Dear Hermione,
Glad you loved our presents! Hope you've been having a good time these hols, even though you're staying at school. I bet the Christmas Feast was something, though!
Sirius' pranks keep getting more elaborate - I spent half of Christmas morning with a black eye because one of his presents decided to sock me in the face. And we have been keeping out of trouble. My mother's been keeping a close eye on us since that incident with Bathilda. How were we supposed to know that the old woman has a tricked up attic? Seriously, I've never seen anything like it. Half the stuff in there should be illegal. She has an actual library up there as well - you'd love it. Anyway, as soon as we opened the door, it slammed behind us and we were sealed in there for hours until she came back from afternoon tea. We got really scratched up by the books as well, they jumped off the shelves and attacked us! Crazy old woman.
Bathilda is Grindelwald's Great Aunt, though she definitely doesn't like talking about it. I would ask her for you – you know, what he was like when he was young and all that – but I'm afraid she'll lock me up in the attic again.
He might have stayed in Godric's Hollow for a time but I don't know much about it. Get this though - she knew Dumbledore when he was growing up! She was close with his family and she's very proud of him, talks about him like he's her son.
Enjoy the conference (I wouldn't mind if you hexed Riddle again ... something to consider maybe, if you get bored!).
I'll be seeing you very soon.
Love,
James
"Stop touching it! I'm almost done." Claire slapped away Hermione's hand.
"Claire …" Hermione bemoaned. "It's a potions conference. I don't see why I have to dress up–"
Claire quelled her with a sharp look and a corresponding stab of a hair pin. Hermione winced.
"You will let me do this because I'm good at it," she said firmly.
"In fact," she continued, "this is the only thing I know I'm the best at. Would you take that away from me? When you promised?"
"Ach! Gently."
"I know you like to confuse self-respect with vanity. But some day," she said, stabbing her with another pin with each word that she enunciated, "you will appreciate me."
Hermione's eyes were watering by the time Claire had finished.
In truth, Hermione wasn't bothered by Claire's ministrations so much as she was bothered by the worry that she was going to look too … dressed up and Riddle would see her and …
Well, she wasn't quite sure what she was worried about precisely.
(That he'd think it was for him? Which was vomit-inducing but a possibility, given what she'd done. He might get ideas. But … it was confounding. She couldn't exactly place this anxiety she felt but it existed nonetheless).
It had taken her the first two days of 1945 to get over her extreme wish for death. She'd run off immediately, of course, after … whatever that was. An aneurysm, probably. Still, at random moments throughout the day, the memory would suddenly slam into her mind with the full force of the Hogwarts Express: his gloating whisper, and the smirk on his face as she'd hurriedly exited the scene … even just thinking about it made her want to shrivel up into a ball.
When Claire finally allowed Hermione to look in the mirror, her mouth fell open in shock.
Staring back at her was a girl who, at first glance, looked like she'd belong in a Dubois family portrait.
But it was her face. Her sharp brown eyes and slightly too pointy chin. Whatever charm Claire had cast made her complexion glow in a way that suggested Hermione didn't actually spend all night reading under the covers or trudging into Dark forests before dawn. The pale blue robes Claire had bought her had long flared sleeves and the bodice rippled with twisting silver threads.
"How did you do that?" Hermione asked, wonderingly, reaching up a hand to touch the crown of fine braids. The rest of her hair lay sleek and loose around her shoulders.
"I told you, I'm good."
Hermione turned around to face Claire, who was adjusting the back of her robes. "I was only complaining because … I'm no good at this sort of thing," she confessed, suddenly feeling a bit guilty for being so recalcitrant. "I'm afraid people will see straight through it all. I'm not like you, Claire. You're naturally pretty and – and Merlin, I don't know … feminine." She looked down at her robes doubtfully. "I look like I'm playing pretend at being someone's pureblooded daughter when I'm anything but."
"Oh shush," said Claire, though she was smiling. She put her hands on Hermione's shoulders and turned her to face the mirror again. "You are naturally pretty, Hermione."
