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Hermione – 31.07.2008

When curse-breaker apprentice Hermione Granger was invited to join the task force at Gringotts to help clear the Malfoy Vault of any cursed or dangerous artifacts, her first reaction was curiosity: Was the Malfoy vault truly as massive as Draco had boasted throughout their school years? Her second reaction, upon seeing the enormous vault filled to the brim with coins and curiosities, was utter irritation. This monstrous task would take the team of fifteen witches and wizards weeks to complete. How could his ferret face be so smug about this situation? And how could Kingsley have burdened them with the extension law to the secrecy agreement, which now allowed the Ministry to search wizards’ and witches’ homes and their vaults at Gringotts?

However, her third reaction on the Friday of the first week was complete euphoria when she came across the most valuable thing in the vault, something far more precious than gold.

Hermione knew the moment she laid eyes on the delicate item that she was looking at a True Time Turner. The True Time Turner, to be precise. The only one in existence. She dared not touch it immediately, recalling her training as a curse-breaker apprentice, think first, touch later. Her mind flashed to Dr. Lucien Clairemont, the Time Magic researcher from Montreux, Switzerland. After finishing school, Hermione had seized every opportunity to travel the world, learning from the brightest minds on the planet. During this time, she had spent several months with Dr. Clairemont, studying the intricate world of temporal magic and making innovative discoveries in the field. The researcher had often spoken of the True Time Turner, describing what it might look like and the runes that would be inscribed upon it. But it had always sounded more like a fairytale than something real. Hermione, who believed in things she could logically understand or experience firsthand, had never been convinced. Yet now, as she stood before it, she couldn’t deny that it matched Clairemont’s descriptions almost perfectly.

Naturally, after checking the unique item for dark curses, she wanted to examine it further. She never intended to steal it, report it, or—Godric forbid—use it. She just wanted to study it, purely for academic reasons, of course. She thought of Professor Slughorn, who had likely used similar justifications to cover his own selfish intentions many times, and smiled to herself. But that wasn’t her. Hermione had never been selfish or greedy. She just had to know, to see what it looked like and how it worked. So she took it, carefully ensuring that none of the other curse-breakers, or worse, Malfoy, were watching.

The Time Turner felt cool in Hermione’s hand as she examined the ancient runes carved into the delicate silver frame. Most of them were familiar, but some were entirely foreign to her, which was saying something for someone as proficient in Ancient Runes as she was. She turned it over carefully, watching the temporal sand glitter and fall within the hourglass.

Mesmerized, she turned it again and again until a harsh voice behind her bellowed, “Granger, are you coming for an after-work butterbeer?” Instinctively, she pushed the True Time Turner into her robes and turned around, flushed and flustered.

“Nah, I have to get to the Burrow, it’s Harry’s birthday!” She would, of course, put the Time Turner back later, after she was done examining it, she told herself as she walked toward the exit, the object of her fascination thoroughly hidden in the illegally extended inner pocket of her favorite robe.

***

Tom – 31.07.1952

It was a beautiful summer night when Tom Riddle stood, disillusioned, at Grimmauld Place, casually leaning against a low brick wall opposite No. eleven and thirteen. He had been waiting for some time in this predominantly Muggle area of London, and impatience was starting to gnaw at him. He wondered how much longer it would take and if she might have left through the Floo network. No, he knew her routine too well. She liked to walk a few steps after a big dinner with drinks. At Malfoy Manor, she always took a turn around the gardens after their gatherings, and he’d heard Abraxas scold her for wandering London’s streets in the middle of the night after her evenings with the girls at the Black residence. So, Tom told himself to be patient. Breathing in deeply, he swore he could feel a change of weather crackling in the air.

When Amara Malfoy finally left her friend’s house, it was long past midnight. She seemed to appear magically from between Grimmauld Place eleven and thirteen. The wind had picked up, and her long blonde hair flowed in the breeze. Tom followed the loud click-clacks of her heels on the sidewalk as she took a brief turn around the neighborhood before Apparating back to her husband at Malfoy Manor. Only Tom knew she would never see her home again.

Tom twirled the cool metallic blade in his hands. It had to look realistic and messy, the way a Muggle would do it. When Amara turned a corner into an even less crowded alley, Tom hit her with three non-verbal spells in incredibly quick succession. Expelliarmus, Silencio, Locomotor Mortis. Her wand flew into Tom’s hand as Amara silently collapsed to her knees, barely catching herself with her hands before her face hit the pavement. Frantically, she whirled around, searching for her assailant, but Tom’s Disillusionment Charm was too proficient for her to see him. But he wanted her to look into his eyes when he ended her.

He approached her, and when he stood right above her, he lifted his concealment. Her blue eyes widened in shock as she saw him. Unable to speak, she reached out a trembling hand, as if thinking he might help her up. But Tom merely fixed her with his coldest stare, toying with the knife she now realized he was holding. Pathetically, Amara tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs were still bound, and she fell again, desperately crawling away from him. In three long strides, he was over her once more.

Tom lowered himself, kneeling on top of her and pressing the blade to her throat. A few raindrops began to fall, completing the drama of Amara Malfoy’s final moments. Struggling beneath him, she seemed to realize that he was about to kill her.

“This should not be a surprise to you,” he said in a quiet, eerily calm voice. “You have been poisoning him against me, against our goals. It is your own fault, really,” he continued as she writhed beneath him, unable to respond. “I don’t like to share my possessions. Abraxas is mine, and Lucius will be mine, too.” And with that, he sliced her throat with the knife. Hot, red blood poured from the wound instantly, over his hands and drops sprayed his face. It was incredibly messy. He much preferred a simple Killing Curse, so much tidier. But he couldn’t use it tonight. A Muggle wouldn’t kill so neatly. Still, he could appreciate the satisfaction of this manual labor.

As Amara gurgled beneath him, desperately trying to draw one last breath, Tom sat back slightly, observing her final moments. The light would go out soon enough, and he had to make the scene believable. He ripped open her blouse and skirt. Her legs and arms still struggled weakly against him, but he easily held her down with his weight, slashing at her chest. When her movements slowed, he tore her underwear and stabbed her in the crotch. He delivered one final stab and left the knife there.

Amara had stopped moving, her eyes finally empty. Dead.

Rain poured down, and Tom lifted his face to the sky, welcoming the cool drops on his blood-splattered skin.

Tom rose to his feet and took her purse. He vanished the small handbag and tossed her wand a few feet away, as if she had lost it there.

In tribute to the pure-blooded witch he had just slaughtered, who, to his knowledge, had never done an immoral thing in her life, Tom decided to walk back to his flat. The pouring rain above him washed him almost clean, leaving only faint traces of blood on his white shirt.

Tom disabled the wards to his basement flat in Knockturn Alley with a nick to his finger, producing a drop of his own blood, a quiet open in Parseltongue, and a spell offering the magic of his core in the ancient rune of Ra.

He stood, dripping wet, in his small bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. The red on his white clothing stood in stark contrast to his black hair and pale skin. He looked every bit the murderer he was, the rush of the kill still coursing through his veins. He decided to finish the task like a Muggle, too, not by using a Scourgify, but by taking a shower. It was oddly satisfying to watch the red water stream down his body, turning clear again.

Finally rid of that nuisance of a woman, Tom fell asleep rather quickly for him, replaying the bloody act over and over in his mind.

Abraxas’ owl arrived in the early hours of the morning, bringing the tragic news of his wife’s death. And Tom smiled as he got ready for the funeral.

***

Hermione

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the Burrow and its sprawling grounds. The summer heat lingered, making the air thick with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass. The Weasley family home, a haphazard stack of mismatched rooms and crooked chimneys, bustled with life and laughter as friends and family gathered to celebrate Harry Potter’s 28th birthday. Long tables draped in colourful clothes were set up outside, laden with an abundance of delicious food prepared by Molly Weasley. Children ran around, their laughter mingling with the soft murmur of conversations and the occasional burst of magical fireworks set off by George Weasley.

Hermione stood near the edge of the crowd, watching the scene with a soft smile. Her hair, a bit tamer than it used to be, fell in defined curls around her shoulders. She wore a light summer dress, its pale yellow fabric catching the evening light. Despite the festive atmosphere, a part of her mind remained preoccupied with the stolen goods in her pocket. The True Time Turner, an artefact of immense power and rarity. It now rested heavily in the pocket of her robe, a constant reminder of the secrets it contained.

“Hey, Hermione!” Harry’s voice broke through her thoughts, and she turned to see him approaching, a wide grin on his face. He looked much the same as he always had, though the years had added a certain maturity to his features. His eyes, bright behind his round glasses, sparkled with happiness. “Enjoying the party?”

“Of course, Harry,” she replied, hugging him. “It’s a wonderful celebration. Molly has outdone herself, as usual.”

Harry laughed, glancing over at the bustling Weasley matriarch, who was currently fussing over a large pot of stew. “She always does. Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

As they made their way to the tables, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia. It felt like just yesterday they were students at Hogwarts, facing down the Dark Lord and his followers. Now, they were adults with jobs and families, but the bond they shared remained as strong as ever.

Ron was already at the table, piling his plate high with food. He looked up and waved them over, his smile wide and genuine. “There you are! Thought you might’ve gotten lost in one of those books of yours, Hermione.”

Hermione laughed, taking a seat next to him. “Not today, Ron. Though I’ve been busy with work. Gringotts is keeping me on my toes.”

Ron nodded, his expression becoming serious. “I heard about the Malfoy vault. That must’ve been something to rummage through.”

“It was,” Hermione said, her hand unconsciously drifting to the pocket where the Time Turner lay hidden. “We found some interesting things.”

Before Ron could ask more, Ginny appeared, her hand resting on her rounded belly. She was glowing, her red hair cascading down her back. “What are you three whispering about?” she asked playfully.

“Just work stuff,” Hermione said, smiling. “How are you feeling, Ginny?”

“Ready for this little one to arrive,” Ginny said, rubbing her belly affectionately. “But tonight’s about Harry, not me.”

“Speaking of which,” George called out, raising a glass. “A toast to the birthday boy!”

Everyone raised their glasses, voices mingling in a chorus of well wishes and cheers. Harry looked slightly embarrassed but pleased as he took a sip from his goblet. “Thanks, everyone. This means a lot.” Hermione felt a pang of love for her best friend, who still after all those years was uncomfortable at the centre of attention.

As the evening wore on, the sky darkened, and fairy lights began to twinkle overhead. The children were gathered around a small bonfire, toasting marshmallows and giggling as George entertained them with stories and harmless pranks. The adults settled into comfortable conversations, the easy camaraderie born of years of shared experiences.

Hermione found herself sitting next to Luna Lovegood, who had arrived with her husband, Neville, and their twin boys. Luna’s dreamy expression was as serene as ever, her silver hair shimmering in the firelight.

“Hermione, you seem distracted,” Luna said, her voice soft and knowing. “Is everything alright?”

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, just thinking about work. We found something rather unique today.”

Luna’s eyes widened with interest. “Oh? Do tell.”

Hermione glanced around, ensuring no one was listening too closely. She knew if anyone’s perspective on the matter would differ from her own, it would be Luna’s. “It’s a True Time Turner, Luna. The only one of its kind, as far as I know. It can turn back time by years, not just hours.”

Luna’s gaze became thoughtful. “That’s a powerful artefact. What do you plan to do with it?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione admitted. “I know I should turn it over to the Ministry, but…”

“But it’s tempting to keep it,” Luna finished for her. “To see what could be changed.”

Hermione nodded, feeling a weight lift slightly from her shoulders. “Yes. But I also know how dangerous it could be.”

Luna reached out and squeezed Hermione’s hand. “You’ll make the right decision. You always do.”

“What would you do with it?” Hermione asked carefully. Luna smiled in response, answering in her dreamy tone “Why do you suppose you have to do anything with it?” As always it was not at all what Hermione would have expected as an answer. And it got her thinking…

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of music. Bill had brought out his guitar and was strumming a familiar tune, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the crowd. Fleur joined in, her voice clear and melodious, and soon everyone was singing along.

Hermione felt a sense of peace settle over her. She looked around at her friends, her family, and felt a deep sense of gratitude. They had all come so far, endured so much, and yet here they were, together and happy.

As the night grew darker, the party showed no signs of slowing down. The children, now tired, had been herded inside by Molly, leaving the adults to enjoy the cooler evening air. Ron was deep in conversation with Percy about some new Ministry initiative that was probably going to result in even more work for Hermione, while Ginny and Harry shared a quiet moment, her head resting on his shoulder.

Hermione stood up and wandered to the edge of the garden, the Time Turner a constant presence in her pocket. She pulled it out, watching as the sand glittered in the moonlight. The temptation to use it was strong, to see what changes she could make, what knowledge she could gain. 

As she gazed at the artefact, memories of those who had fallen during the war came flooding back. Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks, who had left behind their son Teddy. Fred Weasley, whose laugh still seemed to echo in the corridors of her mind. Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore, and so many others who had fought bravely and paid the ultimate price.

The Burrow was a place of life and love, but it was also a place of remembrance. Hermione glanced over at Teddy Lupin, now a spirited ten-year-old, laughing with Victoire Weasley. He was growing up surrounded by family who loved him, but the absence of his parents was a shadow that never quite lifted.

“Knut for your thoughts?” a voice said behind her.

She turned to see Hagrid, towering over her with his usual gentle smile. His presence was a comforting reminder of their days at Hogwarts.

“Just thinking about the past, Hagrid,” she said, slipping the Time Turner back into her pocket. “And the people we’ve lost.”

Hagrid nodded, his eyes reflecting the same sorrow. “Aye, we’ve lost a lot. But they’d be proud of us, Hermione. Proud of how far we’ve come.”

Hermione smiled, feeling a bit lighter. “Thank you, Hagrid. You’re right.”

Just then, Harry, Ron, and Ginny approached, laughing about some shared joke. Harry wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulders, pulling her into the circle. “We were just talking about old times,” he said. “Remember the first time we met Hagrid? Seems like a lifetime ago.”

Ron grinned. “Feels like yesterday we were sneaking around the castle under the Invisibility Cloak.”

Ginny nodded, her eyes twinkling. “And getting into all sorts of trouble.”

Hermione felt a rush of warmth. Here, surrounded by her dearest friends, she felt the weight of her worries lift. They had faced unimaginable horrors together, and their bond had only grown stronger.

As they stood there, reminiscing, Hermione felt a profound sense of gratitude. They had survived. They had built lives full of love and purpose. And they had done it together.

The night continued, the sky now a deep indigo scattered with stars. The adults gathered around the bonfire, sharing stories and laughter. The atmosphere was filled with a sense of peace and contentment that had been hard-earned.

At one point, Molly Weasley called for everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone, gather round! Harry’s about to cut the cake!”

Harry, grinning sheepishly, stepped up to the large, elaborately decorated cake with Ginny by his side and their two sons eagerly watching. He raised the knife, and with a flourish, cut the first slice to cheers and applause.

As the cake was handed out, Hermione found herself next to Ron again. They shared a companionable silence, watching the party around them.

“You know,” Ron said quietly, “we’ve been through a lot. But nights like this make it all worth it.”

Hermione nodded, feeling the truth of his words. “Yes, they do.”

Ron looked at her with a serious expression. “Hermione, whatever you’re dealing with, you know you don’t have to do it alone, right?”

She smiled at him, feeling the weight of his words. “I know, Ron. Thank you.”

As they stood there, side by side, Hermione felt the warmth of their friendship wrap around her like a comforting blanket. They had been through so much together, and while their relationship had changed, their bond remained unbreakable.

In the quiet of the night, with the sounds of laughter and music still lingering in the air, Hermione knew that she was exactly where she was meant to be. She would face whatever challenges came her way with the strength and support of her friends and family, and she would make the right decisions, just as she always had.

The True Time Turner was a powerful artefact, but it was also a reminder of the importance of living in the present and cherishing the moments that made life so precious.

And so, with a final glance at the stars twinkling above, Hermione joined her friends, feeling a profound sense of peace and gratitude. They had survived, they had thrived, and they had done it together. The future was uncertain, but with her friends by her side, Hermione knew that anything was possible.

***

Tom

The rain continued to pour heavily as Tom Riddle and the Knights of Walpurgis emerged from the small chapel on the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The once lush green hills of the estate had dried out over the past few weeks, and the plants seemed to welcome the rain, their leaves glistening as they soaked up the much-needed moisture. The gloomy weather perfectly matched the somber mood of the day. Tom had known that Amara's death would deeply wound his second-in-command, but it had been necessary.

As Tom, Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, Dolohov, and Sallow carried the casket to the family cemetery nestled behind a cluster of trees beside the chapel, he found it fitting that Amara's burial was conducted in a traditional Muggle manner, much like her death.

Upon reaching the freshly dug grave, Tom gave Nott a nod, signaling him to levitate the casket into the ground. A single violinist played a mournful tune as the casket descended.

When Mulciber joined the group, Tom pulled him aside, his tone serious. "No jokes today," he ordered. Mulciber, with his fiery red hair, nodded quickly. "Yes, my lord," he replied, stepping back without further comment.

Seraphin Selwyn held an umbrella over Abraxas Malfoy, who stood with slumped shoulders, dark circles under his eyes, and a hollow expression on his face. The gesture went far beyond mere protection from the rain; it was a silent show of support. Tom felt a rare sense of pride in his followers for rallying around each other in this moment of grief.

No one had been late or stepped out of line, not even Sallow. Today was all about Malfoy. They would tend to his emotional wounds, and Tom knew how sensitive Abraxas could be when it came to those he loved. The thought of love nearly made Tom scoff. Abraxas was a fool, but his foolishness had proven useful over the years. Tom knew Abraxas would do anything for him, especially now that his bothersome wife was out of the picture. He would have his most loyal follower back in no time.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the surprisingly strong voice of Randall Davenport, an old and small wizard, echoed over the gathering. "We gather here today to honor the life of Amara Malfoy, an extraordinary witch whose brilliance and grace touched us all."

Walburga Black, cradling a baby, stood off to the side with several other women who had joined Tom's cause. Little Lucius, sensing the gravity of the situation, chose that moment to start crying, just as Davenport began his speech about the "young and beautiful Amara Malfoy." Tom couldn't help but crack his neck irritably. He had always despised the sound of crying children, because it brought back memories of his time in that horrendous orphanage and the weak Muggle children who had surrounded him.

Tom took a deep breath, schooling his features into the relaxed, friendly mask he had perfected over the years. He forced himself to focus on Davenport's words, shutting out the wailing Lucius and concentrating on the speech.

"Her loss leaves an indelible void in the hearts of her family and all who knew her," Davenport continued. "Amara was renowned for her elegance and wit, hosting soirées that were the talk of the wizarding world. She stood as a proud member of the Wizengamot, fiercely advocating for the rights of witches, wielding her sharp tongue with unparalleled skill."

Tom found it ironic that a woman so vocal and stubborn had settled so quickly into marriage and motherhood with Abraxas.

As Davenport droned on about the nauseatingly sweet story of how Amara and Abraxas had met, Tom's thoughts drifted to more pressing matters, how he could use Amara's brutal murder at the hands of a Muggle to rally his Knights to push for the next steps in their plans. He also needed to solidify his immortality; that had always been the point of his tedious work, especially since the diadem had yet to be found.

A short while later, after the others had left, only the original nine Knights and Tom remained by the grave, now covered with earth. Some house-elf had taken the baby away, thank Salazar, but Malfoy showed no sign of moving. The Knights looked to Tom for guidance. He was their leader, the one who made the decisions. Each of them brought something valuable to the group, and in return, he gave them purpose, an enemy to fight, and a cause to rally behind.

"Come on, mate," Tom urged Abraxas in a smooth voice. "Let’s have some Ogden’s and then we’ll plan what to do with the Muggles who did this to her."

Abraxas turned to Tom, who made a genuine effort to look sympathetic, though he had no real concept of what that felt like. He had never experienced true emotion for another human being, but he knew how to feign it. Abraxas nodded, looking more miserable than ever. Tom draped a casual arm around his shoulder, leading him back to the manor with the others following in silence.

*

“I’m sure Oren will find the Muggle or Muggles who did this in no time," Selwyn exclaimed eagerly, his glasses slightly askew on his nose. He never could handle alcohol well. They were several glasses into the very expensive firewhiskey Malfoy always kept stocked. All of Tom’s Knights were present, except for Lestrange, who had left for his Auror duties to find the killer of his mate’s wife. Of course, Oren Lestrange would never find the actual killer, but Tom already had plans to frame some unfortunate Muggle boy from that neighbourhood in London.

“If he finds him, we need to act fast. Have you made progress on the communication, Nott?” Dolohov asked, his dark eyes fixed on Stellan Nott, whose unruly brown curls framed his intense face.

“I’ve been researching the Protean Charm for that purpose. I thought we could all wear a ring, and when we need to send a message, the ring would warm up, displaying the message where an inscription would normally be,” Nott explained, quite cleverly, Tom had to admit. Rings wouldn’t suffice in the long term, but it was a good start.

“And then? What do we do? Just kill the filthy Muggle?” Avery asked, his whiskey glass in hand, a disgusted expression on his tanned face. “I say we cut him up, just like he did to Amara.”

Vesper Avery had a young, innocent-looking face, which was entirely deceptive, he was the cruellest of the Knights. While Tom only killed or tortured when necessary, Avery did it for the sheer pleasure of it.

“I say we give him the Cruciatus until he goes insane, then we put him in Azkaban, where the Dementors will do the rest,” Sylas Sallow chimed in, his voice gleeful. The man had a disturbing fondness for the Unforgivable Curses.

“What do you think, my Lord?” Gideon Mulciber asked, having been uncharacteristically quiet all night.

“This isn’t my decision,” Tom replied smoothly, turning to Abraxas, who had remained silent. “What do you want to do, Abraxas? This is your call. We’ll do whatever you decide.” Tom knew how to make Abraxas feel important, to give him control in a situation where he desperately needed it.

Abraxas looked up from the spot on the rug he had been staring at for the past hour. “I want him in my dungeon, locked up and pissing himself with fear. Then I’ll make him tear himself apart, heal him, and make him do it again. Over and over, until it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.” His voice broke on the last words, tears welling up in his cold grey eyes. Normally, Tom would have no patience for such weakness, but today, he granted Malfoy a pass.

Tom watched his other followers closely as Abraxas shared his violent plans. As expected, Seraphim Selwyn and Elowen Rosier looked the least enthusiastic. While Stellan Nott added real value with his knowledge of dark magic and his delight in the theory of it all, Selwyn and Rosier were more along for the prestige and protection that came with being associated with Tom and his "friends."

“Salazar, yes!” Avery exclaimed, walking over to slap Abraxas on the back. Vesper Avery truly was a sadistic specimen, but easily controllable, unlike Sylas Sallow, who was as unpredictable as they came. Tom had considered killing Sallow many times before, but he had proven invaluable in the past. He had been the first to tell Tom about the Unforgivable Curses back in their first year at Hogwarts. He was a formidable duelist, though Tom never fully trusted him. Unlike Abraxas, who was loyal to the core, worshipping at Tom’s altar. He would never betray Tom, of that he was certain. However, his infatuation with his late wife had diminished his devotion, and Tom couldn’t have tolerated that behaviour any longer.

They clinked freshly filled glasses to Malfoy’s revenge plans, the mood gradually shifting to something wilder, more hedonistic, the earlier depression momentarily dulled by the intoxicating atmosphere. Yet as the hours dragged on and the group gradually dispersed, Tom could see the weight of sadness returning to Malfoy, more forceful than before. He knew Abraxas wanted to speak to him alone, and tonight, Tom was prepared to give him whatever he needed. So, he stayed. When the two of them were finally alone, they sat in silence for a long time, staring into the fire as the rain drummed relentlessly against the tall windows.

“Promise me, you will find them.” Abraxas’ voice shattered the silence, his tone thick with desperation. Tom turned to face him, his grey eyes pleading.

“Please, Tom, we both know the Aurors will find nothing. These incompetent bunglers,” Abraxas said, his voice trembling. He was the only one who still dared to call him by his name when they were alone. Tom knew he shouldn’t have favourites, but none of the others were as devoted as Abraxas. Tom held his gaze, savouring the desperation in his plea.

“Whatever you need,” Tom replied calmly, watching as Abraxas broke down into sobs, his shoulders shaking violently as he hid his face in his hands. Tom rose to his feet and closed the distance between them.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and Abraxas immediately obeyed, dropping his hands and lifting his tear-streaked face to meet Tom’s eyes. “You will get through this, and you will be stronger than ever.” Abraxas nodded at his words, but the despair etched into his features was undeniable. So, Tom continued, “Tell me what you need, and for tonight, it shall be yours.”

Tom knew he was on the verge of securing Abraxas’ unwavering loyalty for eternity. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He watched as Abraxas’ gaze shifted from desperation to a deep, almost reverent love, a love that Tom hadn’t seen in him for some time. It was a look filled with hope, hope that things could be like they were before, back in Hogwarts when they had ruled the school, fearless and unstoppable. Tom could see in those heated grey eyes that Abraxas was thinking about what he truly wanted, about what Tom had given him in small doses during their secret excursions to the Forbidden Forest or deserted classrooms. Tom had always known how to keep people enthralled by him, no one more easily manipulated than Abraxas. So it almost surprised him when Abraxas finally made his request.

“Stay. Just… hold me, please,” his voice was so quiet, barely audible over the storm raging outside. His eyes were downcast as if, despite Tom’s promise, he didn’t dare hope that Tom would actually fulfil this request. Tom reached out, sliding his hand from Abraxas’ jaw to his pale blonde hair, grabbing a handful and pulling his head back so that he was forced to meet Tom’s gaze once more. And just like that, he had him again, all to himself. Abraxas worshipped no other human than him.

“Lead the way,” Tom said, releasing his grip and stepping aside, gesturing for Abraxas to show him to his bedroom. Tom followed in silence, and when they stepped inside Malfoy’s private chambers, Tom noted that the room was larger than his entire flat. It had never bothered him that he didn’t have the wealth of his pure-blooded followers, he could command any of them to give him gold if he needed it, but he was determined to make it on his own. He didn’t need anyone.

Abraxas began undressing, his eyes never leaving Tom’s, and Tom followed suit. Since he could remember, Tom had never seen bodies as something attractive, only as tools, useful in their functionality. It didn’t matter to him what a body looked like, as long as it served his purpose. Cuddling, hugs, and kisses had never given Tom pleasure, no matter who they were with, so he usually avoided such activities. Abraxas knew this. But it was his only request, and so Tom climbed into Abraxas’ enormous bed, wearing only his boxer shorts, and held his hand out to him.

“Show me how you like it,” he commanded gently. Abraxas took his hand and got in next to Tom. Just this once, Tom would gift Abraxas the illusion of control, in return for his loyalty, a loyalty so deep it had led him to murder his beloved wife. Tom had to fight back a sinister smile.

“Just on your side, please,” Abraxas directed, and Tom lowered himself as instructed. Abraxas hesitated, staring at Tom, frozen in his kneeling position on the bed.

“Scared all of a sudden?” Tom smirked from below. Abraxas shook his head quickly and moved closer, hugging Tom from the front, positioning himself slightly lower. He pressed his face against Tom’s chest and inhaled deeply.

“No,” he said, slinging a leg over Tom’s while he pulled the covers over them with wandless magic. “I’m just debating whether this is the worst or best day of my life.”

In response, Tom wrapped his arms around him in a gesture that felt unnatural to him, secretly smiling into Abraxas’ blonde hair.

“The only person who can decide what this day means for you and your future is yourself.”

Right where I need him to be.

***

Hermione

Come Monday, Hermione made up her mind. The Time Turner had to go back where it belonged. She couldn't risk the temptation it posed, not to her, not to the Ministry. She doubted Draco Malfoy even knew it was there, tucked away in the Malfoy vault.

Every morning since the curse-breaking task force began cleansing the vault, Malfoy strode through his private passage from the dungeon of his manor to the deepest part of Gringotts. With a prick of his finger to open the wards, he allowed the fifteen witches and wizards, under the watchful eyes of seven goblins, to enter.

As the curse breakers got to work, Hermione held back, watching Malfoy head for his private entrance. "Malfoy, a word, please," she called after him. He turned, puzzled.

"What, Granger? I have things to do," he sneered, his usual arrogance in place.

Hermione ignored his tone. "You still have your seat in the Wizengamot, right?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes slightly. "Yes, just like you. Why?"

"And you still have sway with the other Slytherins on the panel, don’t you?"

Malfoy stood a bit taller. "Yes, I do. Why ask what you already know, Granger? You're not stupid."

Hermione smiled slightly. "Next week, they’ll propose the Dobby Foundation’s bill for elven rights. Your vote could make all the difference."

Malfoy scoffed. "You want me to support that ridiculous notion? When will you give up? They want to work, Granger."

"I know they want to work! The law won’t stop them, it will ensure they're paid. You’re going to vote in favour, and you'll tell your cronies to do the same."

Malfoy laughed in her face. "Merlin, Granger, you do have a sense of humour. Who would've thought?"

Hermione fought her annoyance. "I’m serious, ferret. If you don’t, I’ll turn you in for illegal possession of a True Time Turner. How long would that get you in Azkaban? Five to ten years?" She sweetened her tone. "I bet little Scorpius would love to have his father around, don’t you think?"

Malfoy went pale. "How did you find it?" he asked, barely audible.

Hermione frowned. "It was around the neck of that hideous gold statue of your ugly ancestor."

"It can only be found by someone meant to find it, someone who doesn’t want to use it for their own gain. But now you’re using it just that way."

Hermione bristled. "Maybe because I’m not doing it for myself, but for the most vulnerable beings!"

Malfoy didn’t respond, just stared at her.

"So, we’re understood?" she pressed.

Malfoy continued staring as if seeing her for the first time.

"Perfect!" Hermione clapped him on the shoulder. "I’ll put it back once you’ve done your part. Great catching up."

She strode into the vault, a new spring in her step. Blackmail, she thought, had always been useful in her fight for the greater good. The people she blackmailed were never innocent. So what if Malfoy had lost his wife? He had watched her being tortured in his home without uttering a word of apology in over ten years. Absent-mindedly, Hermione stroked the faded scar on her right arm.

*

The night before the hearing on the protection of house-elf rights, Hermione downed three-quarters of a bottle of wine before finally falling asleep. She had rehearsed her speech dozens of times, even in front of Ron, Harry, and Ginny, and once while babysitting Vicky and Teddy, who were the least impressed.

When she finally drifted off, she tossed and turned, her nightgown riding up to her waist.

She was rudely awakened by fingers brushing her neck. She jumped up with a scream, shoving the intruder into her bookshelf. Grabbing her wand, she pointed it at the figure, relaxing slightly when she saw white hair.

It was just Malfoy, trying to steal back the Time Turner. Impressed by his bravery, she watched as he stood, pointing his wand at her. They stared at each other, neither moving.

Malfoy finally spoke. "No one has to get hurt. Just give me back my property, and I’ll pretend this never happened."

"Excuse me? You broke into my flat!" Hermione snapped. "If anyone should be generous about forgetting things, it’s me!"

"Just give it to me, now, Granger!" he shouted.

"It’ll be back in the vault in less than twelve hours if you do as I say. How can you be so against elf rights?"

"It’s a matter of principle. I will not be blackmailed, especially not by a M—"

"I dare you, Malfoy, finish that sentence," she hissed.

More staring ensued.

"Accio Time Turner."

"Protego." They cast their spells simultaneously, Hermione easily blocking his attempt.

"Do you really think you stand a chance against me?" she challenged, and they began flinging harmless spells at each other, dancing around the room like in a practice duel.

Hermione was impressed by Malfoy’s creative and fast casting. But she should have expected his sneakiness when he cast a spell at Crookshanks, who had wandered into her bedroom to investigate the noise. Trying to protect her cat, Hermione jumped in front of him, her wand at the ready. 

Malfoy’s Flipendo directed at Crookshanks hit the Time Turner dangling from her neck instead.

It started spinning faster than she could see.

Oh no. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.

Hermione’s eyes met Malfoy’s, the last thing she saw before the world started fading around her.

She fell through time, clinging to Crookshanks as her only anchor.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Time blurred around Hermione, moving faster than it ever had during her third year at Hogwarts. There was nothing her eyes could latch onto, no clues to tell her if she was moving forward or backward in time, or how far she was going. The flickering light around her seemed like a constant, maddening switch between night and day. All she could be sure of was that it seemed to go on forever.

Her breath was coming in sharp, painful gasps; the air was unnaturally thick, and each inhale felt like a battle. The only thing keeping her steady was the thought of Crookshanks. If breathing was hard for her, it had to be even harder for him. She held her orange cat tightly, murmuring soothing words into his fur.

When the world finally began to take shape around Hermione, it was dark, so dark she could barely make out her surroundings. All she knew for certain was that she was no longer in her flat. She was outside and she was falling.

Seeing the ground rushing up far too quickly for any spellwork, she twisted her body, just managing to shield Crookshanks from the brunt of the impact. Hermione hit the ground headfirst, and everything went black.

***

Tom

Tom knew Walburga Black had been sleeping with the Muggle he was staring down at for almost two years. He had probed her mind after she suddenly stopped pursuing him sexually, something she'd done for years. The man in question was a neighbour of hers at Grimmauld Place No. 13, and while Tom supposed he was good-looking by common standards, he didn't find anyone truly attractive. He understood, however, that people liked symmetrical faces with balanced features. Faces like his own.

The Muggle at his feet, however, was nothing like him, he was blond, blue-eyed and sporting a rather ridiculous little moustache. The man remained completely still as Tom rifled through his mind, planting a fabricated memory of lusting after Amara for months, intermingled with real fragments from her murder.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Tom petrified and levitated the poor soul, then Apparated to Malfoy Manor for the first Knights' Meeting there since Abraxas had requested they move it from his estate out of respect for his late wife.

Tom strode through the gates, the Muggle floating behind him, his face a carefully controlled mask betraying none of the satisfaction this evening was giving him. All of his original knights and the new followers were already waiting. The knights were seated around a large table, while the others stood behind them in silence. Taking his place at the head of the table, Tom slammed the frozen Muggle down in front of Abraxas.

"Who is that, my lord?" Abraxas asked, swallowing hard.

"A gift for you, my friend," Tom replied in his usual calm tone. "The murderer of your wife."

The room fell deathly silent. Abraxas' grey eyes fixed on the petrified man. "Is he a Muggle? As suspected?"

"Oh, I don't know," Tom replied, turning his attention to the room. "But perhaps one of you could enlighten us." He scanned the faces and minds of his twenty-odd followers. He expected Walburga to step forward, but she only clenched her fists, staring fixedly at the far wall. Surprisingly, it was her husband, Orion Black, who spoke.

"I know him, my lord, that's our neighbour!" He turned to his wife. "It is, isn't it, dear?"

Walburga pressed her lips into a hard line, cursing her husband feverishly in her thoughts. "Perhaps. It’s hard to tell with those Muggles. They all look the same to me," she replied, her tone carefully neutral. Tom could, of course, read every panicked thought running through her mind, but he admired her composure.

"Interesting, Walburga," Tom said, leaning back in his chair. "I thought you might recognize this Muggle, considering you’ve been shagging him for months behind your husband's back. But excuse me, that was my mistake." Gasps filled the room. "Thank you, Black, for identifying the attacker."

Orion looked as though Tom had just told him he was about to die. Cheating was a sore spot for many couples, Tom knew, though he had never felt that kind of attachment with any partner.

"Did you really think I wouldn’t see you in his mind?" Tom continued, directing his gaze at Walburga. "You on your knees, or getting fucked from behind?" She had dared to lie to him openly, in front of everyone. She deserved a little public humiliation and whatever else her husband might do to her later.

The silence grew heavier; no one dared move or speak. Walburga’s face remained impassive, and Tom’s respect for her rose a fraction from the abyss it had sunk to when he discovered her intimacy with a Muggle.

Tom shook his head slightly, as if disappointed. "So, I think we have some torturing to do. You are all dismissed," he paused, "unless anyone has urgent matters to discuss?"

He looked around at his knights, not really expecting a response, when Nott cleared his throat. "Actually, yes, my lord. Just moments before I arrived, the Department of Mysteries recorded a potential incident."

"Oh no, Stellan, don't take that nonsense seriously," Lestrange cut in. "Lovegood always sees an 'incident' in the smallest things that aren't there."

Nott shook his head earnestly. "No, I think this time it’s real. He showed me the report, and it looks like a ripple in time, at least, what we think a ripple would look like, since we’ve never actually recorded one..."

"You’re rambling, Nott. Stop talking," Tom said quietly, but Nott immediately fell silent. "But I do want to hear more about this incident. You can join Abraxas and me in the dungeon. Avery, Sallow, you as well. The rest of you can go." With a wave of his hand, the doors swung open, and his followers hurried out with small bows and curtseys.

***

Hermione

Hermione’s head throbbed with a pain that felt as though it was splitting her skull in two, pulsing in a relentless, rhythmic beat. She could not recall ever experiencing such a severe headache. She couldn’t even remember what might have caused it. Had she neglected to eat or drink, absorbed in her books again? Or had she, Harry, Ginny, and Ron gotten thoroughly sloshed at the pub? Perhaps she had once again pushed herself too far, experimenting with advanced magic?

If only the pounding would stop, she thought. And that noise. What was that noise? The screeching sound was familiar; she heard it daily. Crookshanks, she realised. Was he hungry because she had forgotten to feed him? Or was it the migraine muddling her thoughts? There was something else too, a sensation like wind whipping through her hair.

With an immense effort, drawing on reserves she didn’t know she had, Hermione opened her eyes. Thank Merlin, there were no bright lights. She could just make out the orange fur of her beloved cat in the dim light. At that moment, though, she didn’t feel particularly fond of him as he was swatting at her face with his paw, which did nothing to alleviate the pain.

The moment she opened her eyes, Crookshanks stopped, and she managed to lift herself slightly, groaning from the pain. She surveyed her surroundings. She was lying on a flat rooftop, the view oddly familiar, but at the same time, completely different.

Hermione groaned again, trying to piece together where she was, but it was a futile effort with the pounding in her head. At least she could feel the coolness of her bracelet on her left wrist. She had recently restocked her mini potions, and the Phoenix Flame Elixir seemed the perfect remedy for her current state. But the bracelet wasn’t the only thing she could feel on her hands.

Still confused, she looked down at her hands, feeling a sharp sting in her left palm. She lifted it closer to her eyes and saw a small piece of glass lodged in the flesh. Carefully, she pulled it out, examining it closely and then glancing around for its source.

Broken glass and goblin-wrought silver.

It all came rushing back.

The True Time-Turner.

Hermione’s heart seemed to stop for a moment, her mind reeling.

The shock.
She couldn't.
Wouldn't.
Just...

It was broken.
Wherever she was, her way home lay in pieces.
She had really, really messed up.
And her head was still pounding.

Everything was too much.

Faced with what might be the greatest catastrophe of her life, an achievement in itself, given she had been tortured and nearly murdered three times fighting Voldemort, she did the only thing that made sense. She screamed.

She screamed into the night, calling the name of the only man she could blame for this disaster.

"MALFOOOY!"

She cursed his name, his house, the ground he walked on, his hair, his mother, his father, all his ancestors, his wealth, his vault, his face, his seat in the Wizengamot, his illegal time-turner, his secrets, and most of all, his infuriating, stupidly perfect hair.

When her voice finally cracked and her headache grew too intense to continue shouting, the realisation hit her like a cold wave.

There was no one else.

No one knew where she was. No one would come to save her. Malfoy was the only one who knew what had happened, and even if he wanted to help, he couldn't. She had taken the only known True Time-Turner without a destination.

She was on her own. She had to get herself back home.

Hermione drew on the example of her friend Harry Potter, who always managed to keep his cool in even the most desperate situations. He had inspired her so often to stay calm under pressure.

Carefully, she closed her hand around the largest piece of glass with some temporal sand still clinging to it. With her other hand, she grabbed her wand, which she spotted lying on the ground beside her, and brought the little red charm on her bracelet back to its original size. Now that she could see the liquid in the vial, she uncorked it and downed the potion in one swift swallow. The headache dissipated almost immediately, and her hands tingled as the wounds began to heal. She transferred the remaining, precious time sand into the now empty vial and closed her hand around it. It was less than half the original amount, which was obviously not ideal, but it sparked a thought.

Hermione stood on shaky legs and moved closer to the edge of the roof. The view looked somewhat like it did from her flat, but not quite. There were no significant skyscrapers, just a lot of cranes, and construction seemed to be everywhere. Peering down at the street, she saw cars, old-fashioned, but cars nonetheless. There were streetlights, but they didn't look like the usual electric ones she was accustomed to. They might even have been gas lamps.

She sighed. So, she had gone back in time, sometime in the 20th century. That wasn’t too bad, she thought, trying to find a positive angle. Judging by the amount of construction and the style of the cars, she guessed it was definitely after the Second World War.

Taking a moment to breathe deeply, she tried to think. Crookshanks rubbed himself against her bare legs, as if sensing her turmoil. First things first: she needed shelter, a safe place to set up a time-travelling base. The muggle world seemed the best place to hide. She needed somewhere to sit and write down her thoughts. She had her wand and the remnants of the Time-Turner; that was all she needed to handle the situation.

Before she knew she was a witch, Hermione and her parents had often visited the theatre in London and had once stayed at Claridge’s Hotel, which had fascinated her because of its long history, dating back to the 1850s. So, wherever she had landed in the 20th century, she knew it would be there.

“I’m going to find us a cosy room, my sweet,” she told her cat. Crookshanks rubbed himself against her legs again in response.

“And then I am going to make a plan to get us back home.” She infused her words with all the conviction she could muster. After all, she was Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age. She had always succeeded in everything she put her mind to, and this would be no different.

Wasting no more time— hah —a slightly crazed giggle escaped her lips as she took the cloak charm from her bracelet, returned it to its original size, and pulled it over herself after a quick Scourgify to clean the worst of the blood from her head. With Crookshanks held carefully, still clutching the glass vial containing the time sand, she performed a graceful twirl and Apparated to an alley near the grand hotel she remembered.

She emerged from the alley, barefoot, with Crookshanks in her arms, and took a moment to admire the imposing façade of Claridge's Hotel. It looked just as it did in the 1990s: impressive and elegant, with its grand entrance, decorative canopy, and large, well-aligned windows across a clean, well-kept stone exterior that gave it a classic and luxurious feel.

The doorman held the door open for her, though he gave her a curious look. Hermione wasn’t sure how common it was for a young woman to walk around with a cat in this time, but she didn’t care. She had thinking to do, and she needed a safe space for it.

She walked briskly through the opulent lobby and approached the front desk, where a young man with slicked-back brown hair greeted her politely. "Welcome to Claridge's Hotel, madam. How may I assist you?"

Hermione kept her wand ready beneath her cloak. "Could you please tell me the date? I've just arrived from Australia and seem to have lost track after so much travel." She replied in her best Australian accent, one she could still manage effortlessly after her years spent there with her parents.

"Certainly, madam. It's the 8th of August. Would you like to check in?" he responded with professional politeness, without looking at her too strangely—just another guest. Hermione knew her next question might change that.

"Ah yes, and what year again? I’m terribly forgetful," she asked sweetly, reading his name tag. Mr Sloan.

He hesitated, uncertain if she was joking, but he answered anyway. "It's 1952, madam. Are you alright?"

"Of course, how silly of me," she said lightly. "I’d like a room with a good desk and a view of the courtyard, for an unlimited number of days."

Mr Sloan quickly pulled out pen and paper, his professional demeanour returning. "Of course, Miss…?"

"Granger," Hermione supplied.

"Very well, Miss Granger," he said, "I'll just need your passport and payment for the first week."

Hermione smiled at him while discreetly casting a strong Confundus Charm. While he was disoriented, she snatched the pen and paper, filled in fabricated details, and ticked the payment box, handing them back just as he came to.

Mr Sloan blinked, slightly dazed, but then smiled as if nothing had happened. "Very good, Miss Granger. Robertsen will show you to your room on the seventh floor. Will you need any assistance with your luggage?"

"No, my luggage got lost on the way," she lied smoothly. "It should arrive in a few days."

"How unfortunate. Do you need anything for your cat? Bowls, perhaps? Some steamed fish?" he offered helpfully.

"Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you. And a late dinner for me as well, please. A fish dish, if possible."

"Certainly, Miss Granger," he replied, gesturing to a younger man, Robertsen, who would lead her to the lift that was already waiting.

A few moments later, Hermione found herself in room 713, a spacious and luxurious room with a large bed, a deep bath, and an even larger desk. All in all, it was perfect for her needs. She felt a pang of guilt for essentially stealing from the hotel, but survival was her priority. The quicker she solved this, the sooner she could get home, and that was all that mattered.

She sat at the desk and was pleased to find a pen and a notebook waiting. She began by carefully sketching the ancient runes from the broken fragments of the Time-Turner, trying to piece them back together in the correct order, translating as she went. Some runes were familiar; others were entirely new to her. Eventually, she deciphered the inscription: Per Temporis Undas, Fatum Navigat. Through the Waves of Time, Fate Sails.

Hermione had never been a believer in fate or divination, but she sensed that the inscription was significant to the Time-Turner’s magic. She decided not to question it further for now.

As she stared at her translation, two possible paths home emerged in her mind.

Option A: Steal the intact True Time-Turner from this era and use it to return home, risking altering time forever by taking it from this timeline and the Malfoys.

Option B: A more complicated, but less drastic approach would be to extract a small amount of temporal sand from the 1952 Time-Turner in the Malfoy vault, refill both with time-stabilising crystals, and potentially leave both Time-Turners intact, preserving the timeline as it was.

Either way, both options hinged on accessing the Malfoy vault at Gringotts. Breaking in once was madness; attempting it again would be suicidal. Hermione valued her life in 2008 too much to go down that path again.

She needed a new plan, a new way into the vault. One that didn’t involve robbing Gringotts. Again.

***

Tom

Stellan Nott hurried after Tom, Abraxas, Sylas, Vesper, and the floating, petrified body of the Muggle, descending into the dim, cold dungeons of Malfoy Manor. The air was thick with damp and the lingering scent of fear. Tom could hear the crackle of the parchment in Nott’s sweaty hands as the tension mounted.

“Go on then, have at it, Abraxas,” Tom said, gesturing toward the familiar interrogation cell that had seen countless victims over the years. Abraxas guided the body inside, busying himself with positioning the Muggle in the iron chair. The chains, enchanted to spring to life, rattled in anticipation. Abraxas didn't hear Tom's quiet words to Sylas and Vesper.

“I want you to make sure he follows through. Remind him of the vow he made at Amara’s funeral,” Tom said, his voice low and commanding. He placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders, a subtle but unmistakable show of dominance. “Keep him focused. Make sure he believes in what he’s doing. I don’t want him lost in doubt or drifting into a dark place. Understood?”

They nodded in unison, their faces set with determination. “Yes, my lord,” they replied.

Tom watched them stride purposefully toward the cell, then turned his attention to Stellan Nott, who was hovering nervously at the edge of the group. Nott’s discomfort was palpable; he was smart, but his conscience was an inconvenient weight. Tom knew he had to handle him carefully, pushing just enough, shielding him when necessary.

“Let’s hear it, Stellan. What’s in your report?” Tom said, impatience bleeding into his tone. “Keep it short.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Stellan replied hastily, adjusting the thick-rimmed glasses that perpetually slipped down his nose. Behind them, the sounds of Abraxas’s harsh commands filled the room, punctuated by the Muggle’s anguished screams as the Imperius Curse forced him to mutilate himself.

“The Unspeakables detected several temporal anomalies earlier today,” Nott began, glancing nervously at the scene unfolding in the cell. He flinched as the Muggle’s screams reached a fever pitch, then continued, his voice unsteady. “The Chronal Flux was disrupted; their clocks reversed briefly. And there were Temporal Distortion Waves throughout London, unpredictable weather, sudden shifts in the wind, all indicative of a significant time disturbance.”

Stellan paused, his excitement momentarily overshadowed by the gruesome spectacle behind him. Tom’s gaze remained cold, unwavering, as he urged Nott to continue with a terse gesture.

“Lovegood believes it could be the largest time-jump ever recorded,” Nott said, regaining some of his composure.

Tom’s interest piqued, but only slightly. He knew time travel had its limits, restricted to brief, inconsequential journeys. “And what of their ability to trace it? Can they find whoever is responsible?” he asked, his tone a blend of scepticism and annoyance. Time travel was not an area of his expertise, nor one he deemed particularly useful.

Nott shook his head, hesitating as he explained. “Not exactly, my Lord. They can’t determine whether someone travelled to this time or left it. There’s no clear trail to follow, no guarantee they’re even still here.”

Tom’s expression hardened; Nott’s report was quickly losing its value. “So, in essence, they have nothing? No actionable intelligence?”

Stellan nodded reluctantly. “For now, yes. They might uncover something if they investigate the affected areas further, but—”

Tom cut him off with a dismissive wave, already turning toward the stairs. “Inform me if that happens. Until then, it’s a waste of time.”

