Author's Note:

To sharpestsatire: No need to worry about replying all of my messages immediately. Most of my good friends are out of the country, so I'm a bit low on people to talk to and writing messages back fulfills that a little.

'-

So, guys, apparently, I'm on a ship and I don't even realise it? Okay.

To rewind a bit, it began with my sister coming across mention of Tomione day on the 29th of March on tumblr. I didn't know what that had to do with me until it was pointed out that there is a Tom and Hermione relationship (sort-of/maybe/kinda/if you tilt your head while looking) in SA. I really have enough on my plate to not pick up anything new (tests. Bloody upcoming tests), but she said that even a bonus update would work. I said, I'll only update if she can come up with some random new graphic for the tumblr. I underestimated the speed and skill in which she edits graphics.

Considering that I really wasn't planning on updating this weekend, this truly is your bonus update, folks! Courtesy of my sister and...the tumblr event that still somewhat confuses me. Enjoy.

PS: If you've actually read this chapter before you saw the bonus graphic my sister made, your reaction might be the same as mine - inadvertent laughter. Not that there's anything specifically funny, it's just that you might get a different impression of the characters instead of my interpretation of them.

'-

21 Evenings at the Room

Hermione drops in at the infirmary with Tom. They meet up again later. Melchior Nott and Abraxas Malfoy wanders up to the Room of Requirement. The four of them have tea. Proofs. Some people just need to sleep it off.

'-

Maggie Edelstein didn't know what her evening would bring, but it wasn't this.

Hermione and that Riddle boy entered the infirmary still with their clothes worn, cut and singed. It was only their apparent ease of movements that stopped her from running. No, neither of them was wounded. The Ravenclaw was fussing over her hair, which she insisted must have looked like a lion's mane regardless while the Slytherin wizard assured her that it was fine—he was right too, in this case. Her curls might be wilder than usual, but their richness actually reminded her of Vera Lynn. There was an earthier feel to her today than her usual prim appearance, and it made her more inviting.

Tom Riddle looked fit to be hanging about the docks himself than to be a prefect; he had the appearance of one who'd just walked out of a barfight and the confident stride of someone who'd won. All that he lacked was a cigarette hanging at the corner of his lips to perfect the image. Both students had the brightness of eyes and vitality of skin that came from recent physical exertion.

"Goodness, what happened to you?" Maggie had dropped whatever it was she had been holding and was by their side in no time.

Hermione huffed. "We happened to each other."

It took her a moment to process the answer. Even then, her disbelief was still clear.

"You?"

"It's the Defence class." The brunette witch said, as if that made everything obvious. "We fought, we healed each other's wounds and I made a second pass in case I missed anything. I just need you to look him over and pronounce him fit as a fiddle again before any of his admirers screamed that I've killed him."

She heard a derisive snort—a snort! —from Riddle and her eyebrows, which had been rising through Hermione's story, rose even higher. Oh, she never bought into his apparent perfection, no matter how many girls gushed about him as they pass her infirmary. Yet she'd never seen him act with anything less than perfect decorum even when she was trying to discourage him from keeping Hermione's company. She'd wondered then if Riddle himself had forgotten his real personality in his effort to embody the ideal student.

Apparently not, as somewhere deep down, he still kept a sarcastic edge.

"If anyone thought you could kill me with just that, then they truly shouldn't have been in Advanced Defence in the first place," was his cutting remark.

Maggie was amused of the fact that he actually voiced the opinion than that he held it in the first place.

"You'd be surprised how much you could support your Defence grade based on the written exam results alone. I checked the weighting of each component. It's entirely possible." Hermione answered.

"I doubt most people could reach more than eighty percent on the written component." He casually dismissed the intelligence of his year mates.

Harsh, Maggie thought with slight surprise. Add in his rough appearance like some survivor of a schoolyard scrum, he'd fit better as the mocking delinquent right now than his usual air of perfection.

Surprisingly, Hermione didn't seem to be fazed by his sharpness at all.

The brunette was thoughtful. "Perhaps there was some pressure to grade to the curve? I mean, you have seen what the Hogwarts Board of Governors look like, haven't you?"

"Half-filled with mollycoddling parents, half with sycophants and another half with clueless Ministry lackeys?" Riddle asked back.

Now that was a sentiment that Maggie could get behind, and she didn't hide her snorts of laughter. She couldn't believe she just exchanged a look of understanding with Riddle, of all people. The student with a scarily perfect façade.

