Note: Thank you for the lovely comments. I don't go on FF as much as AO3 but it really makes me happy to hear that people are enjoying the story!

She woke to the sound of crackling flames.

Hermione bolted upright from where she'd fallen asleep in the armchair. Just for a fraction of a second, she thought she was back in Nurmengard, choking on the hot bitter smoke.

(And Grindelwald and Riddle looking down at her on the floor, as if she was no more than a scared little girl, an obstacle to grander plans.)

But it was merely the sound of the fireplace in Dumbledore's office coming to life, as several figures stepped out.

One of them was Dumbledore. His purple robes were torn and slashed, and he looked extremely worn. His long auburn hair and beard were matted and singed, and his eyes, usually so bright and blue, seemed dull and pained.

But he was alive.

Her heart swelled. The fear she'd been desperately keeping at bay, even in sleep, released its hooks in her and the relief was so strong she jumped out of her armchair and launched herself at him, hugging him tightly around the waist.

"You did it," she whispered against his tattered robes.

To her surprise, Dumbledore lifted a hand and patted her head, a gesture that was so tender and almost fatherly that she felt her throat close up.

"Dumbledore, have these students been here this whole time?"

She swallowed thickly and drew away, hoping she wouldn't suddenly start crying. She'd forgotten that there were others in the room. Two men and one woman, all middle-aged and looking as though they hadn't slept in days, stood beside Dumbledore. But their eyes remained trained and sharp, flicking between her and Riddle, assessing and observing silently. The gold badges pinned to the front of their robes revealed who they were: Aurors.

"That is why I insisted on returning to the school," Dumbledore replied. He walked slowly to his desk and sat down behind it with a quiet sigh.

"Are you injured?" one of the Aurors asked them. He wore thick framed glasses and he pushed them up his nose as he peered closely at them.

Hermione shook her head.

"Are you sure? Best call up the school matron, Dumbledore."

"I'm fine," insisted Hermione.

The Auror looked at Riddle, who nodded as well. "We're not injured."

"Alright," said the Auror, though his eyes lingered on the dried blood on their palms and their singed robes.

"What happened, sir?" asked Riddle to Dumbledore, who seemed to be looking at the smashed grandfather clock.

"I'm sorry that it took so long to return," said Dumbledore, and Hermione looked away a little embarrassed. The knuckles of her right hand were scabbed from where she'd punched through the glass. "But it is done now. Grindelwald has been imprisoned in his own castle, where he will remain until his trial and, it's safe to assume, for the rest of his natural life thereafter."

The female Auror shook her head. "Your professor is being far too modest. He defeated Grindelwald, a powerful dark lord and our greatest enemy yet, in a duel that will be spoken about for many years to come. It was spectacular. The war will finally be at an end."

"Thank you, Millie. But it was a duel that was long overdue. In delaying it, I fear that we have risked the lives of many, including that of my students. I am sorry for that."

Dumbledore looked so sad, so weary that Hermione felt her throat close up uncomfortably once more.

She was not going to cry. It would look stupid. They were alive, weren't they? Despite the fact that her own recklessness had gotten them all involved.

Things could have turned out very differently.

The third Auror shifted on his feet beside the others. He was tall and heavily muscled and Hermione saw that there was a tattoo of a snarling Hungarian Horntail curving up the side of his neck, partially hidden under his collar. It moved sinuously on his dark skin as he spoke. "We need to collect statements from them, Albus. We need to hear the full story."

"Kingsley. It is one o'clock in the morning. Can it not wait till tomorrow?" Dumbledore asked.

"No, I'm afraid it cannot."

Dumbledore sighed wearily. "Very well. Tom, Hermione – I would appreciate it if you went down to the Infirmary tomorrow after this is over and you've had some rest."

They nodded, though Hermione didn't intend to do so. She felt fine. She could heal her knuckles herself.

"What happened to Vernadsky?" she asked, suddenly.

"The potioneer?" said Kingsley. "We found him in one of the cells. He has been treated for concussion and minor injuries, and will recover just fine. He asked after you as well. At the time, I had no idea what he was talking about. Dumbledore informed us of your … involvement and that he would be returning here instead of the Ministry. We had no choice but to follow."

Hermione was relieved to hear this. "And what about Greyback?" she asked.