Without waiting for a response, Tom strode briskly to the manor gates, the sounds of the Muggle’s tortured cries fading behind him. He Apparated away in a flash, disinterested in the petty details of Nott’s report.

He had more pressing matters to attend to, like the elusive diadem hidden somewhere in the vast forests of Albania. The weight of his ambitions pressed upon him like a relentless storm, driving him forward. He had no time for inconsequential anomalies or the failures of others. He needed tangible success, a victory that would bring him closer to immortality and power.

Today, Tom thought, would not be wasted on trivial pursuits. He would not allow it.

***

Hermione

After hours of meticulous planning, Hermione had finally pieced together her elaborate scheme, her thoughts punctuated by the nostalgic rhythms of her favourite '90s and '00s music playing on the iPod she’d cleverly kept as a charm on her bracelet. As the first rays of sunlight crept over the rooftops of the hotel, she felt a surge of determination. She’d opted for the less invasive route as her Plan A, a strategy that required cunning, resourcefulness, and no small amount of improvisation.

The plan would begin with a carefully crafted backstory. Hermione would introduce herself as an expatriate from Australia, a country far removed from Britain in both geography and culture. She already knew the quirks and intricacies of life Down Under, thanks to the many years she’d spent there with her parents. It was the perfect cover, allowing her to lean on her extensive knowledge while deflecting suspicion about her real origins.

Next, she’d need to secure some local currency to blend in seamlessly. The last thing she needed was to draw attention by parading around in modern clothing from the 21st century. She'd have to acquire period-appropriate attire, familiarise herself with the societal norms of the early 1950s, and keep her ear to the ground for the latest wizarding gossip of the time. For now, blending in was crucial; Hermione couldn't afford any missteps that might expose her true identity.

With her disguise in place, Hermione’s next challenge would be to find a Goblin willing to repair her True Time Turner. This wouldn't be easy; Goblins were known for their exacting nature and unquenchable greed. The price for such a task would be steep, no doubt, but she was prepared to meet it. To fund this, she planned to market her knowledge of advanced potion recipes, formulas that were decades ahead of what the current wizarding world knew. The prospect of earning substantial galleons excited her; it was a surefire way to amass the funds needed to pay the Goblin’s exorbitant fee.

As her plans advanced, Hermione would have to get close to the current Malfoy family. She struggled to recall the name of Draco's grandfather. Was it Abraxas Malfoy? Yes, that was it. As far as Hermione was concerned, she’d decide whether to charm or hex the Malfoys based on how helpful they proved to be. She needed access to their resources, including the temporal sand from their vault, a critical component for her True Time Turner.

The ingredients list was long and daunting. She'd need goblin-wrought silver, the key to crafting powerful magical objects. Stabilising time crystals from Switzerland would be essential to prevent any unfortunate time-related accidents. Hermione also needed a Storm Glass to serve as the vessel for the new hourglass, and of course, the temporal sand. The Malfoy Vault was rumoured to house such treasures, and she was prepared to employ any means necessary, including the Imperius Curse if it came to it, to secure them.

Once all the materials were gathered, she’d commission the Goblin to repair the True Time Turner, paying handsomely with the galleons earned from her potions sales. And then, finally, she’d be able to return to her own time, her mission complete and her story set in wizarding history.

As she mapped out her strategy, a sense of excitement stirred within her. This was more than a mere mission; it was a chance to make her mark on history in a way no one else had. If she could pull this off, she wouldn't just be remembered as the brightest witch of her age, she’d transcend that. Hermione Granger would be unparalleled, unsurpassed, the witch who not only mastered time but also defied it.

Content with her plan and feeling a good deal less anxious, 37.8% less, to be exact, Hermione finally allowed herself to unwind. She slipped into a warm bath, the tension of the day easing from her shoulders. As she climbed into bed, the sun now fully risen, Hermione’s mind wandered to the alternate paths she could take. If Plan A didn’t work, she could always resort to using the original True Time Turner as a last resort.

But the prospect of crafting something entirely new thrilled her. There was a distinct appeal in creating a True Time Turner of her own design, a feat that would cement her legacy far beyond the achievements of any witch or wizard before her. Hermione’s eyelids grew heavy, but her heart buzzed with the exhilaration of the challenge ahead. She was ready to redefine what it meant to be exceptional.

And with that, she drifted off to sleep, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

Chapter Text

Hermione

"Robertsen, wait!" Hermione called out to the bellboy from the previous night as she hurried down the halls of the 7th floor, wrapped in a hastily transfigured curtain from her room.

"Yes, Miss, how can I help you?" asked the skinny, young man. He was so polite that Hermione briefly felt guilty for immediately sending an Imperius curse his way, but she didn't have the luxury of time for niceties. Gringotts had opened hours ago, and she needed to hit the ground running.

"Tell me, who is the richest single man staying at the hotel right now?" she ordered, keeping her wand firmly trained on him.

Robertsen's face remained impassive as he replied in a monotone voice: "That would be Rupert van Rousten, Miss. I believe he's distant Dutch royalty."

"And what room is Mr. van Rousten staying in?" Hermione asked, her wand still raised.

"Opposite yours, actually, Miss Granger. It's room 712." He pointed down the hall to the room directly behind Hermione.

"Perfect, thank you!" She beamed at her poor victim. "Obliviate."

Hermione walked back in the direction of her room and van Rousten’s, while the bellboy returned to his duties, completely oblivious to the encounter.

When Hermione knocked on the door of room 712, she wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this.

Rupert van Rousten was a tall, dark blonde man in his late 30s or early 40s, with sparkling clear ocean-blue eyes. He was quite handsome in a "I only wear Ralph Lauren for my Polo matches" kind of way. He exuded that certain laissez-faire attitude that only the very rich seemed to have, like they truly couldn't be bothered by the trivialities of everyday life.

"Oh, good morning, you can put the breakfast over there," he said with a subtle Dutch accent, gesturing towards the table by the lounging area, all the while smiling directly at Hermione. He hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t carrying any breakfast.

Without hesitation, Hermione hexed him just as she had done with Robertsen moments earlier. As the familiar relaxed expression, courtesy of her favourite Unforgivable, took over Mr. van Rousten’s face, she returned his smile and kindly asked him to hand over all the cash he had in his room. Rupert, of course, obliged without delay.

At first, Hermione was disappointed by the £225 he handed her, but after factoring in inflation, she calculated that it might be worth around four to five thousand pounds by 2008 standards. Not a bad haul for five minutes' work.

She smiled as she obliviated her generous benefactor. “Thank you for your most generous donation, Sir. The orphanage will greatly appreciate it.”

She hoped the line about the orphanage would help cover her tracks. Not that he seemed to care. When Rupert shook his head briefly, the same charming grin returned to his face.

“No problem at all, darling. Would you like to join me for breakfast? I ordered far too much for one man to eat and still call himself a gentleman,” he said, stepping aside to welcome her into his suite.

Had she not been completely confident in her Obliviation abilities, skills praised even by the St. Mungo’s Healers who’d helped reconstruct her parents' memories, she would’ve been concerned that van Rousten remembered something of their conversation. But there he was, perfectly at ease, as though she hadn't just stolen a wad of cash from him.

Still slightly baffled, Hermione replied politely, “Oh no, thank you. I have meetings to attend in the city now. But have a great day, Mr. van Rousten.”

She was about to turn and leave to deal with the actual time-travelling business that needed tending, when van Rousten caught her left hand in his.

“Tonight then?” he asked, his eyes hopeful. When Hermione didn’t immediately decline, he pressed on. “Please, have dinner with me, Miss. You’d certainly be the highlight of my trip to London, and I’d love to hear more about your good cause.” He added with a twinkle in his eye, “Might donate again, too.”

Uncertain of the exact worth of the cash she had pocketed, Hermione considered his proposal. It wasn’t like she couldn’t easily deal with him if things went awry. After all, he was just a man, and she was a witch and a powerful one at that.

“Well, it is my duty to advocate for the children, so…” Hermione began, but she was caught off guard when Mr. van Rousten lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her - ring free - ring finger. He didn’t linger, though, and promptly released her hand as she stopped speaking.

“It’s decided then, Quaglino’s at eight,” van Rousten declared, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “For the children, of course!”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed. She had to admit, for the first time since landing in 1952, she wasn’t consumed by the utter disaster she was in. Instead, she was amused. Flirt or not, Rupert van Rousten had somehow managed to pique her curiosity and, dare she admit it, flattered her just a little.

***

Tom

Tom’s morning began in the half-light of his small flat in Knockturn Alley, a place he had chosen for its shadowy solitude and the ease with which he could slip in and out unnoticed. The room was a testament to his fastidious nature, containing only the bare essentials: a white-sheeted queen-size bed, a weathered armchair, and a shelf lined with carefully selected tomes on dark magic. A single photo of him and his Knights on their graduation day, captured endlessly throwing their hats in the air, grinning broadly, sat beside a stack of parchment where Tom had been meticulously recording his latest theories on finding the lost diadem of Ravenclaw. His recent excursions into the forests of Albania had yielded little, but he was nothing if not patient.

He dressed with precision, smoothing the fabric of his tailored black robes before stepping out into the alley’s morning gloom. His mind was already ticking through the day’s tasks as he made his way toward the Leaky Cauldron.

At the Leaky Cauldron, Tom ordered his usual morning tea, his fingers briefly brushing the rim of the cup as he unfolded the Daily Prophet . His gaze flicked over the headlines with disinterest until a section on domestic magical affairs caught his eye, admonishing the population about the dangers of time travel and the misuse of Time Turners, ending with a list of contact persons at the Department of Mysteries. So, Stellan Nott had been right, it hadn’t been just one of Lovegood’s whims.

The familiar sounds of the pub washed over him, and he couldn’t help but overhear the excited voices of families preparing for their children’s return to Hogwarts. For a moment, he was transported back to his school days, not to the classrooms, but to the hidden corners of the castle, where he and his Knights of Walpurgis had plotted their late-night explorations and mischief, their bond forged through shared secrets and darker ambitions. He remembered leading them on a particularly daring escapade to the Forbidden Forest, where they had experimented with spells they had no business attempting, pushing the boundaries of what magic could do.

Finishing his tea, Tom folded the newspaper neatly and set it aside. He rose to leave, his mind already turning to his day at Borgin and Burkes. His position there provided him access to items of great power and history, but it also allowed him to continue his discreet inquiries about ancient magical artefacts, particularly those connected to Hogwarts.

As he stepped into Diagon Alley, the buzz of back-to-school shopping filled the air, and he allowed himself a rare, tight-lipped smile. The ordinary witches and wizards bustling around him were blissfully unaware of the paths he was treading, the secrets he was uncovering. But Tom was not like them. He had been special from the beginning, and soon enough, the world would come to know just how special.

His thoughts flickered briefly to the diadem, still hidden in the depths of the Albanian forest, and he silently vowed to redouble his efforts to find it. The world might be preoccupied with mundane affairs, but Tom had a destiny to fulfill, one that did not involve the trivialities of daily life, the distractions of love and relationships, these were weaknesses he had never understood nor indulged in, seeing them only as pitfalls that could entangle even the greatest of wizards. They were mere detours, ways for the lesser-minded to fritter away their potential. 

The power he sought was out there, waiting for him, and he would not rest until it was his.

***

Hermione

The Leaky Cauldron was just as she remembered from 2008, its hustle and bustle thrilling her in a way she hadn’t expected. Hermione paused to soak in the absolute one-in-a-million chance she had. No one knew she was here; she was invisible. She had skimmed a Daily Prophet lying neatly folded and abandoned on one of the tables as soon as she arrived at the dingy pub. A short paragraph on the dangers of time travel caught her eye. Surely, it was purely coincidence, she told herself, no one knew she was here. As a matter of fact, she felt instantly more at ease in the wizarding world of 1952. Even her makeshift outfit, the transfigured curtain from her hotel room, sort of fit in with the 1950s fashion.

She eavesdropped on conversations about politics. Minister Moon was currently unpopular among the old wizarding families for pushing through the Goblin Ware Protection Act or how a certain Fleamont Potter had just launched a brilliant new hair product (Hermione herself knew firsthand how brilliant it was). She also overheard talk of Hogwarts starting again soon, as it was already the middle of August. The sight of parents and their children shopping for school supplies tugged at her heart, a dull ache rising as she thought of Harry, Ron, and her own parents. But she couldn’t afford to lose focus. With a deep breath, she set out for Gringotts to tackle her first tasks of the day.

As Hermione stepped into Diagon Alley of 1952, she was enveloped by the bustling crowd of wizards and witches preparing for the new school term. Excited chatter filled the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh parchment and potion ingredients. The facade of Gringotts, towering over the shops, gleamed with an almost untouched brilliance, its golden doors reflecting the polished school trunks and brand-new broomsticks carted by eager students. Goblins at the entrance, dressed in neatly pressed waistcoats, observed the scene with sharp, calculating eyes. A nearby wireless radio crackled with a broadcast of Celestina Warbeck's latest hit, adding a cheerful hum to the air of magical anticipation.

Walking through the imposing doors of the bank, Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the familiar warning etched into the stone:

Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.

As a child, she had thought anyone trying to rob Gringotts was an utter fool. Now here she was, plotting to become a two-time offender. But then again, she had stolen a time-turner for no good reason at all and accidentally landed in 1952, so it appeared she was an idiot anyway.

Reaching the front desk, she addressed the ancient-looking goblin, whose nameplate read Grivlasch. He had white hair sprouting from his ears and nose and a moustache as impressive as Harry’s uncle’s, though his head was completely bald. He looked at her with utter boredom.

“Good morning, I would like to exchange some British Ordie’s paper money,” she said, affecting her best Australian accent, just in case anyone was listening.

“I only speak Gobbledegook or English,” the goblin replied, his black eyes daring her. He then mumbled under his breath in Gobbledegook, “Stupid foreigners, not even a vault holder at this bank, should kick them out.”

Hermione had encountered many rude goblins in her life, but this one took the cake. He couldn’t know she had learned Gobbledegook for her training as a curse-breaker, but she was still a paying customer. She knew for a fact that, by keeping the exchange rate the same for over a hundred years, the goblins made quite a profit from Muggle parents. Keeping her cool, she replied politely.

“Of course, I am in possession of 225 British Pounds in bills that I would like to exchange into Galleons, please,” she said, now mimicking a posh English accent.

“Right away, Miss,” replied the goblin, writing in the large book on the front desk. When he finished, he called out to a much younger goblin at one of the desks to the left side.

“Griphook, get the Miss 45 Galleons and 16 Sickles.”

Hermione was surprised to see a very young Griphook rush towards her, his bright, wide eyes full of ambition as he carried a small pouch with her money. His uniform hung loosely on his small frame, and despite his youthful features, there was already a sharpness in his gaze that hinted at the shrewd goblin he would become. Hermione couldn’t help but smile. Despite his ruthlessness during their break-in all those years ago, it was oddly comforting to see a familiar face.

Griphook was about to hand her the pouch when Grivlasch intervened.

“The Muggle money, Miss.” He extended his long fingers to Hermione, as if she had been trying to dodge this part of the transaction. But not even his attitude could dampen Hermione’s spirits. Forty-five Galleons was quite a good start for what she needed to accomplish, and she happily handed over the bills.

Grivlasch scrutinised the bills closely before stashing them away, his lazy wave the only sign that Griphook could finally give her the pouch.

“Cheers, mate,” she told the young goblin in her best Australian accent, still smiling. Griphook eyed her warily, and she turned back to the senior goblin.

“One more question: Who could I ask if I wanted to employ the services of a goblin silversmith?” she inquired in a somewhat quieter tone.

Grivlasch turned to her slowly, assessing her from head to toe before he answered, “Gringotts goblins are taking a break from slaving away for your kind. Not that you could afford it anyway.” Arrogance dripped from his tone.

If only he knew, Hermione thought, but she pressed on. “But what about the Goblin Ware Protection Act? Isn’t this the best time to offer services? Prices must have gone up immensely in the last year!” she exclaimed, only for the bitter goblin to wave her off dismissively.

“No one here will work for you, witch. You’d better leave now.”

And with that, he turned back to his notebook, ignoring her entirely.

Feeling slightly deflated, Hermione turned on her heel, her curls bouncing as she strode toward the exit. As she passed Griphook’s desk, she gave him a nod.

“Have a great day, Griphook,” she said, expecting nothing in return. But to her surprise, he responded politely.

“You too, Miss. If I may recommend The Witch’s Grin for lunch, the Dragon’s Breath Chilli is delicious, and the service is excellent.”

Hermione paused, taken aback. A dozen goblins were now staring at them.

“Eh, thank you. I’ll keep it in mind,” she replied.

She did not know the pub, but was suspecting it could only be located in Knockturn Alley, if the name was anything to go by. She doubted the food was genuinely good, but she had a feeling the mention of "service" referred to something else entirely.

She left the bank with renewed energy. She had two hours to do her shopping before an apparent lunch appointment awaited her.

***

Tom

Tom once again realised how much he despised his place of employment. Borgin and Burkes, as always, greeted him with a musty chill as he stepped through the door. The shop was just beginning to stir; the dim morning light cast long shadows through the grimy windows, revealing a labyrinth of dark, dust-laden shelves crowded with sinister artefacts, each one steeped in a history as twisted as the alley it called home. Shrunken heads dangled from the ceiling, their hollow eyes following his every move, while cursed trinkets and hexed jewellery glinted malevolently from glass cases. In the far corner, a large, tarnished mirror stood draped in black velvet, its surface rumoured to show the darkest desires of anyone who dared to gaze into it.

The only thing Tom disliked more than the scruffy shop floor was its owner, Caractacus Burke, a greedy man with no real sense for business. It was a strange clash of characteristics, and yet Tom considered it fortunate. Burke’s lack of business acumen had led him to hire Tom as a salesman, trusting the young man’s charm to boost sales. Tom, however, had his own agenda, shamelessly using his position to quietly acquire items of interest without Burke's knowledge.

Tom moved through the shop with purpose, his fingers trailing over the cold, enchanted metal of a cursed dagger and a bloodstained chessboard that played itself when no one was watching. He paused briefly to admire a collection of ancient scrolls before making his way to the back room, where the more dangerous items were kept, items that had caught his eye for reasons far beyond their price. Among them was a small, obsidian amulet that pulsed with a faint, ominous light, an artefact that supposedly absorbed the life force of those around it and a silver goblet etched with ancient runes that hinted at a forgotten bloodline. Both were powerful in their own right, but it was the collection of rare and forbidden books that truly captured his interest. He had carefully selected volumes on blood rituals, dark charms, and ancient curses, each one offering new insights into magic that could increase his power and, most intriguingly, his body’s durability.

As the day wore on, Tom’s anticipation grew for the arrival of a particularly important delivery from Istanbul. He had arranged for a shipment of rare books on blood rituals, texts so old and dangerous that few dared to even speak of them, let alone read them. The delivery was expected to arrive any moment, brought by a reliable contact named Jeffreys, a man who understood the value of discretion. These books held the promise of unlocking ancient secrets: Rituals that could fortify his body against age, injury, and death itself. As he waited, Tom’s mind wandered to the possibilities these new texts could offer, each ritual another thread in the intricate tapestry he was weaving to ensure his immortality.

The bell above the shop door rang, pulling him from his thoughts. He looked up, his expression betraying nothing but a cold, calculated interest. However, it wasn’t the delivery he had been expecting. Instead, it was just another customer, a witch with bushy brown hair, scanning the shelves with a discerning eye. She was not the sort of person who usually frequented the shop, and for a moment, Tom’s curiosity piqued. But with Burke himself on the shop floor today, he decided she was not worth his attention. Burke could handle a single customer; Tom had more pressing matters at hand. Turning away, he resumed cataloguing the stock, his mind already drifting back to thoughts of the rituals that would soon be at his fingertips.

***

Hermione

By lunchtime, Hermione had acquired a basic yet high-quality potions kit from the Brewer's Nook, a chic 1950s capsule wardrobe from Madam Malkin’s, and the most essential ingredients for her personal potion recipes or at least those that were available in London. She had also skimmed through the Daily Prophet’s last month of editions in the archives at the Scrolls & Spells Library. From the librarian, she learned that The Witch’s Grin was indeed located in Knockturn Alley.

So, for the first time in her life, Hermione deliberately ventured into Knockturn Alley on her own. As she turned the corner of the cobblestone streets, she had to admit that the Knockturn Alley of 1952 was much less sketchy and run-down than she remembered from her own time. The shops closest to Diagon Alley looked rather interesting, and she planned to scour the curiosity and antique shops for something made of goblin-wrought silver for her Time Turner repair project after lunch.

The Witch's Grin was a narrow, dark stone building tucked away in a shadowy corner of Knockturn Alley, with a faded wooden sign hanging crookedly above the door, carved with the image of a sly, grinning witch. The windows were small and grimy, emitting a faint, eerie green glow from within, which obscured the view inside. The pub itself was dimly lit by flickering candles stuck into skull-shaped holders, with a low, smoky ceiling and walls lined with dusty shelves of cursed trinkets. Worn, mismatched tables and chairs were scattered haphazardly across the uneven stone floor.

As soon as she had adjusted to the dim light, a waiter called out to her, “Take a seat, sweetness, I’ll be right with you.”

The waiter, a part-Hag creature, had a hunched back and leathery, green-tinged skin, with wisps of wiry hair sprouting from his pointed ears. His yellow, cat-like eyes gleamed with a mischievous glint as he slithered between tables, his forked tongue occasionally flicking out to taste the air.

Very much not at ease, Hermione took a seat at a table not too far from the entrance and tried not to notice the grime and dust all over the pub’s interior. She thought about what she was supposed to look out for, or who. Would someone approach her, or did she have to talk to every goblin who might show up?

There was an elderly witch at the bar engaged in a lively conversation with the bartender, another witch with grey hair loosely braided down her back. In a back corner, two wizards and someone who Hermione assumed to be a vampire were engaged in a game of cards, while a hooded figure in another corner was having a meal alone. No goblins at all.

Hermione leaned back in her seat when the waiter came to her table. “What can I get you, sweetness?”

Grossed out by the waiter's choice of endearment, Hermione wasn’t sure she was hungry after all. But remembering Griphook's advice, she ordered the Dragon’s Breath Chilli, suspecting it might be part of the secret meet-up. Still, she couldn't bring herself to try the brown mass that was delivered to her a short while later, not when everything at Claridge’s had been so visually appealing and delicious.

She stirred aimlessly in her food, eyeing the pub door like a hawk, when finally the short figure of a goblin entered. This one was skinnier than other goblins Hermione had seen before, with long red hair and a beard braided neatly. He appeared middle-aged and had the unmistakable signs of manual dexterity and labour written all over him. This was her guy. Her assumption was further confirmed when Griphook walked in behind him. Griphook’s black eyes found Hermione instantly, and he led his companion to her table.

“Miss Granger, good to see you’re not as obtuse as the rest of your kind,” Griphook said as he seated himself opposite her. Eyeing the bowl in front of her, he continued, “Although, I might have to retract my earlier statement, did you actually eat that?”

Hermione snickered. A funny goblin, who would have thought? “Good to see you again, Griphook. And no, I did not eat it.”

Thinking about it now, perhaps Griphook was just trying to mess with her so the other goblins wouldn’t suspect him of actually helping her.

“Hermione Granger, nice to meet you.” Hermione extended a hand to the other goblin, who had just taken a seat next to Griphook.

“Tranlok,” the red-haired goblin replied, shaking her hand briefly. Hermione noticed he didn't return the greeting. She knew wizard-goblin relations were always strained, but the early fifties seemed to be an especially difficult time. She resolved not to let it deter her from her plans. She just had to be very careful and polite about it.

“So, Tranlok here is the best silversmith not employed by Gringotts that your gold can buy services from,” Griphook said, cutting right to the chase.

Hermione saw Tranlok’s spine straighten a little at Griphook’s words. He was proud and likely for a very good reason. Wizardkind had never been able to replicate the craftsmanship of goblins.

Hermione smiled. “Yes, indeed. I need a certain object made of a very delicate nature.”

Tranlok nodded. “What is it?” English did not seem to come as easily to him as it did to Griphook, Hermione noted. She made a mental note to keep her words simple.

“Well, I cannot disclose that at this time. It has to remain a top-secret project,” she explained.

The goblins exchanged glances. Tranlok asked in Gobbledegook, clearly directed at Griphook, “Are you sure about her? Sounds not very secure.”

Before Griphook could answer, Hermione chimed in, also in Gobbledegook, “I know how this sounds, but it’s very important to me. I can pay in advance.”

Surprise was visible on their faces, but they recovered quickly. “For a private creation I cannot put my name on, the price is steep,” Tranlok continued in his native language.

“I know that. Name your price, and I will pay it,” Hermione responded simply. She had known this would come at a cost. With the current political climate, asking a goblin to work on something for which they would receive no recognition was a big ask.

Tranlok nodded once, giving Griphook a knowing look.

“A thousand Galleons,” Tranlok switched to English.

Relief washed over Hermione. She had expected it to be so much worse.

“Okay, I can pay that. Soon, at least.”

“And…” he continued, Hermione’s heartbeat picking up again, “there is an item only a wizard or witch can get for me, one I desire the most. It was forged by my ancestor Ragnuk the First.”

Something about that name rang a bell in Hermione’s memory. When she looked at Griphook, it clicked, and she realised what Tranlok was asking for. Hermione scoffed.

“You want the Sword of Gryffindor,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Tranlok nodded.

Hermione couldn't believe her luck or lack thereof. How on earth was she supposed to get that? She couldn’t just stroll into Hogwarts and ask the Sorting Hat to hand it over. No, that wasn’t how someone earned the sword. She groaned inwardly. Another impossible task to add to her already impossible and lengthy to-do list.

“What if I can’t get it? I’m not a Gryffindor, you see,” she started, but Griphook intervened, “You heard the offer, Miss Granger. We will not negotiate,” his tone unrelenting, matching the stubborn look in both their eyes.

“Fine. I’ll get it,” she agreed, defeated.

The goblins’ postures visibly relaxed, and they wasted no time getting up from their seats.

“Send an owl for Griphook when you have it,” Tranlok said, turning to leave.

“Goodbye, Miss Granger,” Griphook said in farewell.

“Goodbye,” Hermione replied, already deep in thought about how to procure the sword.

As she watched the two goblins leave, she realised just how daunting this mission was turning out to be. So many things could go wrong. If even one of her tasks failed, she would be stuck in this time forever.

Hermione shook her head, no, she couldn't start thinking like that. She had to keep her goal in mind as the only possible outcome. Negative thinking would only lead to negative results. Life had thrown her into impossible situations before, and she had overcome all of them. She would not back down; she would not falter. No, she would succeed. There was simply no other way. She had always been focused and determined. Everything that was distracting or unimportant could be postponed or disregarded. She had to succeed in her endeavours. So she would.

And because she had no other choice but to continue with her plan, Hermione got up, left a few Sickles on the table, and strode towards the door. The sword might be a task for another day, but she could start by selling her potion recipes to make money. A thousand Galleons was a lot, and, as her parents always liked to remind her when she was little, money didn’t grow on trees.

*

Hermione had talked to every witch or wizard willing to listen about her potions at the apothecaries and potions shops in Diagon and Knockturn Alley, managing to start a few promising leads and make some useful contacts. She was beginning to feel a glimmer of hope when she came across a shop she knew all too well from her time, though she had only visited it once.

Borgin and Burkes looked just as run-down as it would fifty years later. The sign’s letters were flaking, and through the grimy window, she could see that the small shop was crammed with obscure items and dark artefacts. How they managed to stay open without being shut down by the Ministry was a mystery to her. But it also meant they might stock things that no law-abiding store would touch, goblin-wrought silver, for instance.

Seeing no one inside, Hermione pushed the door open on a whim and stepped cautiously over the threshold. Mentally, she was running through her list: Goblin-made silver, money from selling her recipes, or maybe something more opportunistic, like the names of shady customers who might have the artefacts—or the cash—she needed to get back to her time. Her life. Her family and friends.

Thinking of Ron and Harry, Hermione glanced around at the borderline dark items that filled the shop. Shrunken heads dangled from the ceiling, one was larger and uglier than the rest, resembling a giant’s head, and she was reminded uncomfortably of Grawp. She turned to a shelf on her left, filled with vials that no reputable apothecary would stock. She was about to pick up a small glass vial containing a metallic liquid she knew was unicorn blood when a voice behind her cleared its throat.

“Looking for something specific?”

Hermione spun around to face the man addressing her. He appeared to be in his late fifties, severely balding but with the remnants of his dark hair worn long. He smiled at her with yellow but disturbingly straight teeth, and though it seemed like he was trying to charm her, there was something decidedly off about it.

“Caracterus Burke, owner of this humble establishment. How can I assist you?” he introduced himself, extending a gloved hand. Hermione shook it, though she didn’t enjoy the sensation.

“Hermione Granger. I’m looking for objects made of goblin-wrought silver. Do you have any in stock?” she asked, her tone casual but confident, as if the size or cost of the item were no concern. Mr Burke pursed his lips.

“I’m afraid such items are quite rare these days, what with the recent reform and all,” he replied, a hint of discomfort in his voice. “Anything else that might interest you?”

Of course, the Goblin Ware Protection Act. It was turning out to be her biggest headache.

Hermione nodded, feigning understanding. “Well, actually, there might be. But this is my priority, so if you ever have something in stock, please owl me immediately.” Mr Burke bowed slightly and walked towards the counter at the back. “Certainly. Let me note down your address.” He rummaged through a drawer under the counter, pulling out a book filled with lines of customer names. Jackpot, Hermione thought. This notebook was probably the most valuable item in the shop. She gave him her hotel address, and to his credit, Mr Burke only hesitated for a second at the mention of the Muggle establishment.

He recovered quickly. “So, what’s the other item of interest you mentioned?” he asked, keeping his tone respectful. “Oh, I’m not only looking to buy; I’m also looking to sell. I have a few potion recipes of my own invention and would be willing to part with them,” she said with a smile, her eyes sparkling as if hinting at something dangerous. Mr Burke stared at her for a few seconds, only snapping out of it when the shop door swung open and a wizard levitated several heavy wooden boxes into the store. Mr Burke cursed under his breath, muttering about the delivery man’s refusal to use the back door, before calling out, “Tom, Jeffreys is here with the delivery from Istanbul.”

Hermione turned towards the direction of Mr Burke’s call.

A young man emerged from the narrow hallway behind Mr Burke. He was dressed in plain but well-fitted black robes, and he was the single most beautiful man Hermione had ever seen. 

She tried to take all of him in with a quick scan, and for a split second, her eyes landed on the gold ring with a black stone on his right hand. Startled, her gaze snapped up to his eyes, and she knew instantly. She knew who he was and what was on his hand.

Time froze. Or Hermione did. One of the two.

Nothing and everything was happening in her mind all at once. All her usual, useless thoughts were silenced by one single, screaming voice. Tom. Tom Riddle. Tom fucking Riddle.

When Harry had told her about Tom Riddle, he had said the man was good-looking. She now knew that was the understatement of the century (the 20th and 21st in her humble opinion). His hair was as black as Harry’s, but unlike Harry’s, his was perfectly styled and slightly wavy. It accentuated his pale skin, which seemed to have never known a blemish. He was tall and rather slender, his high cheekbones, hollow cheeks, and strong brows only enhancing his ethereal appearance.

Hermione was vaguely aware she was staring. She was also vaguely aware that Caracterus Burke was speaking to her again.

But all of that faded when Tom Riddle’s dark eyes locked onto hers.

Panic surged through her, spreading to every pore as he held her gaze, unblinking, for what felt like an eternity compressed into a single, unbearable moment.

How could she not have considered this? Harry, Ron, and she had spent hours theorising about the possible locations of his Horcruxes and what they could be. Borgin and Burkes was probably mentioned in every single one of those conversations without exception. Of course, in 1952, he was working here as a shop boy.

Hermione realised she had forgotten how to breathe. Whether it was the shock of seeing a young Lord Voldemort, the sheer perfection of his beauty, or her own reckless stupidity, she couldn’t say. All that mattered was that she was utterly unable to control her expression or the erratic thundering of her heart. Mr Burke called her name repeatedly, snapping her out of her stupor, and she forced herself to look away from Riddle and back at the shop’s owner.

“Sorry, what?” she asked, still sounding far too dazed, and painfully aware that Riddle’s eyes were still on her. Desperate to escape the increasingly disastrous situation, she forced a smile, nodded at whatever Burke had been saying, and made her way to the door with as much composure as she could muster.

Before wrenching the door open with a little too much force, she stole one last glance at Riddle. His eyes were slightly narrowed, fixed intently on her. She turned her back on him and walked to the nearest corner, where she broke into a sprint and Disapparated as soon as she was out of sight.

***

Tom

Tom stayed late enough that Burke let him close up again. He forced himself to wait a full seven minutes after Burke left, before retrieving the customer collection book to check her name and address. There it was, scrawled in Burke’s small handwriting: Hermione J. Granger, Claridge Hotel, Room 713.

He tapped his finger twice on the line with her information. He was in a dilemma. Originally, he had planned to spend the night reading the books on ancient blood rituals that had arrived with today’s delivery. Yet, he found himself unable to stop thinking about the strange, curly-haired woman.

Objectively, there was nothing particularly remarkable about her. Visually, she was a little above average but still rather plain. With brown hair, brown eyes, simple robes, and a calm voice that he had only heard faintly from the back room while she spoke to Burke.

Indeed, nothing about her had seemed special, but the expression of surprise, shock, and finally fear on her face when she had looked at him, at him and his ring, was intriguing. Tom spun the ring on his right hand thoughtfully. He wondered if she recognised it, or if they had met before. Did she know one of his knights who might have told her stories? Was she aware of the symbol or the Gaunt heritage? Or was she simply starstruck? It sometimes happened with witches and wizards, Merlin save him. And what on earth did she want goblin-made silver for? She wasn’t even looking for a specific item, just the material.

He had to know. There was no choice.

So, Tom placed the book where it belonged, cast his usual notice-me-not charm on it, closed the shop, and secured it with the minimal spells Burke required: an anti-intruder jinx and a caterwauling charm. If it were his store, he would have used far more effective and much darker protections. Tom could not tolerate others touching what belonged to him.

As Tom stepped out into the cool night, he took a deep breath before casting a disillusionment charm so potent that he became invisible. With a quick turn on the spot, he vanished from sight.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Back in the safety of her hotel room, Hermione paced endlessly, her mind racing as she muttered to herself—and occasionally to Crookshanks—about what had just happened and how reckless she had been. She had been so focused on her pursuit of repairing the True Time Turner that she had suppressed any considerations of other possible dangers.

She had known there was a risk of encountering people who might know her future self, but as long as she convincingly sold her Australian persona and kept a low profile, she hadn’t seen it as a significant threat. After all, who would remember a foreign potioneer who spent just a few weeks in London forty years ago?

Meeting Griphook had been unexpected, but it hadn’t unsettled her. Wizards and witches all looked the same to goblins; it was highly unlikely he would remember her. And even if he did when they met in 1998, he would know she was worth her word—a woman of honour, resilient and courageous, who would deliver the Sword of Gryffindor. Hermione would make sure that only Tranlok and her were the only living beings in this time who knew what she was trying to forge anew.

But standing face to face with the most malevolent person she had ever known had been entirely different. She had lost her composure. If anyone were to discover her true origins, it would only be due to her own foolishness. Hermione did not consider herself a foolish person in general, but this oversight shook her confidence. She began to doubt whether she could truly pull off her plan.

Now that she had encountered two familiar faces—or rather, one familiar and one drastically unfamiliar in the case of Tom Riddle—so very quickly, it opened up many more possibilities for her situation. She knew people she trusted from this time. The first name that came to mind was Dumbledore. He was a teacher at Hogwarts now. She could try to contact him. If there was anyone she could trust with her secret, it would be him. He would know what to do.

But no.

She already knew what to do. She had a plan, and she needed to stick to it. Revealing where she came from could result in anything from being thrown into Azkaban to altering the timeline irreversibly.

Failure was simply not an option.

*

Hours passed as she paced, her thoughts circling back to her encounter with the young Voldemort, analysing every moment and recalibrating her plan. Ultimately, she concluded that the encounter changed nothing—except that she would need to be more cautious when approaching the Malfoys. She wasn’t entirely sure how close they were to the Dark Wizard in the '50s. That would require some digging.

When she glanced at the clock, she realised she was late for her meeting with van Rousten. She was certainly not in the mood for a flirty evening. The unexpected encounter with the most evil wizard she had ever known had shaken her to her core. She could still feel the dampness of her panicked sweat clinging to her skin, a reminder of her misstep. Not wanting to risk any further errors, she decided to skip the meeting and instead intercepted van Rousten as he returned to his room, visibly in a foul mood. His look of surprise was almost gleeful when she opened her door and stepped in his way.

Hermione didn’t give the unlucky but wealthy man a chance to speak before she hit him with her by now standard Imperius and Obliviate combo. Five hundred pounds richer, she wiped her existence from his memory entirely. It was better this way—for him and for what she had to do. She had no time for meddling with Muggles during her stay in 1952. She couldn’t afford distractions.

*

That night, Hermione could not sleep. In the darkness of her room, her mind spiralled with pessimistic thoughts, all circling back to those piercing black eyes. He knows, she thought. Of course, it was impossible—an irrational fear, she tried to convince herself. But this was Voldemort, after all. The most powerful wizard she had ever encountered. It was ludicrous; no one could possibly know anything. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling. Her tendency to overthink often turned obsessive, especially under stress.

What troubled her even more than envisioning endless worst-case scenarios—where he would kill her on the spot the next time they met—was the undeniable fact that he was stunningly handsome. She struggled to reconcile the striking young man she had seen today with her memories of the monstrous figure from the Battle of Hogwarts, with his red eyes, snake-like face, and ghostly pallor.

She wondered, again and again, what had he done to himself to end up like that. Was it solely the Horcruxes, or had he performed other unimaginable rituals that altered his appearance so drastically? In all her years of travel and research, she had never come across any spells or rituals that would cause such a transformation. It must be the Horcruxes. Harry and Ron had mentioned that the locket had an eye inside it when Harry opened it. She would wager that when he made the locket a Horcrux in a few years, his eyes would turn red.

What a waste, Hermione mused to herself. With looks like those, he could have made a witch very happy, if only he had the capacity to love.

Unable to sleep, she threw off her blanket, dressed quickly, and stepped onto her balcony. She took a deep breath of the cool night air, then disapparated back to Knockturn Alley.

***

Tom

From the rooftop opposite Miss Granger’s room in the rectangular hotel building, Tom found he could comfortably sit on the ledge and look directly into Room 713 through the balcony windows. The curtains were wide open, providing him with an unobstructed view of nearly everything inside, save for the bathroom—partly a relief and partly a disappointment when she stepped inside to change into her nightgown. He couldn’t hear anything happening in the room, not even with a spell to heighten his senses. Whenever he attempted to listen in, his ears filled with a quiet humming that was strangely soothing. Interesting spellwork, he mused, adding another layer of intrigue to her. It wasn’t often he encountered magic he didn’t recognize, especially from someone his age or younger. Soon, he told himself, he would meet her again, and whether she told him willingly or he had to force the truth from her, he would get the information he needed.

For now, Tom was content to watch. Later, he would research how to circumvent this rather effective spell. Miss Granger resumed her pacing, now dressed in a flimsy nightgown that seemed better suited for a continental witch than a proper British one. He couldn’t help but wonder if she might be American.

His curiosity piqued briefly when she halted her pacing to peer through the peephole of her door. Moments later, she opened the door, and for an instant, he glimpsed the outline of a tall man before the door closed again. Less than a minute later, Miss Granger returned with a handful of Muggle money, which she counted briskly before tossing it onto the desk. She then went to bed, tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, clearly agitated and unable to sleep.

Tom contemplated breaking in, compelling her to divulge whatever was troubling her so intensely. Was it him she was fretting over, or something else entirely? He considered torturing her, or perhaps probing her mind—or both. In the end, he opted against it, deciding to try a more patient approach first. He continued to watch, confident that his opportunity would present itself soon enough.

Eventually, even the sight of her restless form, and her tanned skin peeking through the delicate fabric, became monotonous. Just as he was about to leave, she suddenly rose, disappeared into the bathroom, and returned fully dressed. She opened the balcony doors, and he heard a soft sigh escape her lips. She looked exhausted but resolute. With a flick of her wand, she disillusioned herself and looked straight in his direction—or perhaps through him. Within moments, she vanished completely with a faint pop.

Tom smiled to himself, realising he now had the perfect opportunity to ensure he never lost track of her again.

Tom flew the short distance to her balcony—he had long since dispensed with the need for a broom. He had despised those contraptions ever since his Hogwarts days, inventing a spell for true flight to spite Abraxas and the other Knights who had once mocked him for his lack of skill on a broomstick. They wouldn't dare mock him now; he had seen to that. He approached the balcony doors slowly, wand at the ready, probing for protective spells. Strangely, there was… nothing. Perhaps she wasn't as extraordinary as he’d initially thought. Slightly disappointed, he flicked his wand to open the door, still careful not to touch anything directly.

An orange monstrosity of a cat hissed as soon as he stepped inside. Tom fixed it with a deadly glare, considering killing it for daring to challenge him. But as it quickly backed down, he decided to let it live—this time. Its sudden disappearance might raise questions he wasn't ready to answer.

Adrenaline surged through him, as it always did when he was engaged in something dark or illicit. He savoured the sensation while scanning the luxurious Muggle hotel room. The absence of protective spells was explained by the lack of personal items. She had nothing here that seemed worth safeguarding. A few robes hung neatly in the closet, brand-new toiletries were lined up in the bathroom, and that flimsy nightgown lay crumpled on the counter. He brushed the back of his hand over the cool silk, wondering where one might find such a scandalous little garment.

The only objects that sparked a flicker of curiosity were a small metallic square with two thin, white cords trailing from it—a Muggle device, though one Tom didn’t recognize, despite his not-so-distant past in the orphanage. He picked it up and pressed the large round button in the centre, but it did nothing. Setting it back down, he turned his attention to the desk.

A few sheets of paper lay scattered across it, covered in neat, feminine handwriting. He tried to read them, but no matter how hard he focused, the words swam nonsensically before his eyes. When he glanced at the paper from the corner of his eye, the text seemed clear enough, but looking at it directly rendered it unreadable. So, she did protect her private things—but it didn’t matter. He would unravel her secrets soon enough.

Tom considered the room's sparse contents, searching for the ideal item for his needs. His gaze settled on the dressing table, where a few scattered items caught his attention. There it was: nestled among a bottle of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and a battered-looking hairbrush were dozens of hairpins strewn about the tabletop. He picked one up, noting with faint amusement the sheer number of pins needed to manage her wild curls.

With a deft movement, he began tracing a complex figure-eight pattern in the air with his wand, followed by a sharp flick toward each hairpin. He whispered, “Invenio Tenebris,” as he spelled each of the thirty-seven pins, one by one.

Satisfied, Tom straightened, certain that soon he would know everything about this mysterious witch—her secrets, her movements, her plans. After less than ten minutes in her room, he left as quietly as he had arrived, sealing the balcony doors behind him. He disapparated with a soft crack, eager to immerse himself in his books on ancient blood rituals.

***

Hermione

As Hermione neared Borgin and Burkes, a faint tremor ran through her hands, though she steadied herself quickly. Approaching the shop, she carefully probed for protective spells. Surprisingly, there were only a simple anti-intruder jinx and a caterwauling charm set up—too easy for any competent cursebreaker. Hermione had countered these particular spells so many times that she didn’t even need Arithmancy to calculate the counter-spell; it was second nature to her by now.

For the third time in her life—and for two of those times, even before she was born—Hermione stepped inside Borgin and Burkes. She moved swiftly to the counter, her eyes scanning for the dark blue ledger containing contacts and transactions. At first glance, it was nowhere to be seen, and she nearly concluded that it was absent. But then, a faint ripple in the air caught her attention. Focusing intently, she noticed it lying innocuously in the drawer where she had just looked. It was cloaked with one of the most refined notice-me-not charms she had ever encountered—perhaps even better than her own, which she hadn’t thought possible. It was precisely this charm that had earned her a perfect score on her Southern Star finals in Charms, leading to her being honoured with the Order of the Eucalyptus, an accolade reserved for the top student of the class at the Australian Academy of Magic. She smiled at the memory, but her smile faded when she considered who might have cast the charm so expertly. She forced herself not to dwell on that thought, copying the book, erasing her name and address from the original, and replacing it in the drawer with the charm restored to its former perfection. She shrank her copy and attached it to her charm bracelet, where she kept nearly all her current possessions.

Hermione turned her attention to the rest of the shop and the back rooms. She wasn't sure what she hoped to find, but she searched the space thoroughly nonetheless. The back area consisted of a cramped kitchen with a small table and two chairs, along with a relatively spacious office. A leather sofa and three shelves lined the left wall, each with hooks mounted beneath. One for Borgin, one for Burke, and one unmistakably for Riddle. She recognized his immediately. Three compact notebooks sat on the shelf, and below hung a single trench coat—Muggle fashion of the time, she noted, likely worn when he wandered through Muggle London.

Later, she would rationalise her actions by telling herself that anything personal of his could provide insights into his dreams with a Dream Distiller Potion and harmless Dream Walking. She might even uncover secrets he wouldn't willingly share. But at that moment, she acted almost impulsively, picking up the coat and rifling through its pockets. There she found a silver cigarette case, engraved—of course—with serpents, accompanied by eucalyptus and a few other native Australian plants. Odd. She felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to take the case, as if by possessing something of his, she could reclaim some measure of what he had taken from her.

Why was she so drawn to him? She knew better than to meddle with Tom Riddle. They had defeated him once, after all.

But at what cost?
Could there have been a better way?

No. She forced those thoughts aside. She had one mission: to get back home.

Yet still, she shrunk the sleek case and attached to her bracelet, left the shop, and restored the protective spells.

*

Back in the safety of her hotel room, Hermione settled into the comfortable chair by the balcony, scanning the names in the dark blue ledger while idly clicking open and shut Tom Riddle’s silver cigarette case in time to the rhythm of "If I Could Turn Back Time" by Cher. She tried to ignore the various handwritings, especially the neat, elegant script that gradually dominated the pages. Her mind worked tirelessly to recall any information she had on the hundreds of names listed until she reached an entry that set her strategic mind into overdrive.

Professor Horace Slughorn - Two doses of Acromantula Venom - 32 Galleons - 3rd August 1951

Professor Slughorn was notoriously well-connected and had a keen interest in potions. Who better to buy her recipes or direct her to someone in wizarding Britain who would? She recalled from her sixth year that Draco Malfoy had boasted about his grandfather Abraxas being in the Slug Club as well. If she could secure an invitation to one of Slughorn’s famous gatherings, she might earn quick, clean money and obtain a formal introduction to the one person she needed to reach in order to get back to her time, killing two birds with one stone.

Hermione knew Slughorn hosted an end-of-summer party for his most esteemed alumni before the return to Hogwarts. She also knew her future professor Lachlan Woodcroft—her Potions Master at the Australian Academy of Magic and her mentor—had attended Hogwarts with Slughorn. She racked her brain for everything she remembered about the Head of Wattlebranch House. From his autobiography, she recalled that Woodcroft became a guest lecturer at AACOM in the late 1940s, though he spent most of his time with the Indigenous magical community in the bush, researching the effects of local plants on widely acclaimed potions.

She quickly set to drafting a letter, weighing each word carefully. She would need to adjust her age slightly, making herself younger if Woodcroft was to be presented as her lecturer in advanced potion-making. Every detail had to align perfectly. As her quill scratched across the parchment, she wrote in what she hoped was a convincing 1950s style, mindful of every nuance.

Dear Professor Slughorn,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. Please pardon the unexpected nature of my correspondence. I understand that Professor Woodcraft is currently preoccupied with his extensive research in the Australian Bush, rendering him unable to attend to matters as seemingly trivial as an introduction of one of his former pupils.

Permit me to introduce myself; I am Hermione Granger, a former student of Professor Woodcraft. During my final year at the Australasian Academy of Magic (AACOM), he was my most esteemed lecturer, greatly encouraging me to adopt innovative and creative approaches in the realm of potion making.

Upon sharing my post-graduation travel plans with Professor Woodcraft a few years ago, he strongly advised that I seek you out, should my travels bring me to Britain. He spoke most highly of you, extolling your unparalleled connections within the European Potion Making community. It is his belief that you might offer valuable assistance and insight into my recent potion inventions.

It would be an immense privilege to present to you my three most notable innovations and to receive your esteemed opinion on them.

I am deeply grateful for your time and consideration and eagerly await your response.

