"I swear, it was here!"
Hermione was staring at the spot Jolanda's Antiques had been with a mixture of confusion and alarm. It was now just an empty lot next to the narrow alley, littered with discarded Honeydukes sweet wrappers and broken pieces of glass. An old tabby cat was sitting on the corner, busily licking its front paw.
"Maybe it was a different street?" Claire suggested.
"No," Hermione shook her head stubbornly. "It was definitely here. The alley is the same. And this is the only street off the main street that doesn't lead to the village houses, or the Shrieking Shack."
She'd been so sure that she would go back to the antique shop and speak to the strange old witch again. And perhaps purchase another book or two. The way the witch had grasped her arm and spoken of answers and of falling … Hermione knew that she was like Ilya, someone who could tell her more about the Arcane Arts. Maybe that was why she had appeared; Ilya had said this would happen, that they would be drawn by the old magic within her.
The whole concept still sounded a little fantastical. That she, Hermione Granger from Hampstead, the child of two Muggle doctors, the Mudblood Malfoy had sneered at since first year, had old magic.
Claire glanced at Hermione, who was still frowning, shaking her head. "Come on. We can try again later, I'm starving." Claire had wanted to visit this mysterious shop as well, claiming that she owed Hermione a present, even though she had tried to say that she didn't need one.
Hermione let herself be led back onto the main street and into the bustling aura of the Three Broomsticks. It was a few days after Christmas and everyone had been given permission to go to Hogsmeade, accompanied by the remaining staff. Professor Dumbledore had merrily led the entire procession to Hogsmeade, wearing a tall pointy wizard's hat and startlingly bright yellow robes.
She was still brooding when Claire returned with foaming mugs of butterbeer and two plates of shepherd's pie. The Mindekar on her neck swung forwards as she sat down.
"It's strange, I just asked Madame Roberta if she knew where Jolanda's Antiques was," Claire said, her eyes wide, "and she looked at me as if I'd grown a beard! She says there's never been such a shop in Hogsmeade."
Hermione's mouth fell open. "What?!"
Claire shrugged, taking a bite. "I believe you though."
"Why – how – can the shop just appear and then disappear?"
"Some shops travel. What's surprising is that no one knows anything about it."
Hermione's shoulders slumped. She sighed and propped her chin up with one hand. Why couldn't things ever be simple?
"Oh, cheer up you. Maybe it'll come back again. You have to tell me when it does. And we'll check again next Hogsmeade trip – I still want to visit it too."
After they finished lunch at the Three Broomsticks, Claire dragged her towards a two-storied little terrace, just next to Zonko's. Inside, mannequins dressed in vivid robes twirled and curtseyed and doffed their hats at passersby. The sign above it read, in gilt letters, Gladrags Wizardwear.
Hermione stopped abruptly. "Why do you need new robes? You have plenty!"
"Oh hush, it's my treat. You're going to that potions conference. Do you even have any other robes?"
"I thought school robes would be fine."
Claire grinned, her blue eyes lighting up, cheeks still flushed from the warmth of the pub and the butterbeer. "This will be my belated Christmas present. You have to indulge me or otherwise I'll pout." To demonstrate, she stuck out her bottom lip, all whilst pushing Hermione over the threshold of the shop; the doorbell tinkled.
Soon, Ilya had said.
Hermione kicked the pebbles on the shore angrily. How long was she supposed to wait? Months? Years?
She'd ventured into the Forest again that morning but when she pressed her palm against the boulder, Ilya hadn't appeared. No glowing handprint had formed either.
Ilya didn't strike her as someone who could be summoned at will, she thought, so it was no surprise. She'd done her job as the messenger. Now Hermione had to wait. And for what? Or for whom?
The trees had been quiet as she made her way back. The Forest no longer seemed dark and dangerous. But it still felt alive … a vast living force, older than the castle, older even than the first settlements in Scotland. Ancient.
Her fingers had tingled when they brushed against the branches along the path, an echo of the rushing energy she'd felt before.
Hermione sighed heavily, forming white wisps in the cold air.
The Lake was frozen over, its icy surface dusted with snow. Hermione found herself wondering if the Merpeople were hibernating below or if they were immune to the cold. What did they look like as they slept? Did they just drift along in the water? Or did they burrow into the mud and silt, emerging when the Lake began to thaw?
She picked up one of the pebbles and threw it. It scampered over the ice before spinning away.
Ilya had said old magic had existed since before the beginning of time. It was in the very air they breathed and in the water they drank …
Hermione stilled.
If it was just … there, then would she be able to feel it? Connect with it?
She drew her hand out of her glove and raised it, palm up. Closing her eyes, she listened to the wind rustling her robes, threading through her hair, the crunch of the pebbles under her shoes as she shifted.
