The sensation of side-along Apparition whilst being bound by tight ropes was phenomenally unpleasant. Adding to that the terror and fear she felt–
–she tipped forwards and threw up at her feet as soon as they landed.
Their abductor laughed. "First time Apparating, eh? Well fear not, we'll be Flooing next."
They were in a dark windowless tavern. It was empty, the chairs packed away on the tables. She could hear the wind howling outside, whistling down the chimney and rattling against the dirty grate of the fireplace before them. The man pushed them roughly towards it.
Hermione strained against the ropes. There was a part of her that couldn't believe this was happening. That part of her was still in the library, standing under the ancient tree, having strange revelations.
But instead, she was here in this dark tavern, being pushed into the unknown.
Towards Grindelwald.
She stiffened with apprehension as the man reached up to grab Floo Powder from a bowl on the mantel. Thinking quickly, she looked down at her ropes and whispered as quietly as she could, "Diffindo." But her magic kept slipping away – the ropes were too tight, too painful against her body and her heart was fluttering too wildly in her chest for her to concentrate.
Riddle caught her eye and shook his head. His face was pale as he glanced down at the ropes before looking back up at her.
Before she could process what he was trying to tell her, the man pushed her in and tossed the Floo Powder at her feet. The fireplace roared to life as he called out their destination:
"Schloss Nurmengard."
She stumbled out the other end. Due to the restraints, she was unable to stop herself from toppling, face first, onto the floor.
Riddle followed shortly afterwards, falling down beside her, along with their abductor. He was dragging Vernadsky, who had apparently been Stunned. Fresh blood dripped from his dark fringe.
"Stay here," the man ordered. He levitated Vernadsky's stiff form into the air in front of him and left the room, leaving the two of them alone.
Looking around, she took the time to observe where they were. It appeared to be a well-appointed drawing room. Opulent leather armchairs sat beside carved wooden side tables, adorned by lit gas lamps; a shelf of liquor stood in one corner. The floor was paved with gleaming black marble and a large iron chandelier hung above their heads. On their left was a series of narrow floor-to-ceiling windows, the curtains drawn. And on their right, the only exit in the form of a dark doorway.
Riddle inched closer to her and, with his teeth, tore off her name tag. Surprised at his quick thinking, she did the same for him.
After he had kicked their name tags away, he hissed angrily, "You are outstandingly stupid. Just absolutely idiotic."
"Shut it! Now is not the time."
"If you only kept your mouth shut. What was your plan? Did you even have one?"
"If he took Vernadsky, and weaponised potion fumes … it would be devastating to the war! Think of what Grindelwald could do! He'd start the magical version of chemical warfare!"
"You. Didn't. Have. A. Plan."
"Maybe you should have kept hiding."
He gritted his teeth. "I really should have. I thought you would attempt more than a Disarming spell. I know you're more than capable."
She bristled. "He would have blocked it anyway." The man had been too fast and she'd been too afraid. "And what about that Stunner of yours? What, no Dark throat-choking curses from you?"
"It was faster. He was going to take you," he said angrily.
In truth, Hermione realised, for all their purported brilliance, they were fifth-years. In that moment in the library, when they had faced true danger for the first time in their lives, they had both instinctively reached for the first spells they had ever learnt to master in Defence Against the Dark Arts. The Expelliarmus, just like the Stunner, had been faster to cast; requiring no thought, no gathering of intention, no complex wand movement.
"The heroic Gryffindor that you are, you've somehow managed to fail to save Vernadsky and condemn us both. 'The brightest students of our age' – you've let it all get to your head. Don't you know Slughorn calls all his favourites that? Did you really think you could out-duel a fully-trained wizard?"
Hermione huffed out a breath. She knew he was right.
"You dragged us into this mess. So you've only yourself to blame when the werewolf comes for you," Riddle said.
Hermione swallowed the sudden lump that had formed in her throat. Werewolf? …The man had mentioned something about a 'pack'… She remembered the way the man had licked his lips and bared his feral teeth, and shuddered quietly.
"He seemed to want both of us," she reminded him.
Riddle just shook his head and didn't reply. Hermione found that she didn't like the expression she saw on his face. As if he knew something she didn't.
But before she could question him further, the door to the drawing room opened and two men entered.
One of them was their abductor. The werewolf.
And the other…
She recognised him from the newspaper photograph, though the passing decades had hardened the lines of his face. He was lean and strode into the room with a fluid ease that spoke of experience in battle. Indeed, he was already dressed for combat: dark rune-marked robes and heavy boots, a wand holster strapped to his thigh. There was a thick belt on his waist from which hung various items, including a sheathed dagger.
