Tracey had made a valid point to Hermione, and one that Hermione was glad of – with delegation, she no longer had to do everything.

Theo had taken on the goblin detoxification project with relish. He was working with Draco, who was leveraging Clover and other hedgewitches who had experience with potions and poisons to test Theo's various antidote attempts. Hermione had been mildly surprised to hear that the hedgewitches were okay working alongside the goblins, but Draco and Theo hadn't been fazed.

"The goblins take care of gold in vaults," Draco pointed out. "Do you really think any of the hedges have enough money to need a vault? Most of them have no history with the goblins."

"And they share a resentment towards the upper class of society," Theo added. "The common enemy unites them in purpose." He paused. "There is always more misery among the lower classes than there is humanity in the higher."

Hermione wondered if he meant the largely disregarded obligation of the Sacred 28 to take care of their tenants, but Draco had moved on.

"We'll let you know when there's a breakthrough," he told her. "In the meantime, this is going to be a lot of 'try it and see what works'."

Susan and Tracey had become close, somehow, working on a more formal organizational structure for the Shadows, as well as sewing cloaks.

"They have to be made from scratch for your spell to work how we want," Susan sighed, explaining when Hermione stopped by the Hufflepuff common room where Susan had set up shop. "The spell has to be cast seam by seam. It's a pain, but at least they don't all have to be black this way if we don't want them to be. Though we are 'the Shadows', I suppose."

"The Hufflepuffs don't have a problem with you being here?" Hermione asked Tracey, and Tracey grinned.

"What are they going to do, kick me out?" she said, smirking. "Hufflepuff is all about accepting everyone and loyalty to their own, right? It would be very disloyal to kick out the friend of one of their own."

From the mutinous expressions on the Hufflepuffs around them, the badgers reluctantly agreed with Tracey's take on things, but it was clear they didn't like it.

Harry and Luna took over research, to Hermione's surprise. Research had always been her thing, and she was slightly put out to realize Harry and Luna had taken up researching ancient Truth Circles until Luna had explained her reasoning.

"You have more important things to be focusing on, Hermione," Luna told her, blinking her big blue eyes up at her. "Truth Circles aren't new magic – we just have to relearn old things people found out long ago. But you – you have so much new magic to still discover, and so much still to discover about magic. You should focus on that instead, really, and let us focus on looking up old things while you write the new."

Hermione wasn't exactly sure what she was meant to be discovering, but she'd learned better than to press too hard when Luna's eyes gleamed like that, so she'd wandered off, leaving them be.

Millie had taken to learning everything she could about magical construction and magical guardians and gargoyles, and Hermione was caught off-guard when Millie had asked her one day if she could get any books on muggle architecture for her.

"If we're going to build you a fortress, it needs to be a fortress," Millie said emphatically. "If we're going to do that, I need to learn the best way to build buildings – even if it isn't magical."

Hermione had agreed and owled her parents for books, wondering if Millie actually intended on building a fortress instead of just a big manor house with a wall and a moat. Millie would undoubtedly sketch out detailed architecture plans, though, so Hermione supposed she'd find out soon enough.

Pansy was genuinely excited about becoming an ambassador to the Blackwell School of Spells, and after Hermione caught Pansy coming out of the Room of Requirement with even more supplies for the Blackwell students (cauldrons, this time), she asked to tag along with Pansy. Pansy had been surprised but amenable, so Hermione met Pansy one evening with Draco and Harry tagging along as well, and the four of them took the ley line to Lundy.

The children of Blackwell were excited to see them all, and Hermione watched in faint amazement as the very young children all swarmed around Pansy, clamoring to show her the latest spells in their notebooks. Pansy took the time to look at each child's little grimoire and give them each a different, unique compliment, and Hermione was taken aback at the unexpected motherly instinct and affection Pansy seemed to have with the kids. Harry seemed immediately at ease with the teen students once again, and he let them look over his Firebolt - he'd promised to give them rides on his racing broom the last time he'd seen them.

While Pansy entertained the younger children and dropped off the cauldrons, and whie Harry was taking the older students up in turns on his broomstick, Hermione and Draco focused on something else: tying up a loose end.