Yours sincerely,

Hermione Granger

*

Hermione slept in late the next day, her body exhausted from the tension and exertion of the previous day. She curled up in bed with Crookshanks, letting herself pretend, just for a moment, that everything had been a bad dream and that she was in her own flat in 2008. But reality couldn't be ignored forever. Over breakfast in the hotel after sending the letter to Slughorn from the public Owlery in Diagon Alley, Hermione mulled over her next move. She was cautiously optimistic that Slughorn would help her, and if he did, she needed to be prepared.

To impress Slughorn, she would need to showcase her potioneering skills. During her final year at the Australian Academy of Magic, she had focused her independent study on inventive potioneering under the guidance of Professor Woodcroft. Her crowning achievements were the True Invisibility Potion and the Dreamtime Distiller, which had been her thesis projects. While only one potion was required, Hermione’s drive for excellence led her to submit both, ensuring top marks.

The True Invisibility Potion granted its user one minute of invisibility per drop, far superior to any Disillusionment Charm. Its potency could be extended with additional drops, making it a valuable asset in 1952. Hermione had already acquired the necessary ingredients for this potion and considered it a strong candidate for her demonstration to Slughorn.

The Dream Distiller facilitated lucid dreaming and allowed the drinker to enter and control the Dreamtime—a spiritual realm explored at the AACOM. It also made Dream Walking easier. However, Hermione doubted it would garner much interest in British Wizarding London, where such spiritual pursuits were less prominent. She quickly ruled it out.

After graduation, Hermione spent time in Brazil with healer and herbalist Sofia Almeida, perfecting her second and most powerful invention, the Phoenix Flame Elixir. Later, she worked in Provence with Étienne Duval, a master wandmaker, where she created her Wandwood Elixir. Each potion was unique and demonstrated her innovative approach to magic.

The Phoenix Flame Elixir also seemed to her like it would be highly sought after. It temporarily granted the user regenerative abilities and boosted magical power. However, brewing it required a donated Phoenix feather and the essence of the Kakadu plum juice. Both were rare and would require a lengthy trip.

Lastly, her Wandwood Elixir, designed to enhance the strength and flexibility of wands, required powdered Australian blackwood bark, another ingredient she could only source back in Australia. This potion, too, would likely intrigue the British wizarding audience.

With her mental shopping—or rather, stealing—list finalised, Hermione returned to her room and tapped the ruby heart charm on her bracelet, a graduation gift from her parents, and murmured, “Portus.” She felt the familiar pull behind her navel as the mobile Portkey transported her to the site where her parents' house in Australia would one day stand.

***

Tom

Tom sat at the head of the long table, surrounded by his nine original Knights. It was a typical Sunday meeting late in the morning at Malfoy Manor. Seven years had passed since their time at Hogwarts, and Tom sensed that some of his followers had drifted. Without the confines of the common room, they had begun to see themselves as independent leaders, especially as they recruited new members to their inner circle. Tom could not allow this budding insubordination to fester. He had already brought Abraxas to heel; now, the rest needed to fall in line.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the dining room, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. For a fleeting moment, Tom's mind wandered to the young Miss Granger, but he quickly dismissed the thought. His focus needed to be absolute.

“Stellan, why don’t you stand up for a moment,” Tom commanded, his voice calm and authoritative. Stellan Nott, a wiry young man with wavy brown hair and black-rimmed glasses, rose to his feet, visibly trembling. Of all his followers, Nott was the least irritating recently, if only because he was the most terrified of Tom—right after Seraphin Selwyn, whose chief utility lay in his ability to go unnoticed and eavesdrop on others.

“Unlike most of you,” Tom began, letting his gaze sweep across the table, “Stellan had a good idea the other day, and I’d like him to share it.” Nott visibly relaxed at the unexpected praise, his shoulders lowering. “Tell us about your idea with the Protean Charm.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Nott replied. “I was researching methods for discrete communication. I thought we could use the Protean Charm on rings that would heat up when a message needed to be sent. To outsiders, it would appear as just an engraving on the inner band—nothing suspicious.”

“Yeah right, I don’t wear jewellery,” Gideon Mulciber scoffed as Nott sat back down. Mulciber’s insolence was met with a few snickers from around the table, as he rarely took anything seriously.

Tom’s expression remained impassive. “It’s not perfect, but it’s a good start. We’ll trial it and reconvene in a few weeks to discuss improvements.” He then turned to Dolohov, his most vain follower, and said, “Quentin, I trust you to procure ten rings suitable for this purpose. And make sure they’re understated—”

Tom’s words were cut off as a searing pain ripped through his chest. He doubled over, as if yanked forward by an invisible force. His breath caught; it felt like something inside him—a serpent, perhaps—was trying to tear its way out. The urgency was overwhelming, a desperate compulsion to go somewhere, anywhere, immediately.

Abraxas leapt up, rushing to Tom’s side, shouting his name. For once, Tom lacked the strength to push him away. He struggled for only a moment before realising the source of his agony.

Her.

She had moved far away—much farther than he had anticipated and quickly. With a silent Finite , Tom ended the Invenio Tenebris spell, and the pain ceased as abruptly as it had started. Panting, he straightened up, his composure rapidly returning as his followers stared at him, wide-eyed and unnerved. Malfoy’s hand was still on his shoulder, attempting to steady him.

“What was that?” Lestrange asked, his voice tinged with shock. None of them had ever seen Tom like this before—vulnerable, not in control.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Tom replied curtly. “You are all dismissed.”

As they filed out, Tom’s mind raced. Where on earth—or perhaps beyond—had that witch gone? The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced. Even the Cruciatus Curse, which they had tried on each other, paled in comparison to the overwhelming compulsion he’d just felt. The sensation of being pulled after her had stripped him of every coherent thought.

This could not happen again, Tom resolved. Next time, he would be ready.

***

Hermione

When Hermione landed on the spot where her parents' house would be in 2008 but in 1952, it was just a stretch of moonlit pasture, devoid of the familiar comforts of home. Not wasting a moment or risking an encounter with a venomous snake, she immediately Apparated to the place she knew best in Australia.

Standing at the edge of a dense eucalyptus forest, Hermione gazed up at the towering sandstone spires of the Australian Academy of Magic. Nestled discreetly within rolling hills and bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun, the academy blended seamlessly into the rugged landscape, its honey-coloured buildings appearing as if they had risen organically from the earth itself. Even the most observant of Muggles would have missed it entirely. Ancient trees with sprawling roots wound through well-trodden paths, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The air was thick with the scent of wattle blossoms and the distant, cheerful calls of kookaburras, evoking a wave of nostalgia as Hermione took in the familiar surroundings. It was as though time had stood still, though she herself had changed profoundly since her days here.

As she approached the school's protective barriers, Hermione couldn't help but marvel at the intricate magic that guarded the academy. Unlike Hogwarts, the academy's defences did not merely rely on enchantments; it possessed a near-sentient awareness of its students and their allegiances. Each house had its own unique way of proving its members' identity, and for Wattlebranch—the house dedicated to resourcefulness, courage, and a deep connection to the natural world—the ritual was particularly symbolic. Hermione reached for a low-hanging branch of a golden wattle tree that arched over the entrance path. She plucked a sprig of vibrant yellow flowers and pressed it gently against her wrist. Immediately, the flowers glowed softly, their petals unfurling to reveal tiny, shimmering runes that danced across her skin before vanishing. The academy's barrier shimmered momentarily in acknowledgment, allowing her passage with a whispering rustle of approval.

Hermione slipped through the gate, the crunch of gravel underfoot reminding her of countless evenings spent walking these paths as a student during her seventh and eighth years after the Battle of Hogwarts. The greenhouses loomed ahead, their curved glass roofs reflecting the dusky sky. Her heart quickened at the sight. As she made her way closer, she noted the familiar rows of native Australian plants within, each chosen for its magical properties. She couldn't help but recall the nights spent in the greenhouse with Professor Lachlan Woodcroft, who had taught her to brew potions from the school's unique flora. She hesitated briefly at the door, her fingers brushing against the handle as old memories surged forward. Stealing from the academy felt wrong, but the ingredients she needed were rare and not easily found elsewhere. With a determined breath, she reminded herself of her purpose, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, her mind already calculating the quickest route to the potion supplies she sought.

Very little had changed in the greenhouses since her future memories. Hermione was in and out of the school grounds in under half an hour, now richer by a few Kakadu plums and some Australian blackwood bark. She turned on the spot and Apparated to her next destination.

Apparition from Australia to New Zealand was the farthest Hermione had ever managed. She could only accomplish such a distance if she was alone and travelling light; anything more would result in splinching. Yes, she had tried once.

At the top of Mount Ruapehu on New Zealand's North Island, Hermione looked down into the crater of the largest active volcano in the country. The scene, with ice and snow surrounding her, was breathtaking. She cast a warming charm on herself as harsh winter winds tugged at her clothes, and she focused on keeping her balance and waited for sunrise. Strands of hair ripped from the braid she had secured with a few hair pins. Standing at the precipice, with the sun just peeking over the horizon, she began the fire ritual she had learned at the Australian Academy to summon a Phoenix.

In the morning gloom, Hermione cast a powerful fire charm that illuminated the volcano in warm golden and red lights, the flames flying in a circle through the crater. She called out in a strong voice:

"Ignis Aviarium, ignis vitae,
In tenebris, aves splendet,
Ad me, Phoenix, ex flamma resurget."

(Fire of the aviary, fire of life,
In the darkness, the bird shines,
To me, Phoenix, rise from the flame.)

Ruapehu was known for being home to many kind-hearted Phoenixes, although there were fewer in the winter months. Hermione hoped to meet a very specific Phoenix, one she had encountered several times during her studies, whom she believed to be centuries old.

Holding her breath, she counted the seconds, and suddenly, a golden bird shot up inches in front of her.

There she was: Solara.

The magnificent Phoenix, gleaming gold, always liked to make a dramatic entrance. Solara was known for her playful nature and had a close relationship with the spiritual leaders of Oceania and the academy's professors. From time to time, she donated feathers or tears for the betterment of the local wizarding community. Hermione reached out her arm, and Solara gracefully perched on her sleeve. Despite the bird's weight, her claws did not hurt or damage the fabric.

Solara met Hermione's gaze, and the connection was palpable. "Hello, Solara. It's good to see you." Solara clicked her beak in response, and Hermione had the distinct impression that the Phoenix recognized her from the future.

"You know me, don't you?" Hermione asked, imagining a nod from Solara.

"Would you please be so kind as to gift me one of your beautiful feathers?" Hermione asked politely. She was certain that Phoenixes understood human language and intent. As Solara continued to stare without moving, Hermione tried to explain. "You see, I don’t belong here, and for me to get home, I need to brew my Phoenix Flame Elixir. I only need one feather, please—I can’t stay here. I miss my friends and family."

Hermione held out a vial in anticipation, but instead of offering a feather, Solara leaned over and let three teardrops fall into it. Hermione held her breath, scarcely believing her luck. Phoenix tears were almost impossible to obtain unless the Phoenix was your companion. As Solara lifted her head, Hermione whispered, "Thank you, though it's a feather I require."

Solara looked at her as if to say she knew better, and with a powerful beat of her wings, she soared into the sky.

"Please, wait!" Hermione called after her, desperation creeping into her voice. "Please, I need the feather, Solara, please!"

Tears welled in Hermione's eyes. She had been so close. Could not a single thing go according to plan? She began cursing Draco Malfoy again, blaming him for all her troubles, when a golden feather fluttered down from the sky, nearly missed in her anger. Hermione caught it with her left hand, grateful she could now begin brewing her potion.

*

Upon her return, an owl was waiting for Hermione with Professor Slughorn’s reply. Hastily, she unrolled the parchment and devoured the paragraphs:

Dear Miss Granger,

What a delightful surprise your letter was! I must say, it's not every day I receive correspondence from such a promising young potioneer with ties all the way to the far-flung shores of Australia. How intriguing it is to hear from a pupil of dear Lachlan Woodcroft—I must confess, the old boy always did have an eye for exceptional talent. If you have caught his interest, you have certainly caught mine.

It would be my pleasure to offer any guidance I can. As luck would have it, I’m hosting my annual end-of-summer soirée on the 29th of August at my townhouse in London, 7:00 PM sharp. I should very much like you to attend as my honoured guest. It will be a splendid affair, and I daresay the crème de la crème of our little community will be in attendance. It's the perfect opportunity for a young talent like yourself to mingle with some of the most influential figures in potion making—and, who knows, perhaps a few doors might open for you that otherwise remain firmly shut!

Please consider this an invitation and a most sincere one at that. I shall look forward to meeting you in person and hearing more about your work. Do bring along any of your inventions that you feel comfortable sharing; I am quite eager to see firsthand what all the fuss is about.

Until then, my dear Miss Granger, take care, and do let me know if you require anything further before the soirée.

Warm regards,
Horace Slughorn

Hermione jumped up and down in ecstasy. Splendid, indeed. She was back on track, and nothing and no one would stop her. Eager to cross another thing from her to-do list she started brewing.

***

Tom

Tom's disillusioned eyebrows creased invisibly as he watched her jump around like a child, grinning from ear to ear. This witch was mad. Brilliant, perhaps. But definitely mad.

As the witch fell asleep, exhausted from hours of potion brewing, Tom sneaked into her room, noting the continued absence of any protective spells. He stood over her, watching her sleep peacefully with her orange beast in her arms. The strange cat watched, but made no move to attack him or warn his owner of Tom's presence.

Tom contemplated ending her just because he could. Today she had embarrassed him in front of his Knights. He had appeared weak. 

It took all of his self-control not to raise his wand against her. Instead, he walked over to her desk and picked up the letter that had put her in such a great mood.

Instantly recognizing the familiar penmanship of Professor Slughorn, a smile tugged at his lips. It seemed she had ambitions involving potions and profit. Initially, he had not planned to attend Slughorn’s party, but now he was very much looking forward to it.

Tom examined the potions she had been working on, but none were familiar to him. She was evidently a skilled potioneer, and from the looks of it, quite a talented one.

Tom replaced the letter, deliberately shifting it just slightly out of place, renewed the Invenio Tenebris charms on her hair pins, plucked a hair from her hairbrush and shot the cat a deadly look before slipping out of the room.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Come Monday morning, Hermione was putting the finishing touches on her simmering potions and, by early afternoon, was out and about Diagon Alley. She vowed to stay as far away from Knockturn Alley as possible. Before heading to Madam Malkin’s for fitted dress robes for Slughorn's party, she sent the Professor another owl, expressing her excitement for the gathering, and spent some time browsing the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. In the bookstore, she could almost forget she was not in her own time. Everything was so similar to the '90s and '00s, and the familiar scent of book pages offered her a momentary comfort she hadn't felt since she had been lost in time.

Stepping into the tailor shop, Hermione noticed that the seamstress was already occupied with a customer. The blonde witch, dressed in dark blue robes that contrasted sharply with her fair skin, exuded a confident intelligence that Hermione often hoped she herself projected. Even without exchanging words, Hermione found herself liking her.

“Have a seat, dear, I’ll be right with you, as soon as I am done with Marigold” called the middle-aged seamstress from across the room, her wand deftly hemming the other woman's robes.

“Thank you,” Hermione replied, her Australian accent deliberately thick.

“Oh, are you from Australia?” The blonde—Marigold, apparently—turned to Hermione with a wide smile. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, and her flawless waves framed her face perfectly.

“Yes, indeed. Is it that obvious?” Hermione asked, inwardly celebrating her successful mimicry.

“Not at all! I’ve just got an ear for accents. What brings you to London?” Marigold continued, her gaze warm. “And I must say, I adore your curls—are they natural?”

“Thanks, right back at ya! And yes, they are.” Hermione replied, pleased but surprised. She had managed to tame her curls since her younger years, and now they shone in defined corkscrews. “I've been travelling since graduation, taking in the sights. How about you? Local?”

“Yes, born and bred here in London. Rather dull, I’m afraid. My parents never fancied the idea of me being too far away on my own.” Marigold laughed lightly, though Hermione detected a hint of bitterness. “They were more concerned with me finding a husband than making a career for myself.”

Before Hermione could respond, the seamstress, whose name tag read Sally Malkin , interrupted. “What can I do for you today, dear?”

“I need something for a fancy event—a bit of a statement piece,” Hermione replied, her mind already imagining heads turning.

“So, dress robes, then?” Ms. Malkin asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well...” Hermione hesitated, considering her options. She wanted something that would stand out.

“No, Sally, I think she wants something truly special,” Marigold interjected with a grin. She extended her hand. “Marigold McKinnon. Pleased to meet you.”

“Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you, too!” They shook hands, turning their attention back to Ms. Malkin.

“If I may ask, what’s the occasion?” Ms. Malkin inquired as she continued working.

Hermione explained about Slughorn's party, and Marigold's eyes lit up. “What a coincidence! I’m going to that very same soirée! Tell me, why the need for attention?”

“Professor Slughorn promised to review my potions work and help me network. I need to make a memorable impression if I want to sell some of my original recipes and keep funding my travels.”

Marigold nodded approvingly. “You need to look the part—a fashionable potioneer. They won’t know what hit them!”

“Some of my more adventurous clients like dress robes inspired by the latest Muggle fashion trends,” Ms. Malkin suggested, a twinkle in her eye. “Would you be open to that?”

Hermione hesitated, fingers absentmindedly brushing her right forearm where the scar still lingered. She wasn’t keen on being too closely associated with Muggle styles, as she planned to pose as a half-blood. Yet, the idea of making a striking impression was appealing. She could always frame it as an Australian quirk, she reasoned.

“Yes, let's go for it. But I’d like a classic robe to wear over it at the start—something I can take off once I’ve made my entrance.”

The three of them eagerly discussed necklines, silhouettes, and colours, with Marigold fully invested in the planning despite having just met Hermione. Hermione agreed to their suggestions of low necklines, cinched waists, and luxurious silks, but she firmly vetoed the dark green with silver stitching that Marigold suggested.

“But those are Slytherin colours, and Slughorn is head of Slytherin House!” Marigold pointed out.

“Yes, but I’m not a Slytherin,” Hermione countered lightly. “And I’d rather not make it too obvious that I’m trying to butter up Professor Slughorn.”

Marigold tilted her head, curious. “What were your house colours at the Australian Academy of Magic?”

Hermione paused for a split second. Wattlebranch colours were green and gold but Hermione saw no need for Marigold to know that. “We didn’t have any specific house colours,” she lied smoothly, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction at how easily the falsehood slipped from her lips.

Marigold’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t press further. “Well, can’t say we didn’t try. But it’s your call.”

“So, what colour will it be, dear?” Ms. Malkin asked as a new customer entered the shop, herding three young children in need of Hogwarts uniforms.

“Red,” Hermione said decisively, grinning as Marigold groaned in playful frustration.

*

When the two women left the shop together, Hermione found herself reluctant to part ways with her new acquaintance.

“Fancy grabbing a bite to eat?” Hermione asked.

“Absolutely. I’m not done trying to sway you toward that emerald green,” Marigold teased as they strolled down Diagon Alley, attracting curious glances from passersby.

“You’re wearing blue to Slughorn’s party!” Hermione laughed, gesturing at Marigold.

“Yes, but I’m a Ravenclaw through and through. Can’t let those Slytherins forget it,” Marigold said with a proud smirk. Hermione couldn’t help but think of Luna, her closest Ravenclaw friend. Luna and Marigold couldn’t be more different, but the way they both held fast to their beliefs struck a chord with Hermione. She remembered how back in the day the Sorting Hat had given her the choice, and how her stubbornness had ultimately landed her in Gryffindor.

“You’ll have to tell me more about these houses,” Hermione said. Talking about Hogwarts made her feel a little less far from home, and Marigold eagerly obliged, exaggerating the brilliance of Ravenclaw until they reached the Leaky Cauldron and snagged the last free table, tucked in a corner by the restrooms.

“So, what houses are there at the Australian Academy of Magic?” Marigold asked once they were seated.

“There are four, just like at Hogwarts,” Hermione explained. “I was in Wattlebranch, known for loyalty and empathy, brilliant at potion brewing. Then there’s Flamewing, brave but often reckless, Stormgale, who are explorers and elemental magic enthusiasts, and Earthsong, the spiritual and wisdom-seeking ones, a bit like your Ravenclaws.”

“That’s where your love for potions started?” Marigold inquired, intrigued.

“Yes and no,” Hermione said, thinking back. “I’ve always had a knack for it. I brewed a perfect Polyjuice Potion in my second year.” She left out the part about turning into a half-cat; that detail didn’t seem necessary.

“Second year? That’s impressive!” Marigold exclaimed, eyes wide. “Slughorn will be over the moon.”

“Do you think so?” Hermione asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Absolutely. You’re just the sort of talent he loves to brag about,” Marigold reassured her.

“So, what do you do for work?” Hermione asked, steering the conversation towards Marigold, whose face lit up instantly.

“I’m a writer for the Daily Prophet,” she said proudly. “Only started recently, though. Before that, I was at Witch’s Weekly.”

Hermione nodded, genuinely impressed but wary. She couldn’t help but think of Rita Skeeter, who would’ve thrived in the gossip columns of Witch’s Weekly. “That’s brilliant! You must know all the goings-on in the wizarding world.”

Marigold laughed. “I suppose you could say that.”

“I’ll grab us some drinks, and then you have to tell me who I should befriend—and who I should steer clear of—next week,” Hermione said, heading to the bar.

When she returned with butterbeers, Marigold launched into an animated rundown of the who's who for the upcoming party. “If I were you, I’d make a beeline for Fleamont Potter—brilliant with potions and inventions—or Evangeline Sharp. She owns a string of apothecaries, and her grandfather was a potions professor at Hogwarts before Slughorn. But avoid Dorian Dagworth.”

“Why’s that?” Hermione asked, intrigued.

“He’s a talented potioneer, but he’s recently joined a... let’s call it a ‘members-only club.’ Very hush-hush, and if you ask me, nothing good will come of it.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. “What kind of club, exactly?” Hermione pressed, her heart quickening. Could Marigold mean the forerunner of the Death Eaters? Was the inner circle already forming around Tom Riddle?

Marigold took a thoughtful sip of her butterbeer before answering. “Back at Hogwarts, there was this little clique of Slytherin boys—Slughorn’s favourites, mostly. But they always seemed... off. Not just the usual snobbery, but something darker, if you know what I mean. Some of them gave me the creeps.”

Hermione nodded, masking her inner turmoil. The club must have been the earliest stirrings of what would become the Death Eaters. If Tom Riddle was involved, it was a dangerous development, even this early on. She chose her next words carefully, not wanting to reveal her knowledge. “Do you know who’s part of this club now?”

“Hard to say,” Marigold shrugged. “It’s not just Slytherins anymore. Dorian’s a Hufflepuff, for one.”

Hermione took a deliberate sip of her butterbeer, considering this. It seemed Riddle’s influence was already seeping beyond the boundaries of his house. The thought chilled her. He was not just recruiting—he was expanding. “Do you think Slughorn knows?”

Marigold gave a small, dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, Slughorn? He loves talent and ambition, but he’s always had blinders on when it comes to his favourites. As long as they impress him with their skills, he’s not one to pry too deeply into their other dealings.”

Hermione nodded slowly, pondering the implications. She hadn’t mentioned Tom Riddle, but she didn't need to. The pieces were falling into place, and it was clear to her now that Riddle was already gathering followers, weaving his insidious web. Hermione wondered how much Slughorn really knew—or allowed himself to know.

“They’re not all bad, though,” Marigold added, almost as if reading Hermione’s mind. “I’m actually going to the party because I want to interview one of them.”

Hermione tensed, her mind racing. “Oh, really? Who?” She kept her tone light, but her thoughts were anything but casual. If it was Riddle, Hermione would need to distance herself from Marigold at the party—and fast.

“Abraxas Malfoy,” Marigold said, pausing for a moment. “He recently lost his wife, and he hasn’t spoken to the press since. We were in the same year at Hogwarts, and he was always decent to me, so I don’t want to jump to conclusions or influence your opinion of him.”

Hermione felt a pang of sympathy, but also a surge of excitement. Abraxas Malfoy—just the man she needed for her plan. “That’s awful. What happened?”

“There are rumours saying that Amara was murdered by a Muggle,” Marigold said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But nothing is confirmed and the Ministry’s keeping it quiet, not wanting to fuel the anti-Muggle sentiment, but... it was brutal, from what I’ve heard. Horrible, really.”

Hermione pressed her lips together, her mind reeling. A Muggle killing a witch? It seemed unlikely, unless Amara had been caught completely off guard. Even then, the odds of a Muggle overpowering someone with magic were slim. It was quite suspicious, and Hermione’s mistrust of the story was hard to conceal.

“So you’re planning to interview the widower directly?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that... rather macabre?”

Hermione’s new acquaintance, however, wasn’t fazed by the question. “I see what you mean, but that’s exactly why I volunteered. I can handle it delicately. If Diggory got the assignment, Abraxas might just hex him if he crossed the line,” she chuckled, her tone lightening. “Better me than him, I say.”

Hermione nodded, grateful that Marigold seemed more thoughtful than opportunistic. They continued to chat and gossip, the conversation drifting to lighter topics. As the afternoon wore on, Hermione felt a flicker of comfort in knowing she’d have at least one friendly face at the soirée next Friday and someone who could introduce her to none other than Abraxas Malfoy.

When they finally parted ways, Hermione headed back to her hotel, the cool evening air brushing against her cheeks. She was grateful for the connection with Marigold, but the weight of her discoveries hung heavy. Riddle was already sowing discord and aligning himself with those who could serve his ambitions. As she walked through the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was up against something far more formidable than just time itself.

***

Tom

Tom approached the gates of Malfoy Manor on Friday morning, his steps precise and his expression composed. He had fabricated a trivial errand to keep his employer from questioning his absence from the shop. Tom’s confidence was steely, tempered by the knowledge that he had been meticulously preparing for Miss Granger's next departure from Britain. Today was about proving his abilities—not just to himself, but to a witness as well.

The ancient enchantments that restricted Apparition within the manor's grounds for anyone outside the Malfoy family held a certain reverence for Tom. He respected the old magic that fortified the Malfoy stronghold. Of course, he was among the privileged few permitted to enter through the front gates, bypassing the barriers without the express permission of the Malfoys, though he couldn’t help but resent the fact he had to walk up the long drive. It was always a reminder of the hierarchy he was determined to climb.

A house elf awaited him at the entrance, bowing so low that its nose nearly brushed the floor. “Master Riddle, welcome to Malfoy Manor. I have informed Master Malfoy of your arrival. Would you like to be served breakfast in the Green Room?”

Tom brushed past the elf with a dismissive wave, not even glancing at the creature. “Tell him I’ll be in the Library.” The notion of ancient wizarding families keeping house elves around was one Tom found tiresome. Why rely on these grotesque beings when true power came from commanding loyal wizards and unparalleled magical skill?

However, Malfoy Manor’s Library held allure even Tom couldn’t deny. It was an expansive chamber, deceptively larger than its walls suggested, thanks to the layering of space-expansion spells crafted centuries ago. Shelves of dark, polished mahogany reached towards a ceiling adorned with elaborate silver tracery. Enchanted chandeliers floated above, their light shifting subtly in accordance with the reader's needs.

One wall was dominated by a grand fireplace, above which hung a magical world map that continuously updated to reflect the ever-changing borders of nations. The map’s delicate, fluid motions whispered of political tides and ancient conquests. 

Echoes of past discussions lingered in the room, a peculiar charm that allowed whispers of spells and secrets to be recalled with a mere utterance. Books did not simply rest on the shelves—they hovered when summoned, drifting like ethereal shades eager to reveal their contents. The air was rich with the scent of aged parchment, leather bindings, and a subtle undercurrent of something rarer—perhaps the trace of powdered dragon claw, used to preserve some of the older volumes. Tucked into alcoves were curious artefacts, such as magical quills that translated any foreign text on contact and a ledger that catalogued known Dark artefacts, a sombre reflection of the Malfoys' storied and contentious past.

Tom stood before the shifting map, his gaze tracing the moving borders as he waited. Abraxas Malfoy soon entered, his steps brisk but weighed down by fatigue. The loss of his wife still clung to him like a dark shroud, evident in the shadows under his eyes and the stoop of his shoulders. It had been weeks since the tragedy, yet the man seemed unable to shake the burden. Tom observed him with mild disdain, wondering if Abraxas’s prolonged mourning was a mark of sincerity or simply an indulgence in melodrama.

“Good morning, Tom,” Abraxas greeted, his voice tinged with surprise. “What are you doing here so early? We haven’t seen you in nearly a fortnight!”

Tom didn’t bother to address the probing tone. “I need dress robes,” he said curtly, turning back to the map, “and for you to be my witness for a small matter.”

Abraxas blinked, caught off guard by the abruptness. “You’re not seriously going to Slughorn’s party tonight, are you?”

“I am,” Tom replied, his voice flat and unyielding. “As are you.” His gaze, sharp and imperious, brooked no argument. “Make sure Nott, Selwyn, and Lestrange attend as well.” He needed their insights, discretion, and their positions at the Ministry to dig into Miss Granger’s past—and her ambitions.

Abraxas nodded, knowing better than to challenge Tom when he was in this mood. It was one of the few qualities Tom appreciated in him: the ability to discern when to argue and when to acquiesce, a trait sorely lacking in most others.

“What sort of dress robes?” Abraxas ventured, the question laced with cautious deference.

Tom’s gaze flicked over him, assessing whether a stupid question like this warranted the Cruciatus curse or not. A lesser wizard might have winced under the scrutiny. “I’ll find something, I know looks decent on you,” Abraxas said quickly. His adam's apple bobbed nervously.

“Good boy,” Tom murmured, his attention already shifting back to the map. “Now, tell me what you know about long-distance Apparition.”

Abraxas frowned slightly, puzzled. “Er, well, about a thousand miles is the maximum safe distance for an average wizard or witch. Beyond that, the risks of splinching or suffocation increase dramatically.”

“And the longest known Apparition?” Tom asked, his tone pressing.

Abraxas hesitated. “I’m not sure. Shall I ask the Library?”

“No need,” Tom replied coolly. “A Spanish wizard, 16th century. He wanted to see what the Muggle Columbus had discovered. Managed to Apparate to the New World intact.” He paused, letting the weight of the words sink in. “Took him two weeks to recover his magical core enough to make the journey back.”

Abraxas stared at Tom, then at the map, the implications sinking in. He could see the gleam in Tom’s eyes, the hunger to break boundaries. Tom was not content with mere records; he was driven by a need to surpass them.

“Name a place on this map,” Tom instructed, his voice a soft command.

“Tom, what are you planning?” Abraxas’s voice wavered slightly, the unease evident.

“Any place,” Tom repeated, unyielding.

Abraxas scanned the map, his gaze lingering over the continents and oceans. He knew exactly what Tom was asking. Tom’s abilities were formidable—bordering on the impossible.

“Antarctica,” Abraxas finally said, his voice catching.

Tom’s lips curved into a cold smile. “Meet me at the gates in ten minutes with my dress robes.”

*

Long-distance Apparition was an ordeal—a brutal compression of the senses that felt like being wrenched through an ice-filled tunnel, every fibre of his being squeezed as though forced through the eye of a needle. Tom's surroundings blurred into a dizzying whirl of shapes and colours, his body twisting through space with a disorienting, stomach-churning lurch.

The air seemed to crush his lungs, everything a struggle against the suffocating pressure. His ears rang with the shrill whistle of rushing air, and his thoughts felt scrambled, fractured by the overwhelming forces that tore at his consciousness. It was like plunging into an abyss, the sensation of falling sideways, with no sense of direction, only the relentless pull of the magical currents propelling him forward.

When he landed, Tom stumbled in the snow, his legs nearly buckling as the frozen landscape solidified around him. Icy air filled his lungs, sharp and biting, and his vision wavered, spots dancing at the edges as he fought to steady himself. His muscles burned, fatigue settling in as if he’d run a great distance, and the metallic taste of blood and salt lingered on his tongue—a grim reminder of the exertion.

Tom took a moment, his breath ragged and visible in the frigid air, the cold searing his throat. His magic thrummed within him, restless, still urging him on even as his body demanded rest. He had conditioned himself in the last weeks—swimming, diving—to build endurance, but even that training fell short of the toll this journey took.

Casting a warming charm, he allowed himself five measured minutes in the desolate, icy expanse, the landscape stark and unforgiving, before kneeling to scoop a handful of snow. He compressed it into a perfect sphere in his warmed hands and, without further hesitation, turned on the spot to Apparate back to Malfoy Manor.

Abraxas stood waiting by the gates, a garment bag draped over one arm. Tom braced himself against the wrought iron, the last remnants of disorientation making his grip falter. He wiped away a trickle of blood from his nose with a quick, discreet flick of his wand.

“Merlin, Tom, are you alright?” Abraxas exclaimed, rushing to unlatch the gate.

Tom straightened, mustering a composed facade, and wordlessly hurled the snowball at Abraxas, whose stunned expression spoke volumes. He took the dress robes from Abraxas’s outstretched hand, ignoring the concern etched on his friend’s face.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I am,” Tom said with a dismissive wave, already stepping away as he steadied his breathing. “Don’t be late tonight,” he called over his shoulder before vanishing with a sharp crack, leaving Abraxas standing in the wake of his formidable display.

In his flat Tom collapsed on his bed and slept until it was time for Slughorn’s party.

*

"Tom, my boy, so good to see you!" Slughorn greeted warmly as Tom arrived at his townhouse. Tom handed him a box of sweets—Slughorn’s favourite—but personally found them nauseatingly saccharine. Sweets always gave him a toothache.

"Thank you for having me, Sir. I was looking forward to your soirée all summer," he lied with a smile that was practised to perfection.

The portly professor laughed, flattered, and gestured for Tom to enter. "Just through the living room to the garden, you know the way."

Tom followed the familiar path, stepping into the garden where the soft glow of fairy orbs flickered among the trees, casting intricate shadows over the gathering of elite wizards and witches Slughorn had invited. Verdant hedges of flutterby bushes whispered in the breeze, their blossoms shifting in shades of violet, gold, and deep green in rhythm with an invisible orchestra that hummed gently. Hovering trays of sparkling drinks and delicate hors d'oeuvres glided effortlessly among the guests, who clustered beneath the shimmering canopy of enchanted willow trees. The faintly glowing branches draped the scene in a silvery light, while floating lanterns bobbed overhead, occasionally releasing bursts of sparkling confetti that disappeared just before touching the ground.

Low tables, adorned with silken runners and crystal centrepieces that changed hues with the moonlight, were scattered throughout the garden, inviting guests to pause and take in the surroundings. It was an atmosphere of effortless elegance and subtle magic, exactly the kind of event that displayed Slughorn's impeccable taste and his knack for gathering promising talent.

Tom had to admit, the man did know how to throw a party. As soon as he took a glass of firewhisky from a floating tray, Selwyn, Nott, and Lestrange appeared at his side. Malfoy, predictably, was late. Ignoring the slight, Tom turned to his punctual followers.

"I’ll need you to keep an eye on a young Miss Granger tonight," Tom instructed in a low voice. "Seraphim, try to listen in on her conversations. I want to know why she’s in London, what her ambitions are, and where she’s come from." He scanned the garden but hadn’t spotted her yet. "She has curly brown hair. I’ll point her out once she arrives."

"Yes, my Lord," Selwyn nodded, his ability to go unnoticed being his chief quality. He had overheard countless conversations and faithfully reported back to Tom, securing his place among Tom’s most trusted. That, and his palpable fear of Tom.

"You two," Tom continued, addressing Nott and Lestrange, "see if you can strike up a conversation with her. Mention your important ministry positions, try to gauge her interest."

He paused when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione Granger enter the garden. She wore a maroon robe with delicate cherry red stitching, and her usual unruly curls had been tamed into smooth, silky waves that cascaded down her back. Her lips, painted a deep cherry red, contrasted starkly with her usual understated appearance. She looked remarkably elegant, a picture of poise, and it struck Tom that perhaps her allure was a whisper of something elusive and intriguing—perhaps even dangerous.

But then, as she removed her robe, revealing a tight cherry red Muggle dress that clung to her figure, Tom felt the glass in his hand slip almost from his grasp. Nott, Selwyn, and Lestrange, standing beside him, stared openly.

"Is that her?" Lestrange whispered.

Tom nodded, eyes narrowing as he watched Miss Granger scan the crowd, her vigilant gaze landing on him for a brief moment before she quickly turned away and moved to the opposite side of the garden. She had started a conversation with the notorious gossip, McKinnon, making a point of keeping her back to Tom. Clearly, she was avoiding him, and that only piqued his interest further.

"Don’t you lot have something to do?" he snapped at his Knights, and they scattered promptly, eager to fulfil his orders.

Throughout the night, Tom manoeuvred through the crowd, engaging in polite conversation with old classmates and newer members of the Slug Club. Yet, every so often, his eyes would search for her, and his mind would drift to unbidden thoughts—thoughts he quickly suppressed. He imagined what it would be like to have her, to wrap her silken hair around his wrist as he drove into her from behind. The idea was ludicrous; he was no schoolboy to be ruled by base desires. She was simply an enigma, a puzzle to be solved. Nothing more, nothing less.

Across the garden, Miss Granger was now deep in conversation with Slughorn and Fleamont Potter, the potioneer who had made a fortune from his hair tonics and, as far as Tom knew, hadn't brewed a single potion since. Selwyn and Nott hovered nearby, trying to inconspicuously eavesdrop on her conversation.

When Abraxas finally arrived, Tom was in the middle of speaking with Lestrange and Ambrose Weasley, head of one of the larger teams in the Auror department.

"Such a shame you don’t want to join my team, Tom," Ambrose slurred, his drink sloshing in his hand. "You’d make an exceptional Auror with that perception of yours!"

Ambrose was a foolish drunk, and a frequent one at that. He was easily swayed by Lestrange, but Tom's long-term plan was to have him replaced altogether.

“Pardon me, Ambrose, are you trying to poach Tom from his employer?” Abraxas interjected smoothly, shaking hands with Weasley with all the ease of a seasoned socialite. Tom shot him a smile that would look polite to the untrained eye, but Abraxas, knowing Tom's true nature, quickly caught the warning. Lestrange, seeing the exchange, deftly led Weasley away to chat with another Ministry colleague.

"You’re late," Tom said calmly. Too calmly.

Abraxas ran a hand through his platinum blond hair and took a gulp of firewhisky. "Apologies, Tom. Lucius wouldn’t settle tonight—you know how children can be."

Tom's expression froze, his eyes darkening. Abraxas was the only one among his Knights who knew about his childhood in the orphanage. It felt like Abraxas was daring him to retaliate. But any response Tom might have had was cut short by the arrival of Marigold McKinnon, the queen bee of gossip herself.

"Evening, handsome," she greeted Abraxas, then nodded curtly to Tom. "Tom."

"Marigold," Tom returned, his tone clipped, barely a nod in acknowledgment.

"Good to see you, Mary. How's everything at the magazine?" Abraxas asked, clearly relieved by the interruption.

"I’m actually with the Daily Prophet now, but just so you know, Lara mentioned that you're set to lead the new Most Eligible Widower list in Witch Weekly's September issue," she said, her smile dripping with mischief. Abraxas' face fell, and Tom couldn't suppress a laugh.

"You should expect an owl requesting a photoshoot soon," she added, smirking. Abraxas scowled, and Tom’s mood lifted; this was better than torturing him himself.

"Sounds like a splendid idea, Abraxas. You should do it," Tom taunted, enjoying the rare moment of schadenfreude.

"Oh, that’s good to hear from you, Tom," McKinnon cut in smoothly. "I hear you’ve made the Top 10 Most Eligible Bachelors list, so you might have a photoshoot coming up as well."

Now it was Abraxas' turn to laugh. "Sounds like a brilliant idea, Tom. You should definitely do it," he echoed, grinning. Tom’s hand twitched towards his wand, his smile tight. Abraxas noticed, his eyes widening slightly.

"Yes, well, as fascinating as that is, it's not why I wanted to speak with you," McKinnon continued, her tone shifting to a more businesslike air as she assessed Abraxas. "Would you mind a quick interview for the Prophet?"

Abraxas glanced at Tom's murderous expression and quickly took McKinnon by the elbow. "Of course, let’s talk over here," he said, steering her to the farthest corner of the garden, as though that might somehow shield him from Tom’s wrath.

Before Tom could get lost in his violent imaginings, Selwyn appeared at his side. Tom hoped at least he would prove useful tonight.

"She’s from Australia," Selwyn reported promptly. "Graduated a few years back and has been travelling since, learning from masters worldwide. She’s looking to sell a few of her own potion recipes to fund further studies."

That put her at around twenty-two or twenty-three at the maximum. He would have estimated her to be a little older than that. Tom twisted his ring thoughtfully. It was helpful information, but it didn’t answer the more pressing questions—whether she knew anything about him. She seemed to be actively avoiding him, never once straying near him in the small space of the garden.

"Did she mention what potions she’s selling?" Tom asked.

"No, but Slughorn’s arranged a private demonstration for a select few potential investors later tonight."

Tom glanced over at her again. She stood profile to him, talking animatedly with Dorian Dagworth, one of Tom’s newer recruits. Dorian had caught Tom's interest with his potions skills; he was a recent Hogwarts graduate and, surprisingly, a Hufflepuff. But Hermione's attention seemed to flicker frequently to her left, where McKinnon and Abraxas were engaged in their interview.

Selwyn followed his gaze and added, "Yes, I thought Dorian might get more details; they’ve been talking for a while."

"You did well, Seraphim," Tom commended. He decided it was time to introduce himself. However, just as he started towards her, something strange happened.

***

Hermione

Hermione stood, outwardly attentive but inwardly distracted as Dorian Dagworth animatedly detailed his latest breakthrough in potion brewing. His innovation, reducing the brewing time for low-temperature, long-duration potions, was no small feat, but her mind was elsewhere. Across the garden, she spotted Marigold chatting to a man who could only be a Malfoy. The tell tale pale blond hair and piercing grey eyes were unmistakable, though this one exuded a grounded charm that Draco or Lucius lacked. His broad shoulders filled out his dress robes handsomely, and his jawline—sharp and sculpted—looked like it could cut glass. He seemed fit and refined, yet less aloof than his descendants. Hermione definitely did not find him attractive, she assured herself.

“So, I discovered that by using a smaller, hotter flame instead of a larger, cooler one, the brewing time can be halved,” Dorian said, recapturing her attention. Hermione nodded politely. Of course, she already knew this trick; Snape had taught them this back in second year, and she'd employed it while brewing Polyjuice Potion in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. For a brief, unbidden moment, her gaze drifted towards Tom Riddle. He had murdered Myrtle. And he had almost killed Hermione in her second year. But I uncovered your secret. I was smarter , she thought, her eyes narrowing slightly. He stood amid a cluster of wizards, impeccably dressed in dark green robes that were nearly black, his presence commanding.

Dorian was still speaking, looking at her expectantly. “That's a brilliant idea, Dorian. I’ll certainly give it a try next time,” she said, offering a warm smile to stroke his ego.

“Glad to hear it! So, what are you planning to showcase later? Slughorn was absolutely raving about your inventions,” he asked. Hermione was about to respond when she caught sight of someone familiar out of the corner of her eye.

"Theo?" she called out impulsively, stepping into the path of a young man with glasses as he walked past. He halted, looking confused.

“Pardon me?” he said, his voice polite but bemused.

Hermione stared, trying to reconcile the face before her. The wavy brown hair, the warm eyes—it was uncanny. “Are you Theodore Nott?” she asked, her uncertainty plain.

“Well, you’ve got the last name right,” Dorian quipped lightly.

The young wizard offered a polite smile and extended his hand. “Stellan Nott, at your service,” he introduced, shaking her hand with a soft grip.

Hermione blinked, her mind racing. It wasn't Theo. It couldn't be. This must be his grandfather, she realised, though the resemblance was so striking they might as well have been twins.

“Hermione Granger,” she replied, trying to mask her bewilderment. “I thought I knew you from somewhere. My mistake—names can be tricky sometimes.”

“No harm done. I'm intrigued, though—who did you think I was?” Stellan asked, curiosity glinting in his eyes. Hermione hesitated. She had rehearsed a few cover stories for moments like this, but now felt the urge to escape the unnerving familiarity.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a mix-up,” she deflected with a light laugh, then excused herself. “Please, excuse me, I’ve just spotted my friend.”

Without waiting for a response, Hermione hurried away, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a floating tray en route. She reached Marigold just as the other woman was finishing her conversation with the Malfoy. Hermione offered one of the glasses to Marigold, smiling brightly.

“You looked like you could use a top-up,” she said, trying to shift her focus from the confusion over Stellan Nott. Her gaze then settled on the Malfoy. He was, without a doubt, the most attractive Malfoy she had ever encountered.

“Hermione, perfect timing!” Marigold exclaimed. “Abraxas and I were just wrapping up.” She gestured between them. “Abraxas, meet Hermione Granger, my brilliant new friend from abroad—a gifted Potioneer and, might I add, very much unattached.”

Hermione extended her hand, but Abraxas Malfoy took it in both of his, bowing slightly as he kissed the back of her hand with an air of gallantry that left her cheeks warming. She wasn’t accustomed to such gentlemanly behaviour, especially not from a Malfoy. The gesture was unexpectedly charming, a stark contrast to the disdain she had faced from his descendants. Her fingers brushed over the concealed scar on her arm, a sobering reminder of her past. If anyone here discovered her true heritage as a Muggle-born, she doubted the welcome would remain so warm.

“Charmed,” Abraxas said smoothly, releasing her hand with a slight smile.

“Likewise,” Hermione replied, gathering herself. She had to stay focused—making a good impression was critical. “I hope Marigold didn’t wring too many secrets out of you. She can be quite relentless.”

Abraxas chuckled, a soft, rich sound. “Oh, she’s persistent, no doubt about that. But there are still a few things even she couldn’t pry out of me,” he said with a sly smile that hinted at his flirtatious nature.

“Yes, but you’ve certainly given me enough to keep my editor satisfied,” Marigold interjected, finishing her drink in one unladylike gulp that only made Hermione like her more. “I must dash—this draft won’t write itself.” She set her empty glass on a passing tray, giving Hermione’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Good luck with your presentation later, Wattlebranch! Let’s have breakfast tomorrow and you can tell me all about it.” she called out cheerfully before striding purposefully out of the garden.

Hermione watched her go, feeling a mixture of gratitude and nerves. Soon it would be time for her own demonstration, and while she was confident in her potions, the stakes of impressing Slughorn’s circle felt higher than ever.

“AACOM, is it?” Abraxas asked, clearly keen to prolong their conversation—a promising sign.

“Correct! And you attended Hogwarts, I presume?” Hermione responded with a polite smile.

Abraxas nodded proudly, displaying his signet ring adorned with a coiled serpent. “Slytherin, of course. Professor Slughorn was my Head of House,” he said, then glanced over Hermione's shoulder. “And the finest one Hogwarts has ever seen.”

Slughorn himself joined their circle, beaming as he shook Abraxas’s hand. “Ah, Abraxas! Delighted you could make it. And I see you’ve already met my latest prodigy. Miss Granger here is truly talented.”

Hermione felt her cheeks flush at the compliment. “Let’s see if you still think so highly of me after I’ve demonstrated my inventions, Professor,” she replied modestly.

“A demonstration? I wouldn't miss that for the world!” Abraxas exclaimed.

“Indeed, you must join us in the study later,” Slughorn agreed, and Hermione's smile broadened. Everything seemed to be falling into place; her plans for the evening were progressing beautifully, and she was only on her second glass of champagne.

“Any other talents we should be aware of, Miss Granger? I doubt you’ve impressed Horace quite enough,” Abraxas teased, though Hermione saw an opportunity.

“Well, there is one more,” she began, catching their attention. “At the Academy, we do a lot of work with spiritual magic, and it turns out I have some minor Seer abilities.” She lied smoothly, having spent a good deal of time devising this cover. If she ever let slip something that hadn’t happened yet, this would be her perfect alibi—and perhaps even a way to captivate Malfoy’s interest.

“Oh, marvellous! You must tell me my future!” Slughorn said eagerly.

“Of course. May I?” Hermione said, making a performance of it as she took Slughorn’s hand in hers. She closed her eyes, pretending to concentrate deeply. She needed to say something vague, harmless.

“I see you… but you’re older. Much more distinguished,” she began, pausing for effect. “You’re at Hogwarts—it looks like a castle. You’re negotiating with the headmaster for a new office. You’re requesting Professor Merrythought’s office, in fact.”

When she opened her eyes, both men were staring at her, astonished. Hermione was proud of herself, remembering everything of relevance Harry had ever told her.

“That was remarkable, Miss Granger! Did Headmaster Dippet grant it to me?” Slughorn asked, eyes gleaming with excitement.

Hermione hesitated. Could she risk mentioning Dumbledore? It seemed inevitable. “You mean Headmaster Dumbledore?”

Slughorn’s face lit up. “Incredible! I must tell Albus—what year is it, dear? Can you tell?”

Hermione shook her head gently. “I’m afraid it’s not that precise. I only catch glimpses—little snippets, really.”