Grindelwald's pale eyes landed on them, huddled together on the floor.
"What's this, Greyback? Why have you brought me children?"
"I didn't have time to Obliviate them, my Lord. My diversion was discovered and I had to make a quick exit with the target."
"I see. And no one else saw you?" He was still looking at them, as if they were unexpected pieces of cargo that he was deciding what to do with.
"No one. As you requested my Lord, they will have no evidence to connect us with his disappearance."
"That remains to be seen." Grindelwald crossed the room and sat down on one of the leather armchairs, removing his gauntlets and tossing them carelessly onto the round side table. He gestured to them as he spoke. "I wonder, however, how you came to cross paths with these children."
Greyback bared his teeth silently. "They are students. From Hogwarts, probably. They came with their professors." He paused slightly. "Albus Dumbledore was there."
Grindelwald's eyes snapped to Greyback, who shrank back slightly under his gaze.
"I see." His voice was soft, dangerous. "And tell me, Greyback, why was Albus there?"
"I–I don't know, my Lord. He wasn't expected to attend. He hasn't for many years."
Grindelwald leaned back in his chair, examining them once more. "So," he said slowly. "You took the students under Albus' care."
"…Y-yes, my Lord."
The next words were spoken in a deceptively casual tone, although the shadows in the room began to darken. "Do you think that was wise?"
Greyback blanched. He seemed to be backing away almost imperceptibly. "They saw me, my Lord. I had no choice. They could be useful. New f-followers, my Lord."
"Greyback, I know you well. I know that you weren't just thinking of our cause." Grindelwald's mouth curled contemptuously. "You wanted to turn them, didn't you? This close to the full moon, and you were just itching to bite…"
"N-no–"
"Do you think I don't know where you've been during your travels? Where you may have … strayed? A little too close, I might add, since you were nearly found out."
A vein in Greyback's temple twitched.
"Your proclivity for children is … distasteful. I've always said that. But to be so reckless, especially when I told you that Albus has eyes and ears in every corner."
Grindelwald's knuckles were turning white as he gripped the armrest. But his tone remained oddly light as he continued. "If you had been found in that forest, they would have discovered how close we are to infiltrating Britain, laying waste to all our carefully laid plans. And now … why, you've ensured his sole undivided attention."
"My Lord, I–"
Grindelwald's patience seemed to finally snap. "Stop. I will deal with you later. Now leave. I'll handle this myself."
Greyback bowed and left the room hastily. The door clicked shut.
In the silence, she felt Grindelwald appraising them. There was tension in the way he held his body, like a predator in the shadows.
"Tell me your names."
She spoke first, hating the way her voice sounded so small. "Grace Delacour."
Riddle lied also. "Henry Bourne."
The room became utterly quiet. Hermione's chest rose and fell rapidly as she watched Grindelwald's expression darken. Slowly, almost languidly, he stood up from the chair and crossed the room towards them.
When he was less than a foot away, he crouched down.
This close, Hermione could see the ruthlessness in his deep-set eyes. Here was a man that would not hesitate to kill children.
His eyes flicked to Riddle's then back to hers.
Grindelwald drew his wand from his holster. It was long, made of dark unpolished wood. He held it lightly in his hand as he pointed it at Riddle, who, to his credit, didn't even flinch.
"Tell me your name, boy. And don't lie this time."
When Riddle didn't answer right away, Grindelwald, to her surprise, holstered his wand with a cold smile.
Instead, he extended his arm and closed his fist in the air. She gasped as her body suddenly lifted itself, her toes scraping the floor, and then screamed when she felt the ropes around her cinch tighter, like iron bands around her chest, cutting painfully into her limbs.
"I don't need a wand to do this, but I do need answers. I shall get them from you one way or another."
Her feet and hands were turning numb.
Riddle's voice was quiet. "My name is Tom Riddle."
"And what is her name?"
"Hermione. Hermione Granger."
Her body dropped suddenly to the floor like a rag doll. She lay there, chest heaving, for a moment before she pulled herself back up next to Riddle. Her hands trembled and she felt cold and drained.
"Tom Riddle," Grindelwald repeated. "Half-blood aren't you?"
Riddle nodded.
Hermione's brows furrowed with confusion. How did Grindelwald know …?
"Septimus has told me about you. His son, Abraxas, speaks very highly of your … accomplishments."
Septimus? Malfoy?
But of course. The blood supremacists that the Malfoys were, of course they were secretly allied with Grindelwald. The next time she saw Malfoy, she promised herself, she'd hex him in the balls.
