye. She'd never seen it before. The faded wooden sign above it read, 'JOLANDA'S ANTIQUES'. The windows were covered by thick brocade curtains, although the door was open.
Hermione stepped in.
The front room was dark, lit only by candlelight. The contents of the shop took Hermione's breath away. Along the furthest wall were shelves full of rather peculiar-looking books. Their spines gleamed in the glow of the flickering candles, some were even in wrapped in chains. But the entirety of the splendour of the front room was due to the piles of antiques, haphazardly stacked on top of each other on cloth-covered tables, ranging from jewellery to silver cutlery to ornate enamelled hairbrushes.
"Welcome." There was a trace of an accent, something Hermione couldn't place.
Hermione looked up to see an old witch in dark robes giving her what appeared to be a smile. Her teeth were cracked and crooked and the irises of her eyes were clouded, like off milk. The combined effect was slightly sinister. If this was a trove of treasure, she thought, the old woman would be the dragon.
"Just browsing," Hermione said, returning the smile.
Her discomfort lessened as she began to immerse herself in the shop's wares, squeezing past the narrow spaces between the tables. There were many pretty little trinkets that caught her eye, including a carved figurine of an otter (perhaps she could indulge in a Christmas present for herself?). She put it down hastily when the old woman interjected, "Not for sale, dear."
But then she saw the necklace.
A round piece of flat clear crystal, encased in ornate filigree, on a silver chain.
She knew exactly what it was.
A Mindekar. It was a Danish invention, rare in Britain but a common artefact throughout the Continent. The pendant could store a few select memories and with a simple incantation, the desired memory would play out on the surface of the pendant or in the wearer's mind. Although, it was by no means as powerful or as detailed as a Pensieve, which were truly rare.
Hermione thought back to Claire, crying in her bed. The crumpled letter. The black and white photograph.
Everyone deserved to have loving parents, she thought. Even Claire.
"She would like it. Sentimental but a good gift."
Hermione whirled around and stared at the old woman. "How do you know who it's for?"
The whites of her eyes gleamed in the candlelight.
"It's why people come to my shop."
The woman didn't elaborate.
"How much is it?" Her parents had given her a small fund converted into Galleons, which accumulated each year. But she wasn't one for extravagance. Any more than six Galleons (about £30) and she'd put it back.
"I'll give you a good deal. Come dear, have a look at the books. I've collected quite a few."
Rather rattled, Hermione moved towards the bookshelves.
They were so beautiful, Hermione felt herself seized by an irrational impulse to buy them all. The subjects were diverse - everything from Romanian mythology to children's stories. Titles such as 'Wizarding History from 1100–1789', 'The Art of Duelling' and 'The Life Cycles of Carnivorous Plants - A Compendium'.
And one other, a small tome in white calf leather, inscribed with runes. 'The Dark Arts of Old'. Hermione expelled a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
She turned back to the old woman, who fixed her with her odd milky gaze. "Do you have any books on … older practices of magic? Like this one?"
The woman bared her teeth once more in a smile. "There are no such books. Though you will find that particular book useful."
First Slughorn, now her. Did Hermione look like someone who'd study the Dark Arts? The shield spell had been a mistake, she hadn't hurt anyone. She hadn't even realised it was a Dark spell. Although, that showed her how much she knew about the Dark Arts, ancient or otherwise.
You have an annoying habit of viewing everything in black and white.
She shook his words from her mind. The words of a bigot should hardly have any hold on her.
Still, she picked up the book.
On the way to the register, she spotted a dark green grimoire, inlaid with swirling patterns of silver snakes on its thick cover. A biography of Salazar Slytherin. Something Riddle would appreciate, she suspected, though she didn't know why. Then she shook herself again, annoyed. She was not giving him a Christmas present. Presents were for friends, for family. Not … whatever they were. Not quite enemies, but still, they were at least on the opposite sides of ideology. That was enough to be something closer to enemy than friend. And even if Riddle didn't have a family to give him Christmas presents … well, her new-found empathy did not extend to Riddle, she thought firmly.
"A rather dull biography, though well-suited."
"Not interested in that one," she replied, moving away from it.
The woman chuckled. It was an odd, wavering sound.
"How much for both?" She gestured to the necklace and the white leathered tome.
"Eleven Galleons."
The total cost more than her wand. Hermione bit her lip, thinking. She didn't quite know the real value of the book, although she was certain it wasn't something she could find in Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. No, it was surely the kind of musty old book that would sit in pureblood manor libraries, untouched for centuries.
That decided it for her.
She counted out the money and was about to pick up her purchases when a cold hand closed around her wrist.
The old woman leaned closer and Hermione saw that her skin was rather pale and her hair, while streaked with grey, was actually white. Her heart began to pound and she felt her blood rush all over her body.
"You seek answers and they will come to you." Hermione struggled not to retch at the smell of her breath, thick and cloying. "But child, you are much too young. Temptation is a slippery thing, it has many clever disguises. I was a fool. And to fall from such heights … " the woman paused and Hermione saw her clouded eyes flicker from side to side as if seeing something that wasn't there.
The old woman's grip tightened before she whispered, low and harsh, "There is no greater loneliness."
She was still shivering when she arrived back at the castle.