Note:

So this chapter is more than double the usual length. I've been trying to keep the story moving and deal with all the little plot points I've created for myself.

As always, I love all your lovely comments and thank you to all those who favourited / followed.

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Last year, she had woken up on Christmas morning to the sound of her father humming in the kitchen and the warm smell of pancakes and coffee. She had smiled before she'd even opened her eyes, as she stretched languorously in bed. They didn't need wands to feel the magic of Christmas.

But this year, she woke up alone and in a cold silent dorm. The Forest no longer called to her in her dreams but that night she had dreamt of boulders with golden handprints and words whispering in her ear, "You seek answers and they will come to you."

The empty feeling in her chest abated a little when she saw the pile of presents at the foot of her bed.

Claire pulled her aside before breakfast, just outside the Great Hall.

"I know you read my letter," she said, her blue eyes flashing.

Hermione couldn't even deny it. "I–how?"

The Mindekar was still in her trunk. She'd wrapped it but had hesitated over giving it. It was such a personal gift, one that Hermione knew she had no right in giving. She had bought it on impulse, spurred by her own guilt: she had been naive to assume everyone else had parents like hers, who loved her and each other. She couldn't imagine her life without them.

"Well, I left it in my bed. You would have read it, being such a busybody. And – you've been looking at me differently."

That wasn't true was it? They had barely talked to each other since yesterday.

"I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to pry. It was just there and … I've never seen you upset. How was I looking at you differently?"

"Like you think you know me. Even though you've always looked down on me because I'm not a swot like you are," Claire said with a snarl. Her lips were quivering as she spoke, the way they always did when she was furious.

"Look down on you? You're the one who's been mean and nasty, over boys of all things. Do you forget the time you knocked my ink pot over in class because you were jealous?" Who do you think you are, Claire had said. It was why Hermione had switched to the Slytherin-Ravenclaw classes. She didn't have time for petty squabbles or mean looks during lessons.

Claire laughed incredulously. "I didn't do that because I was jealous about James. I was peeved because even though he's been so sweet to you – pining for you, even – you don't care about how nice he is. All you care about are your grades, about being the first to put your hand up in class, getting every answer right, showing off how much smarter you are than everybody else. You think he's beneath you. Not just him – me, Josephine, almost everyone in our year. It makes me mad. How full of yourself you are."

Hermione's mouth fell open, astonished.

The words stung and she felt her cheeks redden.

"I don't look down on people. People look down on me. I know my priorities are different – why, why do you think I care about my grades? What else do I have going for me? I'm a Muggle-born! There's a bloody war going on, in case you haven't noticed. Grindelwald wants to slaughter people like me, because we don't belong, we're inferior. But do you know what the worst thing is? There are people in this country who already agree with him. People who go to this school! Who're in our year! Their families have centuries of power and influence in the Wizengamot. And the others, who aren't outright blood-purists, they've said to me, 'You're so talented, for a Muggle-born.' Like it's a damn miracle. Even Slughorn keeps saying I must be related to a pureblood potionmaster. Like that could be the only possible explanation for anything I achieve."

Claire flinched when she swore. Girls didn't swear, especially girls from good families. Hermione barrelled on, her voice was rising but she couldn't stop. All her pent-up frustration and bitterness was now spilling out of her, like a geyser erupting into the sky. "It's true, I did have to work hard to be good at school, you know. I didn't grow up around magic. I'll never forget the way Malfoy sneered at me when I was surprised at how the portraits talk, like I was some third-class moron. The highest anyone expects of Muggle-borns is to marry into this world and be grateful. But I want more than that, I want to be seen, I want to be valued for what I say, what I think, what I can do – not the purity of my blood or my family name. So tell me," Hermione was breathing rather hard now, "is that such a fucking crime?"

Claire's disdainful expression had disappeared. "No, it isn't," she said quietly.

Hermione endeavoured to calm down. She'd worked herself up into a rage and this was not how she wanted to spend Christmas morning. She turned around and walked away stiffly into the Great Hall.

Shortly after she had sat down, still breathing hard, skin prickling with anger, Riddle entered. His hair was neatly combed as usual, the lines of his shirt and trousers perfectly crisp. As he passed by, he glanced at her. There was a look in his dark eyes that she couldn't read.