Then another thought: Riddle must have known this. Was that why he had been concerned about the name tags? He had anticipated that Grindelwald would recognise his name …
"So," Grindelwald continued, "is it true? The rumours I've heard … little whispers here and there from young Malfoy and Lestrange … you're the heir of Salazar Slytherin."
Hermione turned her head sharply to look at Riddle. The heir of Slytherin? She recalled that he'd once said an ancestor of his had been at Hogwarts … if that was Slytherin, how had he known this when he'd only recently discovered the identity of his own parents?
Countless questions swirled in her mind with dizzying speed.
Riddle clenched his jaw, avoiding her eyes. "Rumours," he said quietly.
Grindelwald smiled, his eyes flashing. "Oh, but I already know. You've been continuing Slytherin's noble work, haven't you. But why stop at one Mudblood?"
She heard the words but failed to grasp their meaning. What was Grindelwald talking about? She felt as if a door that had been closed was slowly opening but felt terror at what she might glimpse inside.
Her confusion spilled over. "Why do you hate Muggle-borns so much?"
He turned and focused his attention on her for the first time. She tried not to flinch under his piercing gaze. "And you. Pretty little thing that you are – whose bastard daughter are you?" He raked his eyes over her tailored robes. And then another cold smile. "Granger, you said? Oh, but Hector. That sly old dog. Never thought he'd be one to take a mistress."
"I'm not a bastard. I'm a Muggle-born." If she was going to be mauled by a werewolf anyway, there was no point.
Riddle beside her exhaled a faint breath.
"How intriguing. Greyback has somehow brought me both the heir of Slytherin and a Mudblood." Grindelwald's thin lips curved into an amused smile. "You have to admit, that is quite funny."
She didn't answer. She stared at the ground, trying to calm her breathing as her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
"You asked me why I hate Mudbloods. Look at me, girl."
She looked up to find his face close to hers. His eyes were piercing; a touch of something close to madness flickered in them.
"Hate?" he repeated. "No. Tell me, do you hate those that are weaker than yourself? And yes, you are weak. Magic is not your birthright. Mudbloods like you are ruled by foolish conceptions of good and evil and because of this, you can never hope to truly understand our world. Our magic. Because magic is so much more than spells … more than your pretty little charms." He reached out and touched her crown of braids and she felt them unravel around her face.
A sneer marred his lips as he continued. "You are not alone, however. The British Ministry spends its days censoring and repressing knowledge, turning us away from the old ways. Muggle philosophy, spread by blood-traitors and Mudbloods alike, has wormed its way into our society and imprisoned us in a cell of our own creation: the Statute of Secrecy. Why should we protect Muggles and keep them ignorant of our power? I don't think even the Muggles truly believe what they preach. Look at them now, slaying each other like rabid dogs. The Muggles in Germany at this very moment are busy rounding up and killing millions of their own kind in gas chambers. I've seen it myself. Hypocrites all of them. Every single Muggle. Deep down, their leaders know: there is no right or wrong. There is only power and those too weak to seek it."
He stood and turned to Riddle, who was looking at him with an unreadable expression. "You are young, Tom, but not too young to understand. I only wish for our world to be free. And to be free, truly free, you must not shy away from power."
He released the binds on Riddle. "Stand up."
Dark shadows formed around Grindelwald as Riddle stood. The lamps began to flicker.
His voice was low and seductive. "I can teach you magic that others do not even dare to dream. Join my cause, Tom, and you'll enjoy power like you've never seen before."
Hermione looked up and saw something flash in Riddle's eyes. The same thing she'd seen in the library: greed.
And it felt like betrayal.
This was who Riddle truly was, she could see that now. Greedy and selfish and longing for power at any cost. Just like Grindelwald. He would justify hurting others by telling himself that they only fell because they were weak.
But was it really weak to be good? To want to save others, even if it meant risking one's own skin? Was it due to weakness that she'd ended up here, trying to save Vernadsky?
Feelings of rage and impotence began to burn inside her, deep within, fuelled by her hurt. She'd been so foolish to think she could ever understand Riddle; she'd been distracted by soft words and softer lips.
Her voice shook with rage as she snarled up at them from the floor. "You're wrong, you deluded, selfish, arrogant man."
The fire within her was building and building; her skin felt hot and feverish.
Grindelwald was examining her flushed face with cold interest. "Defiant aren't you? Greyback will stamp that right out."
Riddle's face was a cold mask as he glanced down at her. That look – so familiar and yet so strange in that moment – it was enough to break her.
She felt the fire inside morph into something hotter. Molten. It hurt so much that she opened her mouth to scream. Instead, words tumbled out. "You think magic is a form of power that you can wield over others. But you're wrong. Magic is more than that. More than your simple greed." A distant melody began to sound in her ears … her blood was coursing hot and thick under her skin.