"That's three halves," Hermione replied.

"I didn't say there weren't overlaps."

"Look, I know what you can do, Hermione. So, what tests have you run?" Maggie asked, cutting into their back-and-forth.

"Standard? I mean, no open wound or sores anymore, no burns whether thermal, electrical, chemical, etc remains—"

"Burns? You have burns?" Maggie yelped.

"—I need to up my calcium intake, but I think you already know that. Otherwise we don't need to replenish any loss of blood. He's not concussed and neither am I…what else am I forgetting? Oh! No inflammation and other signs of infection. We're already clear on that front." Hermione didn't walk her through her explanation—she ran through it.

"What spells have you been using, exactly?" The nurse asked with a vague sense of dread.

"Can you just check him one last time so I can tell people that you've given your seal of approval?" Hermione finished, her eyes wide and innocent. Maggie, of course, knew better.

"You could have just done it yourself and say that it's infirmary approved. You know that I don't mind if you do that since I trust your skills for the basics," the nurse said. "Now, what else that you haven't told me?"

The Ravenclaw student was waffling; Tom was the first to react as he reached for Hermione's hand. The brunette didn't even seem to realise that she grasped him back easily. Maggie blinked. Since when did they—

"See? It's fine. We can just go back to our dorms and rest." Tom said. Maggie had only realised then that even throughout the entire three-way conversation, his attention had never left Hermione for long. Even now he'd placed her arm over his once more.

"But…"

"You know the quality of your own work, don't you?" He asked Hermione, overriding her self-doubt.

She bit her lip. "Well, yes."

"Then I see no reason why you should fret unnecessarily. Good afternoon, Madam Edelstein. Our sincere apologies for interrupting your afternoon." He nodded to her and of course Maggie nodded back. Hermione's goodbye followed soon after, and then the two of them left in the same speed they had entered it. Maggie found that she had more questions in her head than answers.

"Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts, huh?" She mused to herself as she checked at the clock.

Ah, no wonder. It was already ten minutes past the time when the last class would let up. Hermione and Riddle probably went straight to the infirmary after class.

'-

"But…my essays!" Hermione wailed.

This was the middle of the week and Hermione hadn't started on any of her new homework. It was blasphemy, that was what it is. They had both separated to change and freshen up before meeting again in the Room of Requirements, at first to do their respective homework while tossing ideas to each other until Tom brought up his newest idea of having a meeting this evening.

Tom Riddle seemed utterly unconcerned about her emergency as he lounged in the green wing-back chair provided by the Room. Hermione's was grey (the unofficial colour of the Unspeakables, not that anyone would know).

"It won't take that much time for you to finish them." He replied. "There aren't even that many yet, Hermione."

Well, he was hard to deny. Alright, so she knew she wouldn't take long to finish her Arithmancy one, and she'd certainly have fun preparing for Transfigurations. But she hadn't taken Advanced Care of Magical Creatures the last time she was at Hogwarts, and she certainly needed to read the suggested reading too.

"So?"

She stalled. "We can't do this tomorrow? Or in two days?"

"Well, what with the future of the wizarding world at stake, I thought you'd prefer if we act faster than slower?" He asked.

The rest of Hogwarts would take him seriously when he said that, agreeing with the wisdom in the statement. Hermione found it hard to do so, especially since she could now detect that hint of mocking in his tone. It wasn't always there, but it was there often enough for her to begin to recognise it.

"If you say that you want to save the world, I'm going back to my common room right now," she warned. He had one of his not-quite-a-smile on.

"Well, we do need to coordinate on the campaign, and it was your idea."

"And I just came up with it on the way to Advanced Arithmancy today, so pardon me if I didn't think I'd have a meeting about it within several hours." She grumbled.

He sighed. "Apparently, Slytherin has the field for quidditch practice in two days, and people became inconveniently unavailable." Contrary to most wizarding males she knew regardless of the era, Tom was singularly unimpressed by quidditch, even if he still took the scheduling conflicts the popular sport caused without a comment.

"What about tomorrow?" She asked.

"You have Astronomy at night and that usually means shifting your sleeping schedule forward. Unless you would rather not attend…?"

"No. You're right, I'm not skipping Astronomy." Her Head of House taught it. If she was about to miss it, she thought she'd better have a damned good reason.

She rubbed her forehead with resignation.

"You're frustrated," he observed.