She watched as he took his seat beside Nott and Zabini. When he glanced at her again from across the Hall, her face hardened. She focused instead on her sausages and buttered toast. The smell was heady but it was nothing compared to pancakes (and her parents smiling at each other from across the kitchen table; there was magic in those smiles).

Happy Christmas, she thought bitterly.

After breakfast, she paced beside the empty wall in the seventh-floor corridor, clutching the book she'd bought. When she opened the door that appeared, she froze in shock, all the breath knocked out of her. It was as if she'd stepped into her bedroom back in London, an exact copy down to the pale blue carpet, her reading lamp on her bedside table, the crisp white sheets she favoured. But the photographs on the wall were missing and her bookshelves were empty.

Hermione ran out of the room and slammed the door.

Blinking back tears, she tried again and breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened to the Room of Hidden Things. She tucked herself into a red tartan armchair next to the towering bookshelves and turned to her book.

Skimming her hands over the smooth white leather, she marvelled at the variety of runes inscribed on the covers. There were some she recognised, like the one for fire, kaunan. The lines were curly and not straight, with strange dots and dashes that she'd never seen before in her study of Ancient Runes.

She opened to the first page, heart beating with excitement.

—

The Dark Arts of Old

By Ursulda Ignam (1812)

Foreword:

As I write, the world is changing. New ideas about the human soul, about goodness and evil, have taken root, inspired by the Muggle revolution in France. The Muggle revolutionaries claim that every being possesses 'natural rights' and it is with this rhetoric they seek to tear down the structure of their societies, slaying those who disagree, in the name of liberty and equality. But it should be noted that such notions have not been extended to the fairer sex, a rather astonishing deficiency.

In the magical world, there exists an innate equality that the Muggles can only strive for – our access to magic. Witch or wizard, it only matters that one can wield a wand. The Dark Arts many thousand years ago was not called as such. Magic was magic. The only importance was, and remains, the intent of the practitioner.

The ancient practitioners of the Dark Arts discovered a way to enhance their magic and the strength of their spells. But whatever this was, it was kept a secret and faded away with the collapse of their civilisation. This secret, which I shall not speculate about, is what truly distinguishes the Dark Arts of today and the Dark Arts of old.

—

She turned the page and read on, eyes becoming wider and wider. From what little was known about the ancient form of the Dark Arts, it seemed it had originally focussed on the study of duelling. The spells were ruthless but practical. Over time, those spells evolved and curses became more inventive, more destructive, much to the horror of some. Herpo the Foul, born in Alexandria circa 500 BC, the author had written, was singular in his creativity and in his malevolence. His work was the foundation of what is known as the Dark Arts today. It now deserves the name, for his creations, and those that have followed, require intent that is most impure.

Wielding 'Dark magic' exacts a price. This is widely known, and one of the principal reasons the study of the Dark Arts has been discouraged in certain circles. However, it is not the category within which a spell lies that determines whether or not there is a price. Magic cannot, in itself, be good or evil. It is shaped by our intent. Hexes and jinxes that are not considered 'Dark' in the contemporary sense of the term, will still exact a price, albeit small, if cast with malicious intent. The price is the purity of one's soul (see Chapter 6 on souls). The more one shapes one's magic with evil intentions, the more warped one's soul becomes. And the more warped one's soul becomes, the more twisted the mind, eroding the ability to feel positive human emotions, such as love or compassion; it has also been reported to affect one's physical appearance. Herpo the Foul, in the course of his experimentation, damaged his soul irreparably, attempting something that no human being should attempt and has not since. (The book refused to elaborate further).

She frowned, thinking back to the shield spell she had used. Her only intent had been to protect herself. So why was such a spell forbidden but not the lesser curses and hexes? The Bat-Bogey Hex wasn't illegal, only forbidden at Hogwarts, as she had found out to her own detriment. It didn't especially help that her variation of it had been especially lethal, causing the victim to choke on their own blood as bats ripped through their nostrils. (She refused to feel guilty about it.)

She jumped up and reached for the tattered old book in her bag. Flipping to the page where she had found the shield spell, her eyes scanned the description quickly. There was nothing new there, she'd read it many times before.