"No," she gasped, balling her fists in pain. She recalled Ilya's words. "No. Magic is creation."
And with that, the ropes around her burst into blue flames.
But this time, her fire burned.
She stood and gathered it in her palms but there was too much. The flames spilled over onto the floor and began to spread. It ate hungrily at the carpet before climbing the curtains, licking the walls and filling the air with acrid smoke.
Grindelwald leapt back, drawing his wand, his eyes wide. She saw her fire reflected in them. And there was fear, too.
She relished in it.
The song grew louder and louder as the fire continued to spread with astonishing speed.
Suddenly, the air was rended by a loud crack and something flew out of the flames towards her: a large red bird with a flaming tail.
It was Fawkes.
But Grindelwald wasn't looking at her anymore. His eyes were fixed on a tall figure that stood by the door.
"Albus," he breathed.
It sounded like a greeting and a farewell at the same time. She had no time to ponder why that was so. The smoke in the room was getting thicker and thicker; she could feel it burn her throat, her lungs.
But she couldn't stop. Wouldn't. The room was awash with the blue glow of her flames, which grew higher and higher.
Someone called her name.
It was Dumbledore. His eyes met hers from across the room. An unspoken request.
Desperately, she closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing. She could sense the hot flames tonguing the walls, scorching the ground, consuming the furniture, as if it were her own hands that were tearing and destroying.
Fawkes began to sing and she realised it had been him that she had heard all along. The melody was different now. It washed over her like a warm golden light, soft and soothing, like a honeyed balm over burning wounds.
The sound of crackling flames and splitting wood began to ease.
She opened her eyes to a room darkened by soot, half its contents charred and smouldering.
"Fawkes," said Dumbledore. He still hadn't looked at Grindelwald, who looked to be frozen in place. "You know what to do."
With a loud caw, Fawkes seized her by the back of her robes with a clawed foot and lifted her up as if she weighed nothing.
Suspended in the air, her arms and legs dangling below her, she watched as Dumbledore finally turned to Grindelwald. He looked sad, almost resigned, as he drew his own wand. They began to circle each other in the ashes.
Fawkes flew them over to Riddle who was lying on the floor by the fireplace, coughing. The phoenix cawed again. Hermione reached out to grab Riddle's arm and as soon as she did, they disappeared in a flash of golden flames.
They landed roughly in Dumbledore's office.
She began to cough violently, spitting out black mucus onto his paisley carpet. Her eyes stung and her chest burned; her robes were singed but her skin was unmarked.
Riddle was still coughing where he lay sprawled on the floor.
She turned away, feeling a sharp stab in her gut. She could still see the look in his eyes as he drank in Grindelwald's words, while she lay there, bound.
Her rage, she realised, hadn't quite dissipated fully.
Hermione got up and went to the door. She grasped the handle and pulled but it was locked. She kicked it angrily.
Their wands were back in Nurmengard. Where Dumbledore still remained, with Grindelwald.
Briefly, she considered burning down the door. But exhaustion dragged her down and she slid down heavily onto the floor.
She fumed silently. Were they supposed to wait here until Dumbledore returned? If he returned? But she stopped that line of thinking immediately. She couldn't think about that now.
Fawkes flew over and landed on her knee. She stroked his back, remembering the way his song had calmed her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Riddle finally get to his feet. He made a sound as if to speak but then paused.
She ignored him.
He tried again. "Hermione, I–"
"Stop," she said coldly. "I don't want to talk to you."
"I know what it looked like. But I was never going to–"
She finally turned to look at him. Her voice was hard when she spoke. "What did he mean when he said you've been continuing Slytherin's 'noble work'?"
He opened his mouth and then paused. "I have no idea."
"Don't take me for an idiot. Salazar Slytherin was infamous for his hatred of Muggle-borns. Grindelwald asked you, 'Why stop at one Mudblood?' Explain that."
"How could I be the heir of Slytherin? A half-blood?"
But she knew he was. He had to be. Why else would Malfoy, Lestrange, Nott, all of them, look up to him?
She watched him read the answer in her eyes. He looked down before he said quietly, "I'll tell you the truth if you promise not to tell anyone. Especially not Dumbledore."
Hermione exhaled harshly and regarded him with hateful contempt. "Now why should I promise that?"
His face twisted suddenly. "Because – Merlin, could you– Hermione, stop looking at me like I've cursed you! It's the only way I can fully explain."
This was the most distraught she'd ever seen him. She replied flatly, "Fine."
Riddle began to rummage about Dumbledore's desk. He turned around and faced her with something in his hand. It was one of Dumbledore's quills.