She let out a vexed bark of laughter. Between adapting to the unexpected aspects of the wizarding world in 1942, getting into the groove of classes and wrapping her head around the constantly-evolving puzzle that is Tom Riddle, she hadn't even had time to start on charting history.

"Whatever gave you the idea?" Her question was entirely cynical.

"At the very least, I can promise you a very good opportunity to vent before the meeting begins."

"Really?" She was sceptical but open to possible positive news.

"How well-practised are you in indoor fighting?" He asked.

"Urban combat? I'm very well trained at it." She didn't miss the gleam of interest in his eyes.

Hermione's smile flashed her canines and was a little too similar to Othello's for anyone's peace of mind.

"Now, how much destruction can I do?"

'-

One blond-haired and one dark-haired Slytherin fifth-years were walking down one of the higher corridor of Hogwarts, looking for all the world as if the personification of day and night decided to stop and chat at that moment instead of journeying on their cosmic paths. The more unusual state for Abraxas and Melchior wasn't that they were wandering around when no classes were held, during the evening, but that neither was in the company of any female. On the other hand, Melchior had always been more circumspect about that than Abraxas that it wouldn't be strange to find him alone than with someone.

"Do you know why we're summoned?" Abraxas asked Melchior.

The Nott heir huffed. "Do you even think before opening your mouth to speak?"

"I know there's a meeting tonight with the boring seventh-years, but that's not what I meant. That meeting is not in the next hour and we're called earlier and to the Room. Something's rotten, Melchior." Abraxas brooded.

Malfoy would have made for a fine Hamlet if only he were not too handsome, his hair so very shiny. It was difficult to take him seriously when his fine features advertised to all and sundry that he'd never had a hard day in his life.

"Well, yes, otherwise we'd be in our common room lollygagging or you would be in your dorm room wanking. Would you stop stating the bloody obvious?" Nott snapped.

"I knew it. We have to save him. I don't know how, but that witch must have sunk her nails into him." The blond decided.

"Abraxas," Melchior said, slowly. "This is Tom we're talking about. Tom."

Tom, who considered all the witches even vaguely interested in him as dust under his shoe.

"For every man out there, there's a Helen of Troy that can turn his head and make him lose his mind. There's this one woman for which he'll launch a thousand ships. The Morgana to his Merlin," the blond insisted.

"You're mixing your stories." He muttered.

"You saw her, didn't you? Not bad looking at all. A bit on the bookish side, yes, and Merlin knows the teachers haven't stopped asking her questions and or to demonstrate things. Yes, we know she has a brain and we wish she would stop flaunting it because it's becoming tiring. But when she moves, Melchior, it's like she dances with magic. You saw her at Defence, right? Can you imagine her…flexibility, her stamina?"

Nott was rubbing his face with his hand. Well, he can imagine her alright, he was a red-blooded young wizard. They're always looking, anywhere, and there's really no harm by it and just pure enjoyment of Nature's bounty. He was always up to appreciating Mother Nature. It didn't mean he wanted to be caught looking at a witch that Tom bloody Riddle took the effort to lure to his side.

He has self-preservation instincts.

"I think you should stop looking, mate." He advised. Abraxas' forehead creased.

"Well, I can't. I mean, we have to observe the enemy to figure out their weaknesses, right? How am I going to do that if I stop looking?"

Melchior stared at Abraxas blankly for three seconds before his face crumpled with his mental frustration. His left hand was starting to yank his dark hair.

"Morgana's Tits, Abraxas! For the love of Slytherin—"

"You see, we have to find a way to remove her influence from Tom."

"We have no idea whether she actually has any influence on Tom." Melchior said.

Tom, after all, has the habit of collecting people. He'd know. He was part of that blasted collection, just more self-aware than most to realise it. Tom had also displayed the sentimental range of a teaspoon. If someone was useless, they were useless, and they'd never rise beyond pawns in his perspective—and this was Nott being generous.

"There is no way a witch that attractive becomes that close to a wizard and not influence him. Why did he suddenly get the idea for that article for Emma to write? Why did we have to get it published in the Prophet?"

Because Tom asked for it? Nott noted sarcastically.

"I think she wants to be famous and that's why she's sticking close to him. We just have to find a way to show him the truth about her." Abraxas concluded.

Melchior was hitting his forehead with the heel of his hand. Repeatedly. Maybe he could pass out from this? No, he was never that lucky.