But then, she noticed the diagram. What she'd taken to be artistic lines that depicted the strength of the shield, she now realised were actually arrows, moving from the faceless assailants towards the caster. They swirled and joined together on the paper, forming the lines of the shield.

No. Surely not? How had she missed this?

Hermione started when the old grandfather clock on her left chimed suddenly. It was six o'clock. She was going to be late for the Christmas Feast.

Thoughts still swirling, she put her books back into her bag and hurried out of the Room. Dumbledore had warned her away from the Forest, but she couldn't see how else she'd get answers.

She entered the Great Hall right in the middle of Dippet's speech. He smiled and gave her a wink before resuming.

The Great Hall had been completely transformed. Snow fluttered down from the seemingly infinite expanse above them, vanishing before it touched the floor. The long house tables were gone and in their place were round ones, draped in thick white cloth and laden with candles and wreaths of fir and holly. Blue ice sculptures of dragons and hippogriffs, and a bearded figure she assumed was Merlin, decorated the Hall.

The students sat at the tables in high-backed wooden chairs, dressed in formal robes. Hermione ducked her head in embarrassment and sat at the nearest table, stashing her bag under her chair. Noticing her own informal, decidedly Muggle attire, consisting of a button-up blouse and high-waisted trousers, she hurriedly transformed her napkin into a long black robe and shrugged it on. It retained a rather papery texture if one looked closely, but it didn't matter. Flutes of something sparkling and presumably non-alcoholic floated above their heads. She plucked one from the air and took a sip. The drink tasted sweet, like peaches, and fizzed in her mouth pleasantly.

"It may be a strange and difficult time," Dippet was saying, "but our dear students, let us remind you that you will always have a safe home at Hogwarts. Now, let the Feast begin!" He clapped his hands and enormous silver platters materialised before them, piled with roast turkey, potatoes and buttered peas. Boats of gravy and cranberry sauce appeared, along with ornate silver cutlery.

Someone beside her cleared their throat. She glanced up and almost recoiled. She had unwittingly sat down at the unofficial Slytherin table - Nott on her left, who fixed her with his cold blue-eyed stare, and Zabini on her right. His black hair was slicked back, and this close, she could see his eyes were an intriguing shade of amber. His family signet ring glinted on his hand which rested on the table. Across her sat two others, a small brown-haired third year whose name escaped her and, of course, Riddle. His face was impassive as he looked back at her, his fingers holding the stem of his own drink.

She pursed her lips and said icily, "My mistake." She stood up to find another seat but as she cast her eyes around desperately, she found that all the other tables were full. Hermione cursed silently under her breath.

With a huff, she sat back down with as much dignity as she could muster. "How unfortunate for me, do carry on." She waved her hand at them. "Don't let my presence stop you from your conversation. Whatever it is that you lot talk about." She wouldn't know. She'd lived in the castle with them for five years and yet the Slytherins were completely foreign to her. They might as well be German.

Taking another sip from her flute, she suddenly yearned for something stronger. Conversation unfortunately did not resume, although the chatter around them from other tables filled her ears like white noise.

Then, she remembered that she had a flask of firewhiskey in her bag. She'd been planning to give it to her father for Christmas. It was a custom silver flask, engraved with his initials and wrought with patterns of leaves that rustled as though touched by an invisible breeze. He would have loved it, she thought sadly.

But it wouldn't be proper to dose her own drink at the school Christmas dinner, would it? Although she wasn't of age, the wizarding world was not burdened by the social taboo of under-age drinking. As long as one didn't get caught.

She shoved the thought aside and concentrated on her roast turkey. No one had said a word since she'd sat down. Zabini was tapping his fingers on the table, mouth set in a thin line, and his signet ring kept catching her eye; a heavy looking thing, so unlike the other one with the runes, which had been rather elegant. Nott was also wearing a family signet ring she realised, as she saw him reach for a helping of potatoes – so was the third-year.

Pureblood heirs, all of them, except Riddle.

How they must hate that she was sitting with them, especially since the memory of their duel in the Room of Requirement was probably still fresh in their minds.

The silence around her continued and grew so thick and hideously unbearable that her resolve snapped.