She imagined that the magic existed in invisible particles in the air all around her, imagined them glowing, like the handprint. Microscopic pin-pricks of energy.
A long moment passed before she opened her eyes. Nothing.
Swallowing her disappointment, she let her hand drop.
What had she expected to happen anyway? Hermione suddenly felt very stupid as she shoved her hand back into the glove.
But there was one element that always came naturally to her, she remembered, as she walked back up to the castle.
Fire.
There was no hope of trying to connect with the earth's molten core but she could conjure some flames. Hermione stood in the main courtyard and, taking off her gloves, closed her eyes once more. When she opened them, the whole courtyard was bathed in an eerie blue glow. Long blue tongues of flame were flickering along her skin, starting from her hands and edging upwards, threatening to set her robes alight.
But she wouldn't allow them to catch fire, of course. Hermione willed them to retreat and they did, sliding down her wrists and pooling in her hands.
A smile broke over her face. It was as easy as breathing.
She marvelled at the way the flames danced, at the colour of them, so clear and bright. She made them grow a little larger, until she was holding two balls of cerulean fire, almost the size of Quaffles. They didn't burn her at all; the flames were pleasantly warm, the way it feels when holding a nice hot mug of tea.
The fire seemed almost playful in her hands. It bounced before losing its spherical shape, dripping down through her fingers like liquid. They swirled and re-formed into blazes in her palms, soaring higher; a tendril reached out to tickle her nose. Hermione laughed.
A shallow gasp broke her reverie. She glanced up and met the scared eyes of a fourth-year Ravenclaw.
"What are you doing?"
A small crowd had formed at the edges of the courtyard. Hermione belatedly realised that she probably looked a little insane.
Looking around, she could see the blue fire reflected in their pale faces.
The fireballs in her hands simmered and died away, leaving the courtyard feeling strangely lifeless.
People were whispering, eyeing her with suspicion.
"She's using Dark magic!" someone said.
"Do you reckon that's Fiendfyre?"
"–should tell one of the teachers–"
Hermione cleared her throat loudly. They hushed. "It's not Dark magic. I was … experimenting." She flushed when she realised too late that her choice of words wasn't doing her any favours. 'Experimenting' didn't sound all that innocent.
"Basically a household charm. Harmless, perfect for winter." She scoffed, suddenly, with a confidence she didn't feel. "Really, I mean … Fiendfyre? You realise that Fiendfyre can't be controlled? And it's red not blue, for goodness sake."
At last, one of them nodded. Finally, someone who seemed sensible. The murmuring didn't abate but the suspicion and fear in their eyes had lessened.
She rolled her eyes. "Thicker than a troll, all of you."
Nevertheless, she felt their eyes on her as she left the courtyard.
~-o-~
The whispers hadn't died down the next day. In fact, word seemed to have spread further.
Isabella, to her surprise, approached her at breakfast.
"Do you mind if I ask … what spell was it?"
"A new one," Hermione said dryly.
"It seemed … unusual," Isabella said, biting her lip.
"Are you saying it was Dark? Don't be daft." It was Claire who replied this time, her tone sharp and cutting. Hermione felt suddenly grateful she was no longer on the receiving end of it.
Isabella nodded. She offered a tentative smile before going back to the Hufflepuff table.
It rather hurt to see her former desk partner so distant. Hermione sighed, pushing her plate of eggs away.
"Don't worry about them," Claire said, glaring over at the Hufflepuffs who were still stealing glances at her.
"I don't understand why it alarmed them so much. Hardly as if I'm going to be the next Grindelwald."
Claire didn't respond.
"Um – surely this is where you say, 'Of course not, Hermione, that would be ridiculous.'"
"Well," Claire said, suddenly looking unsure, "I know you're not into the Dark Arts or anything like that. But –"
"But what?"
"It's just that whatever you cast, it did look a bit unsettlingly familiar …" Claire trailed off.
"Familiar?" she asked, feeling a bit of anxiety now. Claire was looking uncharacteristically reluctant to say whatever was on her mind.
"Look – don't take this the wrong way. I'm sure you read it in a book somewhere and couldn't wait to try it out or something. But one of the earliest memories people have, from before the war, was of him playing with fire like you were doing. Wandless. Shaping it in your hands."
"Who?" But Hermione felt she knew the answer.
"Grindelwald."
Claire continued, staring down at her porridge. "He did it just before he burned down one of Durmstrang's ships. He was then expelled."
"That was more than fifty years ago!"
"It was all over the newspapers. And it's one of the things people remember about him, before he disappeared and came back with an army."
Hermione didn't know what to say. "There are … photos?"
"Yes, it'll be in the library."
Hermione stood up sharply. Claire rolled her eyes, regaining some of her usual snark. "Don't worry so much. I know you're not the next Grindelwald."