Without hesitating, he dug the sharp end of the quill into his palm and dragged downwards, slashing it open. Blood began to seep out of the wound.
"What are you doing?!"
He gestured impatiently for her hand.
She recoiled. "You want to make a blood pact?"
"Well, we can hardly make the Unbreakable Vow right now. Do you see any witnesses around?"
Before she could think better of it, she stood up and gave him her hand. She'd wanted answers, after all. So be it.
She winced as he slashed her palm open in a similar manner.
"Ow!"
"It'll heal over." He grasped her injured hand in his own. The blood felt warm and slick between their palms, and it began to drip slowly down their wrists.
"Do you promise not to speak or write about, or otherwise imply to anyone, living or dead, what I am about to tell you in this room, including whether or not I am a descendant of Salazar Slytherin?"
Of course he would be thorough. She glared at him as she said, "I do."
He then murmured, "Sanguis ligate nos."
The cut in her palm began to itch and he gripped her hand tightly when she squirmed.
At last the sensation faded and he let go. She looked down to see that her palm had healed.
Her legs felt wobbly; she sat herself down in one of the armchairs.
Massaging her palm, she said, "You realise that blood pacts aren't forever, right? It only lasts while you are alive."
Riddle's eyes narrowed as he sat down also. "I don't plan on dying any time soon. And if I am dead, it would hardly matter would it?"
"True."
Then she motioned somewhat insolently for him to get on with it.
He grit his teeth before he began.
"I'd always thought if one of my parents was a Muggle, it would be my mother, considering how she died," he said scornfully. "But she was a witch. Merope Gaunt was her name."
"But you only found that out a few days ago."
He glared at her, as if tempted to tell her to shut up. "I found out I was the heir of Slytherin in first year. I've always been able to talk to snakes. I didn't realise being a Parselmouth was rare until Abraxas heard me talking to one and told me what it meant. Slytherin was a Parselmouth and so were all his direct descendants, which I now know were the Gaunts. To prove that I was his heir, I started looking for … something that only Slytherin's heir could access. Which by all accounts seemed to be a secret chamber in the castle."
Hermione raised her eyebrows incredulously. She remembered reading about it in Hogwarts: A History. But the book had dismissed it as a myth.
"I won't tell you where, but I found it. And I … opened it. I decided I had to show the others, so they would know. When I opened it one night, someone, a girl, stumbled across the entrance by mistake."
He took a deep breath. "Her name was Myrtle Warren."
Hermione's blood ran cold.
Riddle continued, as if he couldn't stop. "She was killed by the basilisk that Slytherin had left in the chamber."
"But – what about the Acromantula? What about that boy who got expelled?"
"I couldn't tell them the truth, obviously."
"So you just … lied?"
"Actually, Hagrid did have an Acromantula. He was keeping it illegally in a cupboard. Someone would have eventually found it and been brutalised by it."
"But he was expelled …"
Riddle's already thin patience seemed to expire right then. "For keeping an Acromantula as a pet!"
"Hardly compares to a bloody basilisk, does it?"
He stood up abruptly. "What do you want me to say? It was an accident!" he snarled.
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. She was talking to a complete stranger it seemed. "What do I want you to–? Riddle, Myrtle fucking died and you covered it up!"
"And I regret it," he said coldly.
She stood up also. "You 'regret' it? Is that all?"
They were both breathing heavily, glaring at each other. His face was flushed and his eyes were wild with repressed rage.
Then, she realised something. "Myrtle was a Muggle-born … so Slytherin's 'noble work' was … That's what Grindelwald meant. He was wondering why you didn't stop at killing one." She suddenly felt like throwing up.
Riddle actually groaned out loud in frustration. "It wasn't like that. I told you, it was an accident! I didn't mean for her to get in the way!"
His words rang in the ensuing silence.
When she finally spoke, she didn't look at him. Her tone was vicious. "Well, I certainly won't 'get in your way' from now on."
The grandfather clock in Dumbledore's office marked the passing of time with each quiet tick, tick, tick.
The sky outside the window had grown dark and yet still, Dumbledore had not returned.
The silence between them had long grown stale. There were no more words she wished to say to him. He was selfish and arrogant. And to think she'd allowed him to fluster her, like a silly teenage girl, occupying her thoughts at every meal. She'd questioned whether there was something more behind his many masks, wondered even.
If only she'd known what she knew now, that there was nothing beneath it all.
An untold number of hours passed. An untold number of quiet little ticks that grew infinitely more unbearable with each second.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Hermione got up and punched the clock, smashing her fist through the glass face. She wrenched the delicate metal hands off and threw them onto the ground.
Then she went back to her chair.
And waited.