Fuck them, she thought. Ignoring her mother's voice in her head, the one that disapproved of her impropriety, of both her language and her sudden decision, she bent down to grab her bag from under her chair. Ignoring the looks she was garnering from her dinner companions, she set the bag on her lap and dug around, reaching further and further until almost her whole arm was inside. Several loud clunks echoed from within and she flushed. Nott was watching her with an air of dispassionate surprise. It was an open secret amongst those who knew her that she'd spelled her bag with an illegal Undetectable Extension charm. It felt like she carried her entire life inside it sometimes.

"Sod it," she said loudly, when she heard her carefully organised stacks of books topple. "Accio firewhiskey."

The flask flew into her hand and she uncapped it, glowering at the Slytherins in case they dared to comment.

Grabbing an empty goblet, she poured some pumpkin juice and carefully tipped the flask. Just a little bit, she thought.

It went down her throat rather well so she added a little more.

Riddle chuckled, breaking the silence. Hermione raised her eyebrows.

He gestured to her bag and then her drink. "I think I've mentioned before, that you're not very lady-like. Little did I know." He laughed again.

"I'm not a lady. I'm a witch." She tipped a little more into her goblet. When no one said anything, she added, feeling a little tempestuous, "One that can out-duel most in this castle. If you recall." Her tone was sharp.

"I don't think anyone labours under the presumption that you're a lady," said Nott. His voice was soft and cultured, belying the obvious acid in his words.

She turned to look at him, not bothering to hide her disdain. His eyes were the palest shade of blue she'd ever seen, paler than Claire's. They looked back at her, unblinking, and she felt cold all over.

"How fortunate. I wouldn't want to be seen as lesser."

Riddle smiled into his drink, seemingly unable to hide his amusement.

"Well," Nott said slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching, "care to share then, Granger?"

"This was supposed to be a gift for my father. So, no."

"May I see?" He gestured a long hand to the flask. "It's a rather expensive gift."

Hermione bristled. She held up the flask, dangling it between her thumb and forefinger. The patterned leaves looked like they were almost alive, swaying and twisting along the metal surface.

"And would your father like such a thing?" She knew he wasn't referring to the firewhiskey.

"Why ever not? He knows I'm a witch. That things like this exist. He's not afraid of anything that contradicts his view of the world, unlike some," she said pointedly. "He'd know to keep it out of sight. He's rather supportive of me, I'd have you know. Both my parents are."

Nott's lip curled. "How … nice."

"And would your parents like that I'm sitting here right now, or would they order you to Scourgify yourself afterwards?"

Zabini, who'd remained quiet since the beginning, expelled a breath. The third-year boy simply looked bored.

"I suspect my father would rather curse me instead. He's rather good at it."

Hermione's jaw dropped.

He continued, indifferently. "And my mother is dead."

"Well, um. My condolences."

A twisted smile formed on Nott's face. He inclined his head but didn't speak further.

Hermione rather felt like she'd put her foot in her mouth. She took another sip from her goblet, wishing she was anywhere but here. She looked longingly at a nearby table, where Isabella Crowe was sitting. She appeared happier than she'd been that other morning, her cheeks were flushed as she laughed, talking excitedly with her friends.

Swallowing the sudden forlorn feeling that had risen in her throat, she found comfort once again in the contents of her goblet.

"Slow down, Granger."

Riddle was eyeing her flask, which was rather more empty than full now. Her tongue felt numb in her mouth as she replied a little thickly, "I'm fine." To prove it, she tipped the rest of the flask into her goblet and downed it all.

The feeling of the firewhiskey in her stomach was very pleasant. And it allowed her to endure the present company. A success on all fronts, she congratulated herself silently.

Riddle shook his head. "It's your downfall. You've only yourself to blame if it all comes back up and you get caught."

At that, Zabini frowned and leaned away from her.

"And why would you care, hm? S'pose you'd find it funny. Besides, it's the only way I see of getting through this dinner with you lot."

The main course had finished long ago and the desserts had now appeared, a marvellous array of flaming chocolate balls, nougat and fruit flans dusted in sugar.

Hermione started when Zabini spoke for the first time. "May I inquire as to why you would find our company so intolerable?" His voice was low and quiet.

"I thought that was rather obvious."