But the more she stared in the mirror, the more she saw someone who didn't actually belong. She had none of Claire's elegance nor the easy confidence that Riddle exuded.
She sighed and Claire gave her a hug. Her friend's expression in the mirror was sincere as she said, "You look perfect. Stop it, you do. And since when do you worry about what other people think?" She poked Hermione in the ribs playfully. "I'll teach you the hair-sleeking charm when you get back. There's a bit of finesse required but I know you'll get it quickly. But we don't have time, aren't you supposed to be at Dumbledore's office by eight o'clock?"
She was breathless by the time she knocked on Dumbledore's door. (Why must his office be at the top of a bloody tower?) The three of them were sitting, evidently waiting for her. They were all dressed very formally, though Dumbledore leaned slightly more towards the eccentric in his bright purple robes and matching hat. Hermione was suddenly very glad she hadn't gone ahead with her original plan of wearing her school robes over her Muggle trousers.
"Good morning!" Dumbledore said cheerily. "Come in, the Portkey shall be ready soon."
Riddle turned his head when she entered. He was dressed very smartly in black tailored robes, his hair neat. His expression was polite, courteous. It was the expression he always wore in class, the one Hermione detested.
Slughorn clapped his ringed hands in delight when he saw her and stood up from his chair. He was dressed head to toe in moss green velvet, a watch chain hanging from the pocket of his gold-buttoned waistcoat. Hermione thought he looked rather like a gilded frog.
"Goodness, Miss Granger! I can see why you were late; you look absolutely the spitting image of Hector's late sister …"
All her self-doubt vanished instantly as she glowered.
A small bemused smile formed on Dumbledore's face as Riddle coughed lightly into his fist. Slughorn, however, was woefully oblivious.
"Dumbledore," Slughorn said suddenly in a serious tone, "are you sure about what we discussed earlier?"
"Yes, Horace," replied Dumbledore patiently. "As I said before, we needn't cause unnecessary alarm."
"Alarm? Regarding what, sir?" Hermione asked.
Dumbledore just smiled and shook his head. "The time, Horace?"
"Ah, yes! We'd better get ready. Any minute now."
Slughorn drew from his pocket a … large knitted sock. She stared at it, wondering why their Portkey looked like something one of the house-elves would wear as a hat.
"Quickly, Miss Granger!" The three were already standing, their hands placed on the garish sock. Slughorn made a hurrying gesture. "Come on, quickly! You'll get left behind."
She laid her hand on top of Riddle's, resolutely avoiding his eyes. Very shortly after, something behind her navel jerked sharply and suddenly they were spinning in a void, their legs flying out from underneath them. She gripped his knuckles tightly, screwing her eyes shut.
At last the spinning stopped and they landed on snow-covered grass. Hermione tumbled ungracefully to her knees.
"Bit of a rough journey, that," said Slughorn, who'd landed on his bottom. Riddle was already on his feet while Dumbledore floated down regally, his long auburn beard swept over his shoulder.
She spelled away the wet patches of snow on her robes as she stood and nearly stumbled again from the force of the wind. It buffeted their robes and lashed her curls against her face as she tried to look around. They were standing on a huge jutting sea cliff. Connected to the mainland only by a thin rocky strip, beyond which were distant snow-covered plains, the cliff towered more than a hundred feet high above the cold waters of the North Sea.
Dunnottar Castle, or what remained of it, sat atop the cliff's furthest edge. Hermione frowned as she saw the crumbling buildings, covered in moss and half-consumed by the earth.
"Just a glamour," Dumbledore said. "We'd best get inside, it is remarkably cold out."
He walked up to a dilapidated wooden fence that marked the single meandering path towards the plains and rapped sharply on one of the posts.
Immediately, the wind stilled and the air grew hush around them. Hermione stared in amazement as Dunnottar Castle shimmered into view. The grass beneath their feet turned into the cobblestones of the castle's vast inner court, just past the portcullis and enclosed by thick crenellated walls. Ahead of them were stairs that led into the keep, a tall and imposing structure whose massive doors were already open.