"Kreacher!"

At Draco's command, there was a CRACK, and the old and wizened House Elf appeared in front of him, looking at him suspiciously.

"Young Master commands Kreacher far from home," the House Elf called Kreacher muttered. "Kreacher does not like to be so far from his Mistress, no he doesn't, but Kreacher is a good elf, and Kreacher comes…"

"Kreacher," Hermione said, bowing slightly. "Welcome to the Blackwell School of Spells."

Kreacher stopped his muttering and looked at Hermione with narrowed eyes.

"Black…well…?"

"This school is the legacy of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black," Hermione told Kreacher seriously, lying through her teeth. "It was founded long ago to help find new outcroppings of magic and to foster New Bloods, to help raise the next Great Houses in pure magic and tradition."

"It was?" Kreacher looked very skeptical. "Kreacher has never heard of this place."

"Look at the life they live," Hermione said, gesturing. "They wear robes. They keep personal grimoires of spells. They craft their own staffs from old Druid groves, like Merlin did centuries ago. They keep to themselves, away from the muggles, and they live and breathe magic in its purest form."

"That's the Black family motto, after all," Draco added. "Toujours Pur."

Hermione watched as Kreacher looked out over the area with new eyes. The children in robes carrying staffs, the crumbling castle, the distinct isolation of the remote place.

"This is the Black family legacy, though it has been lost for ages," Hermione told Kreacher quietly. "Your Mistress was never told, but her ancestors long ago founded this place to help keep magic pure."

Kreacher's eyes watered, giant ugly tears filling his yellowing eyes.

"Mistress would not like this," he muttered, shaking his head. "Mistress would denounce all of this, but Kreacher knows, and Kreacher feels – there is magic here, and the magic is pure."

Hermione looked at Draco, who nodded.

"Kreacher," he told the House Elf. "It is my wish to bind you to serve the Blackwell School of Spells, instead of the House of Black." Kreacher recoiled, but Draco pressed on. "It would be an honor, to have you work to restore the House of Black legacy in this way. And when you die, your head would be the first to hang on the stone walls of this school, as the founding House Elf who helped make the Black legacy endure."

Hermione could see the reverence and awe that awoke in Kreacher's eyes at the mention of having his head be first on the wall, and she had to turn away to hide her own revulsion in the face of his rapture.

"Kreacher will do it," Kreacher said finally, nodding. "Kreacher will help Blackwell. Kreacher will clean and cook for them, and Kreacher will watch them grow up into mighty witches and wizards whom Kreacher will be proud to serve."

"You are a good House Elf," Draco praised. "Now, come – we need to bind you to the castle and the ley line around the island before we introduce you to everyone."


Blaise had been relieved to hear that the House Elf loose end from the Black Book Heist had been neatly tied up and removed far away from the scene of the crime.

"It's not as good as the House Elf being dead, but at least this way some good comes out of him," Blaise grumbled. He softened. "And those little kids could use somebody to look after them, at least until you get an orphanage or something set up."

Hermione's heart clenched, and Blaise looked up at her, a soft smile on his face.

"Of course I know you're thinking about an orphanage," he said, tugging her into his side and hugging her. "Either that or some sort of hedgewitch foster program, I bet."

"I've been toying with ideas for both," Hermione admitted, and Blaise laughed.

"That's just you, Hermione," he said, ruffling her hair affectionately. "You've never seen a problem you didn't want to solve."

With everyone having their own little area of expertise and competency, it had gradually become clear which area of specialization Blaise had chosen – her.

"Someone has to keep you in line and make sure you don't blow yourself up," he'd told her, teasing. "So far, I'm the best candidate to stay by your side as chief advisor."

"You advised to me to poison someone and wanted to kill a House Elf," Hermione had said in astonishment. "And you're meant to be Chief Advisor?"

"I still hold that murder was the best option in both those circumstances," Blaise had retorted, eyes sparkling. "And I never said I was going to be an ethical advisor – just a good one."

That had launched a happy argument about the various definitions of the word "good" that had lasted well throughout the evening and into dinner, keeping them both bickering good-naturedly and highly entertained.