Kingsley's expression grew grave. "Fenrir Greyback escaped. But we will catch him. Now, enough questions. I understand that you two were at a conference with your professors. Start from there."

She wanted to ask about their wands but from the stern look on Kingsley's face, decided she'd do that later.

Hermione spoke quickly, explaining to the Aurors and to Dumbledore how she and Riddle had sneaked away to explore the castle and how they'd found the library where they'd come across Vernadsky and Greyback.

"So you tried to stop Greyback from taking Vernadsky?"

Hermione swallowed. "Yes."

Riddle made a small noise. Kingsley looked sharply at him and said, "Do you have anything to add?"

"Just that if it were up to me, we would have remained hidden. I had no choice but to step in and try to help when Granger failed to Disarm him–"

'Granger' now, was she? Good.

"–and Riddle's attempt to Stun Greyback was noble, I'm sure–"

"–though it actually stopped him from attacking her–"

"–but in the end we were both overpowered and Greyback Apparated us to a tavern from which we then Flooed to Nurmengard," she finished.

The female Auror, Millie, looked between them with a faint grin. "You remind me of myself and Kingsley when we were at Hogwarts," she said. "Got into trouble all the time–"

"Only because I had to keep bailing you out, Millie," said Kingsley, crossing his arms over his chest, though he looked amused as well.

"Well," said Hermione somewhat sourly, "I know what I did wasn't wise. But I felt we had to do something. Grindelwald no doubt wanted Vernadsky so he could create a new chemical weapon–"

"Chemical weapon?" asked the man with the glasses.

"It's what Muggles call a type of toxic gas," said Millie impatiently. "They use it in battle, it spreads quickly and takes down a lot of people in one area."

At Hermione's look of surprise, Millie shrugged. "Muggle warfare was an elective in Auror training. I personally think it should be compulsory. Ben over here," she nodded at the man in glasses, "took Combat Flying instead."

"Which I maintain is far more useful," said Ben.

"Perhaps we're getting off track?" suggested Dumbledore tiredly.

Hermione privately agreed. But she didn't mind – it no longer felt like an interrogation. She'd been expecting stern reprobation from the Aurors (and from Dumbledore) for what they'd done, what she'd done, but none seemed forthcoming … yet.

Riddle took over. "We arrived at Nurmengard where we came face to face with Grindelwald. He seemed angry that the werewolf had taken us when he learned that we were Hogwarts students. Then–" he paused.

Hermione jumped in. "Then he ranted about Mudbloods for a while. He tried to recruit Riddle who–"

"–unsuccessfully, obviously–"

"–although he didn't try to recruit me since I'm a Mudblood–"

"Do we really need to keep saying that word?" said Ben, uncomfortably.

Hermione continued, undeterred, "Grindelwald threatened to let Greyback maul me. So I–" she looked at Dumbledore suddenly and saw him shake his head imperceptibly. "–I-I don't know what happened but the room suddenly was on fire and then Fawkes appeared–"

"Fawkes? Your phoenix?" asked Kingsley, looking at Dumbledore in surprise.

"Yes, and Professor Dumbledore. Fawkes took both of us back here right before they started duelling."

"Where you've been for the last…" Ben checked his watch, "...nine or so hours?" His voice was incredulous.

"Yes," said Riddle. "Though we didn't know that since …" he gestured to the broken clock.

Hermione looked away and stared at a knot in the wood of Dumbledore's desk. Then, in horrified fascination, she watched Dumbledore suddenly pick up the quill from earlier and inspect its bloody tip.

"Have you eaten?" interrupted Ben. He was frowning, looking concerned now.

When neither of them replied (because it was a stupid question), Dumbledore stood up.

"If you have finished with your inquiries, I believe my students need food and rest."

"What about our wands?" asked Hermione.

"Ah! Yes. These were found in one of the guardrooms, along with Vernadsky's wand. The whole castle was searched, although we'll be going back with a fine comb later, of course …" Millie withdrew their wands from the pocket of her robes and held them out.

Hermione took her vinewood wand and felt a surge of warmth. It felt familiar in her hand, like home. There was no other word for it.

Riddle took his also and he seemed to be feeling the same way: he gripped his yew wand tightly as though he was never going to let it go again.

After the Aurors had left, Dumbledore asked them to remain even though it was already getting very late. He called for a house-elf to bring them a plate of sandwiches, which they ate ravenously while he spoke.