Unlike Hogwarts, here there were no turrets or spires; not an ounce of flourish in its staunch symmetry. The stone bricks of the castle had a strange, almost silvery sheen, glimmering in the morning sunlight. Despite being purportedly nearly a thousand years old, the castle had apparently not aged since the day it was built.
Dumbledore led them inside. Hermione's immediate impression was of the staggering height of the ceiling, which made her feel very small. Suits of armour lined the walls of the entry hall like silent watchful sentinels. Each stood arranged with their hands on the pommels of their swords.
Their party approached a large bespectacled man who sat behind a desk near the entrance. The man's face split into a smile when he saw Dumbledore and rose to shake his hand.
"Albus Dumbledore, an honour to meet you at last." The man then turned to shake Slughorn's hand with equal enthusiasm before handing them each a name tag. Hermione took hers and saw that there was no pin to attach it to her robes.
"Just slap it on, it'll stick! Now, the first speaker will present in about … oh, twenty minutes. Refreshments are in the–" Hermione watched with some trepidation as one of the suits of armour stepped off its plinth and clinked ominously towards them. "–right, yes, he will guide you to the main hall," the man said, nodding at it; he also gave them each a small programme.
Their self-appointed guide bowed stiffly and, without waiting for them, started to march away. They followed after it.
Hermione couldn't contain her excitement as she drank in the rest of the castle. Everywhere she looked, there was magic. Runes were etched so deeply into the stones that they looked like cracks; they spider-webbed along the curve of each archway and along the beams of the ceiling. Though there were fewer portraits here than at Hogwarts, the walls were instead covered with vast enchanted tapestries that depicted various scenes in the North Sea. Laughing mermaids swam along the tapestries, waving at them.
Over the clunking footsteps of their guide, Slughorn informed them of the castle's history. "Burnt down in 1038 and re-built by a renowned alchemist, it's one of the oldest castles in Great Britain! I must say, I'm really looking forward to some of the speakers. Grand Potioneer Vladimir Vernadsky especially – he's recently discovered a use for potion fumes. Potion fumes! Apparently, they can be very potent and their effects can be combined in all sorts of new and different ways … he's even patented a method to extract and bottle them!" Slughorn went on proudly, "I taught his brother at Durmstrang you know …"
"I see that Phineas Bourne will be presenting too, sir," Riddle said. He was looking at the programme, ignoring the giggling mermaid that was currently drifting along the wall beside him, blowing watery kisses.
Hermione grinned and trailed a curious finger along the tapestry's fine threads as she walked, watching as it left a trail of tiny bubbles.
Phineas Bourne was the author of Most Potente Potions (a book which she distinctly recalled resided in the Restricted Section). Last year she had come across it while looking for another book and had spent some time reading it covertly. The instructions for Polyjuice had been interesting to read but there had also been a number of darker potions that she'd flipped past, including poisons that could be slipped in drinks or food undetected.
"Yes but my dear boy, he's hardly the most exciting. He's very accomplished, of course …" Slughorn went on and on about Vernadsky until they reached an enormous great hall bustling with people. The ceiling curved high above them, supported by large white stone pillars. Many odd-looking wizards and witches were seated in rows, some were milling about near the tables of refreshments, speaking in harsh foreign accents. The suit of armour came to a stop ahead of them with a loud clang and stood motionlessly as they walked in. (Hermione repressed a slight shiver as she passed by their guide, wondering if there was a ghostly face underneath that silent helm...)
As they mingled, she caught sight of a boy who looked no older than herself or Riddle. His hair was a very familiar shade of silver blonde and she thought for a horrifying moment that it was Abraxas Malfoy until he turned and smiled at her. He was slightly shorter than Abraxas and his skin had a very healthy, very un-British tan.
The older woman standing beside the boy called out to Dumbledore as they passed. "Monsieur Dumblydohrr, quelle suprise! It 'as been a long time since we last met 'ere. I did not zink it would be in ze middle of a war." Her pale silk robes rustled as she spoke, her voice rich and melodious. The woman's greying hair was done up in a tight chignon and she looked to be about the same age as Dumbledore, about fifty or sixty years old.