It was all too easy to be comfortable with Blaise. Whatever bee in his bonnet he'd had, he'd seemingly gotten over it, and it was back to his friendship and comradery these days, snarky comments and teasing remarks included. Hermione was relieved and glad to have him back at her side – not just for his advice and mind, but she found herself glad for his companionship as well.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? She was growing too comfortable in his companionship. He still teased her and flirted with her as usual, but with the revelation he'd bared to her that night with Snape, Hermione felt like she didn't know quite just where she stood with him.

It was the first time Hermione remembered consciously thinking about her looks consistently. Previously, she'd been concerned with the image she would present – was she grown-up enough? Was she intimidating enough? – but now, she was suddenly faced with the realization that she wanted people to think she was pretty. She wanted to be attractive to them. She did care what other people thought of her, and Hermione didn't like the realization. Even pointing out to herself that it was perfectly natural to want people to like you, that to want people you found attractive to find you attractive back was practically instinctual, she didn't like it. It felt like a weakness to her, to want such a thing, and she didn't like that she suddenly cared, like she was suddenly Daphne Greengrass or Lavender Brown.

Hermione decided to approach this new self-discovery with a shrewd plan – instead of focusing on the deeper motivation, she'd focus on how she could use attractiveness as a tool, another skill she could use in furthering her goals. By focusing on what else she would get from learning to be more attractive (as much as one could be said to learn such a thing), she'd be able to justify learning such things to herself. And she'd end up knowing more at the end, which was a plus in her book.

Learning how to be seen as attractive, however, couldn't be done publicly – Hermione would die of mortification. She could imagine Tracey and Pansy's teasing now. No, she had to do it in secret, and just emerge suddenly more attractive like a blossoming flower to whom it was entirely natural.

Which was how she ended up in the Chamber of Secrets, Tom Riddle and Voldemort lolling around and watching her as she walked back and forth on a line, giving her advice.

"You want to put one foot in front of the other more," Tom advised. "Guys walk in a straight line, but they really walk in two lines – each foot goes in front of the corresponding shoulder. Girls walk like that too, but it's better if you walk in one line, each foot in front of the other, even crossing a bit."

"This feels weird," Hermione complained, trying again. "I feel like I'm going to fall."

"That's because you're not doing it right," Tom said patiently. "The whole reason this is attractive is because it naturally swings your hips when you do it. Try again, but this time loosen your bottom so it can swing back and forth, up and down in little circles."

He demonstrated, strutting across the Chamber. It was hard to quantify, but how he walked somehow did seem feminine to Hermione. She looked at him in astonishment, and Tom smirked.

"Your turn," he instructed. "Walk."

It was one of the weirdest lessons Hermione had ever had, being told to walk in a straight line over and over by the burgeoning Dark Lord.

"Better," Tom said. "Really let yourself into it. Be confident."

"You need to put your shoulders back more," Voldemort advised, watching with a sharp eye. "Letting them slump makes you look weak."

Hermione strained to pull her shoulders back, and Tom groaned.

"No, no, no," he said. He came over to stand in front of Hermione, looking down at her. "When someone says to 'put your shoulders back', you do not actually put them back."

"But that's what he just said—" Hermione argued.

"I know, but it's just an expression," Tom said, cutting her off. "I'll show you, but there's some prep work first." He took one of her hands, clenching it into a fist and guiding it to her back. "Put both your hands like this, first. Press into your kidneys, then try and touch your elbows behind your back as best you can."

This was a strain for Hermione, and there was an aching stretch burning in her upper chest as she did. Tom made her hold it for fifteen seconds, before letting her relax.

"Next, you're going to stretch your arms and upper chest," he instructed her. "Take your arm, and move it above your head slowly, just up and down like this. Like an angel's wing."

He demonstrated in front of her, moving one arm at a time up and down at a calm, natural pace. Hermione mimicked him, feeling incredibly self-conscious as she did so.

"This feels stupid," she muttered, and Tom laughed.

"That's why you don't let anyone see you do it," he advised her, eyes gleaming. "Just the end result."

The end result was that when Tom approached her again to help with her posture, Hermione felt much looser, with less tension being held in her body.