“Now me!” Abraxas demanded, his eagerness suddenly reminding her very much of Draco.

“Alright, but please bear in mind it doesn’t always work,” Hermione cautioned, taking his outstretched hand. It was warm, with the calluses of someone who spent considerable time flying on a broomstick. She closed her eyes again, trying not think of Harry or Ron, who sported the same marks, debating what to tell Abraxas. She knew so little about this man, apart from how he would eventually die—a detail she had no intention of sharing tonight.

“My boy, you must see this—Miss Granger is a Seer!” Slughorn called out to someone, and a chill ran down Hermione’s spine. She peeked through her lashes, just enough to see who had joined their group at Slughorn’s beckoning.

Tom Riddle stood there, his gaze fixed intently on her hands, still clasped with Abraxas Malfoy’s. His dark eyes were inscrutable, but his presence radiated menace. Hermione dropped Abraxas’s hand as if it burned.

“I’m sorry, nothing’s coming through. It doesn’t work well under pressure,” she stammered, desperately seeking an excuse to leave. She scanned the glittering garden, but found nothing she could latch onto as a reason to escape.

“No worries, you can tell me another time,” Abraxas said with a casual wink.

“Too bad,” Slughorn lamented. “Tom here has a real fascination with the divine.”

Of course he does, Hermione thought bitterly, remembering all too well the lengths Lord Voldemort would go to obtain a prophecy. She knew she had to tread carefully; she couldn’t afford for him to be too intrigued by her supposed abilities.

“Tom Riddle,” he said, extending his right hand—the one that bore the Horcrux. Hermione hesitated for a heartbeat before taking it. His grip was firm and surprisingly warm, but the ring felt like a shard of ice against her skin. Tom’s other hand enveloped hers as well, and she was certain he was feeling for her pulse. She withdrew as quickly as politeness allowed.

“Hermione Granger,” she replied, her voice barely steady. She had prepared for this encounter, but those black eyes pierced through her facade, making her feel painfully exposed. She had spent the last two weeks practising her Occlumency, trying to follow everything Harry and her Spiritual Magic Professor at AACOM had ever taught her.

“Good to see you again ,” Riddle said in a voice as smooth as silk, sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. Of course he remembered her; she had known from the moment their eyes met earlier. She needed to keep her composure and find a way to steer clear of him.

“Right, you are a Shop Boy at Borgin and Burkes, aren't you?” Hermione said lightly, but instantly regretted it. Tom’s expression hardened, his eyes losing whatever semblance of warmth they had held.

“Yes, you disappeared quite abruptly before I could introduce myself properly,” he replied, his tone clipped, baritone voice now colder than ever.

“Tom is being modest,” Slughorn interjected, breaking the tension. “He could have a brilliant career at the Ministry if he so desired.”

“As always, you’re too kind, Horace,” Riddle responded with a polite smile directed at his former teacher, though Hermione sensed the barely contained irritation behind it. But maybe she was imagining it, because she knew what he was like.

Hermione forced a smile and nodded, her mind scrambling for a way to extricate herself.

“So, you’re a Seer?” Riddle inquired, his attention back on her, scrutinising her intently.

“Not a very good one,” Hermione joked nervously. “It’s quite unreliable, really. Just small glimpses here and there—nothing of much consequence compared to my other skills.”

Riddle’s gaze was unrelenting, dissecting her as if searching for a weakness. Most people would have looked away by now, but his eyes remained locked on hers, and Hermione fought the instinct to squirm.

“That’s right, Miss Granger is a Potioneer,” Abraxas said, evidently trying to lighten the mood. “She’s giving us a demonstration of her inventions later.”

Hermione appreciated the effort to make her feel better, especially given her diminutive height compared to the men surrounding her, even in heels.

“Speaking of which,” Slughorn said, glancing at his watch, “we should head to the study now for the demonstration, before it gets too late.” He gestured for them to move inside, quickly asking Hermione if she required anything for her presentation.

“Just a knife,” she answered, allowing Abraxas to guide her gently towards the study with a hand on her elbow. As she walked, she could feel Riddle’s chilling stare lingering on her back.

*

When a little crowd had gathered around her in Slughorn's cozy study, Hermione took a deep breath. The room was crammed with old books, potion ingredients, photographs of previous Slug Club members, and trinkets from all over the world. She pulled three vials and her wand from the magically extended clutch she had been carrying all night. Her hand trembled slightly.

Her thoughts were racing. This was an absolute nightmare—she had intended to stay as far away from Tom Riddle as possible. Now they were crammed into this room with Slughorn, Abraxas Malfoy, Fleamont Potter, Dorian Dagworth, and a handful of other witches and wizards she didn't know yet. Among the group one witch stood out to Hermione, because she had a very striking look. She had two differently coloured eyes, one a dark brown and the other a light blue. She also had a streak of completely white hair, while the rest was black.

She could feel Riddle's eyes lingering on her, dark and unsettling. But there was no way out now. By the looks of it, he and Abraxas Malfoy were close. It had probably been inevitable that they would meet again, especially since she had intended to befriend Malfoy anyway. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that she hadn’t been surprised by Riddle on a night like this. She had had time to prepare herself for his presence. She could do this. He had no reason to harm her. He did not know her true heritage or her role in his future demise. She was safe—or as safe as an illegal time traveller stuck in the past could be.

“Miss Granger, the stage is yours,” Slughorn announced, quieting the room with a wave of his hand. “Show us what you’ve created.”

Hermione straightened, trying not to look at anyone in particular. Instead, she focused on a spot on the wall just above their heads. “The first of my inventions I call the Wandwood Elixir.” She held up a vial filled with amber liquid, letting the light catch it so the gathered could see. “It increases the power of the wand of the ingesting witch or wizard and multiplies the effectiveness of their spells. Let me demonstrate.”

She raised her vine wood wand and focused on the one thing she was fighting to get back to: Harry, Ron, and Ginny embracing her in a loving hug, telling her how much they missed her.

“Expecto Patronum,” she said clearly, and her playful otter burst forth from the tip of her wand.

Impressed murmurs filled the room.

“Oh, how marvellous! A corporeal Patronus!” Slughorn exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Hermione smiled, feeling buoyed by his praise.

She uncorked the vial and downed the potion in one sip. Warmth spread from her stomach to her wand hand, and she closed her eyes. She imagined reuniting with her friends and family once more, and with renewed focus, called out for her Patronus again.

A second otter appeared, this time swimming with strong waves of ocean water that filled the room with a soft blue light, tinged with hope and love. The crowd erupted in cheers, and the woman with black hair and a single white strand nearly fell back into her chair in surprise.

“That is the strongest Patronus I’ve ever seen in my life,” Fleamont Potter said, eyes wide as he watched the otters playfully dart through the waves.

Hermione scanned the faces in the room, unwillingly searching for one particular reaction. She wanted to see if he was impressed. Riddle was the most magically gifted person in the room, and to earn his approval would be the greatest feat of all. She found him, smirking slightly as if to say, "Well done." He met her gaze and gave her a single, deliberate nod.

She quickly averted her eyes. “As you can see, my second Patronus, after taking the Wandwood Elixir, is much more potent than the first.” The otters took a final playful loop around the room before vanishing.

“Wonderful, Miss Granger, just wonderful,” Slughorn continued, beaming. “Please, go on.”

Hermione held up the second vial, filled with a clear liquid. “I need a volunteer for this one,” she announced, and Abraxas immediately raised his hand.

“Take me, I beg you,” he said, his tone carrying a playful innuendo that wasn’t lost on Hermione. With a small, amused smile, she gestured for him to come forward.

“Are you sure? You don’t even know what this one does,” she said as Abraxas approached.

“I’m not a fearful man, Miss Granger,” he replied in a low voice, meant only for her ears. Hermione felt her cheeks warm as she unscrewed the lid of the vial and drew a single drop with the pipette.

“Very well, then. Please, stick out your tongue,” she instructed. Abraxas raised an eyebrow but did as he was told.

Hermione let a single drop fall onto his tongue, and he vanished instantly. Dorian gasped loudly, but Abraxas’s chuckle echoed invisibly beside her. She stepped behind him, showing the crowd how he was completely see-through.

“One drop of my True Invisibility Potion grants one minute of complete invisibility. It cannot be compared to Disillusionment Charms or cloaks, which lose their power over time. The more you take, the longer you stay truly invisible,” she explained, and Abraxas moved about the room, playfully grabbing Dorian’s arms and causing him to jump in fright.

“Unlike a Disillusionment Charm, it cannot be undone by a Finite, and nothing will reverse it but time,” Hermione continued, feeling Abraxas’s presence return to her side. He gently picked up her hand, leaning in close.

“Just name your price. I’ll buy anything you’re willing to sell,” he murmured into her ear, his voice low and earnest.

Hermione’s face burned, but she waved him off lightly. “We can discuss business later. Everyone deserves a fair chance,” she said, trying to maintain her composure. Abraxas Malfoy was certainly the biggest flirt she’d ever met. His carefree, humorous demeanour reminded her of Fred and George Weasley during their Hogwarts days—always up to no good with a cheeky line ready on their lips. Too bad Draco hadn’t inherited his grandfather’s funny streak.

Abraxas reappeared with a flourish, raising Hermione’s hand as if she had just won a championship match. The room erupted into applause, but Hermione’s gaze flicked to Tom Riddle. His smile had vanished, replaced by a cold, unreadable mask. Her heart rate quickened, a mix of triumph and unease swirling within her.

With a slight bow, Abraxas returned to his spot, and Hermione busied herself with the last potion. She raised the vial filled with a red liquid. “Professor, if you would, please bring me the knife,” she requested, and Slughorn approached her an elegant dagger with an emerald stone set into the hilt in hands.

“This is my Phoenix Flame Elixir. It grants the user temporary regenerative abilities and boosts the magical core,” Hermione explained, uncorking the vial and drinking its contents. She turned to Slughorn, holding out her hand. “Now, please, if you would be so kind as to cut my hand.”

Slughorn hesitated, staring at her in bewilderment. “Miss Granger, I—I can’t do that. I would hurt you,” he stammered, visibly distressed.

“It’s alright, Professor. I’m asking you to. You’ll see, I’ll heal very quickly,” she assured him gently, but he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t,” he insisted, stepping back. Hermione wondered how such a soft-hearted person could have become the Head of House of Slytherin.

“I’ll do it,” came a smooth baritone voice from the group.

Hermione’s heart faltered and then picked up again at much higher speed than before. She didn’t need to look to know who had spoken. 

Tom Riddle.

“That’s alright, I can manage,” she said quickly, reaching for Slughorn’s knife, but Riddle was faster.

In one fluid motion, he snatched the knife away, twisting it out of her grasp. “We wouldn’t want anyone to think the injury was faked, now would we?” His tone was soft but firm, leaving no room for objection.

Riddle smiled—a smile that was all perfectly straight teeth, but it was as unnerving as it was polite. His teeth gleamed too white, and his canines were a touch too sharp. Hermione found herself briefly imagining him ripping open her throat like a vampire. She took a steadying breath, forcing the violent thoughts away. He wouldn’t dare do anything to her in front of all these people. Not yet, anyway. It would be years before he would return to show his true face—the face of Lord Voldemort.

She nodded, resigned to letting him make the cut.

With a predator’s grace, he took her wandless hand, positioning it around the blade and closing his hand around hers so she made a fist around it. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” he murmured, his dark eyes locked onto hers.

She knew it was a lie. Of course, it would hurt. He had hurt her already, in more ways than one. His basilisk had turned her to stone; his Death Eaters had cursed and tortured her. His Horcrux had tainted her happiness, nearly destroying her friendships. Because of him, she had almost lost her parents' memories forever. He was the reason her childhood had been stolen from her.

He stood so close she could smell his aftershave—rich, woody, with a hint of something sharp and dangerous.

Before she could object, he pulled the knife up along her fisted palm. A sharp pain flared as blood welled up and dripped to the floor. Hermione bit back a hiss, but before she could even open her fist, the pain ebbed to a dull throb.

Riddle caught her hand, prying it open with his long, deft fingers to inspect the cut. His touch was again unexpectedly warm, a contrast to the icy demeanour she’d always associated with him.

“The wound has already healed,” he stated, holding her hand aloft for the others to see. A light crust had already formed over the cut.

“So clever,” Riddle murmured, his voice pitched low, just for her. The room buzzed with chatter, but all Hermione could hear was the faint, mocking lilt in his tone.

Tom Riddle found her inventions clever. What had she gotten herself into? Panic fluttered in her chest. She had to ensure that the Phoenix Flame Elixir never ended up in the hands of Lord Voldemort.

Anyone else, but not him.

***

Tom 

Tom watched with keen interest as Miss Granger attempted to withdraw her hand from his grip. Instead of releasing her immediately, he tightened his hold just enough around her wrist to feel the rapid pulse beneath her skin. Her eyes widened, revealing a flicker of fear he already knew from her, but there was something else, too—a fierce defiance in those warm, whiskey-brown eyes, as though she were silently declaring that she would meet whatever challenge he set before her.

Before she could utter a protest, Tom let go, allowing her hand to fall away as he smirked down at her. She was an enigma, a puzzle he was determined to solve. Why was she so frightened of him? He hadn’t done anything to her—yet. But fear like hers was not born from nothing. He could sense there was a deeper story, a truth hidden behind her wary gaze. He would uncover it; it was only a matter of time.

The crowd quickly pressed in, eager to inspect her now-healed hand. Miss Granger, taking a step back, cleared her throat and raised her voice to address them. “The other effect of the Phoenix Flame Elixir,” she continued, pulling her attention away from Tom, “is the enhancement of the magical core. It strengthens the core under stress, allowing it to endure and sustain high levels of magic for longer periods.” She was poised and articulate, yet Tom could tell she was struggling not to glance back at him once more. He had a pull on her—fear, curiosity, or perhaps both.

As she navigated the congratulations and interest of the Slug Club members, Tom observed her intently. She accepted their praise with modesty, blushing under the compliments. She handed out her contact information for further negotiations, poised and polite. But Tom couldn’t shake the sense that she was revelling in the attention, though she tried to appear humble. The way her cheeks flushed, he couldn’t help but wonder how much deeper that blush would go if he were the one praising her—in a very different context. The thought stirred something inside him, a twisted amusement mingled with a darker curiosity.

Tom's gaze shifted to Abraxas Malfoy, who seemed just as captivated by the clever witch. Abraxas’s eyes traced her form with an appreciation that bordered on hunger, and Tom felt an unexpected surge of possessiveness flare within him. The idea of Malfoy, or anyone else for that matter, touching what Tom had yet to fully claim, gnawed at him in a way that was both unfamiliar and infuriating.

He didn’t understand why it bothered him so much, but the mere thought of Malfoy’s paws on her made his blood run hot. Tom entertained the notion of having a word with Abraxas later, to remind him of his place. Hermione Granger was not for the taking—at least not by anyone but Tom.

And yet, Tom couldn’t help but be intrigued by her interactions with Abraxas. She engaged him with a surprising eagerness, her smile warm and genuine, as though she were truly interested in what he had to offer. Perhaps she was after Abraxas’s wealth, like so many witches before her, drawn to the Malfoy fortune like moths to a flame. Tom could hardly blame her for that—power and wealth were worthy pursuits, after all. But whatever her game was, he intended to uncover every detail of it.

Patience had always been one of Tom's greatest virtues. He was willing to wait, to watch her every move, and to bide his time until he had her figured out completely. She was a challenge, and Tom relished challenges. Miss Granger would not remain a mystery for long, and whatever secrets she harboured, Tom Riddle would unravel them. She was not like the others, he knew that much already, and that was precisely why she was worth the chase.

Chapter Text

Hermione

When Hermione returned to her room at Claridge’s Hotel, she was still buzzing with energy. In many ways, the night had been a phenomenal success. She was certain inquiries about her inventions would pour in, and the mountain of gold she owed Tranlok didn’t seem so far out of reach as before. And from what she could tell, Abraxas Malfoy was more than eager to get closer to her, if his blatant flirtations were any indication, bringing her another step closer to her goal.

However, there was a nagging issue—one certain young Dark Lord.

Lying in bed, she fiddled absentmindedly with the cigarette case she had "borrowed" from him, flicking it open and shut to the beat of some tune playing faintly from her iPod. Riddle had been far too interested in her for her comfort. Throughout the entire evening, she'd felt his gaze on her, relentless and unnerving. No matter how hard she tried, nothing seemed to shake his curiosity.

The question was: Why? Why was he so intrigued by her? And more importantly, could she find a way to deflect that interest?

Unwanted attention was something Hermione had dealt with her entire life. First, there were the Muggles at her primary school, who had despised her for being a hard-working, know-it-all. They had bullied her mercilessly until she left, proving the saying "out of sight, out of mind" true in her case.

Then there had been Draco Malfoy and his gang of Slytherins, who had relentlessly taunted her for being a Muggle-born and for her friendship with Harry Potter. Punching Draco in the third year had silenced him temporarily, but the taunts resumed in the fourth year, until she had shown up at the Yule Ball on the arm of Viktor Krum, Triwizard Champion and international Quidditch star. Her shiny hair and newly straightened teeth had shut Malfoy up again, at least for a time.

Of course, that same year there had also been Rita Skeeter, who had unleashed the fury of the wizarding public on Hermione by spreading lies and gossip. That problem had been solved by capturing Rita in her Animagus form and threatening her with exposure. Since then, their interactions had been rather cordial.

Unwanted male attention had also been a constant, but Hermione had learned to handle it. A well-placed comment or a touch of public humiliation usually did the trick. Cormac McLaggen’s beet-red face at Slughorn’s Christmas party, after she’d told him off in front of Luna and Slughorn, was a particularly satisfying memory.

Then there were the Death Eaters, who had hunted her, Harry, and Ron. The only solution for that had been more permanent, killing their leader. Which brought her full circle to Tom Riddle.

Should she lie low and hope he forgot about her? Or should she prove she wasn’t worth his time? Perhaps something more drastic was required. But could she take such a risk? Could she jeopardise everything, the future, her timeline, just to keep herself safe?

Lying low seemed like a good start. But she’d also need to figure out his motives. He was dangerous, and she couldn’t afford to underestimate him.

Carefully, she tucked the cigarette case under her pillow and reached for a vial of her light-blue Dream Distiller Potion. She needed control. If she was going to Dream Walk into Tom Riddle’s subconscious, she wanted to ensure she could leave whenever she wanted.

It took some time for sleep to take her. Her nerves were jangling with the thought of entering Tom Riddle’s dreamworld. She imagined his dreams would be disturbing, filled with dark corners she might not want to explore. But the Dream Distiller Potion would make her fully lucid, allowing her to control her own actions within the dream.

Murmuring the incantations for Dream Walking, she drifted off to sleep, a destination already set in her mind.

*

Hermione found herself in a small, barren room. A boy with jet-black hair sat at a desk, writing in a diary. His back was to her. She lay on a narrow bed with rough and scratchy looking bedding, though she couldn’t feel it in the dream. A simple wooden wardrobe, no larger than necessary, stood against one wall. The place felt like a prison, not a home for a child.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the boy said, his voice cold and detached.

Hermione sat up, startled that he’d noticed her. But then again, this was Tom Riddle’s dream, and he must have an unusual awareness, even in his sleep.

Instead of answering him, she asked, “Where are we?”

The boy paused his writing and turned. His dark, piercing eyes were far too intense for someone his age. He couldn't have been more than twelve, yet he carried an unsettling maturity, a haunted look that belonged to someone far older.

“My room,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, studying her. She realised this must be the orphanage he’d grown up in. A cold shiver ran down her spine, though the dream world didn’t allow her to truly feel it. 

“Why?” she pressed, curious as to why this was his chosen dreamscape.

“Because I have to be,” he said, as though it were obvious. “I have nowhere else to go.”

Riddle spoke like an adult trapped in a child’s body, a tone Hermione found deeply unsettling. Dreams were usually chaotic, full of swirling images and strange sensations, but this... this was bleak and controlled. It felt more like a nightmare.

“Is there nowhere else you'd rather be?” she asked, her voice softening.

His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Of course there is. But I can’t. I have to stay here and wait.”

“Wait for what?” she asked, trying to piece together his thought process.

“To go back.” His voice turned impatient. “Are you stupid? All summer I have to be here, listening to the crying brats, starving, waiting for the Muggles to bomb London.”

His sudden outburst caught her off-guard. This boy, with all his simmering resentment, was the future Dark Lord. She decided to change her tactic.

“What are you writing?” She nodded toward the diary in his hand.

“That’s none of your business,” he snapped, his face hardening. “Now get out if you’re just going to ask stupid questions.”

Hermione suppressed a laugh at his childish arrogance. He really was something else.

“Alright,” she said, standing up, “want to come with me?”

Riddle’s eyes narrowed further. “And go where?”

“What if I told you,” Hermione began, her voice playful, “that when you open that door, we could go anywhere you want? Anytime, with anyone you wish.”

He glanced at the door she pointed to. “There’s just the hallway.”

“No, there’s not,” she insisted, a smirk playing on her lips.

“You’re mad,” he said, folding his arms.

“No,” she replied, eyes twinkling, “I’m a witch, just like you’re a wizard. And I’m telling you, that door can lead anywhere, if you want it to.”

He looked at her, defiant, before striding over to the door. He hesitated for a moment before grasping the handle.

“Well?” she prompted. “Are you a wizard or not?”

Riddle shot her a glare before pulling the door open. A gust of air blew in, ruffling her hair and Hermione could see the sprawling Hogwarts grounds under a night sky, the school’s turrets illuminated by the moonlight. Without a word, he stepped through, not waiting for her.

She quickly followed, the door closing softly behind her.

They stood side by side, gazing down at the Hogwarts grounds. A soft breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the scent of the forest below. Hermione felt a deep pang of longing, a homesickness she hadn’t anticipated. Hogwarts had always been her refuge, her sanctuary from the world. Now, it seemed so distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

She stole a glance at Riddle. He was older now, around sixteen. His features had sharpened, his boyishness giving way to the angular lines of a young man. His jaw was more defined, clean-shaven, and his dark hair fell neatly over his forehead. He was striking, dangerously so.

“Told ya,” she said, her voice light, though her heart was far from it.

Riddle turned his head slightly, his cold eyes narrowing as they focused on her. “Do I know you?”

Hermione kept her expression neutral, though inside, she could feel a faint spark of tension. His interest had shifted, more curious now, more intense.

“You tell me,” she replied, her tone teasing, but her body remained poised, ready for anything.

He scrutinised her for a moment longer before answering. “I don’t think so.”

“Would you like to?” she asked, daring him with her gaze.

A flicker of something dark passed through his eyes. “Maybe. Why are you here?”

“That,” Hermione responded coolly, “is none of your business.”

Riddle’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. His voice dropped to a chilling murmur. “I wonder... if it would be better to torture or... fuck you into submission.”

The words hit her like ice water. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she debated whether she was merely a dark fantasy to him. But something told her it was more complex than that. She was no conventional beauty. Men usually fell in love with her brains or attitude, not her looks.

“Excuse me?” Her voice was steady, hoping he'd backpedal, claim it had been a misunderstanding.

But Riddle’s smile only widened, sinister and unwavering. “You heard me, woman.” He took a step closer, reaching for her throat.

Hermione moved back just in time, evading his grasp. A laugh escaped her lips, nervous, almost defiant. His face twisted in anger, the brief flicker of control she’d held slipping away.

Note to self: Don’t laugh at Tom Riddle.

“You’re just a child,” she said, her voice a touch braver than she felt. “And either way, I’d never submit to you.”

Above them, the night sky began to churn. Storm clouds appeared out of nowhere, dark and ominous, blotting out the stars. Thunder rumbled overhead, mirroring the tension brewing between them.

Riddle glanced up, his expression shifting slightly as he seemed to realise what was happening. That he was the one in control here.

When Hermione blinked, he was no longer the boy from before, he was the man she’d seen last night, the one who had haunted her thoughts. Blink again, and they were no longer on the hill overlooking Hogwarts. They stood in a dense forest now, surrounded by towering trees and thick ferns. The dream was shifting.

He moved toward her, slow and deliberate, his gaze never leaving hers. His hands hung loosely by his sides, but Hermione felt the threat in every step he took.

“And what about now?” His voice was smoother, darker, and laced with arrogance. “You have a choice. Shall I fuck you, or shall I torture you?”

Hermione stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest. She would give it one last more direct try, to learn about his intentions. “What do you want from me?”

His smirk widened, wicked and knowing. “I want you on your knees, wearing that red lipstick again.” He cocked his head, his gaze trailing over her with unnerving precision. “Much better.”

In an instant, she was yanked to her knees. She looked down, realising she was back in the red dress she’d worn to the gala. And she assumed her lips were painted the same shade of cherry red. He had clearly remembered her now and made her into what he wanted, fully controlling the dream.

“Is this it?” she asked, forcing herself to maintain her composure. “You want me to satisfy you?”

He knelt down, his face now inches from hers, and his hand shot forward to grasp her throat once more. There was no pain, of course—this was still a dream—but the pressure felt real. His control was terrifying, his presence overwhelming. It was disturbingly intimate, and Hermione couldn't deny how disconcerting it was to be so close to someone so dangerous, yet undeniably captivating. He was so close she would have been able to smell him if they weren’t in his dream. She knew what he smelled like. This fact alone was so shocking to Hermione she forgot to react at first.

“I want you to be a good girl and do exactly as I say.” His voice was a low growl, his fingers tightening around her throat, though she could still breathe since this was just a dream.

She forced herself to stay calm. “I’ll be good,” she whispered, her voice strained as if she were truly struggling.

Riddle leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin. “Now, tell me all your little secrets. I know you’re hiding something.” His eyes searched hers, looking for the truth he was convinced she held.

For a moment, she froze. 

“What secrets?” she asked, stalling for time. So he did suspect her of something. Did he have any idea what those secrets of hers could be? How much did he know?

Riddle’s expression hardened. “You leave me no choice, if you want to be difficult...”

With frightening speed, he grabbed her hair, dragging her across the forest floor before throwing her down a steep slope. Hermione tumbled, disoriented, until she landed in a pit of snakes, dozens of slithering, hissing creatures winding themselves around her legs and arms.

Panic surged through her, but she fought to keep control. This wasn’t real. It was all a dream. She could leave at any moment.

Riddle leapt into the pit after her, hissing in Parseltongue. The snakes coiled tighter around her, their cold, scaly bodies trapping her in place. She had seen enough.

With a determined thought, Hermione disappeared from his dream.

*

Hermione woke with a start, her body drenched in sweat. Her heart raced, her mind still reeling from the intensity of the encounter. What had she even learned from this?

Nothing, really. She still didn’t know his true intentions, only that he suspected her of keeping secrets. And now, she had an even deeper fear of him. His mind was twisted, dark, and relentless. His control was absolute. And there was something disturbingly erotic about the way he’d manipulated the dream, the way he’d made her feel both powerless and aware of every intimate detail.

She scolded herself as she lay back down, trying to find some semblance of peace. This had been a mistake—a foolish, reckless mistake.

And yet, there was something else, something that lingered. The brief glimpse of vulnerability, that haunted child in the orphanage, trapped in his own loneliness.

But that, too, was overshadowed by the monster he had become.

*

Saturday morning, Hermione woke again, this time much more pleasantly to the soft tapping of an owl at her window. The tawny owl, with its mottled brown feathers, carried a note from Marigold. A brief demand to meet her for a late breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron in tow, the letter insisted Hermione tell her everything about the previous evening. With sluggish limbs, she dressed herself, hoping that a light-hearted conversation with her new friend might lift the tension that still hung over her from last night's unsettling events.

She was the first to arrive at the pub, and chose an empty table near the entrance. Her mind raced with how much of her encounter to share with Marigold. She stared absently out the window, thoughts spiralling, when suddenly, a neatly folded Daily Prophet was slid onto the table before her.

Hermione caught sight of long, elegant fingers adorned with a very familiar ring before groaning inwardly. So much for keeping a low profile.

She looked up into the repulsively perfect face of Tom Riddle.

"Good morning, Miss Granger. I trust you’ve had a rather pleasant ten hours since we last met?" His smile was polite, but the icy control she remembered from her dream was ever-present in his eyes, scanning her up and down rather apparently. A chill ran down her spine as she took in his appearance as well. Dressed in a fitted black suit, a silver chain from a pocket watch glinting at his waistcoat, and a robe draped over his left arm, he looked every bit the picture of calm menace. For all she knew, his wand could be hidden beneath the cloth, aimed directly at her.

"Uneventful, to say the least. Thank you for asking," she replied stiffly, avoiding the use of his name. She couldn't bring herself to say it. Nor would she invite further conversation by asking questions. Her hope was simple: that he would lose interest and move on.

"Are you dining alone this morning?" he inquired, his gaze flicking to the empty chair across from her.

Absolutely no chance , she thought.

"I'm waiting for someone," she said, forcing a smile.

Riddle's gaze scanned the room, lingering a beat too long. 

“They should be here any minute,” Hermione added, feeling a tightening in her chest.

His lips pressed into a thin line. It was obvious he wasn’t used to being dismissed so curtly.

“Very well, then. I’ll leave you with this masterpiece of journalism.” He tapped the paper he had brought twice with his index finger. “Enjoy your morning, Miss Granger,” he said smoothly, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

"Goodbye," she replied, finally daring to meet his eyes. The inky blackness of them was more than unsettling, it was like being drawn into a void. A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face, and she felt her pulse quicken. Her throat went dry.

With a brief nod, Riddle turned and exited the pub. Hermione watched his retreating figure as he strode down Diagon Alley, only to catch him glance back at her with a wicked grin. Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly ducked her head, hiding behind her hands like a child caught sneaking sweets. He was everywhere. Not just physically, but in her thoughts too. 

She couldn't let him distract her, not now.

Once he turned the corner and disappeared from view, Hermione reluctantly picked up the Daily Prophet . The front page displayed a large black-and-white photo of Abraxas Malfoy , smiling down at a beautiful blonde, who cradled a newborn baby. They stood in front of Malfoy Manor, bathed in sunlight, looking both elegant and exhausted. The caption beneath the image read: Abraxas Malfoy and Amara Malfoy (deceased 31.07.52) with their son, Lucius Malfoy, last March during the birth announcement.

A Tragic Loss and a New Beginning: Abraxas Malfoy Speaks Out for the First Time Since His Wife’s Death
By Marigold McKinnon

Hermione read the article, her brow furrowing.

It has been just over a month since the wizarding world was rocked by the tragic and untimely death of Amara Malfoy, née Ascott. Amara, beloved wife of Abraxas Malfoy, was found dead in London on the night of the 31st of July under circumstances that remain shrouded in secrecy. While the details of the investigation are closely guarded by the Auror Department, rumours abound about the nature of her demise.

In an exclusive interview, Abraxas Malfoy has finally broken his silence, granting the Daily Prophet a glimpse into his grief, his family's future, and his determination to move forward. Making his first public appearance since the tragedy at Professor Slughorn’s End-of-Summer Soiree last Friday, Abraxas cut a composed yet sombre figure. The weight of his loss was evident in every careful movement and expression.

"The past weeks have been a trial," Malfoy confided, his voice steady but laced with sorrow. "Amara was not only my wife but my heart. Imagining a future without her is... well, it's not something I had ever prepared for." For a man known for his aristocratic charm and stoicism, this rare display of vulnerability was both poignant and unexpected. It was clear to all in attendance that the Malfoy heir was deeply affected.

Though grief-stricken, Abraxas remains focused on his young son, Lucius, who is not yet a year old. "Lucius is my priority now," he said with a soft smile, his pride as a father shining through. "Amara and I had great plans for him. He will be raised strong, proud of his lineage, and ready to uphold the Malfoy name."

At just twenty-six years of age, Abraxas Malfoy is already looking to the future. "Life must continue, even if it's painful. There are responsibilities to uphold, to my family and to the wizarding world," he stated, his voice resolute. Despite the fresh wound of his wife’s death, it is clear that Abraxas is not one to wallow in despair.

Though he declined to comment on his romantic future, it is hard to imagine a man of Abraxas's stature remaining unattached for long. His striking looks and immense wealth make him one of the most eligible bachelors in the wizarding world, and while he may be focused on his son for now, one can already feel the stirrings of curiosity from high society's most ambitious witches.

To Hermione, Abraxas Malfoy hadn’t seemed like a man in mourning. He had flirted with her relentlessly the night before, his confidence almost overbearing. She was sure that with this article, he wouldn’t be lonely for long. Wealthy, powerful, and good-looking, it was a dangerous combination.

This development could prove catastrophic for her plans. If she wanted to get close enough to him to unlock the private entrance to his vault from Malfoy Manor—one she had knowledge of from her curse-breaking duties—she’d need his trust. But now, with the added challenge of dozens of witches competing for his attention, her task seemed far more daunting. She was no great beauty, by her own reckoning. Wit and intellect had served her well in the past, but they were far from guaranteed tools for manipulation. She would need another approach, either through business or by force.

Her thoughts spun wildly as she pondered her next move. So distracted was she that she failed to notice Marigold slipping into the chair across from her.

“I see you've already devoured the article! Abraxas left quite the impression last night, didn’t he?” Marigold chirped, her eyes twinkling.

Hermione flushed, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over her. If anyone in 2008 knew she found a Malfoy even remotely attractive, she'd want the earth to swallow her whole.

“I wanted to see what you’d written about him. It’s well done, Marigold, couldn’t tear myself away,” Hermione replied, skilfully dodging the implication.

“Ah, I see…” Marigold’s eyebrow arched in scepticism. “And no one else caught your eye at the soirée, I suppose?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. People in this era were far too keen on everyone’s personal business. Thankfully, she was spared from answering as two other women entered the pub, drawing Marigold's attention.

“Here they are!” Marigold exclaimed, her smile widening. “Hermione, I’d like you to meet my dear friends from Hogwarts. This is Pippa Sweeting,” she gestured to a petite brunette with chin-length wavy hair and warm brown eyes. “And this,” she motioned to a tall woman with fiery red hair cropped short, “is Augusta Prewett—well, Longbottom now.”

The moment Hermione laid eyes on Augusta, her heart skipped a beat. She recognised that wedding band she was wearing on her left hand. Luna Longbottom wore it in her own time. This young woman, so sharp and full of life, was Neville’s grandmother. How bizarre to see her like this, so different from the eccentric matriarch she would later become. For now, there were no odd hats or wandering expressions, just a brooch with a delicate feather pinned to her chest.

Hermione rose to shake hands, offering a polite smile.

“When Evangeline got home and told me all about your potion skills, I knew I had to introduce you to the brightest stars of Hogwarts’ class of ‘45!” Marigold beamed. “Shame Naomi Onai isn’t here—she’s back with her family in Ouagadougou—but you’ll do nicely as a replacement exchange student!” She winked.

Hermione paused for a moment, recalling Evangeline Sharp, the striking woman with heterochromia and the streak of silver in her black hair, she owned a chain of apothecaries, if Hermione remembered correctly. But something about Marigold’s phrasing caught her off guard.

“I don’t quite understand… How do you know Miss Sharp?” Hermione asked, curious.

A brief silence followed as the three women exchanged a meaningful glance.

“Eva’s my girlfriend,” Marigold confessed softly, watching Hermione’s reaction.

Hermione blinked. It all fell into place. No wonder Marigold, for all her talk of eligible men, never seemed interested in them herself. In this era, such a relationship must have been an enormous risk, especially for a pure-blood witch.

“Oh, really? I’m glad she enjoyed the show! I was so nervous performing in front of that crowd,” Hermione said, tactfully moving past the revelation. “What did she say? You must tell me everything!”

Marigold, usually so talkative, said nothing. Instead, she threw her arms around Hermione, squeezing her tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered into Hermione’s hair, her voice thick with emotion. “I knew you wouldn’t shun me, but… thank you all the same.”

When Marigold finally pulled away, Hermione held her at arm’s length, taking in the unshed tears glistening in her friend’s blue eyes. It struck her then, how dangerous it must be for Marigold to love who she loved in this time.

“You’ve been the kindest person I’ve met since… well, since I arrived here,” Hermione said softly. Here being 1952 instead of London, but Hermione guessed that did not matter really in this situation. “I would never judge you for who you love.”

Marigold's laughter broke the moment. “Oh, I’d totally judge you, though!” she quipped, giving Hermione’s arm a playful slap. “Because Eva also told me that after I left, two certain Slytherins were all over you.”

“Who?” Augusta chimed in, her face immediately scrunching with distaste. Clearly a Gryffindor through and through.

“Our dear widower, Abraxas Malfoy, and Slughorn’s golden boy, Tom Riddle,” Marigold said with a grin.

Hermione flushed again, her cheeks burning. 

Augusta's expression soured further. "You ought to steer clear of both, Hermione," she said sternly. Pippa nodded in agreement.

“Didn’t you warn her?” Pippa asked, her tone almost scolding.

“Of course I did—sort of,” Marigold replied, feigning innocence.

“Not that it matters. I’m not looking for a suitor, just investors,” Hermione stated, causing the group to break into soft giggles.

“Still, you must admit,” Marigold added, leaning in conspiratorially, “they’re both easy on the eyes.”

“Marigold!” Augusta gasped, mock-offended. “We do not acknowledge any positive traits in Slytherins, superficial or otherwise.”

“Then explain why you said Evangeline was too clever and too pretty for me!” Marigold teased, prompting laughter from the whole group.

“I distinctly recall that!” Pippa chimed in, grinning widely.

“I must agree, Evangeline’s quite striking. No one could miss her beauty,” Hermione added, drawing pleased smiles from the others.

The conversation flowed easily after that. Hermione learned that Augusta had recently married John Longbottom and had just completed her Auror training. Pippa, meanwhile, worked as an assistant to the famous Magizoologist, Newt Scamander, and shared Hermione’s passion for the rights of magical creatures.

Their chatter went on, filled with laughter and little anecdotes. Hermione leaned back in her chair, watching Marigold animatedly describe a particularly chaotic afternoon at The Daily Prophet , where an enchanted quill had gone rogue and started scribbling gossip about the staff, which had left several of the male writers red-faced.

Pippa snorted, nearly spilling her tea. “And no one thought to disarm the quill sooner? Merlin, I'd have hexed it into oblivion before it could get a word out!”

“Oh, we tried,” Marigold grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “But the quill was bewitched with a protection charm. No matter what we did, it just kept writing. Quite the little rascal.”

"Must've been cursed by a Ravenclaw with a taste for drama," Augusta added dryly, taking a sip of her coffee.

"I heard that!" Marigold shot back, though her smile betrayed her teasing tone. "But you're not wrong. It was one of our interns - indeed a Ravenclaw - who got a little too creative with it.”

Hermione found herself laughing along with them, feeling the bond between them deepen with each shared story. It was so rare to find people she could simply talk with, especially after these past incredibly stressful weeks. This, right here, felt like a reprieve.

“So, what about you, Pippa? What’s it like working with Newt Scamander? He must be fascinating,” Hermione asked, genuinely curious.

Pippa’s face lit up at the mention of her work. “Oh, he’s incredible! The things he’s seen, the creatures he’s discovered... it’s like working alongside a living legend. But he’s also so down-to-earth. Just yesterday, we were in the middle of the Welsh mountains trying to track down a rogue Graphorn that’s been wreaking havoc on a village. And let me tell you, trying to capture that beast was no easy feat.”

“I’m guessing it didn’t go as planned?” Hermione said, a smile playing at her lips.

Pippa shook her head, laughing. “Not even close. We were chased halfway down the mountain before Newt managed to calm it with some sort of enchanted lullaby. You should’ve seen him, cool as a cucumber, while I was trying not to trip over my own feet.”

Hermione chuckled, picturing the scene. “You must have the patience of a saint to handle that kind of chaos.”

Pippa waved it off. “It’s all worth it. The creatures, the magic, it’s what I love. Though sometimes, I think it’s more about surviving the day than anything else!”

Hermione nodded, feeling an admiration for Pippa’s passion and dedication. “I can tell you’re brilliant at what you do. If I ever need help with any magical creatures, I’ll know who to reach out to.”

“Absolutely!” Pippa beamed. “And if you ever want to collaborate on some potion work involving magical creatures, count me in. There’s so much untapped potential in combining our fields.”

Augusta leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “So, Hermione, what’s your grand plan? I mean, you’re obviously talented, but what are you working toward? Surely you’ve got a vision.”

Hermione paused, the weight of their expectations hanging in the air. What could she say? She couldn’t reveal her true mission, her hidden agenda that went far beyond potions. But neither could she lie completely.

“I want to create something new,” she said slowly, carefully. “but not just for profit. I want to make a difference. Find ways to use my skills to help people, not just in the usual ways we think of, but in ways that haven’t even been imagined yet.”

Marigold’s eyes lit up. “That’s exactly what I thought! You’re not just an inventor, Hermione, you’re a visionary.”

Hermione smiled, touched by the support and belief these women had in her. For the first time since arriving in this strange, dangerous time, she felt a genuine connection. These women weren’t seeing her as the war hero or the girl who saved the wizarding world. They were seeing her, Hermione, the woman, the potion-maker, the newcomer trying to carve out her place in this unfamiliar world.

“That means a lot, thank you,” she said sincerely.

Marigold gave her a bright smile. “You’ve impressed me from the start. And I’m sure Augusta and Pippa would agree, it's been ages since we’ve met someone as brilliant as you.”

The conversation shifted after that, moving onto lighter topics, favourite professors, amusing Hogwarts memories, and Pippa’s often disastrous but funny adventures with various magical creatures. Hermione laughed more in that hour than she had in weeks, feeling lighter, more at ease. 

As they continued to talk, Augusta shared a story about her recent Auror training, recounting a training duel that had gone hilariously wrong when a fellow Auror-in-training had accidentally summoned a herd of Puffskeins. “You can imagine the chaos,” Augusta said, shaking her head. “They were everywhere, rolling around and squeaking, and half the class was doubled over laughing while the other half tried to contain them.”

Marigold laughed. “That sounds about right for Auror training. Never a dull moment.”

Hermione found herself relaxing into the camaraderie. In their company, Hermione felt a rare sense of comfort. For a few blissful hours, she was able to forget about dark plans, curses, and the ever-present shadow of Tom Riddle. For now, she could simply be herself.

*

Upon her arrival back at her room, Hermione found four letters waiting for her, as well as a hungry orange cat. Ignoring Crookshanks demands for food, she broke the seals as quickly as possible to read her mail.

Evangeline Sharp

Sharp's Apothecaries, London
August 30, 1952

Dear Miss Granger,

I hope this letter reaches you in good health and high spirits after your remarkable demonstration at Professor Slughorn’s soirée. The prowess and ingenuity you displayed, particularly with your Wandwood Elixir and Phoenix Flame Elixir, left a profound impression on me. Your potions are nothing short of revolutionary, and I believe they hold tremendous potential for the wider wizarding community.

As the proprietor of Sharp's Apothecaries, a well-regarded chain of establishments, I am always in search of products that push the boundaries of what we currently offer. I am especially intrigued by your work, not only because of its innovation but also because of the empowerment it represents for witches in our field. I am keen to support a fellow witch whose talents shine so brightly.

I would be interested in discussing an exclusive partnership wherein your potions could be featured in my apothecaries. Whether this entails purchasing your recipes or securing pre-brewed products from you directly, I assure you I am prepared to negotiate a fair and mutually beneficial arrangement. I hope this could be the start of a fruitful collaboration.

Your creativity and expertise are truly inspiring, and I would be honoured to stock your exceptional potions on our shelves.

Warmest regards,
Evangeline Sharp
Owner, Sharp’s Apothecaries

*

Fleamont Potter

Potter’s Potions & Self-Care, Hogsmeade
August 30, 1952

Dear Miss Granger,

I wanted to take a moment to commend you on the extraordinary demonstration you gave at Slughorn’s gathering last night. I was particularly taken by your True Invisibility Potion, it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before, and it immediately sparked my interest as a perfect addition to Potter’s Potions & Self-Care.

As you may know, Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion has been the cornerstone of our product line, alongside items like Fountain of Fair Skin Cream, Golden Gaze Eye Serum, and Restorative Dream Mist. Adding your invisibility potion to this range would bring a unique and adventurous flair, one that I’m certain our customers would be eager to experience.

If you're open to discussing business, I would love to explore the possibility of purchasing the invisibility potion or collaborating to produce it under your expert guidance. Your innovative work deserves nothing less than to reach a broader audience, and I believe we can create something truly special together.

Please let me know if you would be available to discuss this further. I’m confident we can work out a professional arrangement that benefits us both.

With best regards,
Fleamont Potter
Potter’s Potions & Self-Care

*

Abraxas O. Malfoy

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire
August 30, 1952

Dearest Miss Granger,

What a rare delight it was to witness your display at Professor Slughorn’s soirée. The elegance with which you presented your potions, particularly the Phoenix Flame Elixir, was most captivating. I find myself unable to stop thinking about the extraordinary potential of your work.

It would be my distinct pleasure if you could join me for tea at Malfoy Manor this upcoming Saturday afternoon. I would like to discuss the finer details of your potions, their prices, of course, are no concern. Whatever sum you deem appropriate, I shall gladly pay. More importantly, I’m eager to hear more about your talents in person. A conversation over tea feels like a most fitting way to explore the possibilities.

On a more personal note, I cannot resist asking, might I indulge in a reading of your seer abilities during your visit? I confess I find the idea of what you might divine for me rather… intriguing.

Do let me know if you are available, my dear Miss Granger. I look forward to your reply with eager anticipation.

Yours devotedly,
Abraxas Malfoy
Malfoy Manor

*

Horace Slughorn 

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
August 30, 1952

Dear Hermione,

I must extend my sincerest gratitude for gracing my humble soirée with your presence last night. Your presentation was nothing short of masterful. You truly stole the show, my dear, and I have no doubt you left the entire room as impressed as I was.

I do hope the evening provided you with the professional connections you were seeking. You are a talent that deserves to be celebrated, and if there is any further support or introductions you require, you need only let me know.

Furthermore, I would be thrilled if you might consider delivering a guest lecture in my Potions class here at Hogwarts sometime during the upcoming term. The students would greatly benefit from hearing first hand about your remarkable contributions to the field, and it would be a privilege to have you in my classroom, even if only for a short time.

Please let me know if this is of interest to you. I have no doubt the young witches and wizards at Hogwarts would be just as captivated by your insights as I am.

With warmest regards,
Horace Slughorn
Head of Slytherin House and Potions Master

Everything would be alright, Hermione was flying on a new alltime high since she had arrived in this time. All she wanted was within her reach, she knew it. Highly motivated she started writing her answers.

***

Tom

At their Sunday meeting of the Knights at Malfoy Manor, Tom should have been in high spirits. His followers had been performing remarkably well. Selwyn and Dagworth had uncovered valuable information about the enigmatic Miss Granger, details Dorian Dagworth had shared with him privately. Nott had a promising idea with the rings, and Rosier had even selected tasteful, personalised rings for the Protean Charm experiment that Nott had devised.

Now, Tom inspected his own ring, a white gold signet with a sleek, coiling snake, its eyes set with small black diamonds. A subtle symbol of power.

Nott had successfully cast the charm, and they had tested it thoroughly. Even Lestrange contributed, suggesting an added enchantment to erase any messages, ensuring nothing could be traced back to them. His Auror training had, for once, proven useful.

By all accounts, Tom ought to have been satisfied. Yet, as he stood in the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, a restless anger simmered beneath the surface. He had no idea what had sparked this feeling, but it gnawed at him, sharp and unrelenting.

“You've all done well,” he said, though his voice lacked warmth. His eyes scanned the room with his nine closest followers. “But life has been dreadfully dull of late. Let’s do something… entertaining. Any suggestions?”

“Why not a duelling championship?” Sallow suggested at once, his tone eager.

“We’ll already be duelling next Saturday at the gathering with the larger circle, Sylas,” Dolohov reminded him, shooting a glance at Sallow.

“Yes, and that’s no doubt why you’re so keen to dismiss it, you usually end up last,” Gideon Mulciber drawled, smirking at Dolohov. 

Quentin Dolohov, with his black hair and sharp, partially East-Asian features, stood stiff. His mother had been a famed beauty from Singapore, essentially purchased by his father, a fact that always hovered in the background. Dolohov, while lazy and something of a womaniser, often proved valuable due to his extensive international connections. He never failed to supply their gatherings with willing women to entertain the Knights.

“How about I call up a few of Maria’s girls and we have ourselves a little party?” he offered, leaning back with a lecherous grin.

Tom suppressed a yawn. “Even your hedonism bores me, Quentin. Try to be a touch more inventive.”

His gaze slid to Avery, the most sadistic of the Knights. There was an unspoken understanding between them, Avery’s cruelty always had a way of livening things up.

“Remember what we did for Abraxas’ bachelor celebration?” Avery asked, catching Tom’s eye. “The contest with the Muggles? We could do that again.”

Stellan Nott groaned audibly, but before he could protest, Sallow clapped his hands in enthusiastic agreement. “Yes, my Lord, that was splendid fun!”