"Tom's not that blind, Abraxas. He'll know if she's just using him—"

The Malfoy heir was on a roll because he was inspired. His blue eyes were bright. "I think we should create a trap for her. I know! I'll display interest and I'll demonstrate that at present, I have more wealth to give her and I can pretend that I'll make her Mrs. Malfoy."

Melchior half-wished he could kill himself and stop listening to Abraxas' drivel. Why couldn't Brock Bulstrode have been a year older? Melchior could've hung out with him instead of Abraxas. Or Mordred Montmorency a year younger? Or for himself to be born anytime that 'doesn't make me end up in fifth year, right now, and Merlin-forbid, listening to Abraxas fail to plot his way out of a paper bag?'

Entrapping someone with Hermione Curie's intellect and world-weariness was simply beyond the abilities of Abraxas. And he was speaking as a friend here.

The dark-haired wizard took a deep breath. "Abraxas, look, I'm not a witch. Yet if I was one and I have to choose between keeping Tom's company or yours, guess which one I'll pick?"

His friend smiled. "Ah, but that's because you're not a witch, Melchior! As you know, I have many admirers of the female persuasion. This is already a fact. It's just a matter of finding what type of woman Miss Curie is."

"One that is not stupid," he muttered dryly.

"Yes, but does it mean that she'd find it more endearing if I ask for her assistance in class, or would she be more impressed if I can dazzle her with my intellect?" Abraxas asked.

Melchior made a strangled noise from the back of his throat.

"Are you serious?"

"Those two moves are a classic strategy for a reason, you know."

He was laughing with the jagged wheeze of one who knew he'd be in frustrated tears if he didn't. Half of his hair was sticking up from all the yanking.

"It's probably easier to begin in Advanced Potions. We do share that class, after all. Melchior? Melchior, are you alright? You sound like you're choking on something."

"I only wish I was," he replied with resigned depression. "Look, do you prefer oak, willow, beech or something else? Pine is easy to get, but rather gauche."

Abraxas looked at him askance. "You're asking me about woods? No, I don't need a new wand—"

"It's not for a wand," Melchior cut in, his tone brusque. "What's your height? Wait, it doesn't matter. I'm sure they stock several sizes and one would certainly fit. Fortunately, you're not heavy-set either to ever need a custom one."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your coffin. Someone should start planning for your funeral because it's clear you're not going to."

'-

There were two wing-back chairs whose back faced the door. A voice spoke up from behind one.

"Ah, come in Abraxas, Melchior. We were just talking about you."

Tom's random expressions of omniscience were one of his more unnerving habits, Nott thought as he stepped into the Room behind Abraxas. The Room right now looked to be a nice English sitting room, complete with a roaring fireplace and lined with endless bookshelves. Tom stood up from one of the wing-back chair. From the other one, the witch that Abraxas couldn't shut up about stood up as well. He noticed how light she was on her feet and the grace that the blond had mentioned before he stopped himself from staring too much.

Oh bother, Melchior thought as he braced himself.

Abraxas was looking too much at ease and had greeted Miss Curie by kissing the back of her hand. He'd have maybe a grain's worth of confidence in his friend's scheme instead of absolutely none if he hadn't seen Curie exchanged an amused glance with Tom for a second. The rest of the greetings given were less odd.

He saw the tea service already laid out at the table. Meanwhile, the two wing-back chairs turned completely around, following their masters' position. Melchior hadn't seen Tom or Hermione say any spell, and a quick glance on their hands showed them to be empty of wands. A quick-draw from a forearm holster was still possible instead of completely wandless magic, but it still spoke of finesse.

Right, he thought. If that's not a display of power, I'll eat my hat.

Tom summoned a chair for Abraxas while Curie did the same for Melchior. Nott didn't miss the details that where Tom and Curie's chairs were wing-back ones, his and Abraxas' were more modest armchairs. They sat down again.

"I'm sure you've heard of the meeting later on with Oswin and Emma," Tom began.

"Yes, we are aware of that," Melchior replied.

Hermione Curie played the hostess and offered them refreshment and cakes—naturally after she served Tom. Melchior admitted to preferring his with lemon while Abraxas took his with milk. Her manners were quite fine; even his mother would approve. He let out a relieved sigh he didn't know he'd been holding in. At least she couldn't have been a muggleborn.

"I did wonder why we were invited before them." Nott added again.

He was hoping that if he took the initiative in the conversation, Abraxas wouldn't have the opportunity to say something foolish.