"I'm sure you have some questions for me. I am happy to answer them now."

Hermione nodded, remembering the way Grindelwald had said Dumbledore's name and how they'd circled each other, like old enemies.

"Sir, I was wondering why it looked like Grindelwald knew you personally."

Dumbledore seemed to have been anticipating that question. "I knew him when we were younger, the same age as you are now. We were very close. He was different then, a young boy with big ideas. I was very impressionable and … foolish. However, we had a rather troubling disagreement and I have not seen him since, though I have followed his rise to power with some interest and a fair bit of dismay."

"Did he used to live in Godric's Hollow?" Hermione asked.

Dumbledore paused before answering, "Yes, he spent two summers there."

"How did he become so–" she began.

"How did such an idealistic young boy become a murderous Dark lord?" Dumbledore said, with a tired smile. "I used to ask myself that very question every day. Such a tragic waste of talent."

"Didn't he do some questionable things even while he was at Durmstrang, professor?"

"Yes– though he was talented, he was also careless and much too keen on diving deeper into the Dark Arts than others were. Even at Durmstrang. How he came to be what he is today … it is my belief that delving into the Dark Arts is like being on a vast and slippery slope: some types of magic can wear away at our soul, carving away the parts of us that matter most."

"Like what, sir?" interrupted Riddle suddenly.

"Oh, like kindness, compassion … love," said Dumbledore.

"I see," said Riddle, though Hermione caught the beginnings of a sneer at the edge of his mouth.

Dumbledore seemed to see it too. "Never underestimate love, Tom. It is far more powerful than you think."

Riddle's face was smooth and blank as he said, "Yes, sir."

Dumbledore examined Riddle for a moment before adding, softly, "You were both very brave tonight. I am proud of you."

Riddle looked taken aback before he quickly schooled his expression. He dipped his head slightly, as though he didn't know what to say.

Brave? Hermione didn't think either of them had been brave. Riddle had wanted to hide. Though, she supposed, he did come out from the bookshelf eventually (with an utterly useless Stunner).

Riddle spoke again. "Sir, the fire … wasn't that Dark magic?"

"No, Tom, it was not."

"Then what was it, sir? Why shouldn't the Aurors know about it?"

Riddle was sharp, she had to admit. He'd seen the way Dumbledore had quietly asked her not to share that particular detail. Though the Aurors couldn't have seen it since they had been facing away from Dumbledore.

"Magic in its purest form."

"Wandless magic, you mean?" asked Riddle.

"Yes. I would prefer that the Ministry does not become aware of the extent of Hermione's abilities with wandless magic… Nor yours, Tom."

"Me, sir?"

Hermione snorted to herself. Ever the innocuous façade. He'd demonstrated it to her that day in the Owlery. She knew that he knew he could do magic wandlessly, though perhaps not the way she'd wielded hers (like the fire had been an extension of herself).

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Tom, do you remember what I said that first day we met?"

Riddle was quiet. Hermione leaned forward in her seat, curious despite herself.

"With great power comes great responsibility. I see in both of you so much potential. Please, I ask of you: do not waste it."

Was that a warning against studying the Dark Arts?

"But sir," she began cautiously, "I've read that it isn't the type of magic itself that can harm your soul. Isn't it more to do with the intention behind the spell? Including the ones that aren't Dark? After all, the Dark Arts began as a form of martial magic, no?"

She didn't miss the look of surprise Riddle gave her.

Dumbledore regarded her for a moment. "You are right, Hermione. But is it possible to successfully cast Dark spells without bad intent? Ones which torture or maim or kill?"

"N-no, I don't think so."

"The effect of casting those kinds of spells is much stronger than casting a minor hex, however badly intended. The Killing Curse, for example, is an Unforgivable because it requires the caster to intend more than just ill-will. It requires utmost hatred and a desire to exert your will completely and utterly over the victim so as to extinguish their very existence. You have to mean everything that entails killing – the loss of life and potential, the suffering of their loved ones. It is a terrible thing to take another life in this way and much different to killing in other forms."

She nodded mutely.