“We agreed it would be a one-off,” Nott muttered, his displeasure clear. But Tom silenced him with a lazy flick of his fingers, his expression inscrutable.

“I like it,” Tom said, his voice low, almost purring. “Stellan, if you find it distasteful, you’re free not to participate. But should you wish to shoulder more responsibilities, I suggest you bring your own contestant.”

There was a murmur of conversation among the men, and Nott, seeing the inevitability of it, bowed his head in reluctant surrender. “As you wish, my Lord.”

“I can offer my Quidditch pitch again,” Abraxas said smoothly, ever the host.

Tom gave a brief nod. “Very well. We meet at sundown on the pitch.”

The men stood, murmuring their assent. Tom, however, lingered a moment, fixing Abraxas with a pointed look.

“Don’t be late this time,” he said, his voice dangerously soft.

Abraxas, always quick to please, gave a curt nod before slipping out to hunt for the unfortunate Muggles who would soon be at the mercy of the Knights.

As the others dispersed, Tom remained where he was, his fingers absently toying with the serpent on his ring. His mind should have been focused on the task at hand, but that restlessness persisted, his wand hand itching to perform some Unforgivables this evening.

*

Abraxas was, of course, the last to join them. Tom had been tense all day, but now his patience with his usually favoured Knight was wearing thin. The sky was a dreary orange, the fading light of a sun that had overstayed its welcome. Tom relished the change of seasons, summer had always been a torment for him, with its oppressive heat and false cheerfulness. While others indulged in vacations and luxury, he had rotted in a miserable Muggle orphanage, counting the days until he could return to Hogwarts. Autumn, though, signalled the return to his true home and a taste of freedom. 

Now, he could take liberties he never dreamed of during his childhood torment.

Liberties like this.

Nine Muggle men knelt in front of them, heads bowed in terror. Each Knight had contributed a "contestant," and some had brought along the wives of the unfortunate men, just for the added pleasure of watching them suffer. It was a twisted kind of sport. A brutal one.

“There he is,” Lestrange muttered as Abraxas finally approached, hurrying toward them. The sun hadn’t fully set, but he was cutting it close. Tom’s eyes narrowed, not just in irritation at Abraxas’ tardiness, but because of the woman clinging to his arm.

For the briefest moment, Tom thought it was her, Hermione Granger. The long, curly brown hair and frightened expression triggered the thought. But the dress was Gryffindor red, not the cherry red she had worn, and as they came closer, he saw the differences clearly. She was not Miss Granger, though the resemblance was enough to spark Tom’s interest. It seemed Abraxas had chosen her for the same reason. He’d always been obsessive about his desires.

Tom could appreciate obsession.

Behind them, a man stumbled along, and Abraxas barked at him to kneel with the others. The anticipation of the game pulsed through Tom's veins. With a nod, he gestured for Avery to explain the rules.

“The rules are simple,” Avery began, his voice carrying over the silent group of Muggles. “Whoever survives until the hour is up gets to go home. If any of you kill another contestant, you may take your spouse with you, if you survive.”

The smirk that tugged at Avery’s lips mirrored the cruelty in Tom’s own heart.

"Hand the weapons to your contestants," Avery instructed the Knights.

Tom conjured a whip, its long, serrated edges perfect for the kind of torture he envisioned. He placed it into the trembling hands of the man he had chosen. The man, though broader than Tom, was visibly terrified. Their eyes met, and without a word, Tom slipped into his mind. Defiance stirred somewhere beneath the fear, a trait Tom always found intriguing.

He whispered into the man's mind, If you are not the last man standing, I will ensure your death is far worse than anything you face tonight.

The man sobbed, the fear energising Tom. He savoured it, like a drug coursing through his veins, empowering him.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Avery called, “it’s time to head to the stands.” Then, lowering his voice to Tom, he added, “You’ll lift the Imperius curses, won’t you, my Lord? I’m not sure I can manage all of them at once.”

Tom stared at Avery for a long moment. The man had always been reliable, even in these vile games. There was a certain twisted nobility to ensuring fairness, even in cruelty.

“Yes,” Tom said dismissively, raising his wand. Silver sparks exploded into the sky, counting down to the start of their sick game. Reaching the exit and, with a lazy flick of his wrist, hw lifted the Imperius curses. For a second, the pitch was silent. Then, the screaming began.

It was exquisite.

From the stands, Tom observed as the Muggles descended into chaos. His contestant had attempted to flee, only to slam into the shield protecting the pitch. The others hadn’t yet approached him, too busy turning on each other like animals. A man screamed for his mother before Abraxas’ contestant bashed his skull in with a baseball bat.

“Look, darling, your man just saved your life!” Abraxas whispered to the woman in his lap, stroking her tear-streaked face. It might’ve seemed tender if not for her visible horror.

Tom’s eyes flicked to Abraxas, who seemed far more... composed. Perhaps this was what he needed to lift his spirits after losing his wife. The others were similarly engrossed in the carnage below, shouting encouragement or frustration. Sallow hurled his glass against the wall when his man was strangled by Tom's whip-wielding contestant, a creative use of the weapon Tom hadn't anticipated.

Avery had chosen a young boy - maybe fourteen years of age - for his contestant. He always found some sick pleasure in pitting weaker bodies against stronger opponents. He grinned now, watching as his contestant, bleeding from a head wound, still managed to stab one of the others in the leg, eliciting a scream that echoed across the pitch. Avery clapped like a gleeful child at his progress.

The other Knights observed the carnage below with varying degrees of interest. Gideon Mulciber, ever the jokester, was laughing obnoxiously, nudging Nott beside him as Tom’s contestant managed to wrap the whip around another man's neck, choking him to death. Nott, who had always been quieter, sipped his drink, his eyes distant. He wasn’t naturally inclined to violence, but the sheer atmosphere of it kept him rooted in place. Perhaps it was peer pressure that held him there.

Half an hour had passed when one of Malfoy’s house-elves appeared, trembling and frantic.

“Master Malfoy, please, Dobby needs Master’s help. Baby Lucius will not stop crying. He needs his father, yes, he needs the Master,” the elf babbled.

Abraxas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be there momentarily, Dobby.” He stood, pushing the woman from his lap. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice deceptively soft as she crumpled to the ground.

As soon as Abraxas vanished with a sharp crack, Tom’s eyes gleamed. Now, the woman was his.

“Come here, girl,” he commanded, but she only sobbed, her body trembling where she lay. With a flick of his fingers, he summoned her to cower at his feet, yanking her by the hair.

“Look,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “you’re missing the show.”

Her hair felt good in his hands—soft, wild. He imagined it was Hermione Granger’s hair he was gripping, the thought stirring something dark and potent inside him.

“Don’t you want to see how brave your husband is? How valiantly he’s fighting for you?”

Her tearful whisper was barely audible. “N-No.”

Tom tutted softly. “Stop crying,” he ordered, and with another flick, her tears ceased. He couldn’t stand it when they cried. It was pathetic, beneath him.

But now she was unable to pry her warm brown eyes away from the spectacle and not too soon after she had gone rigid, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as she watched the unfolding carnage. 

He could feel her fear, it radiated off her in waves, intoxicating him. Her hair slipped from his grasp as he leaned forward, watching as the last two men left standing. Tom’s whip-wielder and her husband one of the larger contestants that Abraxas had brought, faced off. They circled each other, panting, blood staining the ground beneath their feet.

“I wonder which one will win,” Tom murmured, his lips brushing the woman's ear as she shivered uncontrollably. “Do you think your husband will survive?”

She didn’t answer, but her breath hitched at the word “husband.” Her eyes were locked on the pitch, watching as her husband, bloodied and desperate, lunged at the other man with his bat. He swung it, the desperation in his movements making him faster than before. The bat connected with the whip-wielder's skull with a sickening thud, and he collapsed.

A stunned silence fell over the pitch as the winner stood victorious, gasping for breath. The Muggle woman’s lips parted in shock, a tear sliding down her cheek despite Tom's earlier command to cease her crying.

“Impressive,” Tom murmured, pulling back. “He’s stronger than I gave him credit for.”

But the cruelty didn’t leave his eyes. He could still kill the man if he wished, and perhaps he would. 

As the hour drew to a close, the survivor was left in the pitch, bloody and shaking, his eyes hollow. The Knights began to lose interest now that the violence was over, but Tom remained engrossed. The cruelty of the night, the broken spirits laid bare before him, it was intoxicating. He glanced at the woman once more, her face wet with fresh tears, her sobs barely audible.

"Your husband will live tonight," he said softly, almost kindly, as if this were a gift. "But don’t mistake my mercy for weakness."

Her head bowed, defeated, as she trembled  at his feet. The night had taken its toll on her.

Abraxas returned then, eyes gleaming as he saw the aftermath of the game, his spirits lifted somewhat. "Well, that was entertaining," he drawled, sliding back into his seat. He patted his lap, but the women barely reacted. She was broken now, just as Tom intended. 

When she did not react to Abraxas' gesture, Tom smiled at him broadley.

“She’s mine.” Abraxas said, his voice sharp and possessive, rising once more from his seat and coming to stand before where Tom was seated.

Tom looked up, forced to meet the challenge in Abraxas’ eyes. The air between them crackled with tension.

“You left her alone,” Tom drawled, “and I had to take care of her. She seems to enjoy my company.” He smirked, giving the woman a push forward to her hands, and who then scurried away, still whimpering.

Abraxas crossed his arms, glowering. “I don’t think so. Give her back, Tom.”

The audacity. Tom raised an eyebrow. Abraxas never called him by his first name in front of the other Knights. The room went silent, their attention now focused on the brewing conflict.

Tom stood slowly. He and Abraxas locked eyes, a silent battle of wills, until Lestrange intervened.

“Is there something you’d prefer to discuss in private?” he asked, his tone cutting through the tension.

Abraxas huffed. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”

Lestrange’s smirk grew. “She looks awfully like Miss Granger, doesn’t she? The witch we’re supposed to be investigating for you, my Lord. Did something... happen?”

Abraxas’ confusion morphed into suspicion. “You had her spied on?” His gaze flicked to Tom. “Why?”

Tom’s eyes hardened. It seemed his Knights needed a reminder of their place. "You are not to ask questions. You're to do as you're told."

Abraxas pressed further, his voice sharp. "Fine, then you won’t mind if I pursue her, yes?"

Tom narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn’t know what to do with her. She’s too smart for you."

Abraxas stepped closer, undeterred. "Maybe. But at least she enjoys speaking to me."

“What are you talking about.” he asked though it sounded like a threat not like a question. 

“She hated being near you at Slughorn’s party, she cringed when you touched her. She obviously doesn't want you.” he quipped. 

And Tom did not want her either. He just wanted to find out what she was hiding. Why she was scared of him. Or at least that was what he told himself. He had even dreamt of her and had taken care of his own needs imagining her red-painted lips around his erection.

The words hit their mark, but Tom didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned to the woman huddled on the floor, muttering prayers to a god that wasn’t listening.

Tom drew his wand with an almost casual flick and pointed it at her. “Avada Kedavra.”

The familiar rush coursed through him as her life vanished in an instant, her eyes dulling. Satisfaction welled within him, the cruelty momentarily sating his darker desires. “Conversation over,” he said, turning back to Abraxas.

Abraxas’ hands balled into fists, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his back on Tom and strode toward the exit, his departure loaded with the cold arrogance only a Malfoy could muster.

How dare he.

Tom’s fury ignited instantly. The insult of having someone— anyone —turn their back on him was intolerable. He followed Abraxas with deliberate steps, catching up with him on the gravel path leading back to the manor.

Without warning, Tom cast a silent Cruciatus.

Abraxas collapsed, gasping and writhing in the dirt where he belonged. Tom savoured the sight, the familiar thrum of power coursing through his veins. There was a certain satisfaction in watching someone break under his curse, knowing no one could wield it like he could.

As Abraxas twisted in agony, Tom stepped closer, holding the curse a moment longer than necessary. His voice was deathly calm when he finally spoke. “You do not turn your back on me. You do not defy me. Not in front of the others.”

When Tom finally lifted the curse, Abraxas lay gasping, curled into a foetal position.

“I’m sorry,” he quivered.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, what ?”

“I’m sorry, my Lord.” Abraxas lifted his head, his voice trembling. “It’s just... Amara was taken from me, you won’t be with me—not openly—and now you tell me I can’t have the first woman who’s sparked my interest?”

Tom studied him, noting the pain and loneliness etched on his face. Though he felt no sympathy, he could imitate it well enough. After all, he had orchestrated much of Abraxas’ misery. And Abraxas had no idea how deep his betrayal ran.

“Fine then,” Tom said, offering a hand to help him up. “May the best man win.”

Abraxas grasped Tom’s hand, his grip sweaty and cold. “Deal. And let’s keep it fair.” he said, hoisting himself up.

They shook hands, though Tom hot had no intention of keeping anything fair. Life had never been fair to him, so he would not even know what that meant. 

The tension between them lingered. Abraxas smirked, adding, “Besides, I feel confident enough. She’s agreed to be my guest for high tea on Saturday.”

Tom halted, though his expression remained neutral. He reminded himself that his primary interest in Hermione wasn’t personal; it was her secrets he desired. Yet, if Abraxas thought he could claim her... Tom now had another reason to draw her closer.

“Well,” Tom said smoothly, “I met her for breakfast just the other day.” It was a lie, but it slipped easily from his lips, meant to unsettle Abraxas.

But Abraxas only laughed dryly. “You’re such a liar. I know for a fact she had breakfast with McKinnon yesterday.”

Tom clenched his jaw. “Then you shouldn’t worry about me succeeding, should you?” He flashed Abraxas his most charming smile.

Abraxas stepped closer, his voice soft but pointed. “You have to consider that she doesn’t feel drawn to your darkness... like I do.”

Tom’s intrigue was piqued, though he wouldn’t admit it. The fact that Hermione had feared him was part of what made her so appealing. But Tom was a master of deception and manipulation. “That may be so,” he said, stepping toward Abraxas, “but you know how charming I can be when I want to.”

He raised an eyebrow, adding, “Also, just because you’re desperate to fill your bed doesn’t mean the first witch you stumble upon, who isn’t brain-dead or related to you, is the best choice.”

Abraxas’ gaze lingered on Tom’s face, then trailed down his body. “This party’s been a bust,” he said carefully, “but there’s something else we could do.”

Tom wasn’t surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. Needy Abraxas always came back, no matter what. 

Tom raised an eyebrow, amused.

“I mean, you did kill my entertainment for the night,” Abraxas continued, his voice dropping to a mischievous tone, “and you did Crucio me in the back. Keeping my bed warm is the least you could do for your devoted Knight.”

Abraxas stepped closer, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. Tom could see why he had always favoured him, no matter how hard he was kicked, Abraxas still crawled back, ever loyal, ever wanting.

Tom sighed and shouldered past him as if leaving. He felt Abraxas’ eyes on him, probably thinking he'd been dismissed. But when Tom reached the fork in the path, he veered right, toward the manor.

“Are you coming, then?” Tom called over his shoulder, glancing back to see Abraxas break into a run as the words sank in.

Just like the obedient dog he was.

*

Fucking Abraxas felt like a homecoming. 

Even after years apart, it was as it had always been, violent, raw, and predictable. They were boys at Hogwarts again, tearing at each other’s clothes in supply cupboards, wrestling in the Forbidden Forest, grappling for dominance in empty classrooms. Tom, of course, always won. The struggle Abraxas put up was more for show than for victory; they both knew he enjoyed being dominated. And Tom relished control. Of all the people he'd had, no one had ever taken pleasure in his cruelty quite like Abraxas.

Though Tom generally preferred women, Abraxas was an exception, his powerful touch and tight body, combined with the fact that Tom never had to hold back, made it worthwhile. And it wasn’t that Tom feared exposure of their relations; the issue wasn’t Abraxas being a man. Tom simply didn't believe in relationships, love, or any sentiment remotely resembling affection. He liked the act because Abraxas never cried, not during or after. That was the key.

By the time they reached his bedroom, Abraxas was already unbuttoning Tom’s shirt. His arousal had been immediate, familiar, and easy. As Abraxas worked his way down to his trousers, Tom suddenly grabbed him by the throat and shoved him onto the bed, the green silk sheets stark against Abraxas' pale skin. He lay there, demure, submissive, and objectively beautiful in an aristocratic pure-blooded way, just how Tom liked him.

Tom leaned forward, ripping open Abraxas' shirt with a quick, careless motion, but he wasn’t prepared for what came next. Abraxas shot up, capturing Tom’s mouth in a bruising kiss.

Tom didn’t kiss. 

He never saw the point in it. It never satisfied him, and the taste was usually off. Even now, though Abraxas tasted of spearmint and his favourite Firewhiskey, Tom responded with a hard bite to Abraxas' lower lip until he drew blood.

"Ah, ah. No kissing," Tom chided, voice soft but sharp. Abraxas winced, checking the blood on his fingertips before a slow smile crept across his face.

With a sneer, Abraxas grabbed at Tom’s neck, attempting to wrestle him down to the mattress. But Tom was quicker, stronger. In one swift motion, he twisted Abraxas’ arms behind his back and forced him onto his stomach. Dark, swirling shadow serpents—Tom's signature spell—snaked from his wandless command, binding Abraxas' wrists tightly.

Tom’s grip remained unrelenting as he tore away the rest of Abraxas' clothes. Naked, restrained, and beautifully vulnerable, Abraxas lay beneath him. His skin was perfect, untouched, save for one scar, a remnant of a moment when Tom had once Crucioed him, and he’d fallen onto a jagged rock. Smiling faintly, Tom traced two fingers along the raised scar. Abraxas shuddered beneath the touch.

With a flick of his magic, Tom hoisted him to his knees and elbows, positioning him just the way he liked, open and accessible. He tugged Abraxas' head back by the hair and, holding his hand beneath his mouth, commanded, “Spit.”

Abraxas obeyed, spitting into Tom’s hand. It was filthy, but Tom relished it. The act was more about power, about anticipation. Casting a wandless cleansing spell Tom felt that Abraxas was tense before him; they hadn’t done this in years.

The metallic clink of Tom’s belt echoed in the stillness of the room as he undid his trousers. “Relax,” he murmured, spreading Abraxas' cheeks and pressing a single finger into him. The heat was immediate, intense. Abraxas, tight and ready, slowly relaxed under Tom’s touch.

“Good boy,” Tom praised, pushing the finger deeper before adding a second. Abraxas moaned, his body reacting instinctively.

“You’re so ready for me, aren’t you?” Tom asked, voice low and teasing.

“Yes,” Abraxas breathed, his response barely more than a gasp. “Yes, please... I need you.”

Tom knew exactly where to touch, how to press to make this experience enjoyable for his partner, though he never truly cared about that part. It was all control. With each movement of his fingers, Tom's dominance over Abraxas was clear.

“Who do you serve?” Tom asked, his voice dark, as he moved his fingers in and out of his willing Knight.

“I serve and obey only you, my Lord,” Abraxas replied, his voice strained and desperate.

Satisfied, Tom pulled his fingers out and, in one swift motion, plunged himself deep inside. Abraxas cried out, invoking Salazar’s name as though summoning a god. It amused Tom that he called for his ancestor. 

Being inside Abraxas was a rush. Tom revelled in every sensation, feeding his dominance further. Each thrust was a statement, each movement demanding submission.

“Look at me,” Tom ordered.

Abraxas turned his head, his gaze locking onto Tom’s with fevered intensity. Tom’s open shirt framed his bare chest, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband, drawing Abraxas’ eyes to the place where their bodies were connected. But it wasn’t enough for Tom. With a silent, wordless spell, he entered Abraxas’ mind, letting him feel everything. The tightness around his cock, the deep pressure building in both their bodies, the way Abraxas’ back muscles flexed under Tom’s control, it was all shared between them. Abraxas could feel Tom's power, his strength, and how he filled him completely.

Harder, faster, Tom thrust, pushing Abraxas to the edge, and when he finally reached his climax, Tom allowed his magic to deepen the experience. His shadows tightened their grip, holding Abraxas in place as he came, feeling every pulse of Tom’s release inside him. The sensation sent Abraxas over the edge as well, climaxing from the shared ecstasy. Hot semen dripped from where they were joined as Tom slowly withdrew, his erection slowly softening.

Abraxas remained still, bound by Tom’s shadow-snakes, his head bowed, breath heavy. The connection between them severed, leaving only the aftermath of Tom's conquest.

Tom, already detached, cast a cleaning spell on himself and began re-buttoning his trousers.

“You’re leaving?” Abraxas asked, his voice quiet, breathless.

Tom didn't dignify that question with an answer. He didn’t need to. With a cold, dismissive glance, he left the room without another word.

***

Hermione

Although Hermione had told herself that she was only dressing up to manipulate Abraxas Malfoy, deep down she knew it was a lie. She wanted to look nice for him, even if only a little. It was a disturbing thought— wanting a Malfoy, of all people, to appreciate her appearance. But she reassured herself that getting close to him would be easier if he found her attractive. Another part of her craved control. After all, she was walking back into the place where she had once been captured and tortured—barely escaping with her life, thanks to the bravery of a single house-elf.

Ironically, it had been her ambition for the Dobby Foundation that had drawn her into this mess in the first place. Still, Hermione was resolute. She would keep her composure, charm Abraxas Malfoy this Saturday afternoon, and access the vault she needed. No harm would come of it, she assured herself. The True Time Turner would remain intact, if all went according to plan.

She took one last look in the mirror, applying a final touch of her rosy lipstick. Her maroon cloak, elegant but practical, draped over a dress that was casual but modern for the 1950s—flower-patterned and autumnal. Her hair, wild in its corkscrew curls, was a stark contrast to the polished appearance she’d shown Abraxas the week before. A smile played on her lips as she wondered if he would notice the same curls that his grandson would one day mock her for.

With a sharp turn on the spot, she Disapparated to Wiltshire.

As Hermione approached Malfoy Manor, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of its imposing grandeur. The sprawling lawns, meticulously maintained, led to the pale stone façade of the house. In the soft, late afternoon light, it looked less like the menacing place etched into her memory and more like the ancestral home of a family steeped in old wizarding aristocracy.

The iron gates, which had once filled her with dread, now seemed more stately than terrifying. Despite the shadows of her past, the elegance of the manor impressed her. The anxiety of the war had dulled just enough for her to see the estate for what it truly was—a symbol of wealth and power.

As the gates opened before her, Hermione made her way up the driveway. Before she could even raise her hand to knock, the door swung open, and there stood Abraxas Malfoy, smiling broadly with a plump, white-blond baby in his arms.

“Miss Granger, it’s a delight to see you again. Do come in,” he greeted her, stepping aside to let her pass. He was dressed impeccably, his grey robes matching his sharp, silver eyes. Malfoy eyes. Though his were less haughty and more... charming, Hermione thought, almost against her will.

The entrance hall was much the same as she remembered it—familiar, yet different. Perhaps they had made subtle changes over the decades, but to her eyes, it looked much like it would fifty years later.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione said, forcing a smile. “Your home is truly beautiful.”

Abraxas chuckled softly. “Please, call me Abraxas. And may I introduce my son, Lucius.” He took her hand in his, brushing a gentlemanly kiss across the back of it.

Blushing deeply Hermione fought to keep her composure. “Of course, and you may call me Hermione.”

Her gaze shifted to the baby in Abraxas’s arms. This was Lucius Malfoy , but the thought of the future Death Eater didn’t quite match the innocent child smiling up at her, a single tooth peeking through as he gurgled happily.

“Hello, Lucius,” she said softly, wiggling his tiny foot. The baby responded with a delighted grin, as though he understood.

“He’s teething at the moment,” Abraxas explained, adjusting the baby in his arms. “He cries the moment he’s set down.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Hermione said, her tone genuine. “Especially when the baby in question is as adorable as this one.”

Abraxas looked relieved, a smile softening his features. “Thank Merlin for that.” As Hermione stepped closer, she caught the clean scent of his aftershave—subtle, like fresh mint. With a practised gesture, he slipped her cloak from her shoulders and tossed it over a chair, where it promptly vanished. “Shall we? Tea is ready in the Drawing Room.”

He offered her his free arm, and Hermione accepted, though the name of the room sent a shiver through her. She knew what lay ahead.

As they stepped into the Drawing Room, she was struck by the transformation. Flowers adorned every surface, and the sunlight filtering through the skylight gave the room an almost ethereal warmth. It was far removed from the dark, cold place seared into her memory. The chandelier above, though unchanged, now cast a soft, welcoming light.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to the floor—the very spot where she had lain during Bellatrix Lestrange’s torture. Though it was now covered in luxurious rugs, she could almost feel the icy marble beneath. For a fleeting moment, she was back there, reliving the agony. But she quickly employed her Occlumency training, clearing her mind of the haunting memory.

With a carefully composed smile, she allowed Abraxas to lead her to a table set with an extravagant display of food. Sandwiches, scones, and macarons were arranged like art, a display of wealth and refinement. At the thought of who must have prepared this work of art, her mood soured.

“Is something the matter?” Abraxas asked, noticing the brief flicker in her expression.

Hermione quickly masked her thoughts. “Oh no, it’s just… everything looks so splendid. I’ve never had a proper British Afternoon Tea before.”

Abraxas smiled, clearly pleased. “Well then, it’s an honour to introduce you to one of our finest traditions.” He began to explain the various foods, showing her the proper way to spread a scone before pouring her a generous cup of tea, adding a dash of milk for her.

“So, how has your week been since Professor Slughorn’s party?” he asked, steering the conversation toward business. “I imagine you’ve had quite a few inquiries.”

“I have,” Hermione replied, sipping her tea. “It’s been a bit overwhelming, to be honest. I’m quite new to the business side of potion brewing.”

Abraxas’s eyes sparkled with interest. “And have you made any deals yet? Am I already too late?”

He flashed a mischievous grin, despite the fact that Lucius had now fallen asleep in his arms, drooling on his pristine shirt.

Hermione returned his smile, feeling a growing confidence. “No, you’re not too late. You’re actually the first potential client I’ve met with in person.”

Abraxas flushed slightly, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. She pressed on, meeting his gaze. “So, what exactly caught your attention at the soirée?”

Abraxas hesitated for a moment, giving her a quick once-over as though confirming her flirtatious tone. “To be entirely honest, everything about you caught my eye, Miss Granger. Your intellect, your beauty—how could I not be intrigued?”

Hermione flushed this time, caught off guard by the compliment. The brightest witch of her age, she thought wryly, falling under the charm of a Malfoy.

“Abarxas,” she said quickly, “ please call me Hermione.”

“My apologies,” Abraxas replied, though his tone was still playful. “I quite like hearing my name from your lips.”

“Abraxas…” Hermione warned teasingly, though the heat in his eyes only deepened.

He shifted the conversation back to business. “You know, prices are no object. Whatever the others offer, I’ll triple it.”

“For the potions?” she asked, her voice steady, though her mind raced at the casual mention of such wealth. Hermione of course knew the extent of his vaults, probably better than he did himself, so an offer like that would not even make a dent in his wealth as far as she could tell.

“Yes, of course. For the potions,” he confirmed, though the lingering look in his eyes suggested his interest was far more personal in nature.

Hermione noticed that he hadn’t touched the food in front of him, too occupied with holding the baby. She gestured toward Lucius. “Would you like me to hold him for a while? So you can enjoy some tea.”

Abraxas’s smile broadened, and Hermione was struck by the resemblance to his future grandson, Draco. With a tenderness she hadn’t expected, he handed Lucius over to her. The baby stirred only slightly, then settled into Hermione’s arms, still fast asleep. As she cradled the child, she caught a fleeting expression of longing on Abraxas’s face—a sadness she knew must stem from the recent loss of his wife.

“I wonder,” Abraxas began slowly, his voice careful, “can you see the past as well as the future?”

Hermione stiffened. Though his question sounded innocent, she knew what he was getting at. He wanted to know if she could help find his wife’s murderer.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you who killed your wife. I’m sorry,” she said quietly, assuming his intent. When Abraxas looked at her, clearly confused, Hermione realised she had been wrong.

“No, that’s not it,” he replied, a sheen of unshed tears forming in his eyes as he stared at her, cradling his child. “I just... I can’t seem to remember the last thing she said to me.”

Her heart ached for him. Abraxas Malfoy—an aristocrat, alone in a vast, empty manor with only his baby and Slytherins for "friends." The pity Hermione felt for him ran deeper than she had anticipated. She wondered if Lucius Malfoy would have been a different person had his mother lived to raise him. Though it surprised her, that he did not want her help to solve the mystery of his wife’s death. Unless… it was not a mystery at all for him?

“I could try,” she offered gently, reaching out a hand.

Abraxas hesitated for a moment before taking it, a single tear escaping down his cheek. Hermione knew she couldn’t give him what he sought, but perhaps she could offer him some hope, some vision of a future where he wasn’t so alone. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths, as she’d practised in the solitude of her hotel room.

“I see you... older, much older,” she began, her voice soft but steady. “You’re with Lucius—he’s a father now, too. You’re playing Quidditch with your grandson, out on the grassy hills near the manor. It’s bright, and you’re laughing. You look happy.”

When she opened her eyes, more tears had streaked Abraxas’s face, but this time, they weren’t the tears of sorrow she’d seen before.

“You look happy,” she repeated, squeezing his hand.

A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. “Tell me... is my grandson any good on a broomstick?” he asked with a shaky chuckle.

Hermione smiled, grateful for the change in mood. “Actually, I saw him as a Seeker for his house team. He was wearing green—Slytherin, I presume?”

Abraxas’s smile widened at the mention of his house, and for a moment, the weight of his grief seemed to lift.

"Ah, that’s good to hear,” he said, sounding both wistful and proud.

Godric, she thought. Consoling a Malfoy—what had she come to?

After that, the conversation shifted to lighter topics. Abraxas shared tales of his time at Hogwarts, and she asked him how he’d first met Marigold. They spoke of simpler things—moments untainted by loss or darkness. Lucius eventually stirred in her arms, playing with her hair, completely at ease being in the arms of a stranger.

Just as they had settled into a comfortable rhythm, a soft pop echoed in the room. Hermione froze.

A house-elf hat appeared.

It wasn’t just any house-elf.

It was Dobby .

A younger version of the elf who would one day save her life. The one she had honoured by renaming her foundation. The bravest elf to ever walk this earth. The elf who had helped her escape this very house .

Hermione’s hands trembled. She tightened her hold on the baby in her arms as her mind raced, the past colliding with the present. Dobby was speaking, but his words barely registered. Her pulse quickened as she clutched Lucius closer to her chest, trying to find her bearings.

She zoned out the conversation happening right in front of her and closed her eyes, counting her breaths, conjuring the calmness she required. 

“Hermione?” Abraxas’s voice broke through the fog. “Are you alright?”

She blinked rapidly, forcing herself to focus. You’re in control , she reminded herself. Get a hold of yourself .

“Yes, of course,” she lied smoothly, taking a last deep breath to calm her shaking hands. “I just... I had a brief vision. I can’t always control them.”

Before she could say more, she noticed that Dobby had disappeared, and in his place, another figure leaned casually against the doorframe.

Tom Riddle.

Dressed all in black, he twirled his wand between his fingers, his eyes gleaming with calculated intensity. Even now, Hermione couldn’t deny his disarming beauty—wasted on such a cold, ruthless man.

Hermione’s posture straightened, her muscles tensing. All traces of calm had evaporated.

“I have to attend to something, but I’ll only be a moment,” Abraxas said, a note of impatience in his voice.

“Will you be gone long?” Hermione asked stiffly, unable to hide her apprehension.

“Not at all,” he reassured her. “In the meantime, one of the elves will bring Lucius’s bottle. Would you mind feeding him?”

Hermione nodded, her movements mechanical, her thoughts elsewhere. She turned her gaze toward Riddle, hoping he would follow Abraxas out of the room.

“Do you have to go with him?” she blurted, her voice sharper than intended.

Riddle’s brow arched at her abruptness, his lips curling into a thin smile. “No, Miss Granger,” he replied smoothly. “I’ll keep you company while you wait.”

Hermione’s heart sank. “Oh,” was all she could manage in response. Alone with Riddle—just what she had hoped to avoid. She forced a tight smile.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he added with mock civility. His tone sent a shiver down her spine.

Hermione quickly tried to smooth over her earlier misstep. “Apologies, I was... just surprised to see you, Mr. Riddle. I thought it would only be Abraxas and myself this afternoon.”

“All forgiven,” he said coolly. “But please, call me Tom.”

Hermione decided then and there that she would never address him as such.

“Now then,” Riddle continued, turning to Abraxas, who was lingering by the door. “This won’t resolve itself.”

Abraxas nodded, offering Hermione one last reassuring smile before disappearing through the door.

Riddle took Abraxas’s vacant seat across from her, casually fixing himself a cup of tea. He drank it black, naturally. Hermione focused all her attention on Lucius, grateful for the baby’s increasing fussiness. Anything to keep her occupied.

Not even a minute later, Dobby reappeared with a soft pop , holding a bottle of lukewarm formula. His wide green eyes shone with a strange sort of pride as he handed it to her.

“Here, Miss. Dobby is happy to see baby Lucius in the arms of such a kind woman,” the elf said softly, his voice filled with emotion.

Hermione’s heart twisted painfully. Knowing Dobby’s eventual fate—how this loyal elf would one day die in her service, hated by the very child he adored—made it almost unbearable to look at him. She accepted the bottle, her voice quiet.

“Thank you, Dobby.”

The elf’s eyes widened before he vanished with another soft pop .

Hermione could feel Riddle’s gaze burning into her, but she kept her focus entirely on feeding Lucius, determined not to meet those cold, calculating eyes.

The only sound between them was the rhythmic sucking of the baby in her arms, and Hermione preferred it that way.

"What do you want from Abraxas?" Riddle's voice sliced through the silence, startling Hermione. She reflexively looked up and met his gaze, immediately regretting it. His black eyes bored into hers as he launched a sudden, vicious assault on her mind. Unprepared for the invasion, she faltered for a moment. The thought of the Malfoy vault flitted through her consciousness before she snapped her Occlumency shields back up, slamming the door on his probing presence. She cursed herself inwardly—she should have been more vigilant. He had glimpsed too much too quickly.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, standing abruptly, causing the nearly empty bottle to tumble from her hand. The clang of the bottle hitting the floor echoed in the tension-filled room.

“Is that it?” Riddle continued, his voice cold. “Are you after his gold?”

He tried again to break through her defences, but this time Hermione was ready. Her Occlumency stood firm, fortified by sheer determination.

“How dare you?” Her voice trembled with rage. “It is none of your business what I want from Abraxas. And if you ever attempt to violate my mind again, you will regret it.” She was somewhat aware that she had just threatened Lord Voldemort.

But her fury only surged further as she locked eyes with him, daring him to test her again. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. She noticed, through the haze of her anger, that his eyes weren’t black after all but the darkest shade of midnight blue—the kind of colour that could drown a person.

But as soon as she acknowledged this, his hand twitched toward his wand. Panic seized her, momentarily clouding her judgement. What had she been thinking? Being alone with Tom Riddle and threatening him was possibly the most dangerous situation she had ever put herself in since arriving in 1952.

Riddle did draw his wand, but only to vanish the spilled formula from the rug.

"We can’t have Abraxas see you've made a mess, now can we?" he said smoothly, as if the intrusion into her mind had never happened.

Hermione's instincts screamed at her to leave. This was a man who would one day become the Dark Lord, and the longer she stayed in his presence, the more perilous the situation became.

“I cannot do this.” She turned and placed baby Lucius into Riddle’s arms in a swift movement. He looked at the child with obvious distaste, holding him at arm’s length, as if he were handling something foreign and unpleasant.

Lucius squirmed in protest, his small face screwing up in discomfort.

“What are you doing? Take it back,” Riddle ordered, clearly uncomfortable, his voice laced with irritation.

But Hermione was already halfway to the door.

“Tell Abraxas I’ll owl him later,” she called over her shoulder, her feet moving faster now.

"Stop," Riddle commanded, and a sudden, invisible force rooted her to the spot. She turned, anger sparking in her eyes.

"Let me go," she said, her voice level despite the rage simmering beneath the surface. The audacity of this man was unbelievable. He was not the feared Dark Lord yet. He was a manchild with ambitions, nothing more, nothing less. Anger outweighed her fear again. 

“My apologies, Miss Granger. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m merely looking out for my friend,” Riddle said, his tone dripping with false sincerity. Hermione didn’t believe a word. When she didn’t immediately respond, he continued, extending Lucius awkwardly toward her, “Now, take it back.”

“It? You mean the baby?” she asked. It was somehow hilarious to see Riddle struggle with something so harmless like a baby. Of course his only other interaction with a baby that she knew of was when he tried to kill Harry. 

“Yes, the baby. Take it back.” he pleaded, and Hermione suddenly had to fight back a crazed giggle, a new idea forming in her mind. 

“Say please.” she said. If Lord Voldemort would beg her, she would save him from the baby. Or the other way around. However, one would like to look at it. 

His expression didn’t change, but there was a slight tightening of his jaw. He stared at her with those deep blue almost black eyes, and for a moment, she wondered if she’d gone too far. Hermione debated whether this might be the end of her trying to get back to 2008. Maybe her life would end here, in the Drawing Room of Malfoy Manor. Maybe she had been destined to die here and Dobby had just delayed the inevitable. 

Then, to her utter astonishment, he ground out, “Fine. Please take the baby back.”

Hermione had to suppress a triumphant smile as she walked over to take Lucius from him. The baby settled immediately in her arms, and she glanced at Riddle, expecting him to be glaring at her. Instead, his expression was directed toward the child in her arms, a dark, almost furious look that made her wonder what sort of future awaited Lucius under his influence.

Before she could dwell on it, Abraxas re-entered the room, his cheerful demeanour a stark contrast to the tension that lingered between her and Riddle.

“Everything alright?” Abraxas asked, looking between them.

“Of course,” Riddle replied smoothly, his earlier agitation vanished. “Did you manage to take care of things?”

“Yes, m… Tom,” Abraxas replied. Hermione was certain he had been about to say my Lord, but she did not react to it. But she also noticed the quick glance Abraxas threw at Riddle, a look she didn’t quite understand but chose to ignore for the moment.

She handed Lucius back to his father. “He finished the whole bottle,” she said.

Abraxas beamed at her, gratitude clear in his eyes as he took his son. “Thank you, Hermione.”

“You’re welcome,” she said with a small smile, though inwardly she was already plotting her exit. “I should be going now.”

“You want to leave already?” Abraxas asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice. He glanced at Riddle again, as if seeking his opinion.

“You should stay,” Riddle said, his tone commanding.

Hermione’s mind raced for an excuse. “Well, I need to get home and feed my cat,” she lied.

“Nonsense. One of the elves can take care of that,” Riddle dismissed her easily. “We’re having a small celebration later. You’ll enjoy it.”

She cursed inwardly. Of all the excuses she could have come up with, feeding her cat was hardly a strong one. Before she could reply, Abraxas chimed in.

“Yes, we’ll be hosting some of the most influential witches and wizards in Britain. There will be Quidditch, food, and drinks. It’ll be a great opportunity for you to make connections.”

Hermione hesitated. Being around others meant she wouldn’t be alone with Riddle again. It could be a good chance to further gain Abraxas’ trust.

“Alright then,” she finally agreed, “but only if you promise not to leave me alone again.”

Abraxas grinned broadly, clearly pleased. Hermione noticed, however, that his smile was directed at Riddle, not her. 

“How about a stroll through the manor’s gardens?” he asked, finally directing his grin at Hermione. 

“I would love nothing more than that.” she replied, turning her back on Riddle and finally leaving the Drawing room.

***

Tom 

Tom had never known love. Not even in the most abstract sense. His mother had left him, dying before she could ever hold him, and no one had filled that void. He’d been an orphan, a child no one wanted—unwanted by the very world that had created him. Love was for others, for the weak. He needed no such thing. And yet, as much as he despised the concept, there was a nagging awareness within him that he had never felt it. Never received it. He had never been wanted. Not truly.

Certainly, people admired him. Feared him, yes. Respected him, even. But love? It was a foreign language. If anyone might have loved him, it could have been Abraxas. Yet that, too, was conditional. If Abraxas ever discovered that he had been the one to kill Amara his admiration would wither. Abraxas’ so-called affection was hollow, contingent on ignorance. The idea of anyone loving him for who he truly was, knowing what he had done and what he was capable of, was laughable.

Tom had never loved anyone either. Not the children at Wool’s Orphanage, not his schoolmates at Hogwarts, not the witches he had shared fleeting moments with. They were all disposable. There was nothing in them that stirred anything close to love in him. His heart, if it could be called that, was a barren wasteland where only hate and ambition grew. His favourite professor had lavished him with praise, but it was all empty to Tom. Just another tool, another pawn in the grand game he played.

But hate—that was different. Hate was a constant companion, a fire that burned within him, growing stronger with every slight and every disappointment. It fueled him, gave him purpose. It was not the opposite of love, for Tom knew hate more intimately than most. And if hate and love were truly opposites, surely he would know what love was. But no—his life was defined by resentment and vengeance. He hated the cries of the other children at Wool’s Orphanage. He hated that no one had ever chosen him. He hated Muggles for their weakness, their ignorance, and, above all, their failure to recognize his greatness.

His father, that spineless Muggle, had abandoned him simply because of what he was. Tom had learned early that people would fear what they could not understand, and his father’s rejection had solidified his contempt for the Muggle world. The women at the orphanage, the ones who pitied him, were worse. They offered him nothing of substance, no real care. He despised their hollow smiles and shallow sympathy.

He hated his mother for dying instead of fighting for him, leaving him in the hands of a world that neither wanted nor understood him. She had been weak. She had chosen death over him. And that was something Tom could never forgive. 

He hated Muggle-borns because his peers did and even as half blood he was with them in their hate of the mudbloods. This hate was solidified when he found the Basilisk that had belonged to his ancestor. She had told him that Salazar Slytherin knew they were dirty and dangerous and they needed to be cleansed from Hogwarts. It made Tom feel closer to his heritage when he killed that mudblood girl.

Tom hated his knights for how they had been raised. For everything they had that he did not. Their pure blood, their parents, their wealth and their vast knowledge of magic and how they had been raised with it. 

And Tom knew that he hated that baby in Hermione Granger’s arms. He hated the way she held it, gave it her full attention, as if it were the centre of her universe. He watched as she cradled the child, fed it, comforted it, all while ignoring him completely. It was absurd. Utterly absurd. And yet… it stung. Something deep within him bristled at her disregard, at the way her entire being seemed to revolve around that insignificant creature the entire time she had held it. What had that child done to deserve her warmth? What had it done to earn her affection, when Tom—Tom, who was her intellectual superior in every conceivable way—was left to observe from the sidelines? It was a madness he couldn't quite rationalise, and yet the gnawing feeling persisted.

To feel envious of a baby—a Malfoy baby, no less—was beneath him. Yet as he watched her instruct Abraxas on how to wrap the infant in a scarf, showing him how to carry it with ease around his upper body and smiling up at him broadly, Tom felt the unmistakable bite of jealousy. Not of the child itself, but of her attention. He realised that he craved it. He wanted her eyes on him, her words directed at him, not wasted on Abraxas or that wretched infant.

It wasn’t the first time he’d felt jealousy when it came to Abraxas, but this was different. This wasn’t about power or status, or even the rivalry that sometimes simmered between them. No, this was something else. Something far more personal. And that infuriated Tom more than anything else. He could handle being envious of Abraxas’ wealth, his family name, his pureblood status. Those were things that could be taken, or at least equaled, with enough power. But Hermione? She was… something else. And the idea that he, Tom Riddle, could be jealous over something as trivial as her affection, was a bitter pill to swallow.

As he watched them stroll through the estate gardens, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow on Hermione’s wild, untamed curls, Tom felt a rising fury. She smiled at Abraxas, a soft, genuine smile that made something inside him twist unpleasantly. Her attention, her affection—everything she gave to that child and to Abraxas—should have been his. Not because he wanted it, but because he deserved it. If she was to offer anything to anyone, it should be to him, the one person in the world who truly mattered.

It was disgusting to watch her dote on them, to see her so invested in something so meaningless, when she was obviously only interested in Abraxas for his wealth. He should let it play out, see how it ended. Another broken heart for Abraxas, another disappointment. Perhaps that would serve his friend well, remind him of his place.

But deep down, Tom knew that wasn’t the whole story. He had only caught a glimpse of her thoughts, her Occlumency formidable. He might have been able to penetrate her mind, had he truly wanted to, but it could have shattered her mind entirely. No, he would find out her secrets another way. Though she and her secrets unsettled him. He also didn’t like this new jealousy, this irrational anger bubbling up from somewhere he couldn’t control. He had never felt so possessive before, so consumed by a desire to be the sole focus of someone’s attention. It was dangerous, this feeling. He didn’t understand it, and that alone was reason enough to despise it.

Tom would have to tread carefully with Hermione Granger. She was making him feel things he had never felt before, and that was unacceptable. Whatever it was—jealousy, possessiveness, curiosity or something else entirely—it had no place in his life. He was above such trivial emotions.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione could not have been more satisfied with how smoothly her plan was unfolding. Abraxas Malfoy, ever the flirt, was practically hanging on her every word. As they wandered through the vast estate gardens, he regaled her with tale after tale of the Malfoy family’s illustrious history, each story crafted to impress. She noticed, of course, that he conveniently skipped over certain less favourable chapters, but she was still surprised by some of what he shared. Apparently, one of his distant ancestors had even been a Queen of England. For a fleeting moment, Hermione wondered if perhaps Abraxas wasn’t as obsessed with blood purity as she’d feared. But that hope was quickly shattered when he turned to inquire about her family and her lineage.

Naturally, Hermione had prepared for this moment. Australia’s magical community had no pure-blood families, at least not in the late nineties, as only a small number of witches and wizards had ever settled on the remote continent. Almost all of Oceania's magical population was half-blood or mixed, including the indigenous magical people who, like their Muggle counterparts, had been horribly mistreated and nearly eradicated.

"Well, my family isn’t quite as ancient or distinguished as yours,” she began smoothly, her voice laced with feigned humility, “but my great-great-great-grandmother was one of the founding members of the AACOM. She also served as the first Head of Wattlebranch House." The lie slipped from her lips effortlessly, honed by practice runs in the safety of her hotel room. Since the true names of the founders were never known, she could use this ambiguity to her advantage, crafting a plausible half-blood pedigree.

“That is rather impressive, Miss Granger,” Abraxas responded, his voice warm with approval. He adjusted the baby he wore slung across his chest, careful not to disturb Lucius, who had been peacefully sleeping for well over an hour. “Was she also a Granger?”

“No, my father’s side bears that name. The founder was from my mother’s lineage,” Hermione replied, at least half-truthfully this time, though she knew mixing truth with lies added to the credibility of her ruse.

Abraxas continued, his grey eyes flickering with interest. “Do I know your father? Is he a potioneer, like yourself?”

Hermione hid a smirk. She understood what he was really asking. "I doubt you’d have crossed paths. He’s a dentist."

Abraxas furrowed his brow, clearly puzzled. "A… dentist? What precisely does that entail?"

“He’s a healer for teeth,” she explained. When his confusion persisted, she added with a wry smile, “For Ordies.”

“Ordies? Oh! Muggles, you mean,” Abraxas exclaimed, finally grasping her meaning.

Hermione nodded, and a small flicker of satisfaction passed through her. She was amused at how a term like "dentist" could so thoroughly baffle a pure-blood wizard.

“So,” he began, his expression thoughtful, “you’re a half-blood?” Though there was a faint note of disappointment in his voice, he did not seem repelled by the revelation.

“In Australia, blood status isn’t something we dwell on much. Our magical population is relatively small, so everyone intermingles. Pure-blood families, as you call them, simply don’t exist,” Hermione stated, her tone matter-of-fact.

Abraxas nodded, his grey eyes meeting hers. “That does make sense. Sometimes I think it would be better for us here if things were more… practical.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, surprised by the candid admission from a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. “What do you mean? I thought pure-blood families were rather strict about preserving their bloodlines in Britain.”

Abraxas broke eye contact for a moment, as if considering how much he ought to reveal. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. "You mustn’t repeat this, but I’ve never appreciated being told whom I can and cannot love. Nor do I care for the notion that my highest duty is to produce an heir. It strips all the joy and romance from the whole affair, don’t you think? I was fortunate with Amara. For the longest time, I feared I’d be forced to marry out of mere obligation."

Hermione watched as Abraxas absentmindedly stroked Lucius’ small head. The vulnerability in his words caught her off guard. She had never considered the restrictions that pure-blood families imposed on their own children in such a light.

“I suppose I can see your point,” she replied thoughtfully, unsure how else to respond. It hadn’t occurred to her just how limited the dating pool was for pure-bloods seeking to marry within their own class.