"Well, Oswin, Emma and the rest would certainly handle the Ministry side as well as other matters related to bureaucracy. They do, however, prefer to play things safely." Tom confirmed.

Melchior felt a slight frown forming on his forehead. "What is the plan, anyway?"

No coups would be on the agenda today, he was sure. Anything espousing views that were strictly, violently pureblood would no longer be palatable with Hermione Curie's inclusion into their coterie. Her familiarity with muggle weapons spoke at best of a halfblood background. Even if the grace with which she distributed cakes was something to behold.

"And what are we talking about?" Abraxas asked. "If it's more policy details, I'd rather decline—not out of disrespect to you, Tom, but because I don't think I know that much to say to them, anyway."

Nott observed their seating arrangements again. Why were there only the two of them?

"You're not here to talk about policy with us, are you? At least not just policy," he shrewdly noted.

"Why, we bring the fight to Grindelwald, of course." Curie said.

Her answer startled the two of them. Melchior didn't feel any need to check on Tom's reaction because he couldn't believe that Tom hadn't expected her involvement when he invited her.

"How? We're not going to be the first people looking for him," Abraxas said.

"The first thing we need to establish before entering any conflict is the moral high ground. We need some proper casus belli," Curie said. "What's the one thing that almost everyone in the wizarding world can agree on, no matter what they think on tradition, innovation and everything in between? The Statute of Secrecy."

Melchior's eyes widened as he took in her words.

"Grindelwald flaunts his untouchability there, but it's not a surprise. Who can take him, indeed? I hear his muggles built a fortress for him. Not that we have any idea which one is his, and even if we've located it, where he is. He might have more than one for all we know." Nott said.

"We declare him outlaw, not only by British standards but also by international standard. We get other countries to declare him outlaw, as he had broken an international norm," Curie spoke again. Embers burned in the depths of her brown eyes and Melchior understood how she could be compelling.

A glance at Tom only showed him the Slytherin prefect's inscrutable expression, half his face hidden behind his teacup.

"Well, outlawing Grindelwald is a good place to start, and the Policy Swots are going to be happy to be able to raise some sort of hue and cry against him," Abraxas said. "Yet it still doesn't explain why we have to start this meeting before their arrival."

"Do you expect the Ministry to suddenly start sending Aurors after Grindelwald even after they publicly condemn him?" Curie asked.

"Not at all," Abraxas dryly replied.

"Once he's clearly everyone's enemy, the next step is to locate him." She said.

Abraxas sniffed. "If it was that easy, someone else would have found him earlier."

"Yet who exactly has been looking for him before? Some Aurors were assigned to do so. Have they looked in Europe of only in Britain? If they tried searching for his base in Europe, were they able to speak the local language or were they just blundering about the countryside expecting to somehow trip over it? Did they coordinate with the local magical law enforcement?" Curie relentlessly pursued her argument even as she refilled Tom's cup the moment it emptied and made it perfectly to his preference. The contrast in her character was almost endearing.

Melchior himself was chuckling at her last question.

The Malfoy heir nodded slowly at her words. "It does bear checking, doesn't it?"

"Also, what use is international denunciation if it does not give us international assistance?"

The dark-haired wizard shook his head. "Most of the other countries would complain that they already have enough on their plates to deal with, what with Grindelwald's muggle catspaw making a mess of things on that side…"

"There are enclaves, expatriates in Britain right now with an intense wish to bloody Grindelwald's nose. What about the Free French Wizards, the younger of which we can find at Hogwarts? What about the Polish Contingent? The Norwegian Exiles? The German Exiles?" She took a breath.

"If we can contact them, there's a good chance that they'll gladly work with us. Their advantage is clearly better familiarity with their respective countries. If they were to go out looking, it would certainly be faster than if a foreigner were to do so—not to mention that they already have contacts there too. These groups are also just what I can recall at the top of my head, yet I'm sure there are still others."

"So, we have a plan for locating him," Nott said slowly between sips of his tea.

The witch was right. He couldn't believe that the opportunity had been lying under their feet all this time and no one had taken it. Melchior had to give credit where it was due and admit that she had a keen mind.

"Considering the Ministry's bureaucracy, I have a feeling that we might even be able to move faster than them if we were the one to reach out to the wizarding communities from other countries." Tom commented.

His voice startled Melchior slightly, as he'd realised that Tom had been content on settling back and merely watching for a while.

"You haven't addressed his muggle catspaw," Nott said. "As much as I loved to have to only consider his wizarding forces, Grindelwald did, as you put it, break the Statute of Secrecy. He gained his personal muggle forces out of it too."