"Enlighten us," Nott said, leaning back languidly in his chair.

"Because," she said, hardly believing that she was explaining this, "you despise Muggle-borns."

"Ah but we don't despise you, Granger," said Riddle, a trace of his usual mischievous grin on his lips.

Hermione glanced at Nott and Zabini. "I think you're wrong."

It was Nott this time who answered. "We despise the Statute of Secrecy. We despise the fact that we have to hide from Muggles and we despise those who have no appreciation for magic, who believe that magic ought to be regulated and controlled, like we are misbehaving children." He gestured to her bag. "It's clear that you are not one of them."

"But I'm a Muggle-born. And we are children," she said obstinately.

"Muggles don't have magic. And you have magic, more than most. You're obviously a descendant of some established line," Nott said. "The Dagworth-Grangers are an old pureblood family but they've been known to … stray, shall we say?"

His cold arrogance flattened the pleasant buzz she'd been feeling. A distressingly familiar rage flooded her body in its place.

"Of course," she said viciously, "I must be a descendant of a pureblood because however else could I have magic? As if anything I accomplish could ever possibly be my own doing. Can you really not accept that magic chooses the person it resides in? Squibs exist after all. Magic didn't choose them. I'm proud of my Muggle heritage and I don't give a fuck what you think–"

"Granger, you're being rather loud."

Hermione stood up abruptly. "I don't think the firewhiskey was sufficient, after all."

Grabbing her bag, she stalked out of the Hall mid-feast.

The Forest was cold but her fury was better than any warming charm. Right after she left the Hall, she marched into the Forest, Disillusioned, her magic curling and rising up around her like an invisible force field. She'd already broken several rules already, what was one more?

The boulder looked the same but the handprint was no longer there. She slipped her hand out of her transfigured robes and pressed it against the stone.

The trees rustled and grew quiet.

"I thought you'd be back sooner," the woman said.

"I have more questions. And I'm sick of not knowing things. I'm sick of being underestimated. I want to know more. I need to know more."

The woman examined Hermione closely, her golden eyes piercing. "I see."

As before, one of the trees on the edge of the clearing swept down and formed two seats along its twisting boughs.

"What is your name? I never asked," Hermione said as she sat down.

"I go by many names. Dryad of Heron. Keeper of the Old Forest. You may call me Ilya. That was my former name."

"Before you … before you 'fell'?"

"Yes." A hint of something dangerous was laced in that single word.

"What happened?" Hermione knew she was being blunt but she couldn't stop herself.

Ilya's eyes glowed suddenly, terrifyingly and she said, imperiously, "You would do well to mind your manners, child. I do not tolerate impertinence and I do not deem many to be worthy of my time. I am not obligated to help you."

"I-I'm sorry."

"What happened to me is a tale for another time. What are the answers which you seek?"

"I still don't know much about the Arcane Arts. I found a book, 'The Dark Arts of Old', and it hinted that those who practised the ancient form of Dark magic knew of a secret that enhanced their magical power. Is this what you meant when you said that the ancient Dark Arts was a 'stepping stone' to the Arcane Arts?"

Ilya's eyes were still glowing fiercely, it hurt to look into them. Up close, Hermione could see that her skin was almost translucent and there were faint patterns that swirled beneath. Whatever Ilya was, she was most definitely no longer human.

"Yes. But I question whether you are worthy of knowing."

Hermione dipped her head in chagrin.

"For now, I will answer in part. There is a way to bind your soul to your magic, though it is dangerous. Every spell cast thereafter is more than double in strength, unlocking the ability to create and cast the most complex spells that others can only dream of. However," Ilya paused, "once it is done, it cannot be undone. Your soul faces the consequences of the magic you choose to wield. I do not say this lightly. Your intention behind every spell you cast affects your soul directly, shaping it or even deforming it. Every temptation acquires the force of a siren's song and only few have managed to resist it."

"Why is it dangerous?" she asked.

"Because, child, if your soul is not powerful enough to be bound to your magic, it will wither and fade. And you will die. That is why the process was kept a secret. Too many promising young witches and wizards have died in attempting it."

Hermione swallowed. "And the Arcane Arts? What is old magic and how is it different to normal magic? You said that I have an affinity for it."