"So when people say 'put your shoulders back', you don't want to actually hold them back. That's unnatural and requires conscious thought. What they mean instead is—" he adjusted her slightly so she was standing more squarely "—there's a natural place your shoulders kind of sit on your body. Instead of thinking of pulling your shoulders back, think of it as raising your shoulders up and kind of setting them down on the natural shelf your body has there."

He demonstrated, first slouching, then standing up straighter, his shoulders moving back in a small circle as he did so. Hermione made him repeat it again, watching attentively.

"It's something you have to feel for to really understand," Tom advised her. "Try it."

It took a few tries, but Hermione finally found something like what Tom was talking about – a natural place she could kind of 'set' her shoulders onto and relax without thinking about them. Tom gave her a smirk as she found it.

"Better," he said, pleased. "Now, try walking. Let your hips swing as you do."

With her posture corrected, it was somehow easier to let her hips swing. Hermione paused in the middle to stretch, bending side to side and down to touch her toes before trying again. It was easier now, like her hips had been unlocked, and she could feel her pelvis sort of roll as she walked.

"There you go," Tom purred. "Yes, feel your hips sway. That's much more feminine."

"I feel like this would be easier in heels somehow," Hermione said, walking again. She frowned down at the ground, watching her feet.

"Heels change your posture, so it's possible," Tom said. "And don't look at the ground! Posture is head up, chest out."

Hermione put her head back up, fixing her shoulders. Imagining she was in heels, she shifted her body a little more, pulling her belly button into her spine, and tried again. It felt a little easier, now that she had gotten into the swing of things. Her hips rocking back and forth began to feel less alien, and Tom nodding approvingly.

"It's going to be a challenge to remember," he warned her. "You'll need to consciously be aware of how you walk for a while before it becomes second nature. You'll need to practice."

"Practice walking," Hermione said, scoffing. "I know it's necessary, but it sounds ridiculous – like I'm a toddler just learning."

Tom laughed.

"A toddler doesn't have the hips of a woman," he told her, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "You do. You essentially have to learn how to walk all over again."

"And you walk too fast," Voldemort added. "Confident people aren't always rushing. Go slower."

"I'm not always rushing," Hermione protested. "I mean, I walk quickly to get to class in time—"

"And would you be late if you didn't hurry quite so much?" Tom inquired. "Or would you just have less time to perfectly arrange your books on the desk and wait for your classmates to arrive as well?"

Hermione's face colored. "I—"

"It doesn't matter," Tom said, amused. "What matters is that you take time to slow down and breathe. You have an incredibly dangerous impulsive instinct, Hermione. You need to tether that down."

"I didn't ask you for advice on how to change who I am," Hermione shot back, grumpy. "Just on how to see more attractive."

"To seem more attractive, you need to be more attractive," Tom told her, almost patronizing, and Hermione's temper flared before Voldemort cut in.

"It's not just you. It's your age," he informed her, his red eyes watching her. "You're still an adolescent, so your amygdala is the most active right now in developing, along with your thalamus. Your prefrontal cortex won't be fully developed for another ten years. Impulse control will come in time."

Hermione paused, turning to look at Voldemort.

"How do you know that?" she asked finally. "In Defense, you were talking about the parts of the brain too. How did you learn all this?"

Voldemort snorted, and extremely undignified thing to see the Dark Lord do.

"I read books," he informed her. "I learned."

"Why, though?" Hermione pressed. "I mean, I know you went off after school and vanished for years. I thought you were learning ancient Dark magic, though, not muggle medicine."

Voldemort scoffed.

"I sought to become a master of Legilimency," he told her. "Understanding the structure of the mind aided with that. As it did with understanding the nuances of different curses." His eyes gleamed. "It takes a certain type of person to appreciate the differences between a slow-creeping necrotic flesh curse and a slow-moving neurotropic encephalitic curse, but the differences can be delightful, depending on your motives."

Hermione stared at him. His red eyes glowed at her, and Hermione was once again reminded that Voldemort was not Tom Riddle anymore – not even a little bit.