The brunette witch answered that, her curls glinting with hints of copper and gold under the light of the fire. "That's why we need to find out the location of his base. Odds are, it's actually a muggle base. With Minister Spencer-Moon's high degree of coordination with the Prime Minister, they would gladly destroy it once we've stripped the place of its notice-me-not charm and other magical defences."

"We'll be joining the muggle war!" Abraxas exclaimed in surprise.

"We won't be joining the muggle war." Curie cut in with discomfiting brashness. "We will be enforcing the Statute of Secrecy of not interfering in the muggle war. Grindelwald is interfering in the muggle war, abetting his preferred faction—we're removing any advantages he may have given and let them sort it out among themselves."

"That's a little…hair-splitting, don't you think?" Melchior carefully asked.

"Yet that inch of difference is all we need." Tom answered. "One to bring the law right behind us."

The brunette witch sniffed. "Unlike Grindelwald, we have no intention of working with muggles to defeat him. Once he's separated from his allies, catspaw and whatnot, we'll simply just fight him. It would be a wizarding war once more."

"And everyone will be behind us at this point because Grindelwald had stepped on too many toes, destroyed too many homes and made too many enemies." Tom concluded.

Abraxas' expression was one of unease. "Still…muggles. We have to get involved with."

Melchior snorted. "Come on, Abraxas. Would you rather get the British muggles to fight the other muggles, or do you want to lift your robes, wade into the mess and fight them yourself? Why would you want to let the muggles sit back and fight their foes for them? Personally, I choose the first. Let them sort it out between themselves once we stop Grindelwald's meddling."

"It's an elegant solution." The Nott heir admitted.

He knew he was on to something when Tom gave him a slight nod, crediting his conclusion.

"We can always withdraw once the advantages are removed and declare that we have fulfilled our duty. And then we'll have ourselves the cleaner, strictly wizarding war that we'd been looking for." Curie finished. The emotions flickering in her eyes changed far too rapidly for him to read.

"Alright, so we assist in locating him." Abraxas said as he nodded. "I can see that. But I still don't feel it's our field, you know?"

The blond glanced in Tom's direction, several unsaid sentences raised there and clearly bypassing the witch. Neither Tom nor Curie reacted to it.

"We've covered the first and second steps. What comes after that is the final step." Tom said. "Which is exactly what Hermione has said at the beginning."

Melchior gasped in disbelief as it dawned on him, the sound catching Abraxas' attention. The brunette witch was nodding.

"We bring the fight to Grindelwald. That's the final step, of course," the witch said.

Nott tried to watch Tom carefully, to see if he had been missing any clues. But no, the other wizard was completely calm, as if Curie was merely announcing that dinner had been served.

"Grindelwald. You want us to fight bloody Gellert Grindelwald." Abraxas was the one who managed to find his voice first.

"Well, he's just one wizard." She said.

Melchior didn't expect Curie to say that at all and he could only stare at her, her expression completely relaxed and open. Abraxas was the one who found his tongue first.

"B-but he's a powerhouse. Have you even heard about what he did in that Polish town, whatever it was named? Three wizards encountering difficulties holding him off and having to hunker down behind cover and another four desperately distracting him? There's several teams sent there and they…" he trailed away.

"He also came with his own team—teams, probably," Curie noted. "He did not fight them alone either and we'd be foolish to do so. Playing fair has no place on the battlefield."

"You plan on scouting the field ahead of time, aren't you?" Tom asked.

"And manipulate it in our favour and construct several ambush locations if possible. Add traps. If you're fighting fair, then you're not really trying." The witch spoke of fighting dirty with far more ease than he expected from someone who wasn't from Slytherin.

Neither Melchior nor Abraxas said anything, the size, the insanity of Tom's plan weighing over them. If it was anyone else, they'd have laughed outright at the idea. It was only because Tom clearly agreed with it that they were taking it seriously—there were very few things he could not do if he put his mind to it. A smile was slowly dawning over Tom's visage, and the sight of it made Melchior shiver instead of putting him at ease.

"Ah, I see. They don't believe they can, do they?" He turned to the witch at his side.

"No, I don't think so," Curie replied just as casually.

"Um, we'll do it, of course. Right, Melchior?" Abraxas said. The other Slytherin wanted to slap himself as much as he wanted to slap the blond. Don't drag me into this when you sound like you were doubting Tom! Dig your grave alone, dammit!