Abraxas' demeanour brightened noticeably. "Which is why," he said, his voice returning to its usual lightness, "I’ve decided not to follow these absurd traditions any longer. I’ve already fathered a pure-blood heir, and with my parents gone, there’s no one left to pressure me into a joyless union with a pure-blood witch." He flashed her a charming smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now, tell me, Hermione—are you in the market for marriage?”

Before she could respond, a loud shriek pierced the air, and they both turned to see a peacock racing toward them with its feathers dramatically fanned. Abraxas groaned.

"Bugger off!" he barked, shooing the bird away with a wave of his hand.

The peacock, startled, quickly changed direction and indeed buggered off.

“Horrid creatures,” he muttered under his breath, checking to see if Lucius had stirred from his sleep. Thankfully, the baby remained blissfully undisturbed.

A laugh burst from Hermione, unbidden and decidedly unladylike. "I couldn’t agree more," she said, stifling her amusement. At least they weren’t albino peacocks, she mused silently.

As the bird retreated, Hermione noticed a small group of people had gathered on the grand patio, drinks in hand, their silhouettes outlined by the slowly setting sun. The warm light cast a golden glow over the manor, the evening drawing in with a sense of quiet elegance.

Abraxas turned to her, his expression softening. "I’m glad you decided to stay, Hermione. The evening should be rather enjoyable. I don’t intend to stray far from your side, save for the match, of course.”

“Match?” Hermione inquired, raising an eyebrow as she faced him fully.

Abraxas grinned, scratching the back of his neck—a gesture that made him appear oddly self-conscious. "We’ve a Quidditch match arranged. I’m playing Chaser, and the team simply cannot manage without me."

Hermione allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of her lips. "Well then, make sure you win quickly."

Abraxas gave a mock bow, his grin widening. “As you wish, ma’am.”

With that, he offered his arm, leading her back toward the manor.

*

Hermione was relieved to find that the gathering was not exclusive to Slytherins. She recognized several faces from Slughorn’s soirées and saw many guests sporting their old Hogwarts house colours—more than a few in hues other than dark green. She was also glad that Tom Riddle hadn’t made another attempt to speak with her. Abraxas, ever the attentive host, introduced her to a stream of new faces. One of them, Lysander Prewett, seemed to be an exact replica of Percy Weasley, right down to his horn-rimmed glasses and overly pompous attitude.

As Hermione sipped the drink Abraxas had fetched for her, Lysander droned on about the Ministry’s rigorous testing process for determining the ideal quill tip for official documents—ensuring it lasted precisely the right number of uses before needing replacement. She tried to hide her boredom, nodding politely as her thoughts began to wander.

Her reprieve came when a magically amplified voice called over the crowd, “Please make your way to the Quidditch pitch, while we still have daylight!”

“Would you mind taking Lucius while I’m in the air?” Abraxas asked, gesturing to the baby in the sling. “He seems to like you.”

Hermione smiled. “Of course.” She hoped Lucius might serve as an inadvertent deterrent for any unwanted advances, particularly from Riddle. He seemed to detest babies, so she would gladly take Lucius.

“Thank you, truly. I’ll find someone to escort you to the stands. I need to change quickly.” Abraxas looked around, his eyes lingering on Lysander for a moment before dismissing the idea of leaving Hermione in his care.

“I can accompany her,” came a soft voice from behind.

“Eva! Yes, splendid,” Abraxas said, handing Lucius to Hermione in a hurry.

Evangeline Sharp stepped into their little circle, and she and Hermione exchanged brief handshakes. “Lovely to see you again, Miss Granger,” Evangeline said, her voice light but striking.

Hermione couldn’t help but take in Evangeline’s otherworldly beauty once more—her sleek black hair save for a single white streak framing the right side of her face, and her mismatched eyes, one a striking blue, the other a deep brown.

“Likewise, please call me Hermione,” she replied, and Evangeline inclined her head with a gracious smile.

Once Lysander had been drawn away by another guest, the two women joined the flow of people making their way to the Quidditch pitch on the estate’s east side. They exchanged polite pleasantries as they walked, settling into a quiet corner of the stands, away from the crowd.

“Any luck with sales so far?” Evangeline asked, her gaze flickering towards Hermione.

“Not yet. I’m waiting to speak with those who seem genuinely interested in person, before I make any decisions,” Hermione replied, keeping her voice casual. “Though I was quite pleased by your proposal. Perhaps we could meet next week to discuss it further?”

Evangeline smiled, her expression one of polite relief. “That would be wonderful. I was beginning to think Abraxas had beaten me to it, seeing how closely he’s kept to your side this evening. I feared I might not get a moment alone with you.”

Hermione returned her smile. “I asked him to stay close, actually. I didn’t want to risk another run-in with Tom Riddle.”

At the mention of Riddle’s name, Evangeline’s smile faltered. “You ought to be careful around those two,” she said quietly, her tone unusually serious.

A sharp whistle rang out across the pitch, signalling the start of the friendly match. There was a smattering of applause as the players soared into the air, though Hermione’s interest in the game quickly waned. She recognised few names beyond Abraxas’, and turned her attention back to Evangeline.

“I know,” Hermione said, lowering her voice. “Marigold’s warned me that something about them seems off.” Of course, Hermione already knew far more than she let on—Tom Riddle wasn’t merely suspicious; he was dangerous.

“It’s not just about their... extracurricular activities,” Evangeline whispered, her eyes scanning the crowd as though to ensure they weren’t overheard.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, hoisting Lucius a little higher in her arms, her curiosity piqued.

Evangeline glanced around once more before leaning in. “You can’t tell anyone this. Not even Marigold knows.” Her voice had dropped to barely a whisper.

Hermione nodded, stepping closer to her. The crowd around them was growing more animated as a goal was scored, but Hermione’s focus was entirely on Evangeline.

“When we were in sixth year,” Evangeline began, her tone hushed, “I was in the Forbidden Forest collecting ingredients for my father’s potion supplies for the apothecaries. I wasn’t far in when I heard voices—Abraxas and Tom. I hid behind a boulder, and they didn’t see me.”

Hermione listened intently, her pulse quickening as Evangeline’s story unfolded.

“At first, I thought they were arguing, but soon... it turned into something else. I peeked around the rock, and saw Abraxas kneeling before Tom... pleasuring him.”

Hermione nearly choked on the sip of drink she had just taken, spluttering in shock. “They’re... gay?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Evangeline shook her head. “Not entirely, I think. But certainly not exclusively straight either. The point is... you don’t want to get caught between them, Hermione.” Her gaze dropped to the drink in Hermione’s hand, and her eyes narrowed. “How many of those have you had?”

“Just this one,” Hermione answered, confused.

Without a word, Evangeline snatched the glass from her hand, sniffed it, and then unceremoniously tossed it over the railing. A passing Quidditch player flew through the splash and gasped in surprise.

“Don’t drink any more tonight,” Evangeline warned, her expression grim. “Someone’s tampered with the champagne again.”

Hermione’s heart raced. “Tampered? With what?”

“Nothing dangerous,” Evangeline reassured her, holding out the empty glass. “Smell it. You’ll recognise it.”

Hermione hesitated, then brought the glass to her nose. The faint but familiar scent hit her immediately—fresh parchment, spearmint toothpaste... and something else, something deeper and more masculine that she couldn’t quite place. Her eyes widened in realisation.

“Amortentia?” she asked, her voice hushed.

Evangeline nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. Microdoses. It happens at every gathering like this—whenever some of our old Slytherin classmates are involved, the drinks witches favour always seem to get enhanced .”

“Who would do that?” Hermione asked, glancing around, alarmed.

Evangeline’s eyes scanned the crowd once more, her gaze sharp and calculating. “Wish I knew. But whoever it is... they’ve been at it for years.”

Just as she spoke, something behind Hermione caught Evangeline’s attention, and her expression shifted to a polite smile. 

***

Tom

Tom’s sour mood had lifted the moment Abraxas finally ceased trailing after Miss Granger like a lost puppy to indulge in his beloved Quidditch match. From his vantage point, Tom watched her speaking in hushed tones with Evangeline Sharp, a fellow Slytherin. They seemed oddly familiar, and the sight piqued his curiosity. He decided it was time to take advantage of the situation.

“Walburga,” he called out smoothly, his voice barely rising above the general murmur. She quickly crossed the distance between them.

“Yes, my Lord?” she asked quietly, her tone betraying her habitual deference to him.

“Fetch Isolde Reyes and Persephone Greengrass. Once you've gathered them, approach Eva Sharp and the other witch with her,” he instructed, his gaze still on Miss Granger.

Walburga looked momentarily puzzled, but she was far too cautious to question his reasoning.

Tom, detecting her uncertainty, elaborated in a tone tinged with impatience, “I want you to strike up a conversation. See if you can ascertain whether Abraxas has tried anything untoward with her, and—if possible—what her thoughts on marriage might be.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Walburga nodded, comprehension dawning. She scurried off, her steps quicker since the Amara incident had left her more eager than ever to stay in his favour.

“And take that baby from her,” he called after Black.

Now, he would wait. His eyes never left Miss Granger.

*
It wasn’t long before Black, Reyes, and Greengrass managed to charm their way into a friendly circle with Miss Granger. Tom watched as laughter broke out among them, a sure sign that their conversation had turned to gossip. He waited for just the right moment before approaching—when her guard was down, and she was comfortably engaged.

“So, you see, all in all, I’d say Quidditch players are better kissers, but not necessarily better boyfriends,” Miss Granger said, finishing some anecdote that had the group giggling.

“And how would you describe the ideal boyfriend then?” Tom’s smooth, low voice cut through the chatter.

She flinched, startled by his presence. Her whiskey-brown eyes widened as she turned to face him, cheeks flushing as if she’d been caught in the midst of a guilty pleasure. He stepped seamlessly into the circle. For a moment, she said nothing, clearly flustered by his unexpected arrival.

Greengrass, ever helpful, jumped in. “Oh, the best boyfriends? Surely the bookish types. Most likely Ravenclaws, I'd wager,” she offered with a grin, clearly angling for Tom's approval.

“Right,” Miss Granger echoed weakly, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. Her nerves were palpable, and Tom revelled in the effect he had on her. However, she abruptly excused herself, announcing that she needed to visit the ladies’ room, asking Eva Sharp for directions.

Before Sharp could reply, Tom smoothly interjected, “Allow me to show you the way.”

“That’s quite alright, I think I’ll manage on my own,” Miss Granger said, her tone sharp as she turned to leave, but Tom never took no for an answer.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he insisted, flashing her a smile—his most practised and charming one, the kind that usually made witches swoon.

She sighed in resignation but refused the arm he offered, brushing past him without so much as a glance, a few strands of her hair whipping against his chest. The faint scent of her fruity shampoo lingered in the air, and instead of feeling insulted by her obvious disdain, Tom found himself more intrigued than ever. Her defiance was refreshing in a world where people bent to his will without question. She was a challenge, and he hadn’t had a decent one in quite some time.

Quickening his pace, he caught up to her easily. “This really isn’t necessary,” she muttered, her words clipped and her steps quick.

“True,” he agreed, unfazed, “but it’s the polite thing to do, and I’m nothing if not a gentleman. Not that you’ve been particularly courteous to me since the day we met.”

Miss Granger halted briefly, clearly caught off guard, but resumed walking with even more determination. “I’m sorry,” she shot back, “but I tend to be a little curt with people who try to violate my mind.”

Tom smirked but didn’t bother correcting her. She’d been avoiding him long before that.
“Merely looking out for my friend,” Tom said smoothly. “I wouldn’t want him losing his heart to the wrong sort.” He knew well enough that Abraxas had a penchant for disastrous infatuations—Tom being one of the earlier victims of those misdirected affections.

Abraxas always found the wrong person to fall in love with, without fail. First, it had been Tom; then, in fifth year, he had this thing with Professor Vredenborg. She lost her position as Divination Professor because of him. Then, in their last year, he apparently had fallen for a third year, who had been so mature for her age—his words, not Tom’s. Lastly, before Amara, he was madly in love with the son of the Minister of Magic, Spencer-Moon, which had only narrowly avoided resulting in a major public scandal.

Miss Granger's response was laced with sarcasm. “Right. Whatever you say.”

They reached the manor’s patio doors, and she, eager to rid herself of him, quickened her steps even more.

“You’d be wise not to dismiss my civility so easily,” Tom continued, undeterred by her aloofness. “Being on my good side comes with... distinct advantages.”

She shot him a side-eye, unimpressed. “I’ll pass, but thank you for the offer.”

Ignoring her rebuff, he opened the door for her, trailing behind as they entered the softly lit corridor. “For instance,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement, “if you’d accepted my arm earlier, I would have led you to the lavatories near the pitch—much closer than the ones inside the manor.”

That made her pause. Her brow furrowed in confusion. “What? Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

He smirked. “I thought this way, I’d prove my point a bit more effectively.”

She exhaled sharply, clearly irritated but knowing she’d been outmanoeuvred. “Alright, fine. Tell me—where are the nearest guest lavatories?” Her voice was as sweet as treacle, but the smile she gave him was a poor imitation of genuine politeness.

“Only if you say please.” Tom retaliated for her rudeness earlier.

“Please,” she said quickly, in the same fake sweetness as before, the smile not reaching her eyes. It was a poor variation of his own smiles that he plastered on his face and never meant.

He gestured to the hallway on their right. “Just there.”

Miss Granger flinched at the unexpected movement of his arm, and Tom noted the involuntary reaction with interest. 

“Cheers,” she muttered before heading toward the doors. “Don’t bother waiting.”

Naturally, Tom ignored her instruction and waited.

However, time stretched on longer than expected, and impatience crept into his veins. After ten minutes of silence, he approached the door and knocked. No response.

With a growing sense of irritation, he pushed open the door, only to find the lavatory empty. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the unmistakable bushy brown hair disappearing through an open window.

She was escaping him.

A single, humourless chuckle escaped him. So, Miss Granger thought she could evade him. How entertaining.

If she wished to play this game, he was more than willing to play along. After all, he always won.

*
Tom retraced his steps, taking the route they’d walked earlier. He assumed she would make a run for the Quidditch pitch, where the others were. 

A simple flight over the conservatory would cut her off neatly, and if she wanted to be chased, he was more than happy to oblige.

Flying without a broomstick had long been his specialty. He touched down effortlessly just ahead of her, her wild hair and flowing dress trailing behind as she sprinted. Remarkably fast. She must truly despise being alone with him. If only he knew why.

When she saw him, she shrieked, high-pitched and startled, followed by a curse: “Flying Flobberworms!” Inventive, he thought.

“Did you really climb through the window to get away from me?” His voice was calm, though his eyes flickered over her rapid breaths and flushed skin. Oh, how he made her nervous.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. You must have simply missed me as I left.” The lie was so blatant, Tom couldn’t help but laugh.

“No,” he said, amusement colouring his tone, “you’re clearly avoiding me.”

She straightened, her earlier flustered state fading. “As I said before, that’s because the last time we were alone, you attempted to invade my mind. Forgive me if I don’t feel particularly safe around you.” Her voice was deadly serious now, any hint of banter gone.

He kept his tone measured, choosing the diplomatic route. "I acknowledge that was a mistake, and I sincerely apologise. I meant no harm."

She eyed him with caution, gnawing on her lower lip. He could see the wheels turning in her mind.

“I accept your apology,” she finally said, though there was a wariness in her voice. “But I would still prefer if you left me be.”

Tom felt the weight of her words. No witch had ever spoken to him in such a way, especially when he was attempting to be… pleasant. His wand hand twitched, and he noticed how her eyes flicked down to it.

"You were avoiding me long before that incident. I demand to know why."

She glanced up at the darkening sky, almost as though appealing to the stars for help. Tom watched her neck, the pulse at her throat quickening. There was something almost intoxicating in her defiance.

“You asked for this,” she muttered, her gaze locking with his, filled with a strange mixture of resentment and something else. “I simply do not like your… vibe.”

“My vibe?” Tom rarely found himself at a loss for words, but this—this was absurd.

"Indeed," she replied, a hint of mockery in her tone. "Your aura doesn’t sit well with me."

He arched an eyebrow. "How about a fresh start?" His voice was smooth, persuasive. "I promise to never use Legilimency on you again. I would love to prove to you that I have only the purest intentions. I only wish to get to know you better. Perhaps a dinner?" He offered her his most charming smile, one that had never failed before.

The response she gave him was not what he expected. A burst of laughter, wild and uncontrollable, slipped from her lips. It could only be described as manic. She clutched her sides as if she were trying to contain it, but the laughter bubbled up, filling the space between them.

Tom’s patience was wearing thin. "Compose yourself, or I may be forced to stun you, witch," he warned, irritation creeping into his voice. What on earth could be so funny?

Between gasps of breath, she managed to say, “I didn’t take you for one to jest, Riddle.”

"I assure you, I am quite serious," Tom replied, his eyes narrowing. "I would very much like to take you on a date."

Her laughter intensified, leaving her breathless and wiping at tears that streamed down her face. "You—asking me—" she spluttered between fits of giggles.

"Indeed," he replied, his tone clipped, though he fought to keep his composure. He could feel the tension rising, but it wasn’t the kind of tension he had anticipated. "Though I must admit, I'm reconsidering my offer given this display of madness."

She wiped at her cheeks, still chuckling, though she had composed herself enough to speak. "You really cannot be serious."

“I assure you, Miss Granger, I am.” He crossed his arms, watching her closely, still intrigued by this witch who seemed immune to his charms.

She finally managed to calm herself enough to stand straight, though amusement still lingered in her eyes. "Trust me, you don’t want to go out with me."

“I believe I am quite capable of determining what I want,” Tom said coolly. “The real question is, what is it you want?"

She scoffed, exasperated. "Look at you," she said, gesturing toward him. "This—this… just… no."

"If you’re suggesting that I am too attractive for you, rest assured, that’s often the case," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You are… passable enough. No one would bat an eye.”

Tom did not want to admit that she was more than passable enough in his eyes, and in Abraxas' as well. Though in contrast to his Knight, he was mainly intrigued by her secrets, not just her visual appeal.

Her laughter returned, though more subdued this time. "Passable enough?" She shook her head, disbelief still written on her face. "You really are something, Riddle."

Tom’s irritation was starting to morph into something else. She was playing a game with him—one he wasn’t quite sure how to win. Yet.

“And what of Abraxas?” she challenged suddenly. “You were so worried about his feelings earlier, and now you ask out someone he’s clearly interested in?”

Before he could respond, the sound of approaching voices caught his attention. The crowd from the match was returning, the noise growing louder by the second.

***

Hermione

For the second time that day, the arrival of a crowd saved Hermione from a deeply uncomfortable situation. Evangeline and the witches she'd been chatting with earlier hurried towards her and Riddle, animatedly discussing the abrupt end to the Quidditch match and Abraxas' team's victory. Hermione couldn’t help but marvel at the fuss being made over an amateur match, but she didn’t question it—she seized the opportunity to distance herself from Tom Riddle.

He had asked her out.

Lord Voldemort, her mortal enemy, wanted to take her on a date.

As she walked with the group, scenarios played out in her mind, each one more terrifying than the last. What would he do if he found out who she truly was? That she was Muggle-born, and not just that, but instrumental in his downfall? What unimaginable horrors would await her if he knew?

Yet, with each day she spent in 1952, and each encounter with Riddle, the image of Lord Voldemort in her mind began to blur. The hatred that had once burned so fiercely within her, fuelled by years of hunting down his Horcruxes, surviving his attempts to kill her, and losing loved ones to the war, now felt... distant. She knew who he would become, but this young man standing before her—dark, mysterious, and undeniably charming—didn’t quite fit the mould of the twisted monster she had fought.

It had been ten years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and she had long since closed that chapter of her life after restoring her parents’ memories. Voldemort had been more of a shadow haunting her nightmares than a conscious thought. But here, in this time, Tom Riddle was not the snake-like villain of her worst memories. He was a strikingly beautiful young man, and that reality was unsettling in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

Her brain struggled to reconcile the two versions of him. Lord Voldemort was a terrifying force, and though Tom Riddle possessed his own darkness—one she could sense in his very presence—he wasn’t the same. Not yet. The same fear didn't course through her veins at the mere thought of him.

Instead, she felt an entirely different kind of nervousness around him. Despite being a couple years older than him, and having faced far more challenges in terms of dark magic, Hermione felt an odd sense of inferiority whenever he was near. Her quick wit, usually her sharpest weapon, dulled in his presence, leaving her feeling flustered and foolish after their encounters.

Lost in her thoughts, she nearly missed Abraxas as he, freshly showered and glowing with victory, led her and their guests to the patio. It had been transformed into a stunning space, with floating chandeliers casting soft light over tables draped in fine linens and adorned with candles and flowers. A warming charm must have been placed over the area, as the cool September air was pleasantly absent.

Abraxas pulled out her chair, ever the gentleman, seating her and Evangeline at a central table. Walburga Black, Isolde Reyes, and Persephone Greengrass soon joined them. Hermione was relieved to be surrounded by others, grateful for the distraction they provided from the strange tension between herself and Tom Riddle.

Walburga’s presence was an interesting puzzle to Hermione. The woman seemed charming now, but Hermione couldn’t help wondering what would turn her into the hateful witch she had known from the portrait at Grimmauld Place. She noticed that Persephone, a Ravenclaw, seemed less intertwined with the Slytherin elite, making Hermione warm to her slightly.

Two seats remained empty for only a moment longer, before they were filled by Orion Black—who greeted his wife with a kiss—and, to Hermione's utter dismay, Tom Riddle. Of course, he took the seat directly opposite her, his dark eyes occasionally catching hers through the rich decorations on the table.

Over the course of the meal, Hermione listened dutifully as Abraxas regaled her with every detail of the Quidditch match. The flood of jargon and tactics made her feel homesick for a moment, reminded of Harry, Ron, and Ginny’s endless discussions after their matches. She had asked Viktor Krum about Quidditch at times, simply to avoid embarrassing herself in front of her friends. Viktor, however, had never been one to prattle on about the sport like the others.

As the plates from the main course vanished, Hermione’s patience began to wane. She smiled and nodded through Abraxas' tales, but her mind was elsewhere. It had been a long day, and she was eager to leave as soon as dessert was over.

She was lifting her glass - not laced with Amortentia, she checked - when Abraxas, still brimming with excitement, took her hand in his, enveloping it warmly. His touch was surprising but not unpleasant. She looked at him—at his damp blond hair, his bright grey eyes, and his easy smile—and felt a pang of guilt. He was so kind. Yet she knew, deep down, she was only using him. She had to, if she wanted to return home.

Without warning, a ghostly grip tightened around her chin, forcing her head to turn. Startled, she swatted at the invisible force, only to find Riddle staring at her from across the table. His expression was unreadable, but the message was clear—he wasn’t done with her yet. Whenever she looked back at Abraxas for longer than a few seconds, the same phantom hand would force her to turn back to Riddle.

She tried a discreet nonverbal and wandless Finite Incantatem, but the hand returned, gripping her chin and making her look at him. Shooting him a murderous glare, she bit back her frustration. He was trying to provoke her, daring her to cause a scene. She refused to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, she forced herself to smile and engage in conversation with the others at the table. At least, until Isolde made a remark that left Hermione taken aback.

“Hermione, you do know if you were to marry Abraxas now, your children wouldn’t inherit the manor, don’t you? He already has an heir,” Isolde said, eyeing Hermione’s and Abraxas’ joined hands.

Abraxas rolled his eyes. “Oh, give it a rest, Reyes. We’re only talking about a second date at the maximum here.”

Walburga leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s far more to inherit than just the manor, you know,” she added with a sly smile.

As if in response to the conversation, the phantom hand returned—this time brushing down her throat and settling on her thigh. Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat, and she quickly cast another Finite Incantatem under the table, ridding herself of the unwanted touch.

The conversation shifted, but the hand returned, stroking slow circles on her leg. Despite her best efforts, it would always come back. At some point, she stopped fighting it altogether, focusing instead on sipping her drink and praying for the dinner to end.

When the empty dessert plates vanished and the touch finally disappeared, it left her feeling strangely bereft. It was unsettling to admit, even to herself, that she missed it. After all, she had been so starved for physical contact for weeks—only Crookshanks had offered her any real affection. And now, despite herself, she longed for the touch of her friends and family.

But this? This was not something she should want.

People began to rise, mingling casually as tables were cleared away and some said their goodbyes. 

The tables disappeared into nothing and Abraxas left Hermione to say goodbye to some guests. 

“You know, if you want to go, you should do it fast, before the next point in program of the entertainment agenda begins.” Evangeline whispered to Hermione. 

“Thank you, for the tip.” Hermione said. It had been her plan anyway and she got in line with the others leaving. 

Though when she reached Abraxas it became clear very quickly that he would not let her go that easily.

Before she could say a word he said “No, you can’t leave yet. The fun part is about to begin!” he insisted, taking her hands in his and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His eyes were bright with excitement. “You’re going to love this, trust me.”

“Oh, but it’s getting late,” Hermione said, trying once more. “I really should be heading home.”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Abraxas replied, grinning. “Just trust me, alright?”

She found herself nodding, despite the warning bells ringing in her mind. How could she refuse without making things worse? She could only hope whatever Abraxas had planned would be over quickly.

*

Slightly buzzed, Hermione watched as Abraxas strode toward the steps leading up to the Manor, where he stood elevated above the crowd. She estimated around forty people were present, mingling and chatting amongst themselves, when his strong, commanding voice cut through the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen, spectators and participants, the time has come for our seventh annual duelling competition!” Abraxas raised his arms theatrically, and behind the crowd, an enormous flaming circle materialised on the otherwise pristine English lawn.

“May the duellists come forward,” he called, beckoning.

Hermione watched as mostly wizards, though a few witches as well, joined Abraxas on the highest stair. She counted fifteen in total, among whom she recognized only Walburga Black and Stellan Nott. Surprisingly, Tom Riddle was not among the competitors. She had fully expected him to participate, if only for the opportunity to showcase his considerable skill. But perhaps he was keeping a low profile tonight, avoiding any unnecessary attention—or maybe he was banned for his unscrupulous duelling tactics. Either option seemed equally plausible.

Lost in her musings about Riddle’s absence, Hermione was startled when his voice suddenly spoke from right behind her. “Miss Granger, as a first-time attendee, you are expected to volunteer.” His tone was as smooth and calculating as ever.

She spun around, glaring at him. “Excuse me?” she said, incredulity lacing her voice. A duelling contest was the last thing she was prepared for—she was tipsy, tired, and, frankly, in no mood to duel anyone. All she wanted was to retreat to her hotel room and disappear under the covers.

Abraxas approached, his expression apologetic. “I should have told you earlier, but then you might not have stayed,” he explained, extending a hand toward her, inviting her to join the others on the makeshift stage.

“Oh no, thank you,” she replied, shaking her head firmly. “I think I’ll pass.”

“You should do it, Hermione,” Evangeline chimed in from beside her. “It would be quite the spectacle to see you put those arrogant wizards in their place.” There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

“I don’t know… I wasn’t expecting this, and I’m not exactly in the best state of mind for a duel,” Hermione hedged, trying to find a way out.

“Of course, we can’t force you, Miss Granger,” Riddle said smoothly, stepping closer. “But if you choose not to participate, you’ll have to take a dare instead—or else risk being branded the coward of the evening.” His face remained impassive, but there was an unmistakable challenge in his eyes.

Hermione narrowed her gaze. “And what would that dare entail?”

“I dare you to go out with me,” Riddle replied without missing a beat, his tone entirely too casual for her liking.

Hermione scoffed, turning toward Abraxas, whose expression had darkened into a furious sneer aimed squarely at Riddle.

“Fine. I’ll duel,” she announced, the words slipping from her lips before she had fully considered what she was getting herself into. Immediately, Abraxas’s sneer vanished, replaced by a satisfied smirk.

Without looking at Riddle again, she marched up the steps to join the other duellists. She had no intention of entertaining his dare.

Abraxas resumed his role as host, outlining the rules with a flair for dramatics. “The competition will consist of three knock-out rounds leading to a finale. Sixteen participants. Anything goes—except permanent maiming or killing. Opponents will be drawn by lot.”

Hermione’s eyes instinctively darted toward Riddle. At least she wouldn’t have to duel him, she thought, though she wasn’t entirely sure whether that was a relief or a disappointment.

While the first duel got underway, Hermione slipped away to the bathrooms. She wasn’t about to enter this competition unprepared, not when her safety was at risk. Furtively, she retrieved a dose of the Phoenix Elixir she kept attached to her bracelet—a safeguard for emergencies. She drank a small amount, feeling its protective warmth spread through her, ensuring she would not suffer any serious harm tonight.

Despite her precautions, Hermione was determined not to showcase her true abilities. She needed to fly under the radar, not attract attention. Winning wasn’t the goal here—getting through the night without incident was. She would feign a little incompetency, just enough to blend in.

*

When it was Hermione’s turn, she had already watched three duels in the first round. Most of the participants seemed respectable enough, but none appeared truly dangerous or overly skilled. Perhaps they were just holding back. It would be a blow to her ego if she lost in her first duel, so she planned to make it to the second round and then find a graceful way to bow out during the next match.

Abraxas called out the pairings, and to her surprise, her opponent was Stellan Nott, the exact replica of his grandson Theodore. Genetics truly were a wondrous thing. If she hadn’t seen Theo grow up, she would have sworn they were the same person—merely unaged.

“You’ve got this!” Evangeline and Persephone cheered her on as Hermione stepped into the ring of fire.

“In your positions,” Abraxas commanded, directing her and Nott to prepare.

The dark-haired man with glasses hardly struck Hermione as intimidating. He looked more like a bookworm, which meant he might have some obscure spells up his sleeve—her best guess, anyway.

“Take a bow,” Abraxas instructed them further. Hermione quickly complied, bringing her opponent back into her line of sight as soon as she could. She had no desire to end up on the wrong end of a curse tonight, so she would treat this challenge with the same seriousness she applied to any task she faced.

Hermione raised her wand. Nott mirrored her movements.

“One.”

Energy surged through Hermione. Her last duel had been with Draco Malfoy—a memory she was not fond of, as it had catapulted her more than fifty years into the past.

“Two.”

Perhaps this was the perfect chance to release some of the tension that had been building inside her. She hadn’t had any real fun or outlet in weeks; her mind had only been preoccupied with plans to return to her own time.

“Three.”

Hermione thrived on a challenge—anything to prove how bright and gifted she was. She could feel the Phoenix Flame Elixir thrumming in her veins. She was ready.

“Begin!”

Nothing happened. They simply eyed each other, both seemingly content to size the other up. Hermione took a slow step to the right; Nott mirrored her movements. He appeared to be a passive duelist, biding his time.

Very well, then.

She shot a wordless Expelliarmus at Nott. Instead of raising a shield, he leaped to the side, narrowly dodging her spell.

Hermione sent another Expelliarmus, followed by a Stupefy and a Flipendo. Only at the last moment did Nott decide to cast a strong Protego—also wordless.

When he unleashed his first attacking spell, Hermione could see he was a competent caster, but he was clearly overthinking it. Just like she used to during their first trainings with Dumbledore’s Army. Nott’s spells were creative—some of them even unrecognisable—but his slow, ponderous approach quickly made the duel less interesting for her.

Hermione conjured a swarm of tiny birds. Nott cast a shield at her complicated wand movements, but it was ineffective against this type of spell. Once she had a sufficient number of little soldier birds, she sent them after Nott, letting them prick at his skin to distract him from any real spellcasting. Then she hit him with a silent Confundus, ensuring he wouldn’t escape her last spell. Nott flailed his arms, spinning in confusion. In an attempt to shield his face by burying it in his shoulder, he didn’t even see Hermione when she cast a perfect Petrificus Totalus.

Frozen like a statue, the tiny birds landed on Nott and chirped a tune of victory for Hermione. If she were to fake her loss to an opponent like Nott, perhaps her ego wouldn’t recover from losing, even if it wasn’t real.

“Magnificent! Hermione Granger for the win!” Abraxas announced, his voice booming over the crowd.

He extended his hand to help her step out of the ring of fire, which lowered as she crossed over it. Hermione felt exhilarated by her swift victory; if she recalled correctly, they had been the quickest pairing so far.

The large board behind Abraxas lit up with her name, marking her for the second round.

She noticed gold coins exchanging hands among some in the audience—bets had been placed.

“That was amazing, Hermione!” Evangeline congratulated her, joined by Isolde and Persephone.

“Yes, truly! Poor Stellan didn’t know what hit him!” Isolde agreed, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Thank you! I have to admit, it was a bit of fun.” She turned to Abraxas. “Thanks for making me stay.”

Abraxas beamed at her before turning to announce the next pair.

Someone levitated Nott out of the circle and freed him from his petrified state. Hermione approached him and extended her right hand.

“Very nice spellcasting,” she said, her tone sincere. Nott hesitated before shaking her hand.

“Likewise, Miss Granger. Though I fear I’m not as talented as you,” he replied, his shoulders slumping and his glasses askew on his nose. It was a pitiful sight.

“Nonsense! You just need to trust your instincts more. You’re overthinking it,” she told him, hoping to lift his spirits.

He met her gaze, and for the first time, Hermione noticed a distinct difference between him and Theodore. Stellan had green eyes; Theo’s were brown.

“You really think so?” he asked, a flicker of hope lighting his expression.

“Absolutely! I used to be the same way. Building a small portfolio of spells you can rely on helps, and then you can expand your repertoire gradually.” She shared her best advice, and he nodded eagerly.

“Thanks, Miss Granger. I’ll certainly try that,” he said, and they both turned to watch the next duel.

“You’re very kind,” he added, and Hermione shot him a small smile before returning her focus to the match.

“What can I say? I’ve got a severe case of Helper’s Syndrome,” she confessed, half-joking.

Nott returned her kindness by discussing the other participants in the duel, sharing insights into their typical tactics and favourite spells. He warned her about one Sylas Sallow and Vesper Avery. From all the information he dispensed, Hermione got the distinct impression that Nott was part of Riddle’s little club of budding Death Eaters.

Her theory gained further traction when Riddle approached them not long after they’d begun talking.

“Now, don’t give Miss Granger too many hints, Stellan. I was hoping to see more of her spontaneous work,” Riddle remarked, his tone friendly enough, but a shiver ran down Hermione’s spine. If Nott knew what was good for him, he’d cease oversharing. The wizard seemed to catch on immediately and promptly clamped his mouth shut.

“Well, I for one am grateful for the information you’ve provided, Stellan. As the newest participant, I need every edge I can get,” Hermione said, deflecting the attention away from him.

“Somehow, I believe you have much more of an edge than you’ve shown us so far,” Riddle replied, smirking down at her.

A self-satisfied smile spread across Hermione’s face, but as soon as she realised what she was doing, she turned it into a scowl.

It had been a reflex.

She hadn’t meant to smile at Tom Riddle for his praise of her supposed skills.

What on earth was wrong with her?

The three of them continued watching in silence as the first round of duels came to an end. Hermione paid special attention when it was Sylas Sallow and Vesper Avery’s turn. Nott hadn’t been exaggerating. Both men cast curses with a casual cruelty that even a first-year Muggle-born could tell was beyond fair play.

Avery was disqualified after he severed his opponent’s right arm—permanent damage being against the rules, even though Julius Shackebolt, a healer from St. Mungo’s, managed to reattach it immediately. Hermione had offered a bit of her Phoenix Elixir, and the injured Ali Thakkar was back on his feet, ready for the next round in no time.

Shackebolt, impressed by her potion, asked where he could purchase some for St. Mungo’s. Hermione promised to let him know once she decided on a supplier. Meanwhile, Avery argued heatedly with Abraxas, insisting that since the maiming wasn’t permanent, he should be allowed to move on to the next round. Riddle had to step in, and with just a word, Avery fell silent, scowling like a child before storming out.

Hermione wasn’t surprised that grown men couldn’t handle their emotions anymore, but she was glad to have one less terrifying opponent to deal with.

Her next adversary was decided during the last duel of the first round—Cassandra Flint, who had won by hitting Alaric Carrow square in the chest with a powerful Depulso, knocking him out of the circle of fire and securing her victory.

Flint, however, hadn’t been particularly creative with her spellcasting. Hermione recognized all her spells and curses—standard fare, though a bit on the darker side. Hermione was eager to face her, already formulating strategies. Flint wasn’t proficient in silent casting, a weakness Hermione fully intended to exploit.

Gone were her thoughts of bowing out early. The thrill of hexing Riddle’s Slytherin cronies was invigorating. She couldn’t wait for another round.

When they stepped into the ring, Hermione didn’t hesitate this time. She unleashed curse after curse, forcing Flint into a defensive stance, relying solely on protective spells. Hermione’s onslaught was relentless—explosions, stunners, slicing hexes—all fueled by the Phoenix Elixir coursing through her. She didn’t feel the slightest fatigue and grew bolder, advancing on Flint with each spell she cast.

The only sound was Flint’s desperate cries of "Protego" over the murmur of the crowd as Hermione continued her silent casting, pushing her further back. It was liberating, unleashing all her pent-up frustration. Hermione shattered Flint’s shield with a final blast.

When Flint realised her protection had failed, Hermione was standing just three yards away, close enough to see the fear in her dark eyes.

"Incarcerous!" Hermione shouted, just as Flint screamed, "Crucio!"

Both curses missed by inches as they leapt aside. Hermione’s gaze shot to Abraxas. Unforgivable Curses couldn’t be allowed. Not possible. But Abraxas kept quiet.

“What, scared now?” Flint sneered, getting to her feet, her voice dripping with mockery.

Fury flared inside Hermione. How dare she?

“I didn’t realise we were using Unforgivable Curses,” Hermione replied, her voice tight with anger.

“Maybe you should surrender if this is too much for you,” Flint grinned, taunting her.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest. She had survived that curse before—endured it for what felt like an eternity. The memory of Bellatrix’s torment still haunted her, even after all these years. No, this witch was going down.

“If that’s how you want to play,” Hermione said coldly, raising her wand, “so be it.”

With a swift, wandless motion, she conjured a thick cloud of smoke with Fumos, obscuring Flint’s vision. Under the cover of the haze, Hermione downed a dose of her True Invisibility Potion from the bracelet around her wrist.

“Finite Incantatem!” Flint called out, banishing the fog. She spun around, looking frantic when she realised Hermione had vanished.

“She’s left the circle! She’s not here anymore!” Flint shouted, laughing. “I win!”

Hermione silently crept up on her, taking her time. When she was close enough to feel the heat of Flint’s breath, she leaned in and whispered, “No, you don’t.”

Before Flint could react, Hermione transfigured her into a tiny insect. With a swift motion, she caught the bug in the empty vial from her potion and corked it shut.

“It’s charmed indestructible,” Hermione said calmly, holding the vial up to the light of the fire surrounding them. “I wouldn’t bother trying to get out if I were you.”

Still invisible, she walked over to Abraxas. “Here,” she said, grabbing his hand and placing the vial in it. “You should’ve told me Unforgivables were part of tonight’s entertainment.”

She was done with this evening.

She turned to leave, but Abraxas, startled, grabbed her arm awkwardly, unsure of where she was exactly. “Wait, Hermione,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “I thought it was implied—everything’s allowed except permanent maiming or killing.”

Hermione scoffed and pulled free from his grip just as Riddle sauntered over, his movements casual, but his eyes sharp.

“If you leave now,” he said with that infuriatingly smug expression, “I’ll take it to mean you’ve accepted my invitation. How about tomorrow evening?”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. The urge to curse the existence of Draco Malfoy once more surged inside her—it was entirely his fault that she was in this mess.

“Fine,” she bit out, her voice tight with frustration. “I’ll be back for my next duel.”

She stalked off toward the estate gardens, needing a moment to cool down before her third round and regain her visibility. Adrenaline pumped through her, and she fought the urge to run. She would finish this. Nothing tonight could be as bad as a date with Tom Riddle.

Just one more duel, she reminded herself. She would not lose face, if she lost now.

***

Tom

Hermione Granger was an extraordinary duelist. Her creativity and sheer power in spellcasting were remarkable, but what intrigued Tom the most was her ability to weave potions into her strategy. He couldn’t figure out how she had accessed them so swiftly earlier, but it didn’t matter. He had expected her to be good—exceptional even—but she had shown flashes of brilliance that he hadn't anticipated.

Still, her aversion to using the Unforgivable Curses was disappointing. Tom had always despised the naive notion of fair play. Real life wasn’t fair, and neither were battles.

As she returned for the next round, Tom's eyes stayed fixed on her. Her opponent, Ali Thakkar, was no match. He was a capable astronomer but lacked the instinct for duelling. Predictably, she dismantled his defences in a matter of seconds, stunning him so quickly that even Tom was impressed.

A displeased frown was set in her expression and Tom wondered why she did not seem to enjoy her victories anymore. Could it just be her opposition to the Cruciatus curse? Tom was personally very fond of the curse, as it had served him very well in the past. It was a risk however to cast it at an unfamiliar person tonight. Miss Granger could try and get them into trouble. He would have a word with her later about it. 

After her win she stood with Evangeline Sharp at the edge of the crowd speaking in hushed voices. She was clearly unhappy and there was no point in him trying to talk to her now. But when it was clear that Sylas Sallow would be her opponent for the finale, he placed a considerable bet on her with Mulciber and then went to have a word with Sallow. 

“Sylas,” Tom said smoothly, watching his Knight’s wary expression. “Do me a favour, will you?”

“Anything, my Lord,” Sallow replied, though his eyes gleamed with reluctance.

Tom’s voice dropped slightly. “Refrain from using the Cruciatus. I don’t want our guest running off to the Ministry about tonight.”

Sallow scowled. “But she’d squirm so beautifully,” he said, almost pleading.

Tom could see the appeal. The thought of watching Hermione under the curse was tantalising, but if anyone were to subject her to that, it would be him. “I said no,” Tom repeated, coldly final. “Go now. Don’t embarrass yourself. Win.”

With anger simmering in his eyes, Sallow strode toward the duelling circle, his fury palpable. That was good. Sallow always fought better when angry.

Miss Granger stepped into the circle, looking more tense than she had in her previous duels. Tom understood why—Sallow was a wild card, unpredictable and cruel. His spellwork was an erratic, dangerous mix, and not even Tom knew all of the curses his Knight could cast. Sallow’s history was a violent one. His reputation for permanently maiming his opponents had led to the “no permanent damage” rule in their annual duelling championship.  He had hit his opponent in their second championship with a curse that left the other wizard with a disfigured face. He had taken his own life a few years after the incident, because he had lost his job and had sunken in his loneliness. Or so the others were saying. 

Tom had always preferred solitude, though he knew strength was found in numbers, which was why he was gathering his followers.

As the duel began, Miss Granger handled Sallow’s aggressive onslaught with her usual brilliance—He watched in awe as she bravely faced his Knight. She was almost always casting without having to say the spell out loud, a skill which only few witches and wizards mastered. She was a quick thinker, but got distracted when Sallow blasted fire and explosions all around her and did not react in time to Sallow’s next spell. When Sallow hit her with a silent Imperius, it was like watching a marionette’s strings being pulled. The fire in her eyes dimmed, her body slackened, and Tom's heart gave a faint flicker of disappointment. Could it really be that easy to break her? For a moment, he feared it might be.

“Come here, witch,” Sallow commanded, and Miss Granger obeyed, walking toward him in a trance.

Tom leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. Would she fight it off? He hoped she would. The sight of her under anyone else’s control made his skin crawl.

Then Sallow, always the arrogant fool, pushed his luck. Smirking, he took her by the hands. “I think you want to kiss me,” he said, pulling her closer.

She leaned in, and the sight of her lips brushing Sallow’s made Tom’s blood boil. His fingers twitched toward his wand. But he restrained himself—barely. If anyone were to have her, it would be him. She just didn’t know it yet.

Sallow took her wand, still grinning. His smugness, however, was short-lived. Just as Tom’s rage bubbled over, he saw it—an unmistakable twitch in her expression. She was fighting it, pushing back against the Imperius with a strength that sent a thrill through him. When her curls flew as she shook off the curse, his lips curled into a smile. She was magnificent.

Sallow, unaware, had turned his back on her and was facing the audience, his arms raised in victory.

With Sallow’s back turned, Miss Granger lifted her hands and fire burst forth from her palms. She didn’t need words, didn’t need focus from a wand. It was pure elemental magic, and it engulfed Sallow in a wave of blistering heat. 

“You bitch!” Sallow roared, casting frantic shielding charms. 

His scream tore through the crowd, but she wasn’t done. With another fluid motion—like a conductor guiding a symphony—she summoned water to cascade down over him. The flames hissed into steam as the water pummelled him, leaving him gasping, drenched, and humiliated.

Tom’s heart raced. The level of control she exhibited, the command over two opposing elements, was astonishing. But it was more than just her power—it was the way she wielded it, like she could shape the very world around her to bend to her will. He could appreciate the complexity. Elemental magic had a mind of its own, and wielding it could be dangerous. But the witch—she wasn’t just wielding it. She was mastering it.

And Tom… Tom wanted that mastery. He wanted her.

Sallow managed to freeze the water and step back, coughing, gasping for air. But she wasn’t giving him any respite. The ground beneath Sallow cracked open, and he was swallowed up to his neck by the earth, helpless like some pitiful creature. 

Tom couldn’t help the flicker of admiration that turned into something darker. Possessive. She was extraordinary, and he needed her in his circle, for his causes. Someone with this kind of raw talent was a rarity, and she would be unstoppable with the right guidance. His guidance.

But at the same time, the way she fought, the fire in her soul—it stirred something deeper within him. She was dangerous. He liked dangerous. No, he craved it.

“Give up,” Miss Granger commanded coldly.

Sallow, enraged and desperate, spat insults at her. “I’ll destroy you, you stupid—”

Her face darkened with fury, and she clenched her raised hands to fists. Tom felt a chill run through him. Suddenly, Sallow’s eyes bulged, his face turning blue as he gasped for air. She was suffocating him without even touching him.

It was magnificent. Tom had never seen anything like it. She had him completely at her mercy.

Tom's eyes narrowed with a dark glint as Miss Granger released Sallow from the suffocating spell; just when it seemed like she might kill him, letting him collapse in a coughing heap. Without a word, she summoned her wand back and dispatched him with a simple Stupefy, the elegance in her control returning. The duel was over, but Tom’s interest in her was far from it.

As the crowd erupted in applause, Tom's mind was already whirring, calculating. He needed to have her, in every sense of the word. Not just for her magic, but for something more. He had never met anyone quite like her—so powerful, so self-righteous, so… his.

Abraxas raised her arm in victory, announcing her as the champion of their duelling championship. People surrounded her, offering congratulations, but she looked distant, tired. Abraxas handed her the prize—a bag of gold and a dragonhide wand holster—but it was clear that none of this interested her.

She turned to leave, her fatigue evident, but Tom’s attention snapped back to Sallow. The foolish Knight, newly revived, was on his feet again, his wand aimed at her back.

The Cruciatus curse crackled through the air, hitting Miss Granger for a split second. Tom’s body moved before his mind had even registered it. Incarcerous. His magic was faster, stronger. Sallow hit the ground, bound and defeated.

She had screamed, she had taken the hit in the back.

She was already rising, eyes blazing as she looked from Tom to Sallow, her hand tightening around her wand. Tom met her gaze for a moment before returning his attention to Sallow.

“This will have consequences” Tom’s voice was dangerously calm.

Sallow writhed, choking against the binds. “Abraxas, get him out of here,” Tom ordered. "We'll talk later."

Once Sallow was dragged off, Tom turned to Miss Granger. Evangeline Sharp stood beside her, holding her protectively. Both witches were glaring at him.

“Are you alright?” he asked Miss Granger, a surprising hint of genuine concern lacing his tone.

“Certainly not! I was hit with two of the three Unforgivable curses tonight” she snapped, her voice tight with pain and anger. “I wish to leave now.”

“I understand,” Tom replied smoothly. “But then you’d miss the best part of your prize.”

“What prize?” Hermione asked, eyeing the bag of gold at her feet.

Tom’s lips curled into a slow, predatory smile. “A duel with me, of course.”

Her eyes widened in panic.

***

Hermione

“I promise not to use any Unforgivables,” Riddle said, placing his hand over his heart, a mocking glint in his eyes.

Hermione was exhausted. All she wanted was to go home, add her prize money to the growing pile she was saving for the goblins, and forget this night ever happened.

Sallow had hit her in the back with a Cruciatus curse. Brief though it had been, the trauma it stirred flashed through her mind. This house, this crowd—they weren’t her friends. And every time she set foot in Malfoy Manor, it seemed she was destined to suffer. It had to be because she was Muggle-born. The house could probably feel it.

“I’ll pass, thanks. Sallow can have the duel—he’s earned it,” she said, her voice heavy with resignation. She already knew what Riddle was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

“The offer still stands—a date, if you’d like to bow out early,” he said, eyes gleaming in the dim light as he stared her down. Hermione didn’t dare turn her back on him. He’d protected her earlier, but she wouldn’t put it past him to hit her with a Cruciatus in the back himself if she was rude.