"Thanks Claire, for that stunning endorsement."
Claire grinned. She made a shooing motion. "Go, I'll see you later."
As she turned to leave, she glanced up at the head table and was startled to find that Professor Dumbledore was watching her over his half-moon spectacles. The usual twinkle in his blue eyes was absent, replaced by something harder.
It looked much like wariness.
The library held copies of every issue of the Daily Prophet since 1755. Hermione summoned a stack of papers from 1883, the year Grindelwald had been expelled from Durmstrang.
"Requaero Grindelwald." The newspapers lifted themselves from the desk in a cascading motion, like a deck of cards. One flew out from the stack and landed neatly before her.
Skimming the pages, it wasn't long before she found it.
On the third page of the paper (dated 18 March), there was a large photograph of a handsome teenage boy standing on the deck of a ship. There were dark flames roiling around his wrists and he threw his head back in laughter as they climbed up his arms. Lightning flashed in the background.
A small headline read: 'Student expelled from Durmstrang'.
Gellert Grindelwald, sixteen (16) years old, a student at the renowned Durmstrang Institute for young wizards and witches, has been expelled after burning down the staff ship. He is reported to have been involved in many twisted experiments throughout the year, some rumoured to have been nearly fatal. "This was the last straw," said Headmaster Harfang Munter, grimly. "There will be no more chances. We do not tolerate disrespect at this school." The photograph above was taken by a fellow student and son of British expats, Kevin Creeves, who commented, "A number of us have been lodging formal complaints for the past two years. He's completely mad."
The article went on to compare Durmstrang, famously known for its teachings of the Dark Arts and its exclusion of Muggle-borns, with Hogwarts (where no one had ever been expelled specifically for endangering other students, the writer pointed out.)
So what, Hermione thought. It was an uncanny parallel but that was all.
The boy in the photograph continued to laugh and she put away the newspaper, feeling her stomach twist uncomfortably.
29 December
Dear James, Sirius and Remus,
I hope you three had a lovely Christmas. And thank you for the wonderful presents! I love the new potions books you got me Remus, I'll be sure to read up on them before the conference! Sirius - the self-inking quills are beautiful and so so handy, thank you. And James, I can't believe I have my very own Potter jumper at last. Do thank your mother for me, it's very warm and I love it. And I adore the enchanted homework planner. Every time I close it, it shouts, "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" It's very funny.
Stay out of trouble you lot. Last I heard, the three of you pranked old Bathilda and got trapped in her attic for hours. Leave the poor old bat alone!
I'll be seeing you on the 6th.
Love,
Hermione
P.S. Is it true that Grindelwald is Bathilda Bagshot's nephew?!
She entered the Owlery, letter in hand, when she noticed she wasn't alone.
Riddle was leaning against the stone wall, brushing something idly from his robes, while Nott was tying a wax-sealed letter onto the foot of a large handsome owl.
They were a study in contrasts – Riddle carried himself with such ease, projecting an air of charisma that drew people in. But where Riddle was all fluid charm and swift smiles, Nott was cold and rigid. The only part of him that wasn't rigid was his hair, which lay in loose honeyed waves. His eyes, so pale, were deeply set into the sharp planes of his face. The sole heir of one of the oldest pureblood families in Britain, barring the Malfoys, he had no need for false charms. His arrogance rolled off him freely and naturally. Hermione hated him.
Ignoring them, and rather hoping they'd do the same, she called for Gilderoy, her owl. He sidled up to her pompously and extended his leg. She fixed her letter to it and patted his head. "There you go, off to Godric's Hollow." When he didn't move, she sighed and fed him a treat.
At last, he spread his wings and took off.
"Is this Muggle fashion?"
Hermione turned around. Nott was arching an eyebrow at her trousers.
"Yes. The latest. What of it?"
"Interesting. I suppose you'll be wearing a cravat next," he said blandly.
Hermione rolled her eyes and scoffed. "They're practical, you backwards buffoon."
Nott stared at her for a moment. It was as if he'd never been insulted before. (She found that she was more than happy to acquaint him with the feeling.)
He turned to look at Riddle who gave him a nod. Giving her trousers another glance before shaking his head, Nott left the Owlery.
That left her alone with Riddle for the first time since that day. Before she could leave, he moved away from the wall he'd been leaning against and stepped closer.
"Godric's Hollow. Sending a letter to Potter?"
"I was actually. But – that's none of your business."
"None of my business," he repeated slowly.
She shifted awkwardly on her feet. "Precisely."
His brows furrowed. "You can't just snog a young man and then claim to forget about it."
"S-snog?!"
The nonchalant mask he'd been wearing fell away. His eyes crinkled as his face split into a disarming grin.
"That's what they're calling it these days."
Hermione felt her cheeks colour.