"Old magic has existed from before the beginning of time. It runs through the water we drink, the earth we stand upon, in the wind that whispers through the trees and the eternal fires that burn deep underground. It is the magic of creation, of emotion, of life. Small, reclusive societies, the very first humans with magic, learned to wield it. But they fell to disease and other misfortunes. Since then, very few have been born with old magic."

"How can that be? If I have old magic, then how was I born with it? My parents are Muggles." Hermione felt weary, she felt like she'd been reminding everyone of this fact too much recently. It weighed on her like a boulder heavier than the one they currently sat beside.

Ilya exhaled harshly. "Did I not say that old magic has existed before the beginning of time? Before human beings even walked this earth? Do not be so simple, girl."

Hermione flushed. "Sorry. I guess I'm just used to hearing that my Muggle lineage is incompatible with any proficiency in magic."

The frightening glow in Ilya's eyes softened. "It does not matter who your parents are. Magic is magic, and you possess it."

"I have another question, about–about the shield spell I used. What is the price for using that spell? I thought it was just my own vitality but I may have been wrong."

"The shield spell you used is forbidden because of the way it works. You did not ask me before so I assumed you knew. If you were ever to successfully bind your soul to your magic, you would do well to know exactly what you are casting and its consequences." Hermione looked down, feeling immensely stupid. Ilya continued. "You were correct in that the price is your vitality. However, the spell works by also drawing upon the vitality of those whom you cast it against, weakening them until they fall at your feet, depleted. Their magic can recover, but the length of their lives are often shortened."

Hermione had suspected as such but still, she could not hold back her gasp. "Is that why it was so easy to defeat them, afterwards?"

Ilya inclined her head. "It may have been so. But you did not cast the spell with the intent of harming them. It lessened the effect greatly, drawing more upon your own vitality instead."

Did Hermione just shave off years of her own life? She felt horror crash over her like a wave.

As if she had heard her thoughts, Ilya shook her head. "Do not worry child. You were healed when your magic called out to the Forest."

"I was trying to protect myself but … I did want to beat them. Make them see how much stronger I was."

"Your intention was to defeat them but not harm them irreparably. That is the difference."

Hermione nodded numbly.

"Do you think I have what it takes to learn the Arcane Arts?" she asked quietly, staring at her hands which were nervously bunching and twisting the fabric of her robes. As she watched, the transfiguration spell began to fade and she was soon left shivering in the thin fabric of her blouse, the reverted napkin fluttering to the ground.

"It is not my responsibility to teach you the Arcane Arts. As I said before, I am merely a messenger. A go-between, if you will."

"Then who–?"

Ilya rose, her skin hardening back into the texture of bark and leaves. "Soon."

And then Hermione was all alone in the dark clearing, leaning against the boulder, her golden handprint now fading.

When she slipped back into the Gryffindor Tower, swinging the portrait shut behind her, she was startled by a small scream.

"Oh, sorry." Hermione forgot she'd been Disillusioned. She released the spell and stood shivering in front of the fireplace, rubbing her hands together.

When she glanced at Claire, she saw that her eyes were red as if she'd been crying.

It makes me mad. How full of yourself you are.

Hermione turned back to the fireplace. The flames licked greedily at the charred logs, crackling and spitting out occasional sparks that flew onto the stone floor. She was standing so close she felt her skin almost burning, but she welcomed the feeling. Holding up her hand, she summoned her blue flames and watched them with interest as they danced merrily in her palm. Old magic. There was so much to learn but Ilya had refused to tell her more. I question whether you are worthy, she had said.

What did it mean to be worthy? And even if she was worthy, what would she gain from learning the Arcane Arts?

Knowledge, her mind eagerly supplied. Something more than what she could obtain with any number of Outstandings and whatever career that awaited her after graduation. Hermione's heart sank when she thought about the career pamphlets Dumbledore had given her at the end of last term, in preparation for their OWL year. None of them had seemed exciting. Other than becoming a curse-breaker or an Auror, neither of which interested her, the rest seemed to doom her to a job shuffling paperwork in the Ministry or ensconced in academia.