“Hermione, I can get you home if you want,” Evangeline offered beside her. “They’ve really gone too far tonight.”

Hermione appreciated that, at least, someone seemed to care. She straightened her spine. “That’s kind of you, but he won’t let this go if I leave now.” She handed Evangeline her sack of gold and her new wand holster. “Don’t place any bets on me,” she whispered before reluctantly approaching the circle of fire.

“Fine, let’s get this over with, Riddle,” she said, stepping over the flames, her skin crawling. She was about to duel Tom Riddle.

Walking to her spot at the edge of the circle, she pulled out her last useful potions. She downed her last dose of Phoenix Flame she had brought with her and a vial of her Wandwood Elixir. Better safe than sorry. She didn’t trust Riddle’s promise about the Unforgivables. 

Even so, she’d rather duel a young Voldemort than go on a date with him any day.

Summoning her courage, Hermione recalled everything she’d learned from Harry. This was not the time to lose her temper or let her mind be open to attack.

“In position,” Stellan Nott called, as Abraxas had gone off with Sallow.

Hermione raised her wand, ignoring the slight tremble in her hand. Riddle stood across from her, his posture casual. His broad shoulders and dangerous eyes hinted at the power within him. He was beautiful, terrifying.

She could just let him hit her with the first spell and end this farce quickly. But no, that wasn’t in her nature.

Nott began the countdown. As much as Hermione hated it, she wasn’t one to give up without a fight.

If Riddle wanted a duel, he’d get one. She just wouldn’t give him her best. She had already shown too much tonight, and she needed to keep something in reserve for the future. It was apparent Riddle wasn’t going to leave her alone anytime soon, if she did not enter this duel properly.

At the word “begin,” Hermione instantly cast Protego Horribilis, a dense, nearly impenetrable shield shimmering in dark light. She wasn’t taking any chances.

Riddle, however, didn’t rush. He was deliberate, calm, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. He lifted his wand leisurely, like he had all the time in the world, and fired a pale green curse her way.

The curse struck her shield with a hiss, the force of it shaking her to her core. But Hermione stood firm, her mind focused. She flicked her wand, sending a barrage of Confringo spells toward him, aiming to overwhelm him quickly.

Tom sidestepped with ease, his movements elegant and precise. He countered with Fiendfyre, dark flames in the shape of a serpent surged toward her shield, snarling as they tried to consume it.

Hermione’s heart raced, but she didn’t falter. With a wide sweep of her wand, she summoned water from the air, quenching the flames before they could break through. Steam billowed up, obscuring her view of him, and she took the opportunity to reposition herself.

Riddle’s voice rang out through the fog. “Impressive, Miss Granger. Didn’t think you’d handle that quite so well.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she conjured a cyclone of wind, sending it spinning toward him. But Riddle, ever composed, traced a glowing rune in the air, diverting the wind harmlessly to the side.

Cold sweat formed on Hermione’s brow. She couldn’t be too predictable. She launched a swarm of sharp stones at him, each one deadly enough to slice through skin and bone.

Riddle twirled his wand, and a silvery shield materialised, the stones clattering against it harmlessly. Without warning, he fired a silent spell, an invisible force that crashed into her chest. Hermione gasped as her legs buckled under the pressure.

But she wasn’t finished yet. Gritting her teeth, she retaliated with Bombarda Maxima, aiming to shatter the ground beneath him. The explosion rocked the circle, sending debris flying. For a moment, she thought she had him.

But then—

“Is that all, Miss Granger?” Riddle’s voice was calm, almost bored. He stood unharmed, his shield still intact.

Her stomach sank. He was toying with her.

Summoning her strength, Hermione cast Protego Totalum around herself, then tried to blind him with Obscuro. But Riddle easily dispelled it, his wand slicing through the spell with little effort.

A streak of purple lightning shot from his wand, crackling toward her. Hermione barely managed to deflect it with a wall of stone, but she couldn’t keep this up forever.

Her next spell was a combination of elements—fire, water, wind, earth—desperation making her movements erratic. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of surprise in Riddle’s eyes.

But then, she miscast. One spell fizzled out, and Riddle’s smirk returned.

“Noxium Constrictus,” he hissed.

Dark tendrils shot from his wand, wrapping around Hermione’s limbs like cold, living chains. She tried to fight, but the shadows tightened, sapping her strength.

Tom stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “You fought well,” he said softly. “But now… submit.”

Hermione wanted to resist, to keep fighting, but she knew this was a losing battle. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to feign defeat.

The tendrils constricted further, forcing her to her knees before him. Her muscles screamed in protest, but her strength was gone. She had no choice but to let the shadows pull her down.

For a moment, Hermione wanted to resist, wanted to fight until the bitter end. But something inside her stilled. She couldn’t win this—not here, not now. Not against him. This was the perfect opportunity to fake a little incompetency. 

Instead of fighting him she lowered her head, her body trembling with exhaustion and frustration.

The shadows released her as quickly as they had bound her. Shaken but unharmed, Hermione met Riddle’s gaze as he extended a hand.

“A fine duel, Miss Granger,” he said.

She hesitated before taking his hand. His grip was cold, firm, as he pulled her to her feet. 

As Hermione stood there, her body trembling from the aftershock of the Noxium Constrictus, she felt the weight of Riddle's gaze upon her. His eyes, dark and sharp, lingered a little too long, tracing the lines of her exhaustion, the flush on her cheeks, the way her chest heaved with each strained breath. There was something predatory in the way he looked at her, but also… something else—something dark, and unspoken.

The duel was over, but the game between them was far from finished.

Polite applause rang from the crowd around, as Riddle and her left the duelling circle, the flames finally extinguished.

Evangeline approached, smiling widely. “That was amazing, Hermione! You lasted longer than anyone else here would’ve managed to.”

“I have to agree,” Riddle added with a faint smirk. “You were quite impressive.”

Hermione gave a curt nod. “Cheers,” she muttered, grabbing her sack of gold from Evangeline. “Walk me out?” she asked, not waiting for a reply as she headed toward the Manor’s gates.

“Are you alright? It didn’t look like he hurt you,” Evangeline said, her voice full of concern.

“No, I’m fine,” Hermione replied tersely. Then she shot a look at Evangeline. “You’re not in Riddle’s little club, are you?”

“Me? No! They wouldn’t have me, not with my, uh, living arrangements,” she said with a chuckle.

“Good,” Hermione muttered. “Because I’m not selling anything to anyone back there.” She gestured over her shoulder toward the group behind them, her mind already moving on to more important matters.

***

Tom

Today Tom hadn’t learned Miss Granger’s motives—her Occlumency had been too strong. He hadn’t gotten a pleasant conversation or captured her attention, as she seemed more interested in Abraxas and offspring. And she hadn’t agreed to go on a date, preferring to duel rather than spend time with him. 

But Tom could take out his frustrations on Sylas Sallow.

He strode swiftly toward the Manor, just as Miss Granger had disappeared through the gates with Sharp. 

He knew the way to the dungeons by heart, having led countless victims there before. It was rare, though, to have one of his own Knights waiting for punishment.

Lestrange followed him, though Tom paid him no mind. The only thing he wanted to hear tonight was Sallow’s screams under his wand.

Abraxas was waiting in the dungeon, his wand pointed at Sallow, who was bound and chained to a wooden chair. It was the same spot where they’d dismembered a Muggle just weeks ago. The smell of damp stone and something metallic lingered in the air, like the ghosts of the past still clung to the place.

Tom approached Sallow, his face blank—a mask he had perfected over the years. No one would see the depth of his anger tonight, the fury boiling beneath his calm surface. 

Nothing had gone to plan. 

Abraxas had dared to compete for Miss Granger’s attention, and Sallow had attacked her, like a fool, shining a light on the Knights he didn’t need. Worse still, the fact that Sallow had hurt her...it bothered him. He was more surprised by the fact than anyone could possibly know.

“Did he try anything?” Tom asked, his voice cold, as he stared at Sallow.

“No,” Abraxas replied quickly, though Tom could hear the tremor in his voice. He was lying.

“Everyone out,” Tom said softly, almost a whisper, but it was laced with enough menace to make them shiver on the spot.

“But, my Lord,” Lestrange began, his voice shaking, “maybe we can handle this without violence? I think Sallow knows how wrong he was, don’t you, Sy?” Lestrange looked to Sallow, who nodded furiously, his mouth gagged.

Tom had no patience left.

“Get out,” he repeated, his tone like ice. “Or you’ll suffer alongside him.”

Lestrange and Abraxas scurried out, the dungeon door clanging shut behind them.

Tom stepped inside the cell, the iron door creaking as it closed behind him. He stood in front of Sallow, eyes narrowing.

“Any excuse for disobeying me? For embarrassing us in front of our guests? For using an Unforgivable outside the duel? And at someone’s back—like a coward?” he hissed, his voice low, dangerous.

Sallow tried to speak, but the gag muffled his words, panic clear in his wide, brown eyes.

“Actually, I don’t care what you have to say,” Tom said, his lips curling into a smile that was anything but friendly.

Sallow's freckled face went pale, beads of sweat forming on his brow. He was terrified, and that was exactly how Tom liked it.

“Crucio.”

The spell hit Sallow square in the chest, and his body arched in agony, muscles seizing as muffled screams tore from his throat. Tom stood over him, his wand steady, watching with cold satisfaction as Sallow writhed in pain.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The day after the grand fiasco at Malfoy Manor, Hermione spent hours wandering the streets of 1952s London, lost in thought. She felt like she was changing too much of the timeline. Distractions seemed to be everywhere.

She needed to get home. Nothing else mattered.

Hermione mentally reviewed her next steps. Abraxas seemed like the easiest part of her plan; getting him alone in his house would be simple. A quick Imperius, and he’d lead her straight to the vault. 

Once she secured the gold for her recipes, she'd head to Switzerland to harvest the time-stabilising crystals. But she needed a full moon for the trip to the Alps. The next one would rise on the night of October 3rd. Still a few weeks away—plenty of time to figure out how to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor.

After hours of wandering around aimlessly, as the late summer sun began to sink, she returned to the Claridge’s Hotel. Passing the front desk, Robertsen called after her.

“Miss Granger, may I have a word?”

Hermione stopped, turning to face the young concierge.

“Everything alright?” she asked as he hurried over, slightly out of breath.

“Yes, yes, quite. Just a small issue. You see, the hotel allows only one pet per guest,” he began, looking apologetic. Hermione frowned, not quite following.

“Okay, and?”

Robertsen scratched his chin, clearly uncomfortable. “Well, you already have the cat, and, to be honest, the owls are a bit... eccentric. They’ve made quite a mess on your balcony, which I had to clean up.”

Oh no.

“I’m so sorry! I’ll get rid of them right away—it won’t happen again!” she promised, rushing to the lift.

When she entered her room, she was greeted by seven owls waiting on her balcony. Seven .

The first note she unrolled was hurriedly scrawled, though Hermione immediately recognized the handwriting of her friend.

September 7, 1952

Dear Hermione,

Eva told me what happened last night, though I suspect she’s leaving out some details. We have to meet—you need to tell me everything.

I still can’t believe you won their duelling contest! It’s notorious! I’ve been begging Eva to take me for years!

Yours,
Marigold

A girls' talk sounded like exactly what she needed—especially to vent her anger at Sallow’s behaviour. She also hoped Marigold had some juicy dirt on Cassandra Flint. Horrible woman.

The next letter was from Evangeline.

September 7, 1952

Dear Hermione,

Thank you for trusting me. As we discussed, I’ve drawn up the contract. I’d like to finalise our deal and have you show me how to brew the potions at your earliest convenience.

Looking forward to working with you.
Eva

P.S. Don’t let Mary bully you into telling her anything. All I’ve told her is that you were Abraxas’ guest and won the duelling championship. But trust her to try and squeeze more out of you.

Hermione smiled. She had agreed to sell Evangeline her potions. No matter how many galleons Abraxas would offer, she couldn’t risk the Phoenix Flame Elixir falling into the wrong hands.

The next letter was in Abraxas’ lazy scrawl.

Abraxas O. Malfoy

Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire
September 7, 1952

Dear Hermione,

Please accept my sincerest apologies for how the night ended. I hope you don’t hold Mr. Sallow’s actions against me.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Please forgive me for not protecting you better.

Could we meet soon?

Yours,
Abraxas

Hermione sighed, setting the letter aside. The poor man seemed smitten, but she had no intention of returning his affections. Well, not really. If he kissed her, she probably wouldn’t push him away. But as soon as she got what she needed from his vault, she’d disappear from his life. No nice way around it.

Pushing aside her guilt, she reached for the next note, this one in a neat and elegant hand.

T.M. Riddle

Knockturn Alley, London
September 7, 1952

Dear Miss Granger,

I must apologise once more for my friend’s actions last night. I hope you are well and have recovered.

Rest assured, I’ve spoken to Sylas, and you should expect a formal apology shortly.

If you have any further concerns, please don’t hesitate to reach out.

Kind regards,
Tom Riddle

Hermione stared at the parchment, stunned. Now he was writing to her? And the formality of it all! Last night, he had his phantom hands all over her, tried to bully her into a date and tied her up with his creepy shadow magic. And now he was sending kind regards ?

She decided not to respond to his attempt at covering his tracks. Further concerns, he was probably just scared she could start stirring things up for him. She should alert the Ministry about their illegal duelling championship and use of Unforgivable curses. But risking a scandal wasn’t worth it, at least not over risking her return to 2008, so she moved on to the next letter.

Sylas Sallow

Feldcroft
September 7, 1952

Dear Miss Granger,

I am deeply ashamed and sorry for my unsportsmanlike behaviour last night. I lost control and acted like a schoolboy and a coward.

Please accept my sincerest apology. If there’s anything I can do to earn your forgiveness, please let me know.

Best regards,
Sylas Sallow

Hermione ripped up Sallow’s letter and dropped the pieces into Crookshanks’ litter box. He could do what he pleased with it.

Curious now, she turned to the remaining letters. Who else had reason to contact her?

J.R. Shacklebolt

St. Mungo’s Hospital
September 7, 1952

Dear Miss Granger,

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance the other night.

Please let me know as soon as you identify the supplier for the Phoenix Elixir you so kindly provided. I’ve told my colleagues at St. Mungo’s, and they’re eager to see the effects firsthand.

I hope you have a wonderful day.

Warm regards,
Julius Shacklebolt

That was excellent news for Evangeline. Gaining St. Mungo’s as a regular client would help her investment break even much sooner.

The last letter was from Professor Slughorn.

Professor Horace Slughorn

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
September 7, 1952

Dear Miss Granger,

I’ve heard from several members of the Slug Club about your magnificent performance at the duelling competition. I was told your potions played a significant part in your victory.

I’d like to reiterate my offer for you to teach a guest lecture on inventive potion-making for my older students. It would be an honour to learn from you.

Looking forward to your owl.
Sincerely,
Horace Slughorn

Hermione sat down at her desk. The time for brooding was over, she had to take action.

She set to work, answering the most important letters first, determined to prevent poor Robertsen from having to clean owl droppings from her balcony again.

***

Tom

The next time, almost a week after their duel at Malfoy Manor, Tom felt the searing pull of his tracking bond—like someone was about to rip his intestines out—he was, thankfully, alone in bed, about to drift off to sleep, not in the middle of a meeting with his Knights.

This was it—the moment he'd been preparing for. With a sharp intake of breath, he threw on his robes, Disillusioned himself, and focused on her. The Invenio Tenebris would do the rest, guiding him straight to her, no matter the distance. He turned on the spot, ready to Apparate across continents if he had to.

The familiar sensation of compression gripped him, the suffocating pressure of being squeezed through a narrow, invisible tube. But then—something went wrong. A violent jolt tore through him mid-transit. The magical tether connecting him to her snapped, like a wire pulled too tight and then breaking with a sickening twang. His course altered sharply, and Tom could feel himself being flung out of the Apparitional stream. He fought to stay whole, but his body felt like it was splintering apart.

And that’s when he knew—this was what it felt like to splinch .

Tom reappeared in a desolate field, his body collapsing onto the ground with a scream of pure, unbridled agony. The left side of his torso blazed with a pain so intense, he almost welcomed the darkness pulling at the edges of his vision. It was as though a thousand red-hot knives were slicing through him, each beat of his heart sending fresh waves of torment through his body. His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he tried to stay conscious.

He fumbled for his wand with his good hand, desperate to staunch the bleeding, but his grip slipped—his magic too weak, too erratic. The blood loss was too fast. Unconsciousness began to claim him.

“Finite Incantatem.” A soft voice called out somewhere.

Suddenly visible again, he looked down. His left arm hung at a grotesque angle—flesh, muscle, and tendons severed, leaving only bone keeping it attached. A gurgled sound of disbelief escaped his lips as his vision blurred, the world spinning around him. He was dying. Bleeding out. There was nothing left to do but wait.

Then, a shadow fell over him.

He squinted through the pain, the morning sunlight catching in warm brown curls. Her silhouette became clearer, and Tom felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine despite the heat of the blood pooling beneath him. Hermione.

For what felt like an eternity, she stood there, looking down at him, her face unreadable, save for the scorn in her eyes. His breaths came out in harsh, shallow gasps, but he refused to speak—refused to beg for her help. He was Tom Riddle. He didn’t beg.

He waited, helpless, while she debated with herself, her internal struggle playing out plainly on her face. Her aversion for him was palpable, and yet, she was still standing there. Watching him die.

Just when he was sure she'd leave him to bleed out, she let out a frustrated, primal scream. “Fuck!”

She dropped to her knees beside him, ripping away the remains of his robes and dress shirt. Her hands were gentle but quick, cradling his head in her lap. Her soft voice reached him through the haze of pain. “Here. Drink this. It’s my Phoenix Flame Elixir. It’ll heal you.”

She pressed a vial to his lips, the smokey red liquid inside swirling like molten fire. He recognized it from Slughorn's party. Unsure if this was his luckiest moment or his most pathetic, Tom drank. The potion burned as it slid down his throat, filling him with warmth—slow, steady, but agonisingly slow.

“Good,” she whispered, her tone soothing, “you’re doing great.”

But then her voice turned apologetic. “It’s not working fast enough. I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

She poured something onto his open wound, and Tom thought he would scream himself hoarse. The pain was unbearable—like he was being torn apart again. He writhed in her lap, groaning, his entire body on fire.

“Shh... I know. I know. It’s almost over,” she murmured, trying to calm him. Her fingers brushed through his hair, her touch light and careful.

His eyelids grew heavy. He was too weak, the blood loss pulling him under. He felt more vials pressed to his lips, her voice soft and coaxing.

“Drink. Trust me. This will make it better... take the pain away.”

Tom had never trusted anyone in his life. But in that moment, with his vision blurring and his body broken, he would have done anything to stop the pain. So he drank. Again, and again. The liquid numbed his senses as her hands stroked his forehead, brushing away the sweat and blood.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” she whispered. Her voice lulled him into the darkness, and he let go.

***

Hermione

Hermione couldn’t believe her luck. Tom Riddle had drunk every single potion she had given him. Completely at her mercy, he had blindly downed them all—her Phoenix Elixir, the Blood-Replenishing Potion, the Draught of Dreamless Sleep, and most importantly, the Nullifying Draught. The latter stripped him, temporarily, of his magical abilities. She felt a deep wave of gratitude for Severus Snape’s work in her past—and Lord Voldemort's distant future. Though it was pure chance, she had been carrying the potion in her portable apothecary.

Still, she wasn’t about to take any risks. She gently bound the unconscious man with a precise Incarcerous spell and levitated him. There was no way she could carry Tom Riddle’s six-foot-two frame herself. Stripped of his shirt, she could now see that he wasn’t as thin as he appeared. Lean, but muscular, she thought. More of a Chaser’s build than a Beater’s. Hermione smiled at the absurdity of her observation. She’d seen enough Quidditch players’ bodies to know.

Forcing her mind away from thoughts of Ron, Viktor, and home, she focused on the task at hand. Activating her Portkey charm, Hermione was confident that his body could handle the transportation. After all, he had Apparated across the world with only mild splinching. This wouldn’t be too dangerous for him. Not that I should care , she reminded herself. The familiar pull behind her navel yanked them both back to London.

Once in her hotel room at Claridge’s, Hermione set him down on the desk chair and bound him to it. His head lolled forward, still asleep. With all the potions he’d ingested, she knew she had a few hours of safety. Long enough for her to close her eyes and take a brief rest. She’d deal with the problem of Tom Riddle later. Or rather, future Hermione would. Well, the not so distant future of the distant future Hermione stuck in the past would.

After a few hours of uneasy sleep, Hermione got to work brewing more of the Nullifying Draught. She had no illusions about how long it might take for her and the future Dark Lord to reach any kind of agreement. She also knew that, given his immense magical power, the potion’s effects might not last as long as they would on someone else.

Riddle was still slumped in the chair, his breathing steady. She glanced at his broad shoulders, one still marked by angry red scars. 

She hadn’t imagined what a young Lord Voldemort would look like naked, but if she had, she wouldn’t have pictured the dark, curly chest hair covering him. In her mind, he had always been bald, hairless, terrifying. Her gaze wandered lower, tracing the line of hair down his abdomen until it disappeared beneath his waistband. 

What are you doing? she snapped at herself, forcing her thoughts back to reality. She waved her wand, conjuring a plain white V-neck T-shirt to cover him.

Turning her back, she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. Ogling Tom Riddle, really? What was wrong with her? She had never been one to focus on people in that way. She told herself she was just overwhelmed by having Lord Voldemort tied to a chair in her bedroom.

Trying to shake off her thoughts, Hermione put on the headphones of her silver iPod, now loaded with 120GB of her favourite music. Letting Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten wash over her, she set to work on her potion, almost—though not entirely—forgetting the unconscious and highly dangerous man behind her.

*

“What have you done to my magic?”

Riddle’s voice was quiet but edged with enough menace to make her skin crawl. Hermione barely heard him over the music blaring in her ears. Good, she thought, the potion was still working. She was almost done with the new batch, and with deliberate slowness, she turned to face him.

Only after removing her headphones did she dare meet his gaze. His normally immaculate hair was dishevelled, and for a fleeting second, he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. It was the closest Hermione had ever seen him come to looking... cute. But his eyes were cold, angry, and it took every ounce of her control not to tremble under his glare.

“You should be grateful, you know,” she said, forcing herself to stay calm. “I saved your life last night.”

Riddle scoffed, a sharp, disdainful sound.

“Answer my question,” he ordered. “Where is my magic?”

Hermione ignored the demand. “You seem confused about who’s in control here. You’re the one tied up. You don’t get to ask the questions.”

She spoke with a confidence she didn’t fully feel, focusing on the last step of her potion. She added a single drop of dragon’s blood into the cauldron, watching as the mixture bubbled violently before settling into a deep, royal blue. She prayed he hadn’t noticed the slight tremor in her hands.

When he didn’t respond, she pressed on. “Why were you following me?”

He averted his gaze, jaw clenched. “If you want answers, you’ll have to torture me.”

A soft snicker escaped Hermione before she could stop it, earning a sharp look from him.

“What’s so funny?” he growled.

Shaking her head, she bottled the potion in five vials and pocketed them. “Why would I torture you? I just saved your life. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Riddle’s nostrils flared. “I’m not going to tell you anything. That leaves you with very few options.”

Hermione took a few steps closer, her eyes locking onto his. “I have no intention of torturing you. Not for information, not for anything. What I want is an adult conversation, so we can settle this without violence.” She took a seat in one of her comfortable armchairs.

His gaze narrowed, suspicion dancing in his eyes. “What do you propose?”

She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees. “We take turns asking and answering questions. Truthfully. Then we will find a solution, to something I hope is just a simple misunderstanding.”

Riddle shifted in his bindings, his chair creaking under the strain. Up close, Hermione once again found herself momentarily distracted by his beauty. It was almost painful how someone so vile could look so perfect.

“Really? Just like that?” His voice was a low rumble, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Just like that,” she confirmed.

“And how would you know if I was lying?”

“Is that your first question?”

He sneered, leaning back. “No. What have you done to my magic?”

Hermione sat up straighter. “The answer to both is the same—potions.”

His eyebrows shot up, black waves of hair falling into his face. “Elaborate.”

Obliging, Hermione held up one of the vials. “This is a Nullifying Draught. It temporarily removes your magical abilities, depending on the strength of your magical core.”

His face hardened instantly. “You poisoned me?” he spat.

“My turn,” she countered smoothly. “Why were you following me?”

He clenched his jaw, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t feel any truth serum in my system. I could lie to you.”

She held his gaze, unflinching. “No one said that you took the potion. I’ll know if you are lying.” 

She continued holding his stare, putting as much dominance in hers as she could muster, trying to support her bluff. Truthfully, she would have immediately fed him Veritaserum, had she had any. 

After a moment of silence, he finally answered, his words clipped and reluctant. “You were scared of me.”

Hermione blinked, confused. “What?”

“The day we met at Borgin and Burkes,” he continued, his voice low. “You looked at me like you knew me. And you were terrified of me.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. He had noticed. He had seen her fear.

“I never forget a face,” he added darkly. “And I wanted to know why you were afraid of someone you’d never met.”

Merlin, what should she tell him? Hermione knew there was only one option for answering his next question. She had carefully curated her backstory for this time, and it was crucial that he believed her.

Bracing herself under his piercing gaze, she waited for the inevitable.

“So, tell me,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet, “why were you scared of me that day?”

Hermione took a slow, deliberate moment to trace the sharp lines of his face with her eyes, giving the impression of weighing her words carefully. 

“Because I’ve seen your face before,” she began, her tone as controlled as she could manage. “In the futures of so many different people. No matter where I went, there was always at least one person’s future with your face in it. I never knew who you were, or where you came from, so meeting you that day—coincidentally—was a shock. And given what I’ve seen of how you treat people… I was scared.”

Hermione could tell he believed her. But she also knew, immediately, that this was the worst answer she could have given if her goal was to deter his interest. His black eyes locked onto hers, unblinking, and she noticed a vein throbbing at his neck, pulsing with barely-contained intensity.

Before he could dwell too long on her revelation, she quickly fired off her next question. “How were you following me?”

Riddle remained silent for so long that she almost repeated the question. But just before she opened her mouth, he spoke.

“Invenio Tenebris,” he said smoothly. “It’s a tracking spell placed on someone’s belongings. As long as they carry the item, the spellcaster knows exactly where they are—”

“I know what the spell does,” Hermione interrupted, irritation creeping into her voice. “It’s highly regulated, not to mention illegal, the way you’ve used it.”

Riddle only smirked. “Oh, by all means, report me. I’m sure the Ministry would be equally interested in your unregistered Portkey, unauthorised potions, or the fact that you’ve kidnapped a well-connected wizard.”

Hermione bit her lip, silenced by his words.

“Go on then,” he continued, leaning back in his chair with maddening composure. “I’ll even give you the name of the head of the Auror office—Ogden. You want his Aurors, too? How about my school mate Lestrange or perhaps…”

She scoffed, looking away. “I get your point. Thank you.”

His next words dripped with amusement. “My turn, then. What do you see in my future?”

Her heartbeat quickened. Careful, she thought. This could be an opportunity to steer him away from his dark path, but it was also a gamble. Should she meddle with time this directly? It could change everything—or nothing. She could deny him, of course. Or she could tell him the truth about his death. Or, perhaps, something less specific but still unsettling. She needed more time to think.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Hermione asked cautiously, buying herself a few precious seconds. “You might not like what I have to tell you.”

“Yes. Tell me,” he replied, his voice unwavering.

Hermione steeled herself. If he was so determined, she would give him something to chew on, something that might make him question his plans. Standing up, she closed the distance between them. “I need to touch you,” she said, recalling the ruse she had used before.

He nodded once, his eyes never leaving hers. Hermione set her wand aside and raised her hands slowly, her left hand brushing his face, her right resting over his heart. She was struck by how warm and human he felt under her touch. For all the years she had known of him as a monster, he was, in this moment, just a man. A wizard, yes, but still just a man.

For a brief second, their eyes met before she closed hers, pretending to delve into a vision. Moving her eyes beneath her lids as though she were scanning a series of visions, 

Hermione sold the act, putting on a show of concentration. After a few moments, she abruptly pulled away, staggering back to her chair, breathing heavily.

Daring a glance at him, she saw how eagerly he awaited her response. He was practically leaning forward in his seat, his usually icy expression cracked by genuine curiosity.

“I… I think it was farther in the future,” she began, her voice shaky for effect. “I saw you, but you didn’t look like this.” She gestured at his youthful, perfectly sculpted features. “You looked like a monster. White, bald, with only slits for a nose. Your eyes were red, with vertical pupils—like a snake.”

His expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as he processed her words. “What was I doing?” he demanded, his tone sharp.

“You were attacking children. Destroying that school of yours.”

He sneered. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” she replied, her voice steady despite the growing tension in the air. She could feel his anger rising, a palpable force threatening to erupt.

“You expect me to believe that I —” he paused, his lip curling in disgust—“would attack children? Destroy my own school?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” she said softly. “But that’s what I saw.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Riddle’s chest rose and fell more quickly than before, his jaw clenched tightly. His mind was clearly racing, torn between dismissing her words as lies and the gnawing curiosity that plagued him.

“You’re bluffing,” he muttered under his breath, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.

Hermione leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze head-on. “Am I?”

***

Tom

Tom had never expected his future to be filled with unicorns and fwoopers, but this? This was a sick joke. Maybe Hermione wasn’t a Seer at all. Perhaps she was just putting on an act for attention. He was destined to be powerful, to conquer death and rule over both the magical and Muggle worlds. The idea of attacking Hogwarts—children, even—seemed absurd. Unless... Dumbledore.

“Prove it. Show me what you saw,” he demanded, fed up with this game. His dark eyes bore into hers, his voice laced with an unmistakable threat.

To his horror, she obeyed.

With a whispered "Legilimens," Hermione sent a brief moment into the forefront of his mind. He was shocked by how easily she did it—without pushing deeper into his thoughts, as if respecting some invisible boundary. But what he saw made his blood run cold.

In the vision, a tall but gaunt figure was pointing a wand— not his wand —at a black-haired boy with broken glasses. It couldn’t be him, yet he knew it was. The way the figure moved, the familiar set of his features, and the way his eyes flashed red in his anger—it was grotesque. He looked like a monster. Hogwarts lay in ruins around him.

It was unbearable. He wrenched himself out of the vision, gasping for air as he returned to the present. Disgust and anger churned within him. He had looked weak. Pathetic, even. And worst of all, Hermione had seen it too.

How much else had she seen?

He wanted to get away. Needed to get out of there. Knowing that she had seen him like this. 

He wondered, had this been the only vision of his future, or had she glimpsed others where he still looked like his current self? She must have, she’s said she knew his face, the way he looked today.

“Untie me,” he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. He needed to escape, to process what he had just seen.

“No, we’re not done here,” Hermione replied, her brow furrowing.

“Yes, we are,” he growled. “Untie me this instant.”

When she didn’t move, his temper flared. “ Now , witch!”

Hermione scowled back, unflinching. “I told you that you wouldn’t like what I saw.”

Her condescending tone only stoked the flames of his fury. He began thrashing against his bindings, frustration bubbling to the surface. His shoulder, still healing from the splinching-injury, screamed in protest. 

“Stop it, you will hurt yourself”, she tried to order him. 

Daylight was spilling through the windows, and he realised how long he had been tied to this chair. It must have been hours. His magic was still gone, his body ached in ways he had never imagined, and to top it all off, he needed the bathroom.

This is all her fault.

His anger reached a boiling point. She had come into his life, she had made him obsessed with her secrets, she had tricked him, poisoned him, tied him up and questioned him like a common wizard. And now she was playing games with his mind. And worst of all, she had seen his future—one where he was monstrous and weak. She was infuriating. Brilliant, but infuriating.

A thorn in his side. A nuisance.

Yet, despite his anger, something about her drew him in. She possessed a brilliance that he didn’t have—a divine gift of foresight. If she were one of his followers, his , then perhaps he could claim that gift too. Maybe that’s why he found himself captivated by her, despite everything.

His eyes lingered on her. He couldn’t deny it any longer—she was not plain or merely passable, as he had once thought. Her wild curls, her fire-whiskey eyes, her sharp mind... all of it, maddeningly intriguing. 

Of course her brains infuriated him to no end at the moment, but he had also never felt more stimulated in his life.

But he hated it. Hated that she had gotten the better of him.

As he strained once more against his restraints, pain shot through his injured shoulder, causing him to wince.

Hermione was at his side immediately. “Does your shoulder hurt?” she asked, her voice soft with concern.

Tom let out a grunt of reluctant agreement, too proud to admit the extent of his discomfort.

“I told you to stop straining it! Let me take a look,” she scolded, her tone more like a mother reprimanding a child than an enemy speaking to her captive.

And then, to his utter disbelief, his traitorous body responded in the most inappropriate way possible. Between her gentle scolding and the feeling of her hands magically undoing his shirt to check the wound, he felt a surge of heat rush through him and he grew a massive hard on. 

As her fingers brushed his skin, he clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might crack a tooth to keep from groaning.

“It’s healing well,” she commented cheerfully, oblivious to his turmoil. “I can give you another dose of the pain potion and the Phoenix Flame Elixir if you want. And maybe massage in a few more drops of Dittany Essence.”

He couldn’t bring himself to respond. Not without betraying what was happening beneath the surface. She noticed his silence and frowned, searching his face for some sign of what was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Am I hurting you?”

“Just get it over with,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

Clearly annoyed by his tone, Hermione got to work. She fed him the potions, and Tom found himself feeling like a child being tended to by a concerned parent—a concept entirely foreign to him.

When she started massaging the Dittany into his scars, he thought he might actually explode. The sensation of her fingers pressing into his shoulder was almost unbearable, and not in the way he had expected. He thought his cock was going to explode from his pants. On top of his full bladder this agony was getting too much for him. And he caught himself wishing for a quick round of Cruciatus instead. At least that would have a foreseeable end, he thought. 

A heavy breath escaped him, and Hermione paused. “What is it? Am I hurting you?” she asked, exasperated.

“It’s nothing,” he lied, his voice tight. “Just... do your thing.”

She wasn’t convinced. “Obviously, something’s wrong. You can barely speak.”

Tom turned his gaze to the ceiling, silently cursing Salazar himself for his current predicament.

Finally, he gritted out, “I need to take a leak.”

Hermione froze, her eyes widening as her cheeks flushed bright red. She cleared her throat, clearly flustered. “Oh... um, right. Of course. Just—just a second.”

To his amusement, the mighty Hermione Granger, usually so composed, was now a bundle of nerves. At least there’s some satisfaction in that, he thought as he watched her scramble awkwardly to figure out how to untie him.

Hermione paused, checking her watch before raising her wand. Tom hoped it was to finally untie him, but instead, an orange light pulsed faintly around him. She frowned, clearly displeased with the result.

He raised an eyebrow, silently questioning her. She understood and answered quickly. “You need another dose of the Nullifying Draught.”

Tom let out a humourless laugh. “No thank you. I think I’ll wait this out.”

Her expression hardened. “You can take it voluntarily, or I can make you. Your choice.”

As if he would willingly take that poison again. He’d sooner make an unbreakable vow never to use the Killing Curse again than spend another moment without his magic. The loss of his magic felt worse than the pain of nearly losing a limb. Magic was his lifeblood, and without it, he felt incomplete. No, she would have to force it down his throat. His cold, blank stare told her as much.

Unfazed, Hermione drew closer, a vial of the royal blue liquid in hand. She brought it to his lips, but Tom didn’t move.

“Open up,” she commanded, meeting his eyes. He poured every ounce of cold, unrelenting rage into his gaze. Her breath hitched, and she stumbled back, momentarily startled. Good, he thought. She’s still afraid.

But her fear quickly dissipated, and she sighed in frustration. “You asked for it,” she muttered, rummaging through her makeshift potions lab.

When she returned with a syringe in hand, Tom’s blood ran cold. Memories of the orphanage flooded back—of the doctor who had tried to inject him with something to make him more “agreeable.” The needle had never touched him, always breaking before it could pierce his skin. But now, with his magic suppressed, there would be no such protection.

Why doesn’t she just petrify me or use the Imperius Curse? he thought bitterly as he watched her draw the potion into the syringe. He had no choice but to endure the indignity of it all. She untied her hair and used the tie to ligate his arm at his biceps, her wild curls brushing against him as she worked. His body betrayed him once again, his cock straining painfully against his trousers.

He focused all his energy on not reacting as she leaned in closer, her fingers brushing his skin as she found a vein. The cold pinch of the needle barely registered in comparison to the fire raging in his body. When she injected the icy liquid, it felt like death spreading through his veins. His magical core, which had been stirring in comparison to how it felt at that moment, was now silenced once more.

The only solace was that she finally untied him.

Tom rose to his feet slowly, forcing himself to show no sign of weakness, even though he felt utterly powerless. He cast a cold, arrogant gaze down at Hermione. She gestured toward the bathroom. “Take your time. You can use my things in the shower if you like. I’ll get you some fresh clothes.”

Jaw clenched, he strode toward the bathroom, testing the stiffness in his legs. Hours in the chair had left him sore in more ways than one. He slammed the bathroom door behind him, harder than necessary, but it was the only outward display of emotion he allowed himself.

As soon as I’m free from this... torture, he vowed silently, I’ll steal that recipe and erase it from her mind. This weapon, this Nullifying Draught, could not be allowed to exist outside of his control. He had never heard of anything like it before. If this was one of her inventions, it had to be eradicated from this planet.

Discarding his bloody trousers like a common Muggle, Tom took care of his needs and turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm. He had to admit, the hotel’s luxury was a comfort, especially after the primitive conditions of his youth. The water pressure was perfect, and the soaps smelled divine. As a boy, he’d had nothing but rough curd soap.

He scrubbed himself clean, but when his hand brushed against his cock, he stifled a groan. He needed release, desperately. The witch in the next room had been driving him mad all day. As he pumped himself, his mind wandered to thoughts of her body writhing under the torment of the Cruciatus Curse, muscles twitching in the aftermath. He imagined her kneeling before him, taking him in her mouth, her lips trembling. The image was too much, and before he could control himself, he finished quickly.

Panting, he leaned against the shower wall, the warmth of the water grounding him back to reality. He wiped away the evidence of his frustration and stepped out.

To his surprise, fresh clothes were waiting for him, folded neatly in front of the door. The trousers were made of a heavy blue material that reminded him of Muggle workers. The underwear she had provided, however, was modern and snug—nothing like the loose boxer shorts he was used to. He wondered briefly where she had gotten them, his thoughts turning darker at the possibility of her bringing a Muggle man to her hotel room. A surge of anger shot through him.

Jealousy, he realised, disgusted with himself. Never before had he felt jealousy for a Muggle. Yet here he was, bristling at the thought of another man touching what would be his .

Pulling on the white T-shirt she had left for him, he frowned at the bitter taste still lingering in his mouth. It had nothing to do with the potions, but with the realisation that he hated the thought of anyone else being close to her. He hated the idea of her slipping out of his control.

But one thing was certain: Hermione Granger was no longer just a nuisance or a means to an end. She was going to be his , whether she knew it yet or not.

***

Hermione

When Riddle finally emerged from what had to be the longest shower in the history of London, Hermione couldn’t help but notice how—there was no better word for it— delicious he looked. The jeans hung low on his hips, and the white V-neck exposed just a hint of his chest hair. His damp hair, much curlier than she had anticipated, fell over his face in dark waves. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks, but her inappropriate thoughts were cut short when his sharp gaze met hers.

"Could you be so kind as to conjure a toothbrush for me?" His voice was smooth, dripping with false politeness.

Hermione blinked, surprised. Of all the things she expected—more arguing, maybe even an escape attempt—this simple request caught her off guard. 

Guilt welled up in her. She had been trying to treat him with respect, to avoid provoking his murderous tendencies, but somehow she felt she was failing at every turn.

"Of course!" she replied, too eagerly. Flustered, she dashed into the large marbled bathroom and conjured a new toothbrush head for her electric toothbrush. She replaced her pink toothbrush head with the new blue one and held out her electric toothbrush for him to use.

"Here you go," she said, offering it to him.

Riddle didn’t take it immediately, staring at the device in confusion. "Why is it so... big?"

Hermione flushed, realising her mistake. "Oh, er, it’s the latest thing in Australia," she lied. "You push this button, and the head rotates—it cleans much better than a regular brush. You can also use some floss if you want." She gestured to the floss container under the mirror, squeezed a dab of toothpaste onto the brush, and handed it over again. This time, he accepted it.

"Push the button when it's in your mouth, or you'll get toothpaste everywhere," she advised.

Watching Lord Voldemort— young Lord Voldemort —tentatively start using an electric toothbrush was too much for Hermione to handle. A small giggle escaped her.

Riddle, scowling through a mouthful of foam, glared at her. "What’s so funny now?"

"Nothing, sorry!" Hermione bit her lip to stifle more laughter. "I’ll leave you to it."

She turned to exit the bathroom, but before she could take two steps, Riddle grabbed her from behind and slammed her against the wall by the sink. His left hand closed around her throat, while his right still held the toothbrush casually. His body pressed against hers, his breath hot against her cheek as he leaned in.

"You know," he hissed, "I am a man, and you are just a woman. I’m still stronger than you." His words were laced with quiet menace, and in a blur of motion, he reached into her pocket, pulling out both wands—his and hers.

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity. But she quickly recovered, her instincts kicking in. With a swift flick of her wrist, Riddle was thrown backward, crashing into the bathtub. He groaned as he hit the porcelain.

Brushing herself off, she calmly retrieved the wands from where they had fallen. "Now that we’ve established I haven’t forgotten how to perform wandless magic," she said coolly, "could you please hurry up? I’m going to order room service, and depending on how well you behave, I’ll decide whether you can eat by yourself or if I’ll have to spoon-feed you."

Without waiting for a response, she left the bathroom, ignoring the scowl he shot her from the floor.

When he finally emerged a few minutes later, seething with barely contained fury, Hermione pointed to the dark red couch. "Sit," she commanded, settling into her favourite armchair.

"What now?" he snapped, clearly not in the mood for games.

"Now," she began with a sigh, "we need to discuss how to resolve our predicament. Unless, of course, you have another question?"

His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Careful with her words, Hermione answered, "I want to go home. But first, I need to take care of a few things."

"What things?" he pressed.

"Raising a significant amount of money, for one," she replied. "That’s why I’ve been selling some of my potion recipes."

He studied her, his dark eyes piercing. "But that’s not all, is it?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. I also need to acquire some rare items."

"Why?" His curiosity seemed genuine, but Hermione wasn’t about to spill all her secrets.

"That, I’m not going to tell you. But I assure you, it has nothing to do with you. I don’t plan to cross paths with you again after today."

Riddle was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he raised his chin and asked, "What can I offer you to join me?"

The question hung in the air like a curse. Hermione froze, disbelief flooding her system. This could not be happening. She had already changed too much—by showing him the memory of his future self, by interfering at all.

She met his gaze, her heart heavy. "There’s nothing you can offer me," she said softly. "Everything I want is the opposite of what you desire."

Her words struck him like a blow, but his face remained impassive. "That can’t be true. I can make you rich and powerful. With your inventions, you’ll have all the gold and resources you could ever want. At my side, you could hold the wizarding world in the palm of your hand. You could guide me, show me the right way—without me becoming... that."

Hermione’s heart ached as he tried to persuade her, at the thought of the possibilities for her loved ones. She imagined a life without any of them dying. If she could make him spare them… this was lunacy. 

She shook her head. "No. Power is your thing, not mine. I don’t want it. I’m never going to help you, Riddle. I just want to be left alone ." She emphasised the last word.

For a moment, Riddle looked genuinely at a loss. "Then it seems we’ve reached a dead end," he said slowly. His voice dropped an octave, the tone both chilling and intimate. "Because I want you."

Her breath caught in her throat. Was there a double meaning in his words? How had she ended up in this situation, with Lord Voldemort himself saying he wanted her?

She had to get rid of him. Fast.

"That’s not going to happen," Hermione said, her voice steady as she took a deep breath. "You are going to leave me alone."

Riddle didn’t respond with words, but his eyes spoke volumes— Never .

"Yes, you are," Hermione continued firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "And you can either vow to me here and now that you are not going to stop me from my pursuits or kill me or I will obliviate the absolute shit out of you. You pick.” "

He scoffed, dismissive. "There’s no one here to administer an Unbreakable Vow."

Hermione leaned in, her voice dangerously calm. "Doesn’t matter. I’ll take your word for it." His eyes narrowed, but she could see he was listening. "Besides," she added, her wand steady in her hand, "I have insurance."

"Petrificus Totalus," she said clearly, casting the spell even though she could have done it silently. Riddle's body seized, freezing in place as the Full Body-Bind Curse took hold. Slowly, Hermione stood and approached him.

"I’ll take this," she said, sliding the heavy ring from his right hand. The Horcrux, cold and heavy, sent a shiver through her as she closed her fist around it. Even immobilised, Riddle’s eyes seemed to burn with rage, a wuthering storm of anger that nearly made her waver—but she held her ground. She could not falter now.

Sitting back down, Hermione pointed her wand at him again. With a silent Incarcerous , ropes wrapped around his body, binding him securely. "Finite," she muttered softly, releasing him from his petrified state.

Riddle’s chest heaved as he glared at her, fury etched across his features. "Give it back," he demanded through clenched teeth.

Hermione gave him a sweet, mocking smile. "Oh, I will. When I’m ready to leave."

His sneer deepend when he replied “then I need you to swear, too, that you will not stop my pursuits.” 

Hermione considered it for a moment before nodding. "Fine. I can do that."

Riddle’s sharp gaze bored into her. "What’s my insurance?"

She let out a single, humourless laugh. “Consider me saving your life, although I know enough of your pursuits that I will be true to my word.” 

With that, Hermione rose to her feet once more and flicked her wand, freeing Riddle’s right hand from the ropes. She extended her hand toward him, closing the distance between them. 

"Swear to me," she said evenly, "that you won’t interfere with my plans or stop me from doing what I need to do. I’ll give you back your ring unharmed when I’m ready to leave."

Tight-lipped, Riddle took her hand roughly. "I swear it on Salazar himself," he bit out, his grip punishing.

They shook once.

"Now you swear," Riddle said, not letting go of her hand, "that you won’t sabotage my goals with your knowledge of my future—or any other means."

Hermione met his challenge without hesitation. "I swear it."

They shook hands again, but this time the exchange felt like something more binding—like a silent, personal Unbreakable Vow. Hermione could feel the weight of it between them.

A knock at the door broke the tension, and Hermione stepped away to retrieve the room service. She wheeled the cart into the room herself, quickly tipping the young man before he could notice anything unusual. The last thing she needed was someone seeing a bound young man in her hotel room. Pushing the cart toward Riddle, she placed his wand back into his hand.

"Finite," she said, releasing him from the ropes.

Hermione braced herself for retaliation, but to her surprise, Riddle remained seated, staring at his wand in silent contemplation. It was as though he were mourning something—his pride, perhaps.

In silence, they ate. The only sounds in the room were the simmering of a cauldron, the ticking of the clock, the scrape of their cutlery, and Crookshanks' purring. Hermione had chosen steak and mashed potatoes, and it was perhaps the strangest meal she’d ever had—stranger still than the dinner where she’d told Harry and Ron she wouldn’t be returning to Hogwarts for their eighth year, choosing instead to finish her education at the Australian Academy of Magic to be near her parents during their healing.

To Hermione’s utter dismay, Crookshanks jumped onto the red velvet couch where Riddle was seated, rubbing himself against his side. Horrified, she watched as Riddle did nothing to push the cat away, instead regarding Crookshanks with mild curiosity.

She had always thought of Crookshanks as an excellent judge of character, especially after he’d tried to murder Peter Pettigrew for them in their third year. He’d seemed to have a sixth sense for dark wizards. But now, watching her beloved pet cosy up to Lord Voldemort, her faith in Crookshanks' judgement began to waver. When he started pawing at Riddle’s thigh, Hermione’s fork clattered onto her plate with a loud clunk . What was wrong with her cat? One simply did not cuddle with Voldemort .

“Why does it do that?” Riddle’s voice broke through her thoughts, calm but curious. He didn’t seem displeased by the cat’s attention, which was, perhaps, the only reason Hermione wasn’t fearing for Crookshanks' life.

“He... likes you. Merlin knows why,” she mumbled, still in shock.

As she watched in disbelief, Riddle cut a piece of steak and, with a grace that was almost unsettling, offered it to Crookshanks.

“Well, maybe he has better intuition than you do,” Riddle remarked dryly.

“Or maybe he’s just a cat who hasn’t seen anyone but me for weeks and appreciates the change in company,” Hermione retorted, realising she was now bickering with Lord Voldemort. She decided not to continue doing so.

They watched as Crookshanks took off with his prize and jumped onto the bed to enjoy his meal on the comforter, much to Hermione's relief. With her cat now at a safer distance to Riddle, she returned to her own plate.