"I'll work on the outline of the plan—unless you already have one?" Melchior asked, hoping that he came off as more self-assured than the Abraxas. His gut feeling warned him that something was up.

"It's certainly still far too early to make a plan. Why, we don't even know where he is yet, how would we know where the field of battle will be? I'm so thrilled that you've volunteered already, but it's really not necessary at the present," Tom replied, his eyes were unreadable as he paused for a moment, tapping his chin in thought.

"Yet I think your lack of faith is about something more…fundamental. You don't believe that you can do it at all."

That damnable smile of his was ever-so-slightly off. Even though it seemed amiable, was perfectly pleasant, some older instinct inside Nott recognised a threat when he saw it. It was as worrying as a snake in the grass.

"Even worse, it stems from the fact that you don't believe I can do it either." Tom spoke with ease, and his eyes were darker than the ninth circle of hell and promised just as much suffering.

The tension in the room rose, something churned the air and prickled uncomfortably at his skin. Curie was delicately nibbling one of the pink petit-fours at the end of a fork, as languid and content as a cat.

"This won't do at all." He drawled. "Abraxas?"

"Yes, Tom?"

"Do you think you can defeat Hermione in a fight?"

"I, uh, I wouldn't want to hurt her…"

Tom chuckled and even Curie smiled. She looked like a nice, sweet witch you won't mind introducing to your mother (if your mother didn't have any hang-ups about halfbloods, that is).

"That's funny, but that wasn't the question, Abraxas. Do you think, you can defeat her in a fight?" Tom asked.

The blond was sitting ramrod straight in his chair. "I, uh."

"Ah, I know that look. You gave several Gryffindors that look before, Abraxas, usually right before you wiped the floor with them in Defence Against the Dark Arts. You believe you can defeat Hermione." Abraxas paled, but Tom continued with the same amused smile, completely unoffended. It was raising all sorts of alarms in Melchior's head. "But this is excellent!"

"It is?"

Melchior inwardly groaned. Merlin, just shut your sodding trap—

"We're in the perfect place to test that. You, Abraxas can fight her in this very room, right now. Do your best, though don't be an idiot and use spells that would get you expelled, will you? It would be very inconvenient to have to replace you." Tom mildly reminded him. Then, to Nott's horror, Tom turned to him. "Help your friend out, will you, Melchior? Let's improve his odds a little."

Nott spluttered. "But it wouldn't be fair—"

Tom wasn't listening to his polite objection as he had already turned away.

"Hermione,"

"Yes, Tom?"

"Do you mind fighting them both at the same time, in this room?"

She smiled. "Of course not. I'd love to."

"Please don't break them. It really is hard to find excellent company these days." Tom added.

Hermione Curie laughed. "If you were looking for excellent company, Tom, you wouldn't even start with them. But it's alright. I'll spare your house mates from anything permanent."

As sweet as her tone was, she did not hold back on her sarcasm. Why had he only noticed that Curie had a very sharp edge to her laughter just now?

Melchior cleared his throat slowly. I have a bad feeling about this.

'-

Tom cast Protego Maxima. The dome covered his chair, Curie's and the tea table between them. He continued drinking his tea.

Abraxas was standing awkwardly next a jittery Melchior as Tom pointed out their starting point, and that whoever reached their spot first had the right to begin.

"As you can see, there are three X-marks on the floor. You can attack only after you've stood at one of the marks. You may begin."

Abraxas was still processing that when Curie had already sprinted to her X-mark on the floor and Melchior's instinct got him running even before he realised why he had to run—oh, his spot! He had to get to the accursed place first before he can start casting. Abraxas caught up last, of course, though with his long legs, he had a fighting chance.

Melchior remembered what Curie and Tom's fight had been like. She went for large effects. Now, what could he do about it?

"Oleumenti!"

What? Oil spread on the floor, covering his and Abraxas' spot. Oh, that is just so not fair. No two ways about it, he had to skid past his spot and start casting. There was no way he can stand still there and he wouldn't even try. Why is there no hex cast in his direction yet? He skidded into the spot just in time to get sprayed with water. He started sending curses that didn't hit her due to her shield charm and his questionable balance due to the slick floor. Abraxas had just gotten to his spot and started casting.

Curie spread a group of small fireballs towards their floor and he leapt away while still sending hexes in her direction. He could hear Abraxas yelp, but he really didn't have time to mind anyone's skin but his own—he was busy avoiding the spreading fire.