"Professor Aloise Dupont, what a pleasure," said Dumbledore pleasantly. He gave her a little bow. "Allow me to introduce my dear friend Horace Slughorn, Head of Potions at Hogwarts. And our talented fifth-year students, Miss Hermione Granger and Mr Tom Riddle."
"Enchantée," the woman smiled at them before placing a hand on the blonde boy's shoulder. "Zis is Philippe Bourbon, sixth-year at Beauxbatons and one of my best students. It is fortunate zat we 'ave met, Mademoiselle Granger et Monsieur Riddle, per'aps you three can become acquainted?"
"Excellent idea!" Slughorn said jovially. He pushed them lightly towards the boy before saying, "I have never had the privilege of visiting Beauxbatons myself Madame, but oh the stories I've heard …" He continued on about the fabled magical grounds on which their school stood. "… Is it true? I mean, that's excellent … the price of unicorn hair in Britain is extortionate, I must say …"
Philippe turned to them with an affable grin. He spoke, in perfect English with only the barest trace of an accent, "I believe you may know my second cousin, he is in your year at Hogwarts. Abraxas Malfoy." (He pronounced it 'Mal-fwah' which piqued Hermione's interest immensely.)
Riddle raised a dark eyebrow. "Of course," he said smoothly. "The hair is unmistakeable."
"Abraxas Malfwah?" Hermione said, amused. "Ma foi, I find him rather insufferable."
She watched Riddle silently clench his jaw in the corner of her eye. Philippe looked surprised for a moment before he broke out into a chuckle. "I'm not surprised to hear that. We do not have much in common with our English relatives, for a few reasons. And the hair is a Malfoy trait, thanks to my grandmother. I did try to charm it black in my second year but it never seemed to hold. You speak French?"
"Yes, a little. My family have a summer home in Nice, but it's been a few years since we've been able to go," she said regretfully.
A loud voice echoed from the front of the hall. "Ladies and gentlemen, accomplished potioneers, esteemed guests! Please take your seats." It was the bespectacled man from earlier. Hermione sat beside Riddle and Philippe, a row behind their professors. When everyone was sitting down, the man continued. "Allow me to introduce the founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers ... the renowned and dearly beloved, Sir Hector Dagworth-Granger!"
Riddle gave her a sideways glance. Hermione didn't know what she had been expecting, but Hector Dagworth-Granger was not at all how she might have imagined him to be. Her first impression was that he was thin and very tall, taller than Dumbledore, though there was a definite stoop to his shoulders as though years of leaning over cauldrons and books had solidified in his posture. He appeared no less than seventy years old; his face was deeply lined and his hair was silver with age. But even so, he was clean-shaven and had a full head of hair that was styled as though he were a much younger man. He moved with an agile grace as he rose from one of the front seats and stepped up onto the dais.
Hector Dagworth-Granger looked down at the audience, his dark eyes scanning the room. He had an unmistakeable air of authority as he spoke.
"Welcome to the 55th Annual Potions Conference. There have been many advancements since we last met here in 1944, dear friends, which I am most eager to hear and discuss – as are you all, I am sure. Though we hail from different parts of the world and speak many different languages, we share something important: a desire to master the art of potion-making. For it is an art like no other. Drawing from our intimate knowledge of magical plants and creatures, we seek to synthesise and create, from the toil of our own hands and the fire of our cauldrons, potions that can cure diseases, poison our enemies, or even alter our perceptions ... and so much more. Our world is currently suffering under a turmoil that seems to repeat itself every half-century, but I hope that our gathering here today is a reminder that there is nothing, nothing, more sacred than the sharing of our knowledge. In this, we shall forever be united."