To be worthy, however. Hermione knew she was not without fault. If being worthy meant that she had to be some sort of saint, well … She could admit to herself that she was a bit of a know-it-all, that she prided herself in it. A swot, like Claire had said. And if she really looked deeper inside herself, she could admit that she did, in fact, look down on those who couldn't be bothered to learn, to know more about magic like she did, whether it was because they were born into a family that had everything or because they preferred to primp and preen themselves in the hopes of catching a suitor. Hadn't she sneered, if only to herself, at the way Claire valued her appearance? An irredeemable personality flaw, she'd called it. Hermione swallowed, watching the blue flames flicker and recede back into her palm. She'd gone her whole life assuming that she knew what needed to be known, but she'd never paid attention to people. She spent more time in the library or in the Room than with her friends.

Her despondent musings were interrupted suddenly.

"I've been thinking about what you said. I hadn't thought about it that way – what it must be like, for you."

Hermione turned around, surprised. Claire was fiddling with the sleeves of her robes. Her haughty tone was gone and instead her voice sounded small.

"I thought you just enjoyed being better than everyone else. But what you said at breakfast – I get it now. You're trying to prove yourself. I can understand that. My family … is complicated." She stifled a small sob. "Father still tells me when he's drunk about how it'd been a mistake to marry my mother. That sometimes love isn't enough. Elaina is what every society lady aspires to be: beautiful, elegant, poised. She's nice to everyone but me. I've always thought that I can get out if I marry into another family. So I wouldn't need them anymore, you know. Maybe I'll marry someone with a name just as old as Dubois, so I can turn around and laugh at them. Or maybe that's just a fool's dream." Claire gave a small, self-deprecating laugh.

Hermione collected herself, aware that her mouth had gone agape. "For what it's worth, I'm truly sorry your family is so rotten to you. And I'm sorry about your mother."

Claire looked up. She said quietly, "I apologise for saying all that earlier. I misjudged you. I promise I don't have anything against Muggle-borns."

Hermione felt herself smile genuinely for the first time that day. "Maybe I am a bit of a swot," she said. "And I think I misjudged you too." She remembered the Mindekar in her trunk and added, "Look, I might have a last minute Christmas gift for you."

She motioned for Claire to follow her up the stairs to their dorm. Reaching inside her trunk, she pulled out the wrapped gift.

"I got this yesterday. It's a Mindekar," she said, as Claire unwrapped the small parcel with wide eyes.

"It stores memories and you can replay them in your mind. Just say 'cantare' and tap it with your wand."

She watched as Claire silently touched the pendant with trembling fingers.

When Claire still hadn't said anything, Hermione continued, nervously, "I got it in Hogsmeade. There's a shop called Jolanda's Antiques. The owner was a little … strange but she gave me a good deal on it. And um, I got it because – I just thought you'd miss your mother. I mean I miss my mother and she's not – well – anyway, it's Danish, not that rare over there. And I'm not saying you should return your mother's necklace of course," she added suddenly, horrified.

Claire began to cry, fresh tears falling down her cheeks, wetting the pieces of wrapping paper strewn on her lap. Hermione felt as if she'd suddenly stepped off one of the moving staircases into thin air. It was an awful idea, so presumptuous – what had she been thinking?

"I'm sorry I–"

"I had to give back my mother's necklace today. A goblin from Gringotts came by after lunch and demanded it."

"Oh," said Hermione.

"I feel like I've lost her all over again," she sobbed. Then, without warning, Claire launched herself at Hermione, wrapping her arms tightly around her shoulders.

"Thank you," she whispered. "That was so unbelievably kind of you. I didn't even get you anything."

Hermione patted her back awkwardly. "Don't worry about that. Do you want me to show you how to extract the memories?"

Claire nodded, wiping her face. "I'm sorry I've been horrible to you."

"I haven't been that nice either," Hermione admitted. "Let's start all over. I'm Hermione Granger, Gryffindor swot–"

Claire tipped her head back and laughed, the sound echoing around the dorm.

When she climbed into bed later, she felt oddly light, lighter than she'd felt in a long time.

x

End Note:

For those of you who miss Hermione's interactions with Tom, you may have been disappointed that this chapter had so little. But rest assured, they will resume! For now, we had to deal with the complication that is, well, blood prejudice. And that's not really over, either. If Tomione is end-game, then it needs to be dealt with!