He only allowed himself to look back once he'd positioned himself well behind a couch. Abraxas was down and frozen to the floor—it wasn't even a figure of speech or anything as he was literally covered in ice. Malfoy's out for the count, then. The curses and hexes started flying between them, but Curie was already sprinting again, making it hard to target her. He found it curious that every five or six spells, she'd have Aguamenti cast.

So far, he'd only had minor cuts and a stinging slap. He was sure the last sandblasting hex he sent abraded her left arm, but she didn't slow down. The witch sent another oil spill towards him and he moved because he was not looking forward to being set on fire. In between the curses, she added more spills around the room and he avoided them and—

Why did he smell bleach, of all things?

She was throwing bookshelves at him and he raised shields against that. And he was not surprised that she'd sent fireballs to follow up, with Oleumenti interspersed because, why not burn him up while there's all these kindling? He'd never raised shields so quickly in his life—that was when he realised he'd cast Protego completely silent for a while now, with half the wand movements, out of sheer dread.

Huh. Nice to know I improved in something.

Half the floor was ice and the other half was oil. Why in the name of Merlin's underpants she wasn't slipping was a mystery and the bane of his existence and—

Wait, why is his movement sluggish? Why does he seem to…oh no, she's too close—

It was embarrassing to know that she disarmed him with a well-timed Expelliarmus than some other, more dangerous hex.

"Good show, Melchior." She congratulated him and returned his wand to him.

He stared oddly at her from the floor as he couldn't even stand up, accepting her hand to shake without much thought. She was holding a bottle in hand and she was summoning water in. Why was she summoning water in? Tom approached and knelt in front of him and…checking his eyes?

"I think he inhaled too much, Hermione." Tom commented.

"Well, he kept running around, it's a bit inevitable that he metabolised even more because of that," she said. Was that guilt in her voice? "I might have upped the concentration after I saw your endurance."

"Hermione, I trained to get that endurance."

"Oh." A very becoming blush spread over her cheeks.

She was embarrassed? Why was she embarrassed? Melchior found it strange.

Tom was looking entirely too amused. Not far from them, he'd apparently unfroze Abraxas and lead him by the hand to Melchior. Curie had summoned their two chairs, now mostly wet, and transfigured it into two beds that are fortunately dry.

The witch held both of Nott's hands in hers and carefully pulled him up to one bed. She dried his clothes systematically, cleaning any mess that was too egregious and even patched him up. It was a nice sensation, being taken care of. She had warm and gentle touch. Her hands were soft too.

"You're feeling drowsy right now and it's alright. It's normal. Just lie down and sleep it off. You can leave for your dorms any time you wake up." She said kindly.

"But the meeting…"

"Well, Abraxas did say that he might as well not join since he didn't feel like he'll contribute anything. He's certainly going to skip it. Are you saying you've been looking forward to it?"

"Well," he mused about it carefully through his oddly lethargic mind. What did he know of her? He knew that for all her brilliance, she wasn't like Tom. He'd seen her actually having fun with her friends. "Not really. But I won't be as useless as Abraxas there and can still…contribute…things. Yes, things. Besides, I'll always come if Tom asks me. You know how it is, right?"

Curie nodded. She actually looked sympathetic as she patted his arm. "It's alright, you can skip the meeting, then. There would always be more later. You just get some rest for now."

He hadn't expected her to help him out of his shoes and truly tuck him in. Emma was right. Curie was not a bad nurse. Even her smile was truly warm, not the perfect copy that Tom has that can fool most people (Melchior included himself on that list. The only reason he could see through it now is only because Tom had shown him his other side often enough for the sense of dread to stick).

As he laid down and stared at the increasingly blurry ceiling, he could still hear Tom's voice. It was one he had when he was politely refraining from laughing.

"As much as I would love to gloat about the difference in level that they're still not getting, it's a trifle pathetic when they're not even conscious for it…"

"Tom, that's not nice. You really scared them." Curie sounded genuinely concerned.

"They're always scared, Hermione. It's their natural state of being and it's why I've stopped noticing it…"

"But I don't think it…"

Their voice began to drift away somewhat, growing indistinct.

Melchior Nott would like to disagree, because while he definitely felt threatened when he fought her, he didn't fear her personally. Yet the pillow was so soft and downy, the covers so fluffy, and it was hard keeping his eyes open. Soon, sleep claimed him.

'-

.

.

.