With great power comes great responsibility… A cliché if she'd ever heard one, though it was thought to originate from Voltaire. A Muggle philosopher. She agreed with the sentiment nevertheless. Exercising power responsibly meant not abusing it, like Grindelwald had. She wondered if Grindelwald had even read Muggle philosophy before deriding it as the sole cause of the Ministry's supposed failures. Probably not.

(But what about old magic? She still couldn't quite wrap her head around what it was and what she could do with it when she learned. Ilya had explained a little, but what did it mean that old magic was 'in the water we drink, the air we breathe', et cetera? She suddenly felt desperate to learn more about the Arcane Arts but she was still waiting (and waiting) for whatever Ilya had promised was going to come.)

Then, Hermione remembered something important. "I've heard that a few pureblood families have been secretly supporting Grindelwald, sir. Like the Malfoys," she said, with sudden venom.

"The Ministry is well aware of the Malfoys. However, there is no evidence at this time," said Dumbledore.

"But Grindelwald said–"

"It does not matter now. He has been defeated and his followers have no leader to advance their agenda."

Hermione refrained from shouting that it did matter, because Malfoy was still at school and his bigoted father was still holding influence in the Wizengamot.

Instead, she found herself releasing a loud yawn. She flushed, embarrassed.

"I've kept you too long." Dumbledore rose and ushered them to the door. "I hope you two will think more about what I have said."

They bid him goodnight but as she closed the door to the office, she looked back to see Dumbledore suddenly slump wearily into the armchair by the fire.

The expression she saw on his lined face was one that she would not soon forget.

Grief.

"Hermione?"

She'd been trying to keep quiet so as to not wake Claire as she slipped into their dorm room. But Claire seemed to have heard her somehow.

"It's … three o'clock in the morning! I thought you'd be back by dinner."

Claire sat up and took in Hermione's sorry state. Her hair was wild, no doubt, her lovely blue robes singed and blackened.

She gasped. "What happened, Hermione?"

Hermione took a step. And then another.

She fell onto Claire's bed with a sob. All the stress and exhaustion expelled out of her all at once and her shoulders began to shake as the tears finally fell.

Claire stroked her back, trying to comfort her. "What happened?" she asked again.

Through her tears, Hermione explained. And once she started, she couldn't stop, leaving nothing out, including the way she'd felt betrayed and the way she'd lost control of her blue flames.

How she'd been so frightened.

And felt so powerless when she'd been taken.

Like a child.

"It's okay, Hermione. Shh. It's over now. You don't have to worry about Grindelwald again."

But she wasn't crying about Grindelwald.

No.

She was crying because that feeling, of being weak, hadn't left her. She was crying because she hated the images that replayed in her mind: Greyback laughing as he batted away her Expelliarmus, Grindelwald's cold eyes as he looked down at her bound form.

There is only power and those too weak to seek it.

When she woke up the next day, her eyes puffy, she found that Claire had fallen asleep beside her.

Sighing, she dropped her head back onto the pillow.

It was late morning, she could see through the window that sun was already shining high in the sky.

Looking around the quiet dorm, the room she'd slept in, studied in, dreamed in, for the past five years, she felt a strange sort of comfort. The rough hewn walls, the scuffed wooden floors, the large poster beds and the red heavy curtains. All of it was familiar. She could probably draw it exactly as it was with her eyes closed.

And yet she felt different.

She'd always been mature for her age and praised for being smarter, more hard-working than her peers. But then in the instant Greyback had casually deflected her spell and bound her in ropes, she'd been reminded that she was still nothing more than a child.

But she wasn't always going to be a child, she reminded herself. She would turn sixteen this year in June,* right after their OWL exams. And next year, she'd be considered an adult in the wizarding world.

She raised her right hand and examined the angry red scabs on her knuckles. She drew her wand from her soot-stained sleeve and watched the redness begin to fade as the skin knitted itself back together.

She decided right then that she wasn't going to wait to learn the Arcane Arts. And that she'd start practising duelling, real duelling, both with her wand and without.

Next time she faced another Greyback or another Grindelwald, she'd be ready.

And she would not be afraid.

When the Hogwarts Express rolled in the next day, it brought with it not only the rest of the school body but also a veritable tsunami of excited whispering and pointing.

Dumbledore's success in defeating Grindelwald had been announced in an enormous headline on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Along with the fact that Hermione Granger and Tom Riddle, fifth-year Hogwarts students, had 'faced off Grindelwald and escaped unscathed'.