Hermione clapped along with the audience, impressed. Astrid Løken, the first speaker, was then introduced. A Norwegian woman with fiery red hair took the stage. With a wave of her wand, a table appeared along with a large silver cauldron on a burner. Hermione listened attentively with the help of a discreet translation spell (which she heard Riddle murmur too), as the potioneer began to demonstrate how different levels of heat affected the process of amalgamating two oft-paired ingredients, murtlap tentacles and Occamy eggs. Løken's finding was that the properties of the two combined not only lessened with increased heat but changed considerably, provoking interesting hypotheses about the best way to brew certain potions.
Løken concluded with a flourish, "Though the relationship is not linear, and other variables such as duration of heat and the freshness of the ingredients come into play, my findings indicate that, with a bit more research, we can start enhancing established potions in new and exciting ways. We may even discover a way to reduce the toxicity of larger doses of Felix Felicis. And my, what a lucky day that would be!"
Dumbledore stood and applauded with great enthusiasm as the potioneer took a bow. Many other wizards and witches stood also and the applause soon turned into a loud cheer. It was an enthralling start to the conference.
There was a short break for morning tea at ten o'clock. Hermione's mind was still abuzz with excitement. She had never thought of potion-making in this way, as an art form where the slightest variable could enhance or diminish the potency of the finished product. She'd always thought that potion-making was a series of rules to be followed in order, instructions that could be checked off before the potion turned the required colour. She usually followed the instructions in their assigned textbooks perfectly, almost pedantically, and never, not once, thought to question whether her potions could be better. To think that the slightest change in heat, or the angle at which one sliced a stem or a root could have an effect…
She found herself staring into space as she nibbled on her egg sandwich and jumped when a voice suddenly spoke next to her.
"You seem to be very deep in thought."
It was Hector Dagworth-Granger. The man himself.
Hermione blushed and said, "It's been a very interesting morning. I rarely find speeches more informative than books but today I feel like that has been the case."
He peered at her thoughtfully. "You must be one of Slughorn's pupils. But you seem a bit young for a NEWT student."
"Oh, I'm actually a fifth-year! Professor Slughorn presented the opportunity to attend as a prize for correctly identifying a potion in class."
"What potion was that?"
"The Affinity Potion, sir."
"Goodness, you don't need to call me 'sir'. Call me Hector. And what is your name?"
"Hermione Granger, s– Mr Hector."
Even though Hector seemed intimidating, there was a certain magnetic quality about him. It was very strange, it was as though he were a young man in an old man's body. His eyes were too bright, too expressive, and his step too spry for an septuagenarian. Hermione wondered if he had privately invented some potion to keep his mind eternally young. Or perhaps he was just simply brilliant.
"Granger, you say? You do bear a rather uncanny resemblance to my sister, Natasha. I have to confess, it rather startled me when I first saw you."
"I–sir, I'm fairly certain th–"
"Hector!" Slughorn's jolly voice interrupted. Hermione cursed internally as the last person she wanted to hear on this topic of conversation came sidling up to them. "My dear fellow, you look as good as ever. I see you have met Miss Granger. I've always said that Hermione may be a distant relation of yours, she's simply far too talented, it is a distinct possibility … on your mother's side perhaps?"
"I think it's highly unlikely. Granger is a very common Muggle name," Hermione said abruptly. "Both my parents and grandparents are certifiably Muggle."
"Yes, well … you never know … family lines can get quite messy …" said Slughorn, seemingly taken aback.
Hector didn't respond, though he watched with his hands clasped behind his back, amused.
Hermione continued loudly, "And I have no need to pour over family trees to find a witch or wizard to justify my magic. And frankly–"
"Oh, you misunderstand me! Of course you don't need to justify your magic! Dear me, my goodness … You will find no prejudice in me … not a whit! I was merely pointing out the possibility… I've known many Muggle-borns that are–that are–" Slughorn was growing increasingly flustered. "Ah, Tom! There you are. This is Hector. Hector, this is Tom Riddle, another bright fifth-year student at Hogwarts. Rather brilliant, he is. So is Hermione! Both very, very brilliant, very–"
Riddle saved him. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr Dagworth-Granger. It is an honour to attend your society's conference this year."