"I–you–the mistle–not–"
Her momentary lapse in cognitive speech seemed to amuse him further. Then he closed the last of the distance between them and gazed down at her, suddenly serious.
"You should know, Grindelwald doesn't actually want to slaughter Muggle-borns."
Hermione snapped her mouth shut. She recalled that she had said as such outside the Great Hall on Christmas morning. Yelled, rather, until she'd gone red in the face. Hermione wondered briefly if he'd heard the whispers that were currently following her. But of course he had. There were few things that escaped his notice. "Eavesdropping, Riddle?" she said, acerbically.
"He wants to end the Statute of Secrecy so that all those with magical blood can live freely without fear."
"Yes but firstly, do Muggle-borns fall under the definition of those with 'magical blood'? And secondly, ending the Statute of Secrecy obviously isn't that simple. He wants to kill Muggles, subjugate them, make them afraid. He wants war on an unprecedented scale."
"Hermione," he said, sounding exasperated now, "of course you have magical blood."
She didn't miss how he had said 'you' and not 'Muggle-borns'. Nor that he'd side-stepped her entire point.
"It's Granger to you," she snapped. "And no relation to Dagworth-Granger, so don't even mention that or I'll get very cross."
"Anyone who can wield a wand has magical blood."
"Is that what Grindelwald believes?" she asked suspiciously.
He hesitated. "No. But it's what I believe."
Hermione crossed her arms and harrumphed. Riddle continued, "It still doesn't mean he wants to slaughter all Muggle-borns. Only those who are fighting against him."
"But he believes we're inferior. Let's not even begin with how much he hates Muggles. He definitely wants to slaughter them. And what do Nott and Zabini think? Along with the rest of the fanatics in your house?"
"They are more conservative, it's true." ("Conservative!" Hermione repeated with an almighty scoff.) "Though, old pureblood families actually have a secret. It isn't widely discussed but, centuries ago, when a child turned out to be a Squib, they erased their memories and abandoned them in the Muggle world. Purebloods privately believe that future lines from these Squibs are responsible for Muggle-borns but, publicly, they deny that they ever existed. It's considered shameful to have sired Squibs."
"So? Whether that story is true or not, it hardly matters and I don't care. I'm a Mudblood to them. You have called me that–"
"–and I apologised–"
"–so it still doesn't change the fact that Muggle-borns are inferior in your view. Merlin, your whole house believes that, don't deny it. Salazar Slytherin himself taught that. It was his whole legacy."
Riddle stopped speaking.
Hermione pressed further. "Either you think Muggle-borns are equal members of society, or you don't. And if it's the latter, then let's be clear – I'm not interested in speaking to you again. Or– s-snogging you. In fact," she said quickly, "let's pretend it never happened. I'd much rather that."
She turned on her heel, about to leave, when his hand caught hers and yanked her back.
She was about to stomp on his foot when she was suddenly assailed by his scent and along with it came a rush of memories. The feeling of softness–
He glared down at her, pinning her with the force of his gaze.
"How many times," he breathed, "do I have to repeat myself? I do not despise you. I do not think you are inferior."
"Of course I'm not inferior." Then she narrowed her eyes. "Do you mean just me or all Muggle-borns?"
He shook his head faintly, suppressing a wry smile. "Tenacious. Fine. You are the exception to the rule." He continued, ignoring the ire that sparked from her eyes, "You may or may not disprove that rule yet. Like you, all I care about is potential."
He held up his palm and a small dark green flame flickered in it before extinguishing. She looked back up at him, stunned. His eyes were glittering as he spoke. "You told me that time in Slughorn's lab that you wanted more. More than the curriculum. More than what society expects of you."
Hermione found herself distracted by the line of his nose, the way his hair curled at his temples; the curve of his cheek. She cut her thoughts abruptly. He was still talking. "Maybe I don't want to be limited by legacies or family names, either. Maybe … you've changed my mind. Maybe I want what you want," he said quietly.
"And what might that be?" she asked, more loudly than was necessary, considering how close they were. It was as though to whisper was an act of invitation, a lowering of the flag.
"More."
He was now so close that they were almost trading breaths. Her hands had risen to the front of his robes, whether to pull him in or keep him at bay, she didn't know.
"What would be the point of having power, if you can't do what you want?" he added, almost to himself.
Hermione didn't respond, her eyes wide, her heart pounding so hard she could feel her pulse twitch under her skin.
Riddle's eyes flickered down to her lips.
But then he stepped back. The space was like freedom and she dragged in a quiet breath.
His eyes were dark. "Stop sending love letters to Godric's Hollow." Then he left, leaving her sputtering.
.
Notes:
There were several different versions of this chapter, I must confess. But I had to reel it back, reminding myself about pacing :D
I'm curious to hear your thoughts!