Dumbledore was to be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class.

The rest of the school apparently took it upon themselves to award her and Riddle with undeserved admiration and heavily embellished tales of their supposed battle with Grindelwald.

James, when he saw her, rushed over to give her an enormous hug, lifting her clean off her feet. Sirius joined in also, grinning widely.

"Guys – let me down – I can't breathe!"

"Trust you to get so bored during the holidays that you go off and fight Grindelwald yourself!" Sirius chortled.

She groaned. "It wasn't – we didn't fight Grindelwald –"

James' voice was muffled, his face buried in her hair. "I'm just glad you're safe."

He finally put her down. "Are you alright?"

It was the first time someone had asked her that, other than Claire.

She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. "Yeah."

James gave her a boyish smile, his eyes warm and bright. "Missed me?"

She was still in the Slytherin-Ravenclaw classes, much to her disappointment. Dippet hadn't allowed her to change streams again, insisting that it would be disruptive.

"I hope you understand. It'll only be until June," he'd said with a fond smile, despite her obviously crestfallen expression. The teachers taught at different paces, he explained. Professor Merrythought hadn't covered advanced curses on objects yet, whereas Professor Volanthen had.

This meant that she only saw Claire at mealtimes and after classes, when they studied together in the library (James occasionally joined, though he never stayed long, citing various excuses like Quidditch practice).

It also meant that she was still sharing classes with a certain dark-haired boy whom she'd resolved never to speak to again.

Unless it was when she had to ask him to pass the Gurdyroot in Potions. Or when she was forced to demonstrate how to extract Bubotubers in Herbology with him in front of the class. Or when she was partnered with him in Divination (a subject she had quickly found that she absolutely detested but refused to drop since she was determined to get eleven Outstandings instead of only ten) and had to read his bloody tea leaves for him.

(So it turned out it was actually impossible to completely avoid talking to him, but aside from those times, she never did.)

She never looked him in the eye and she kept her expression carefully blank and emotionless.

Riddle kept his distance in his own subtle way, with polite smiles and small gestures of courtesy, like holding open a door or pulling out a chair. Which he did for everyone. His sly mischievous grins were gone, however. Vanished behind a mask of utterly – annoyingly – perfect charm.

And that mask was now permanent. She never saw it slip.

Although she used the Room often, she never saw him and if he'd recommenced his meetings with his Knights that first week, it wasn't in the Room. She'd used it all Friday night after dinner to practice duelling against some enchanted dummies. She was currently working on her reaction speed, blocking and countering a randomised set of spells. (Her footwork was a mess.)

And so, that was how the first week passed, and the second, until all of a sudden it was already February and Valentine's Day was around the corner.

She hadn't thought about it until Claire mentioned it one evening as they sat together in the library.

"The Second Goblin Rebellion was in 1752 not 1790," Hermione pointed out, slightly aghast, as she read over Claire's essay.

"Pish posh. Same century," said Claire.

Hermione gave her a look. (The Look of Imminent Danger to Eyebrows, as Claire had termed early on.)

But Claire had been trying. She studied almost everyday with Hermione and re-wrote her essays according to Hermione's corrections without complaint.

In return, Claire had taught her the hair-sleeking charm (which Hermione secretly loved) and a spell to remove dark circles from fitful sleeping. Hermione had been getting several recurring nightmares lately, sometimes about flunking her OWLs and other times involving the school's various enchanted suits of armour. (She found them creepy.)

Claire laid her head on the table with a loud sigh. "It's Valentine's Day soon. Do you want to go on a double date with me to Hogsmeade?"

Hermione paused reading. "A double date? With whom?"

"Me. And Sirius."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Sirius?"

"Yes, I'm s–"

"Don't you dare, Claire Jasper Dubois."

Claire gave a wounded gasp. "I told you my middle name in confidence!"

Hermione laughed. "And who I would go with? Madam Pince?"

Claire rolled her eyes. "James Potter, genius."

.

* Note: Okay so I moved Hermione's birthday. It's originally in September but then that'd mean she's already 16 (since they start school on 1 September) even though I'd already said she was 15. And her being 15 works better for my plot. So yep. I'm torn between apologising for the oversight on one hand and on the other hand insisting that this is an AU where three generations collide and anything can happen. (It still feels wrong somehow.)