"Please, call me Hector," the man replied, smiling. "I do believe your friend was just in the middle of schooling us two old men."
Riddle chuckled politely, as though sharing the joke. "I'm afraid I'm no stranger to being schooled myself," he said, shaking his head as if she were some shrill harpy he was regularly chastised by. Hermione wanted to kick him.
Instead, she forced herself to smile. "I can get rather carried away, I apologise, professor. And to you, Hector. Although," she gripped Riddle's shoulder suddenly, "Tom probably could endure a bit more schooling, don't you think?" she said, with a very un-Hermione-like wink.
It was worth it to see Riddle's expression. He flushed and she caught the flash of surprise in his eyes before he quickly formed a good-natured smile on his face as Hector and Slughorn laughed.
Slughorn seemed to have recovered from his earlier embarrassment. "No, no, my dear. It is I who must apologise. In times like these … no wonder – it must be a sore spot for you. You should understand, I merely wished to compliment your potential. You and Tom are the brightest students I've ever had the pleasure of teaching this past decade."
A sore spot. Hermione smiled again, hoping it reached her eyes.
The rest of the presentations were equally fascinating and Hermione eventually gave up taking notes and just listened instead. Riddle sat back in his chair and seemed to be just as captivated as she was, sometimes leaning forwards to whisper a question to Professor Slughorn, who happily replied in a booming whisper that sent heads turning their way.
Philippe, to Hermione's surprise, became less and less interested as the hours went by. Instead, he seemed to have mastered the art of sleeping with his eyes open. Another Malfoy trait, probably. Hermione's good impression of him began to dissipate a little.
At last, at one o'clock, lunch was called. Philippe stood up, stretching. "I think I've lost feeling in my legs," he said with a slight groan. As he flexed his fingers and hands, Hermione caught a glimpse of a heavy gold ring on his pinky finger.
"I'm really looking forward to the final two presentations," Hermione said. One of them was Vernadsky, the potioneer Slughorn had mentioned.
As they started moving out of the Hall, Hermione noticed Riddle slipping away to a different corridor.
She followed him. "Where are you going? We're not supposed to–"
He looked back, giving her a sly grin that made her falter. "Did you know this castle has a library?"
Her eyes widened.
Damn him. He always knew just what to say.
Hermione, of course, did not end up joining the others for lunch. She instead ended up exploring the castle's empty corridors with an increasingly impatient Riddle.
"We've already been this way," he hissed.
"We're running out of time, let's just go back." She eyed another suit of armour warily as they passed under an archway.
He shook his head and abruptly turned around, going down another corridor. Hermione sighed and hurried to catch up, her shoes pattering on the rune-carved stones.
They eventually came across a set of large ornate doors. Carved into the wood was a sprawling apple tree, decorated with more runes. The words 'scientia potestas est' curved above the door frame.
Hermione opened one of the doors, cautiously.
"It's this one! Oh my gods, it's …"
Inside was a vast circular library; in the middle stood an ancient tree. Its roots were twisted, like gnarled fingers burrowed into the earth. The tree's leafy boughs stretched high above them, shafts of light shone through a domed glass ceiling. There were five archways around the room, each presumably leading to a different section of the library.
"… beautiful," she breathed.
Riddle made a sound of agreement. His head was thrown back as he gazed up at the tree, his pale throat exposed. There was a fierceness in his expression, something raw – for the first time that day all his masks had truly fallen away.
She saw hunger and excitement and a hint of something darker …
Greed.
In this moment, she finally admitted to herself something she had perhaps known all along.
Riddle possessed a kind of beauty that was not unlike the beauty she saw in the room. Strange but breathtakingly perfect; alluring in all his various contrasts – the sharp edge of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth, the dark eyes that seemed so cold and flat at times and at other times burning with intelligence. He hid his thoughts and emotions behind a myriad different covers and she found herself itching to flip them open and read them all.
She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable in this realisation. It was a dangerous sort of attraction. To admit it, if only privately, made her vulnerable. She felt that if Riddle ever knew the kind of power he had, he would not hesitate to wield it. As of now, he was only passingly aware of his ability to charm others. No doubt, he thought it was due to his own cunning. But beauty … that was far more lethal a weapon.