"I know what a slow-creeping necrotic curse would look like," she said slowly. "What was the other one?"

"A neurotropic encephalitic curse," Voldemort repeated, eyes glinting. "Dark magic infects the base of the spine of a person, before slowly creeping up their neural pathways to the brain and the central nervous system. Once it reaches there, the victim seems to be going insane – they can develop anxiety, insomnia, confusion, agitation, aggressive and abnormal behavior, paranoia, terror, and hallucinations. In the last stages, it causes hydrophobia, delirium, coma, and then death – a slow march of misery to their fatal end."

Hermione looked at Voldemort in horror, and he scoffed.

"I'm sorry, did you think they called me the Dark Lord out of respect?" he asked pleasantly. "Thought it was a title I earned just from creeping about in the night, did you?"

"A curse like that should be able to be cured if it's ripped out before it reaches the central nervous system," Tom said, frowning. He looked thoughtful. "The hydrophobia… did you base this off of rabies?"

"I did." Voldemort's eyes glinted with pride. "Well done. Yes, I did. Before I developed the curse, I considered having infected werewolves bite my enemies, but I wasn't sure if they'd keep the virus when in human form instead of solely when in wolf form."

"So… that's what you did?" Hermione said faintly. "Learned human biology so you could torture and kill people more effectively?"

"Oh, I'd hardly call it effective," Voldemort dismissed. "The Killing Curse is by far the most effective – tight ring of Dark Magic right to the Circle of Willis that simultaneously causes a fatal arrhythmia. Practically instant death. It's just difficult, the Killing Curse, and it's hardly frightening, is it?"

"Not frightening?" Hermione echoed, incredulous. "The Killing Curse?"

"Oh, sure, on the battlefield, Avada's going off everywhere would be terrifying," Voldemort dismissed. "But in general? In guerrilla warfare? Slow-acting curses that make people doubt reality create far more terror and fear."

"If that's the case," Tom said, folding his arms, "then why did your followers start setting houses on fire to kill your opponents?"

"They did?" Voldemort frowned. "I don't know, then. That's not a strategy I would have done."

"Maybe the Death Eaters were too weak-hearted to cast such horrible curses," Hermione said, feeling sick to her stomach. "Maybe they weren't smart enough to understand the details enough to cast them effectively."

"That's possible," Voldemort said thoughtfully, frowning. "An entrail-expelling curse is fairly straightforward – you visualize the opponent's innards bursting out, and the Dark magic causes what's essentially an internal explosion through the front abdominal wall. That's much easier to visualize than an evil embolism curse – something that causes sudden, unexpected death long after the battle is finished."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Tom asked, appalled. "I thought we were bent on taking over Magical Britain. What about that requires causing encephalitis or embolisms?"

"I studied Dark magic for years," Voldemort retorted. "Immersed myself in it. Understood it, breathed it. You think it's easy, reanimating the dead? That it's simple, raising an army of inferi with a single wand wave?"

"Is it not?" Tom shot back. "Is it not just using Dark magic to reanimate their bodies and command them?"

"Oh, sure, if you want a body, but it won't do anything more than lurch," Voldemort sniffed. "Mass amounts of Dark magic can't do everything. If you want an intelligent army of inferi, you need to know which parts of the nervous system and brain you need Dark magic to control, not just hurl magic at the problem like brute force will solve everything…"

"I just wanted to learn how to be more attractive," Hermione moaned, pressing her fists to her eyes. "How did this devolve into a discussion on what magic was the most evil and powerful and bad?"

"Power is attractive," Voldemort objected, but he fell silent at a quelling look from Tom.

"Let's refocus," Tom said, gently redirecting the conversation. "We were talking about you walking slower, trying not to be in such a hurry or rushing. Taking the time to pause and think through your actions before you act. Let's try walking again." He nodded encouragingly at her. "Try and walk with a comfortable confidence. You don't have to hurry to meet others – others will wait for you."

As Hermione walked up and down the line over and over again, relaxing into her hips and feeling her gait change, she did her best not think about Voldemort's casual discussion of horrible things to do to other humans.

If there was ever evidence not to go too far down the path of Dark magic, that was it.