To distract herself, she ventured towards one side of the room. She willed herself desperately to forget what she had just discovered and gazed longingly at the cracked spines.
"How much more time do you think we have?" she asked.
There was no answer.
She turned around but Riddle had disappeared. She caught the edge of his black robes twisting away into one of the darkened archways.
Sighing deeply, she followed him once more.
"Riddle–" she began as she passed through the archway. She found herself in a room filled with rows of towering bookshelves. A fireplace could be heard crackling in a corner.
"Shh!" Riddle grabbed her arm and shoved her roughly behind a bookshelf; the spaces between the shelves were narrow and Hermione could see the whites of his eyes in the gloomy light. He seemed extremely tense and alert.
Something had alarmed him and she felt a cold trickle of apprehension. She strained her ears to listen for anything in the silence. Suddenly, she heard a quiet whimper coming from the other side of the room.
"You will come willingly or I shall make this worse for you. Either way, you will join us." The voice was low and rough. British.
"No, no. Please! I don't have what he wants, I swear it!" Whoever was pleading sounded unmistakably Russian.
"That's not for you to decide."
"It's only a recent discovery! The fumes are useless after bottling. I've only just managed to find how–" the Russian broke off in a howl of pain.
Hermione's eyes widened. Could it be … Vladimir Vernadsky? But what was he doing here and who was his interrogator? She crept closer, trying to tug her arm away from Riddle's vice-like grip.
"Your Lord is waiting for you. We are leaving. Now."
Your Lord. The words broke through her confusion and she was suddenly seized with horror. Grindelwald. There was no other dark lord at this moment. He wanted Vernadsky who had discovered the potency of potion fumes … and they were in the middle of a war …
"No!" she cried, tearing herself from Riddle and bursting out from behind the bookshelf. She spotted a dark-haired man lying unconscious on the floor by the lit fireplace. A man wearing a suit of armour stood over him, his helm lodged under his arm and his wand pointed at Vernadsky's face. She ran towards them. "Stop!"
"A child?" sneered the man. She stopped short when he moved his wand to point it at her. "What are you doing here?" he asked menacingly. There was an ugly puckered scar that ran down from his eyebrow to his cheek.
The man, she realised with dawning terror, had been disguised under one of the castle's enchanted suits of armour. There was a heavy sword strapped to his waist and his hair was plastered to his forehead, as if he had been sweating under the plates of armour all day.
Hermione drew her wand also, trembling. "Let him go." The scar on the man's face creased as he laughed incredulously in response.
Hermione took the opportunity and swiftly cast a non-verbal Expelliarmus. The man deflected it immediately.
"Oh how delicious. The kitten has claws." He licked his lips and bared his sharp teeth, looking her up and down in a way that made her feel sick. "Maybe, our Lord will be understanding if I collect a prize for myself. Two for one. A new follower for him and a new meal for me."
There was a sudden jet of red light. The man slashed his wand in the air and the Stunner rebounded into one of the bookshelves. Books tumbled noisily to the floor.
Riddle stepped out from behind her, his wand in his hand.
"Another? This gets better and better. My pack will be an army at this rate. My lord will be pleased."
Before she could yell or cast a curse, the man twisted his wand in a complex movement and she felt her knees give out. Thick black ropes slithered over her arms and legs and she heard Riddle drop to the floor beside her, similarly bound. At the same time, their wands flew from their hands and the man dropped the helmet under his arm to catch them; it fell with an ear-splitting clunk and rolled away.
They began to hear distant shouting. The man frowned. "It seems my diversion has been uncovered."
He seized both of them by the ropes. Vernadsky groaned as he came to. He coughed, spitting blood on the floor. Turning his head, he noticed their bound forms and he pleaded again, "No … leave them. I will come with you."
"Too late for that," the man snarled. He grabbed Vernadsky by the front of his robes with his other hand and Apparated them away.