“Where did you get that, Hermione?” Riddle’s voice was eerily calm as he asked the question.

“Since when are we on a first-name basis?” she replied, matching his calmness. Just because she’d technically kidnapped him didn’t mean they were on intimate terms. She saw no version of reality where she'd ever call him Tom .

“Perhaps since you tore my shirt off, tied me up and conjured my underwear for me. Or perhaps when you stole from me." His voice turned sharp, and he rose from his seat. Hermione tensed, watching him closely as he walked toward her bed, where Crookshanks had been eating. "Which was when , exactly?”

“I didn’t steal—Oh" Hermione began, but her words died in her throat as she saw what Riddle was looking at. The cigarette case.

“Yes. Oh ,” Riddle said, dark eyes flashing with renewed fury as he picked it up from the nightstand.

Panic shot through Hermione, her mind scrambling for something— anything —to say. Improvisation under pressure was never her strong suit.

“Would you like a cigarette?” she asked, voice too innocent to be convincing. She knew the act wouldn’t work, but she had no idea what else to do. Since he couldn’t harm her in his current state, pretending the case was hers felt like the only option.

Riddle approached her with slow, deliberate steps, and Hermione instinctively stood, her wand at the ready. He opened the case, gave the contents a brief glance, then snapped it shut with a click , holding it up in front of her face.

“You’re telling me this is yours ?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

Hermione nodded, pointing to the case. “Yes. Do you see the flora and fauna engraved on it? Distinctly Australian. I brought it with me. That snake there is a Carpet Python, known for its—”

“You don’t smoke,” Riddle interrupted, stepping closer, his tone menacing.

Despite the tension in the room and the sweat forming in her palm as she clutched her wand, Hermione found herself distracted by his appearance. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, the curls still more pronounced than usual. A faint stubble shadowed his jaw, and for a moment—a fleeting, maddening moment—Hermione wondered what it would feel like against her skin.

What on earth was wrong with her?

Clearing her throat, she pressed on, determined to stick to her story. “Of course I do.”

Riddle's expression remained sceptical. “Alright then, tell me—what brand is in here?” He tapped the case, his gaze never leaving her face.

Hermione felt a wave of dread wash over her. She’d opened the case several times, enjoying the soothing click of it snapping shut, but she hadn’t paid attention to the cigarettes inside. She hated the smell of cigarettes and had never even tried one, let alone cared about brands from the 1950s. She had however seen they had gold coloured filters.

“They’re filtered... I don’t know, really. Robertson, my concierge gets them for—”

Riddle cut her off, his hand suddenly around her throat.

Hermione froze.

The pressure of his fingers on her skin, the heat of his body as he loomed over her—it all came rushing in. Her breath hitched as her airway constricted. His midnight-blue eyes burned into her, searching for the truth she was hiding. 

She should fight back, hex him, something . But instead, Hermione found herself holding his gaze, her wand gripped tightly but unused.

“Stop lying, Hermione,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

There it was again. Hermione. Hearing her name on his lips—soft, almost intimate—felt like a caress. Who would have imagined Tom Riddle ever knowing her name, let alone uttering it with such quiet rage. 

He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing her skin, his eyes flickering as if waiting for her to break.

She could smell her own shampoo on him. Lord Voldemort used my strawberry and vanilla shampoo. And somehow, even with that, his scent was distinctly masculine. It was intoxicating, and before she could stop herself, Hermione wondered what it would feel like to bury her face in his chest and inhale deeply.

What is wrong with me?

Before she could lose control entirely, Hermione raised her wand, pressing it to his throat. “I think you’d better leave now.”

Her words were quiet, barely audible, but they cut through the tension like a knife. Riddle withdrew immediately, though not before squeezing her throat once more, harder this time, just to make a point. Then he stepped back, eyes still locked on hers as he moved toward the door.

He reached the door with a forceful stride, pulling it open with too much force.

Before Hermione could stop herself, she called after him, “Just so you know, these things are going to be your downfall.”

He glanced back, and Hermione held up the Gaunt ring for him to see.

“They’re the reason you turn into that monster.”

Riddle tensed, his expression darkening as he gave her one last look—dangerous and cold—before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Hermione was left standing alone, the overwhelming urge to ward the room washing over her.

All she had wanted to do was gather the last ingredients before her brewing session with Evangeline. But he just had to disrupt her, didn't he? Hermione did not believe for second, he would truly leave her alone. Not now, not anymore.

Chapter Text

Tom

She knew. She fucking knew.
And now she had one of his Horcruxes.

Tom stormed down the hotel corridor, his mind ablaze with fury. Rage surged through him, hotter and more vicious than ever before. Hermione Granger had known about the Horcruxes—about his plans, his future. The infernal witch had known everything he had painstakingly kept secret.

She had taken the ring. The ring—a piece of his very soul—gone.

And she had stolen from him. The cigarette case, now finally back in his possession. How she had done it, he couldn’t be sure. She must have broken into Borgin & Burkes, slipped in without anyone noticing. He often left his coat there, and there was no way she could’ve accessed his flat. Or… could she?

His journal.
He needed to check his flat immediately .

Tom rushed down the stairs, but halfway down, it hit him. There would be quite a delay. Without magic, he couldn’t Apparate. He couldn’t access the secret passage in the Leaky Cauldron or bypass the wards protecting his flat. Hell, he couldn’t even cast a simple hex—and oh, how desperately he wanted to hex someone right now.

Clutching his useless wand, Tom stormed through the bustling lobby of Claridge’s Hotel. His mind already raced ahead—back to Hermione Granger. What he would do to her. How he would punish her. Torture her. Control her.

Yet, underneath all that fury, there was something else.
He wanted her.

She wouldn’t escape him. Not now. Not ever .

He was almost out of the grand lobby when a voice called out.

“Tom? What are you doing here?”

Tom turned toward the familiar voice, and there he was—Abraxas Malfoy, seated casually near the reception desk. He lounged in a two-seater, dressed in a sleek grey three-piece suit, complete with an emerald green tie and a perfectly folded pocket square. His hair was meticulously styled, his face clean-shaven. This was the best Tom had seen him look since his wife’s passing.

Clearly, Abraxas was waiting for Hermione. He looked so at ease that Tom guessed he’d been invited. And—he had no idea Tom had already been to Hermione’s room.

Tom grinned, an arrogant smile spreading wide across his face. Maybe he could release some of his fury on Abraxas after all.

“Abraxas, good to see you. I was just leaving. Here for Hermione too, are you?”

Abraxas stood, approaching him, suspicion creeping into his voice.
“What do you mean, just leaving ? You visited Hermione?”

He did not look pleased, and it brought a flicker of satisfaction to Tom’s simmering rage. His grin widened.

“Spent the night, actually. Would you mind saying goodbye for me? She was just about to get in the shower, but I’ve got things to attend to,” Tom replied, letting the words hang, deliberately unfinished.

Abraxas’s face twisted, barely concealing his anger.

“How?” he asked, voice tight as if trying to hold back the rising fury.

“Oh, you’ll have to be clearer than that,” Tom said, pretending ignorance. “What exactly are you asking me, mate?”

Abraxas’s frustration flared. “How did I get an invitation for Afternoon Tea, and you spend the night with her? It’s been, what—less than a week since she looked like she wanted to hex you into oblivion? How’d you pull that off?”

Tom’s eyes gleamed cruelly. He shrugged, maintaining the smug smile.
“Witches, mate. They can play hard to get, but we both know it’s just a game. They always come around for me in the end.”

It was a blatant lie, but it stung Abraxas just the same. The jealousy and disappointment etched on his face were almost enough to calm Tom’s raging temper. Almost.

Abraxas stared at him, scanning Tom’s unshaven face, dishevelled hair, and casual attire—all reinforcing the lies Tom fed him.

“Well, good seeing you. Enjoy your Tea,” Tom said, giving Abraxas a once-over. “You look sharp, Abraxas. Don’t take it too hard.”

Tom clapped him on the shoulder, flashing another mocking smile, then glanced down at the coat draped over his arm.

“Mind if I take your coat?” He held out his hand expectantly. He did not desire wandering around London in just this shirt.

Still reeling, Abraxas handed over his coat without a word.

“Cheers,” Tom said, slipping into the black wool coat. “And do me a favour—ask Hermione what other potions she’s been holding out on us and if she is willing to sell.”

Abraxas nodded, defeated.

Tom left him standing there, forlorn and lost, striding confidently toward the exit. A Muggle held the door for him as he walked out, and Tom barely nodded in acknowledgment, his mind already consumed with plans.

He needed to secure the journal. To retrieve the diadem. And, above all, to punish Hermione Granger for daring to cross him.

Yet a voice inside urged restraint. Hermione would be more useful as an ally than an enemy. With her by his side, his ambitions felt tantalisingly close. And under no circumstances could he risk the destruction of his ring that was in her posession.

***

Hermione

Hermione stood frozen in her hotel room, staring down at the ring with the black stone in her left hand. The Death Stone. His Horcrux.

Tom Riddle had trapped her in an impossible situation. Letting him die from his splinching injury would have drastically altered time, but saving him—having that confrontation—had already changed things beyond repair. She was utterly, irrevocably, fucked . If she returned to her own time now, who knew what she'd find?

But what else could she have done?
Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

Shaking herself from her stupor, Hermione warded the room with every protective spell she knew. She briefly considered finding another place to stay, but for now, this would have to do. She needed to think. She needed backup plans. Option C, maybe even an Option D.

When she finished the protective spells, she cast Finite on every single one of her belongings. She wasn’t taking any chances. Now that she knew how he’d been following her, she wouldn’t let him spy on her again. She wasn’t sure which of her things he had enchanted, but she was certain he had been in her room before.

The thought of Riddle inside her personal space, made her skin crawl. She’d underestimated him and his obsessive nature. That wouldn’t happen again. Any hope of staying off his radar or fading into the background was gone. He was fixated on her.

She had debated wiping his memory—Obliviating him—but who knew how developed his Legilimency was already? He could have written notes about her somewhere. Plus she couldn’t exactly run around obliviating every single person she’d crossed paths with right now.

She hoped her insurance would be enough.

Slipping the ring onto her finger, she grimaced. If this was anything like the locket, she couldn’t wear it for long, but she’d find a better hiding place later. For now, she cast a notice-me-not charm over it, then, using her wand, carved protective runes into the inside of her finger—fiendfyre, blood, death. If anyone tried to cut off her finger or kill her, the ring would ignite in destructive flames instantly.

Hermione grimaced as she dripped essence of Dittany on the tiny carvings to soothe the skin. She was officially out of her Elixir—something else to add to her growing list of problems.

Before Riddle had so rudely interrupted her, she had been planning to visit Solara, hoping to procure another phoenix feather for her upcoming meeting with Evangeline. She needed the feather for the potions she planned to show Evangeline, and in exchange, Evangeline would pay her and teach her a few brewing secrets. Now, she’d have to wait until evening to try again—until London’s dusk aligned with sunrise in New Zealand.

With a heavy sigh, Hermione’s eyes drifted to Riddle’s bloodied clothes, neatly folded and left on the rim of the bathtub. Even his boxers were folded.
A neat freak , she thought as she picked up the white shirt. The dark brown stains of dried blood smeared the fabric, a grim reminder of her choice to save him.

A wave of sadness washed over her. She wanted someone to talk to. She missed her friends. Missed home. She was so far from the world she knew, stuck in 1952, with no one she could confide in. The weight of it all pressed down on her until a tear slipped down her cheek.

With shaking hands, she crumpled the shirt and screamed into it. The scream tore through her, a raw release of all the fear, frustration, and despair that had been building up inside her. When her voice gave out and she gasped for air, she caught the scent on the shirt—aside from the coppery tang of blood, there was something else. A masculine scent, deep and distinct.

It was his.

Heat flushed through her body, curling inside her, and she inhaled again. That scent—dark, delicious, intoxicating. She couldn’t place it. But... she had smelled it before. Recently.

Her glass.
The drink. The Amortentia.
The realisation hit her like a brick.

She dropped the shirt and staggered back until she hit the sink.
What. In. Godric’s. Name.

The ramifications of what she had just realised were too overwhelming to process right now. She couldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t think about it. She had other things to worry about—things that demanded her immediate attention.

Like Abraxas Malfoy.

She suddenly remembered that she had invited him for afternoon tea.

Hermione bolted from the bathroom, frantically searching for the time. She was late.

Hastily, she threw on a fresh outfit, something fancier to match the occasion, but one glance in the mirror told her no clothing could hide the puffy eyes, bushy hair, or the dark circles that had taken residence under her eyes. She tried a few quick spells, but they barely made a difference. Her tiredness was written all over her face.

With a deep breath, and no time to spare, Hermione left her room, feeling more stressed and unsettled than ever.

*

Abraxas stood waiting in the lobby, looking ever so slightly out of place, though impeccably dressed. He had on a Muggle suit—no robes, cloak, or magical hat in sight. The kind of outfit you'd see in advertisements for Savile Row tailors.

Hermione pushed her worries to the back of her mind and forced a smile. “I’m sorry for being late. I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she greeted him. At the sight of her, Abraxas smiled too, though more reserved than he had been last weekend. As before, he reached for her hand and placed a polite kiss on it. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. It was the hand with the Horcrux. She silently prayed he wouldn’t notice.

“I won’t lie, I have been waiting a bit,” he said, though his tone was light, not irritated. “But it’s my own fault. I wanted to try Muggle transportation. Didn't quite calculate the time right.”

“Muggle transportation?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. “You mean... you have a car?”

“Don’t be absurd, Hermione,” Abraxas said, the mischievous gleam returning to his storm-grey eyes. “I have several .”

Of course he did. She couldn't quite picture any Malfoy driving a Muggle car, though.

“And you drove it here?” she inquired, sceptical.

Abraxas chuckled. “Not exactly. I haven’t the faintest idea how to drive. It’s charmed to take me wherever I tell it to.”

That made much more sense than the idea of him driving from Wiltshire to London himself.

“Still, that’s more than a two-hour drive!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Two hours and thirteen minutes, to be exact,” Abraxas said with a small shrug. “But since we’re meeting at a Muggle establishment, I thought I’d make the effort to blend in.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Hermione said, a smile creeping onto her face. An idea began to form in her mind. She didn’t feel like staying cooped up in the hotel any longer. She longed to get outside, see more of 1952 London, and, most importantly, distract herself from her current dilemmas. “Would you like me to teach you how to drive?”

Abraxas blinked, clearly taken aback. “You... know how to drive?” he asked, one eyebrow arched.

“Of course I do. Come on, it’s much more fun to drive yourself. I promise,” she said, taking his hand and tugging him towards the exit.

For a moment, he hesitated, but then an adventurous smile spread across his face. “Alright, lead the way.”

Outside, Hermione took one look at the car and stifled a laugh. “Er... Abraxas, I don’t think you’re quite blending in like you think.”

The car in question was a sleek, metallic light-blue Jaguar XK120 convertible with black leather seats—a head-turner, to say the least. And Abraxas had “parked” it right in the middle of the street. A group of policemen had gathered around the vehicle, some looking bewildered, others in the process of figuring out how to move it.

One officer, who had started the engine, was pulling at the choke to keep the cold engine from stalling when Hermione rushed over to them. She didn’t even have time to marvel at the vintage uniforms of the men.

“Excuse me, gentlemen! So sorry for the mess, I’ll just move the car out of your way,” Hermione said, flashing what she hoped was a charming smile.

The blond officer nearest to her gawked. “Are you the owner of this vehicle?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“Er, no—my husband is,” she said, gesturing to Abraxas, who was walking over. “He wanted to pick me up from the hotel, but the car’s new, you see. The engine stalled, and we got caught up chatting. We’ll get it out of your way right now, if that’s alright.”

The officers glanced from her to Abraxas, then back to the luxury hotel they had just come out of. Hermione cringed internally at how weak her story sounded but hoped they had better things to do than dealing with a sports car parked in the wrong spot.

“You’re driving?” one of the policemen asked, surprised.

Right, in the 1950s, it wasn’t exactly common for a woman to drive when a “husband” was present.

“He lost a foot in the war,” Hermione said quietly, leaning in as though to keep it from Abraxas’s ears. “It’s hard for him to manage with the prosthetic, you know?”

The men all nodded in understanding. “Ah, well, of course, ma’am. We’ll leave you to it.”

As they turned away, Hermione heard one of them mutter something about “war brides” and “lucky bastard,” and she had to fight back a grin. It was both a history lesson and a taste of 1950s sexism all at once.

Abraxas reached her side, looking amused. “Who were those men?” he asked.

“Police officers,” she said as he opened the driver’s side door for her. She slid into the warm leather seat.

“And what does that mean?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

Hermione had to hold back a laugh. “They’re like Ordie Aurors,” she explained, trying to keep her tone neutral. She’d learned over the years that not everyone appreciated long-winded explanations. Ron and Harry had made that clear several times during their long friendship.

“And why were Muggle Aurors interested in my car?” Abraxas asked, more curious than upset.

“Because you parked it in the middle of the road,” she said, biting back a smile. It was ridiculous, really, explaining such basic things to a grown man. “Plus, leaving the keys in the ignition could’ve made them think it was stolen. But since we don’t look like thieves, they let it slide.”

“Hm, Muggles are odd. An Auror would never waste their time on something so trivial,” Abraxas said, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. It was clear he didn’t care in the slightest. If they had taken the car, he would’ve likely been annoyed for all of five seconds before Apparating home. The price of a luxury sports car like this was pocket change to him.

Hermione shook her head at the sheer absurdity of it. So much of what she needed to get back home was locked away in his vault. A Malfoy being the reason she was here and the key to her way home. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

“I’ll get us out of the city first, then I’ll show you how to drive,” Hermione said as she manually choked the engine for another cold start. Her dad and grandfather had always worked on vintage cars, and since she had no brothers, they took Hermione along. While she never cared much for fixing cars, she loved driving them. What she lacked in skill flying on a broomstick, she made up for on the road. There was something about cars and motorbikes that made her feel free. After the Battle of Hogwarts, she’d even gotten her driver’s licence and spent hours driving just for the joy of it.

As they sped out of London, Abraxas cast a warming charm around them. The roads were far less crowded than the ones Hermione was used to in the 2000s, so she took a little detour past some of the city’s famous landmarks. She gave Abraxas a brief history lesson as they drove, enjoying how genuinely interested he seemed. His innocent, almost naive questions reminded her of Ron when they were kids—he really knew nothing about Muggles.

They soon found themselves on a quiet country road, in the direction of Abraxas’ way home. Hermione pulled over to explain the basics.

“It’s important to press the clutch twice before shifting gears,” she said. “This Jaguar isn’t synchronised yet.”

Abraxas leaned over, watching her feet closely. “And how do I know when to shift?” he asked, eager to master this Muggle technology.

“You’ll hear it. When the engine gets louder, it’s time to shift,” Hermione explained. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it. You’ll catch on quickly.”

She motioned for him to scoot over, and as she climbed over his lap to switch places, Abraxas stiffened beneath her. The moment passed quickly, though, and soon he was sitting in the driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel, looking determined.

Hermione guided him through pressing down the clutch, shifted the gear with his hand under hers in first, and showed him how to add gas. Miraculously, the engine didn’t stall, and they started rolling forward.

“Look, Hermione! We’re moving!” Abraxas exclaimed, eyes shining with delight.

“Yes, we are!” Hermione smiled, momentarily forgetting all her worries about Riddle and Time Turners. “See? It’s not that hard. Now, press the gas a bit more. Hear how the engine’s getting louder and more high pitched? We need to shift.”

She placed her hand over his again to help him shift and talked him through the double-clutch and shift into second gear. They picked up speed, cruising down winding country roads, past small villages. Soon, Abraxas was shifting gears almost effortlessly, and Hermione only had to give him the occasional nudge about the pedals.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the landscape, Abraxas grew quiet. After a few moments, he broke the silence. “Hermione, I have to ask—what is this between us?”

His gaze flickered from their joined hands on the gear stick to her face, then back to the road.

Hermione took a deep breath, steadying herself. “We’re potential business partners, getting to know each other. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She wasn’t sure where this was coming from, but she needed him to believe there was potential for more, at least until she had access to his vault and only if he so desired.

“But... you think we could be more than business partners, don’t you?” His voice was hopeful, and Hermione felt a pang of guilt.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she started, “I’ve decided to sell all of my potions to Evangeline Sharp.”

Abraxas leaned back and laughed. “So, no business partnership then?”

“No,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “Sorry about that. I don’t believe in mixing business with... pleasure. People might think I’m only interested because of your wealth, and we wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, would we?” She shot him a sideways glance, watching as a smile spread across his face.

“Good,” he said, his voice lighter. “Because I can accept that you might be interested in both Tom and me... but only if I have a real chance of winning you for myself here, Hermione. I like you...”

Hermione turned abruptly to look at Abraxas, her hair whipping into Abraxas’ face as she cut him off mid-sentence. “What do you mean, ‘interested in Riddle’? What are you talking about?”

“I saw him leaving the hotel earlier,” Abraxas said calmly. “I know he spent the night. And that’s fine, really. He’s clever, charming, but you’ll see—he can’t commit to a real relationship.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted in disgust. That bastard . Riddle must’ve deliberately made Abraxas believe something had happened between them. She felt sick just thinking about it.

“Nothing happened between us,” she said firmly. “He only wanted you to think it did.”

“So what did happen?” Abraxas asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

“He followed me,” Hermione said, not wanting to go into too much detail. “I caught him, and we had... a long conversation. I made it clear I won’t tolerate being stalked.”

“He followed you?” Abraxas sounded incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. He even splinched himself trying to Apparate after me.”

Abraxas scoffed. “He splinched himself? Where were you?”

“New Zealand,” Hermione replied simply.

Abraxas raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I suppose that’s a bit farther than Antarctica,” he said with a chuckle. “What were you doing in New Zealand?”

“I was visiting the only Phoenix I know to ask for another feather. I need it for my Phoenix Flame Elixir.” She highly doubted Eva had any just lying around so she wanted to bring them to their brewing session.

“That’s very adventorous of you,” Abraxas remarked. “Though, you might not need to go that far. Slughorn could help. He sometimes gets feathers from Dumbledore—he’s got a Phoenix, after all. And from what I hear, it’s rather benevolent.”

Hermione blinked, surprised. “That’s... actually a great idea. Slughorn invited me to teach a lesson on innovative potion brewing, so maybe he’d be willing to help.” Hermione couldn’t believe she didn’t think of Fawkes. He helped Harry—maybe he’d help her too. Her situation was of similar graveness, though maybe not as pressing in nature.

She looked out the window as they passed through a small town. “Want to grab something to eat?” she asked, noticing a cosy-looking pub.

Abraxas nodded. “Yes, let’s. But... how do I park this thing?”

*

The Lost Fox was a charming little pub, its walls crammed with pictures, photos, and various trinkets. A fire crackled in the hearth, the sole source of warmth on what had been a mild September day. Now, with the sun fully set, the fire bathed the room in a cosy, amber light.

Abraxas and Hermione settled by the window. Among the locals dressed in casual clothes and workwear, Abraxas stood out like a sore thumb—even though he wore a Muggle suit. His silver-blonde hair and aristocratic posture only heightened the contrast, making him seem almost otherworldly.

“You dressed up for me, didn’t you?” Hermione teased, glancing at his sharply tailored suit.

“Well,” Abraxas replied with a smirk, “I was planning on having high tea at a—albeit Muggle—sophisticated hotel. No one could have anticipated the turn of events.” He cast a glance around the pub, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Why aren’t any of the pictures moving?”

“Ordie photos don’t move. It takes magic to develop them like that,” Hermione explained. “However, Ordies have invented films—motion pictures—but they can only move in one specific way, repeating over and over. The people in them don’t have a mind of their own.”

Abraxas nodded thoughtfully, though his expression still hinted at disbelief. Hermione smiled and got up to order for both of them, agreeing that it was probably best if she handled the interaction. She returned with a glass of cider for herself and a whiskey for Abraxas.

Over dinner, Abraxas continued peppering her with questions about the Muggle world, and Hermione answered each one with patience, appreciating his genuine curiosity. But after a while, the conversation shifted in an unexpected direction.

“I was wondering,” Abraxas began, his tone more serious, “would you be my date for my birthday celebration next week?”

Hermione paused, lowering her glass. This could be the opportunity she’d been waiting for. His birthday might offer the perfect moment to slip away, access his vault at Gringotts, and borrow the True Time Turner she needed—without anyone being suspicious if he disappeared with his date for a short while.

A smile spread across her face. “I’d love to. When is it?”

“Next Friday,” Abraxas replied quickly.

Hermione laughed, the coincidence striking her as too perfect. “Your birthday is on September 19th?”

“Yes, why is that so funny?” he asked, amused by her reaction.

“Because that’s my birthday, too!” she said, and they both burst into laughter like schoolchildren.

“It’s fate, then!” Abraxas declared gleefully. “It’ll be our birthday ball!”

Hermione’s smile faltered slightly at the mention of a ball. A ball? She hadn’t danced formally in years. Maybe she could brush up on her skills with Marigold’s help.

“Alright, it’s a deal,” she said, masking her slight apprehension. “But no hidden duels or other surprises, alright? I want to be in the loop this time.”

“Agreed,” Abraxas said, raising his glass. They clinked drinks in agreement. “How would you like to make your grand entrance at the ball on a Pegasus? My mother’s family has been breeding them since the 12th century and—”

“Absolutely not!” Hermione interrupted, grabbing his arm in mock horror.

Abraxas chuckled, “Right, of course. I was only kidding,” he said, though his tone before had suggested otherwise.

They spent the rest of the evening planning their shared celebration.

***

Tom

The Journal still sat on his nightstand.

Tom exhaled deeply. For hours, he'd been pacing, consumed by the fear that the Journal, like the ring, had been taken from him. His thoughts raced with contingencies—better hiding spots, the creation of another Horcrux—so much that he was nearly forgetting to plot his revenge against Hermione.

But now, as he stared at the Journal, untouched, a wave of relief washed over him. The fear that had gripped him felt almost irrelevant now. Hermione, though still an annoyance, was not the priority at this moment. Yet, as he held the Journal in his hands, adrenaline still thrumming through him, he couldn’t help but admire how she'd managed to unsettle him. No one had done that in years. That his greatest threat as of today seemed to come in the form of a 5-foot-something, curly-haired, doe-eyed witch was more than a little disconcerting.

Exhausted, Tom collapsed on the bed, still in the Muggle clothes Hermione had given him. The faint scent of her fruity shampoo clung to the fabric, lulling him to sleep almost instantly.

*

He was lying on something soft, bathed in warm sunlight. Above him, silhouetted by the sun, was a figure. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew it was her. 

Hermione.

Her wild brown curls gleamed golden in the light. His head was resting in her lap, and her fingers gently traced through his hair, across his face.

She whispered in his ear, her voice soothing, “I’m so happy you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you. Let me help you, and you will be invincible.”

With a sudden jolt, Tom awoke. Twilight had settled outside the window. Never in his life had he dreamt something… pleasant. He wasn’t even sure how to describe the strange, warm feeling that lingered after the dream.

*

Over breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron, Tom finalised his next steps. The Journal—the only fragment of his soul outside of his body still within his control—would need to be hidden in the Chamber of Secrets. For a moment, he had considered keeping it on him, but the idea was reckless. He had thought the same about the ring, believing he was protection enough. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Placing it in his Gringotts vault had crossed his mind, but his vault was far from the deepest or best-protected in the bank. Asking Abraxas to hide it in his vault was another option, though Tom didn’t feel inclined to ask him for any favours. The other Knights were out of the question; he trusted none of them enough not to be curious. Trusting anyone with his immortality was not an option.

No, the only person he could rely on was himself.

Sipping his tea, Tom began composing a letter to Slughorn, his old Head of House, setting up the perfect excuse to return to Hogwarts.

T.M. Riddle
Knockturn Alley, London
September 12, 1952

Dear Horace,

It was good to see you at your soireé the other day—truly an elegant gathering, as always.

I was hoping you might grant me access to the Hogwarts library this weekend. There is a spell I recall from my time there, and I’ve been trying to find the text that mentions it, though it eludes me.

In return, I think you’ll be interested in something I found at an international fair for ancient magical artefacts. I’ve acquired a Potion Phial of Asclepius, and I believe it would make a fine addition to your collection.

Looking forward to your reply,
Tom Riddle

The Potion Phials of Asclepius were legendary, said to have belonged to the ancient healer himself. Inscribed with ancient spells, potions stored in the phials never decayed and were believed to be slightly enhanced. Slughorn would be eager to get his hands on one of these, making it the perfect bait.

If Slughorn accepted the offer, Tom could sneak the Journal into the Chamber of Secrets—an ideal hiding place, known only to him. It would also give him access to the Hogwarts library, where he could search for tracking spells to help locate the elusive diadem.

Feeling more in control than he had in days, Tom rolled up the letter and headed for the owlery on his way to work. He felt more himself now. His magic pulsed inside him, strong as ever, and his plan was sound. Only once this was accomplished would he allow himself the luxury of deciding what to do about Hermione Granger.

That newfound confidence took a hit, though, as soon as he entered Borgin and Burkes.

“Where have you been, boy?!” Burke’s voice grated on Tom’s nerves instantly. “You can’t just not show up for work! I needed you here—three deliveries came in while I was in the middle of a sale, and you—”

Tom barely let him finish before discreetly modifying Burke’s memory of the day before. The man had a surprisingly sharp recollection, but Tom wasn’t in the mood to deal with his tirades. “The household liquidation in Cardiff was promising,” Tom said with a smooth smile. “I expect the deliveries to arrive shortly.”

Burke blinked, momentarily confused, before grumbling, “Good. Get to work. Hepzibah Smith was here yesterday, looking for you. You should pay her a visit soon.”

Tom’s interest piqued. Hepzibah Smith was an old but wealthy witch, someone who enjoyed Tom’s company a bit too much. She had a vast collection of valuable magical artefacts, and he suspected she was holding out on him. A visit to her might yield more than just conversation.

Later that afternoon, Slughorn’s owl arrived with an invitation to the castle the following day. A smirk played on Tom’s lips as he snagged one of the Phials of Asclepius, altering the shop’s inventory to show the purchase as two, instead of three.

*

Being back at Hogwarts felt like coming home. Tom knew, as he walked the familiar corridors, that no other place had ever felt as much like it belonged to him. He’d been top of the year, a prefect, head boy—and the Heir of Slytherin, after all. No one else had ever been as connected to this place, as powerful as him. Hogwarts was his home, and part of him missed it every day.

The Journal felt heavy in his pocket as he strolled the grounds. He’d met with Slughorn after breakfast, and the exchange had been easy enough. A Potion Phial of Asclepius in return for access to the library—Slughorn hadn’t needed much convincing.

For hours, Tom combed through the library’s shelves, searching for a way to find the diadem hidden somewhere in the vast Albanian forests. He was skimming a tome Ms. Lambrecht had pointed him to when he finally came across something that piqued his interest:

Incantatio Spectaculum: The Artefact-Seeker's Charm
Classification : Advanced, Restricted
Date of Origin : Circa 1763
Primary Use : Detection of artefacts of significant magical power

The spell had been created by the eccentric wizarding historian Sir Hans Muldoon, for a competition—some ridiculous scavenger hunt among Britain’s elite wizarding families. Muldoon had developed it to outshine his rivals by locating hidden treasures faster. What a farce.

Yet, despite its laughable origins, the spell had proven far more powerful than Muldoon had anticipated. It could detect deeply concealed magical relics, sensing enchantments laid on objects for centuries. The Ministry had eventually restricted its use due to its potency, after it caused several magical thefts and “artefact backfire” incidents.

If Muldoon could master it, Tom thought, it would be nothing for him.

With a smirk, he ripped the page from the book and pocketed it. The weight on his mind began to lift—one more piece of the puzzle solved. Now, onto his second task at Hogwarts.

Nothing had changed in the years since he’d left. The same second-floor corridor, the same door to the girls’ bathroom.

Tom cast a silent Homenum Revelio to make sure no one was inside. When the spell came up empty, he slipped in and locked the door behind him.

The bathroom was in worse shape than he remembered. The mirrors were smeared with grime, the taps dripped constantly, and the smell of mould lingered in the air. Unsurprisingly, a murder in this space had driven most students away. It only made Tom’s task easier. But then, there was a sound—soft sobbing from one of the stalls.

Tom froze. His spell hadn’t detected anyone.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice authoritative.

The whimpering stopped. Tom raised his wand.

A ghost floated out of the stall—a familiar one.

“Well, what do you think? This is the girls’ bathroom. The better question is, who are you , and why are you in here?” barked the ghost of the girl he had killed years ago. Her voice was as grating as ever. Not even death had spared the world from Myrtle’s incessant whining—a waste of a good murder, really.

“Oh, it’s you—the head boy, Tom, isn’t it?” She spoke without waiting for his reply, a dark flush creeping across her ghostly cheeks.

Tom put on his most charming smile, slipping back into his old role. “I’m here on a visit and heard someone crying. I thought I’d see if I could help.”

Myrtle’s face brightened. “That’s so sweet of you, Tom. Since Olive Hornby graduated, it’s been terribly boring and lonely here. Nowhere feels comforting except this bathroom. I suppose it’s because, well, this is where I died.” She went on, rambling as usual.

Tom barely listened. He remembered how Myrtle had once haunted Olive, the girl who had bullied her. Thankfully, she hadn’t seemed interested in finding her killer.

“Are you sure she isn’t around today?” Tom asked, sounding concerned. “You know, I’m not the only former student visiting today. You should have a look around the castle—you might find her!”

Myrtle let out a squeal of excitement and zoomed straight through the door.

Once she was gone, Tom wasted no time. He hurried to the sink with the snake engraving and cast a Notice-Me-Not charm over it, just to be safe in case of future searches for the Chamber.

“Let the Heir of Slytherin enter,” he hissed in Parseltongue, and the sink slid aside, revealing the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

He descended quickly, his footsteps echoing down the vast stone pipe. The Chamber greeted him like an old friend—high ceilings, carved stone pillars, and the eerie silence of the place. But Tom ignored the grandeur, focusing on the statue of Salazar Slytherin ahead.

Before stepping inside, he called to his old companion. “My old friend, I have need of your service.”

The sound of stone shifting filled the air as the mouth of the statue opened. Tom kept his eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding any reflections in the puddles of water that had collected across the chamber. If he were petrified down here, no one would ever find him. 

It would be worse than death. The line of Slytherin ended with him, he would be stuck for eternity.

The basilisk slithered out, its enormous body gliding through the chamber toward him. It nudged him gently with its snout, a chillingly affectionate gesture.

“Master has returned. What is your command, my massster? ” The serpent’s voice hissed in Tom’s mind.

Tom raised the Journal, letting the basilisk see it. “You must guard this with your life.”

“Of coursssse. Anything for the Heir of Ssslytherin.” The basilisk coiled around itself, awaiting further instructions.

“Good.” Tom patted its smooth, cold scales. “ Now, leave. I need to hide it.”

The creature began to slither away, but then paused. “May I go and hunt now, massster? ” it asked, eager for action.

Tom hesitated. The last thing he needed was more trouble. But then, an idea formed—one that could rid him of one of his greatest obstacles.

“Yes, you may,” he said slowly, “but no Mudbloods. I have a far more important target for you.”

The basilisk remained still, awaiting its command.

“Kill Albus Dumbledore for me. Can you do that? ”

“Ccccertainly, ” the serpent hissed, slithering away into the darkness.

***

Hermione

Being back at Hogwarts was a strange mix of nostalgia and dread for Hermione. The castle loomed in the distance, a bittersweet reminder of her past. 

At least Riddle hadn’t come after her in her sleep for two nights in a row, which gave her a small sense of relief—enough to brave the trip to Hogwarts for Slughorn’s invitation to discuss her guest lecture.

She hadn’t set foot on the grounds since the spring of 1998, which was more than ten years ago for her, but the walk from Hogsmeade was still embedded in her memory. Each hill and twist in the road felt like she had just traversed them yesterday. Rounding the last bend, the sight of Hogwarts sent a lump to her throat. The castle stood majestic and timeless, but there were subtle differences—no Whomping Willow and Hagrid’s hut looking unnervingly new, with no additions yet.

A wave of emotion hit her hard when she spotted a younger Hagrid tending his pumpkin patch. For a moment, it was too much—Hagrid, alive, blissfully unaware of the battles yet to come. She quickly averted her gaze, willing her emotions to stay in check as she approached the gates where Professor Slughorn was waiting. Hogwarts towered behind him, even grander than she remembered, its spires reaching into the dreary sky like something out of a dream.

“Thank you for having me, Professor. The school looks magnificent—so much larger than AACOM,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Oh yes, though AACOM’s rather artsy and a lot warmer, too,” Slughorn chuckled, shaking her hand warmly. “I was delighted to hear from you so soon! This will be a splendid opportunity for my N.E.W.T. students. They’ll benefit greatly, I’m sure.”

As they walked toward his office, Slughorn rambled on about the current goings-on at Hogwarts, offering little tidbits about the castle that were occasionally incorrect. Hermione didn’t bother correcting him; there wasn’t much use. After all, Hogwarts: A History wouldn’t be published for several decades yet.

When they reached his office in the dungeons, Slughorn had tea already prepared. "Milk or sugar?" he asked, holding up the teapot.

“Just milk, thank you,” Hermione replied out of habit. Her parents had been strict about avoiding sugar—a practice drilled into her since childhood. The thought of them brought a sudden pang of homesickness.

“So,” Slughorn said, pouring himself a cup, “I was thinking that the sixth and seventh years interested in potion innovation could sign up for this as an extracurricular. You’ll give the introductory lecture, share some of your discoveries, and then we’ll turn it into a competition. They’ll work to invent something new, and the top three will win prizes. I’ll oversee things day-to-day, and you can return toward the end of term to help judge the winners. What do you think?”

“That sounds wonderful, Professor. But perhaps the students could work in pairs? It might help them come up with better ideas,” Hermione suggested.

The suggestion felt strange to her—in truth, she didn’t plan on sticking around until the end of the school year. She would be long gone by then, forgotten by everyone.

“Pairs? Excellent idea! Oh, and do call me Horace,” Slughorn added, rubbing his hands together in glee. “This is going to be a marvellous experience for them—and for you!”

“I hope I can live up to your expectations. I’ve never formally taught before, though I’ve helped my peers plenty.”

“I’m certain you’ll be excellent,” Slughorn said with a wink. “And that brings me to your compensation. Dippet and I discussed it, and he’s approved a fair payment—three instalments over the school year.”

Hermione smiled politely, but this was her moment. “Actually, Professor—Horace—I was hoping you might be able to help me with something else instead of payment.”

Slughorn raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What’s that?”

“I’m in need of some rare potion ingredients. Most importantly, I could use a Phoenix feather or two, donated, of course.”

Slughorn nodded thoughtfully. “Phoenix feathers, hmm? I don’t have any on hand, but perhaps Albus’s Phoenix might be willing to donate. Consider that a favour, though. You should still accept Dippet’s offer for the payment.”

“Thank you, Horace. That’s very generous.”

“Not at all. Now, shall we see if Albus is in his office?”

Hermione followed Slughorn through the familiar halls, carefully pretending not to know her way around. As they made their way up the grand staircase, her mind drifted. She was about to meet Dumbledore—albeit a younger version of him—and the strangeness of it all weighed on her. If anyone would remember her in the future, it would be him. As far as she knew, his memory was flawless.

They were nearing a corner on the second floor, just about to turn it, when Hermione smacked nose-first into a tall and hard wall. After stumbling for far too long to not be embarrassed, the wall turned out to be a man dressed in black robes, who had to steady her so she wouldn’t fall.

Then, three things happened at the same time. The man had grabbed her by the shoulders, keeping her balanced and on her feet, though far too close to him. This resulted in Hermione being enveloped in the masculine scent radiating off him. She instantly recognized the smell, having buried her nose in a shirt reeking of it not too long ago.

Tom Riddle was—of course—popping up exactly where she was the minute she left her hotel alone.

Rage rising within her, she tried to rip herself out of Riddle's hold. He, apparently, was not inclined to let her go and gripped her tighter.

This resulted in another struggle between them that ended with Hermione pushing him away from her chest with all her might, and both of them calling out at the same time, “What are you doing here?”

Riddle halted and looked just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. For a split second, neither of them moved, the tension between them crackling like lightning.

“Ah, Tom, have you found what you were looking for?” Slughorn asked, oblivious to the electric atmosphere.

Riddle recovered faster, offering Slughorn a polite smile. “Yes, sir. I was just on my way to say goodbye.”

“Good, good,” Slughorn replied, still unaware of the standoff happening beside him.

Was he still following her? She couldn’t imagine how. She had de-spelled every single item in her possession.

Hermione couldn’t hold it in any longer. “What are you doing here?” she blurted out once more, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Riddle’s expression didn’t flicker.

“Tom has been in the library since this morning, researching,” Slughorn answered for him, clearly having no idea what lay beneath Hermione’s question.

Was it truly a coincidence he was here at the same time as her? She scanned for any clues that there might be more to this story. He, of course, gave nothing away visually, but Hermione realised where they were standing. Myrtle's bathroom, the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, was right around this corner.

Hermione looked at the hallway behind him. They were on the second floor. This wasn’t the fastest way from the library to the dungeons. It wasn’t a complete detour either, but Hermione suddenly had a very bad feeling about this.

Riddle’s cold gaze settled on her. “And what brings you here, Miss Granger? Still selling potions?”

His tone was detached, calm—too calm. It unsettled her. She’d expected rage, anger, some sign of the battle they’d waged in the hotel days before. Instead, he seemed perfectly controlled, as if the encounter hadn’t affected him at all.

“I was invited to give a guest lecture,” she answered stiffly, trying to match his composure.

Riddle scrutinised her, his dark eyes assessing her from head to toe as though weighing her worth. “How fortunate for the students,” he said, his voice smooth but devoid of warmth. The words hung in the air, cutting like ice.

The gaze he pinned her with felt suffocating, and despite herself, Hermione looked away first. She hated that he still had that power over her—how could he be so unaffected, so perfect?

“We’re off to see Dumbledore now,” Slughorn added, ever the friendly buffer. “Would you like to join us, Tom?”

Hermione’s pulse quickened, her eyes shooting to Riddle. Though she already knew what his answer would be.

“Thank you, but I must be on my way,” Riddle replied, shaking Slughorn’s hand with a gracious smile. “Goodbye, Miss Granger. Have a pleasant weekend.”

Hermione forced a tight-lipped smile in return, her heart racing. Not forty-eight hours ago, she had tied him to a chair, powerless. Now, he was perfectly civil and seemed stronger than ever, his magic palpable in the air between them. Though this could be a product of her imagination entirely.

She listened intently to the sound of his retreating footsteps, even as she and Slughorn continued toward Dumbledore’s office.

*

Albus Dumbledore, at seventy-one, was not much different from the man Hermione remembered as her headmaster at one hundred sixteen. His face was smoother, with fewer lines, and his beard, while still long and flowing, held streaks of chestnut brown amidst the grey. But it was unmistakably him—the twinkling blue eyes, the eccentric robes, this time a rich ochre embroidered with various owls, and that kind smile that could put anyone at ease.

"What a pleasant surprise, Horace. And who might your charming companion be?" Dumbledore's eyes fell on Hermione, curiosity glinting beneath his genial expression.

"Albus, this is Hermione Granger—the potions wunderkind I've been telling you about!" Slughorn said with pride.

Hermione stepped forward to shake Dumbledore’s hand, her heart stuttering slightly. His office was eerily familiar. Though she had known it as Professor Flitwick’s office in her own time, it still carried the distinct mark of Dumbledore. Shelves filled with strange trinkets and artefacts lined the walls, and though the portraits of past headmasters were missing, moving photos and numerous awards had taken their place. One item in particular caught her eye—a Foe-Glass on the far wall, it's dark shadow slowly receding, its outline less sharp with each passing second.

"Wunderkind, you say?" Dumbledore smiled, his eyes never leaving Hermione’s face. "Horace mentioned he had persuaded you to share your talents with our students. Have you agreed?"

Hermione’s throat tightened. Standing before a younger, vibrant Dumbledore stirred something deeply unsettling within her. She had mourned his loss for months after his death, and now seeing him alive, so full of energy, felt surreal. Almost as surreal as crossing paths with a young Lord Voldemort.

“I think Professor Slughorn might be overestimating my abilities, to be honest,” Hermione replied modestly, her voice steady despite the storm inside. “But I’m happy to share what I can with students who are eager to learn.”

“Nonsense,” Slughorn interjected with enthusiasm, “your work is remarkable, truly. Albus, her Phoenix Flame Elixir is nothing short of a masterpiece.”

Dumbledore’s interest piqued at the mention of the potion. "A Phoenix Flame Elixir, you say? And that is what brings you here, I take it?"

"Yes," Slughorn said, beaming. "Hermione needs Phoenix feathers for her work, and we thought perhaps Fawkes might be willing to donate a few."

Understanding flashed in Dumbledore's eyes. He regarded Hermione with that keen gaze that always seemed to see more than just the surface. "A noble request. However, as you likely know, the decision lies with Fawkes, not me."

Hermione nodded, well aware of how strong-willed Phoenixes could be. Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to bore into her, as if gauging her intent.

“Of course,” Slughorn chimed in, gently nudging Hermione closer to the great bird perched on its stand near Dumbledore’s desk. "Go on, dear. Ask him."

Hermione’s heart pounded. The entire room felt like a test, as if her worthiness, not just for the feathers but in Dumbledore’s eyes, hung in the balance. Normally, she thrived under pressure. But since her arrival in 1952, the constant lying, the deceit, had chipped away at her confidence. She felt far less like the Hermione Granger she had once been, the one who valued honesty and integrity above all else. And that made her far more nervous than she liked to admit.

She approached Fawkes slowly, the Phoenix watching her with keen, intelligent eyes. His deep red and gold plumage glowed in the soft light, and his head tilted as she neared, as if assessing her in much the same way Dumbledore had.

“Hello, Fawkes,” Hermione began, her voice a touch unsteady. She could feel Dumbledore and Slughorn’s eyes on her, adding to her tension. “I was hoping... I was hoping you might be willing to gift me with one or two of your feathers. I need them for a potion—my Phoenix Flame Elixir. It... protects me.” Her voice faltered at the end, but she quickly composed herself. “It means a great deal.”

Fawkes regarded her for what felt like an eternity, his gaze as piercing as his master’s. She felt exposed, as if the Phoenix could see right through her, past her lies and straight to her core. Time seemed to stretch on indefinitely, her anxiety rising with each passing second.

Finally, Fawkes made a sudden movement, flapping his wings once in a grand gesture. A gust of warm air washed over Hermione, and two bright red feathers gently floated to the floor at her feet. Relief flooded her, and she crouched down to collect the feathers, her hands trembling slightly as she grasped them.

“Thank you, Fawkes,” she whispered, her voice thick with gratitude. “This means more to me than you can know.”

Behind her, Slughorn clapped his hands together in delight. "Marvellous! Absolutely marvellous!" he cheered, while Dumbledore’s smile softened, his eyes still twinkling with quiet wisdom.

"Well done, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said warmly. "It seems Fawkes has deemed you worthy. Take care of those feathers—they are a rare gift."

Hermione stood, clutching the feathers to her chest, her heart still pounding. The weight of Dumbledore’s gaze was heavy, and though he hadn’t said much, she felt as if he understood far more about her than she had intended to reveal. As if he sensed the turmoil she carried with her, and perhaps even the secrets she harboured.

"Thank you, Professor Dumbledore," she managed to say, forcing herself to meet his eyes once more. His expression was kind, but there was a depth to it—a knowing that made her feel as though she was walking a very fine line.

As they turned to leave, Slughorn babbling excitedly about the success of their visit, Hermione stole one last glance at Dumbledore. He watched her with an unreadable expression, his long fingers idly stroking Fawkes, who ruffled his feathers contentedly.

The familiar weight of her mission settled back onto her shoulders as they walked away, but now there was something else—something deeper. The encounter with Dumbledore, with Fawkes, had left a mark. And as she clutched the precious Phoenix feathers in her hand, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being seen. Truly seen.

And not just by Dumbledore.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione took a deep breath, balancing herself as Marigold pulled her back into position for what felt like the hundredth time. They’d been at it for nearly an hour, Marigold insisting on teaching her “all the musts” of British pure-blood ballroom etiquette, instructing her in the space of their work area in their London townhouse while classical music blasted from the gramophone.

Hermione’s concentration, however, kept drifting to the simmering potion across the room, where Evangeline was busy stirring.

“Are you even trying, Miss Granger?” Marigold asked with mock seriousness, slipping effortlessly into the lead. “You’re supposed to be looking at me, not over there like a distracted little niffler scenting gold.”

Hermione laughed, struggling to keep her focus on Marigold’s face. “I am trying! But I’m not used to dancing while a Phoenix Flame Elixir bubbles away across the room.”

“Oh, Hermione, you’re perfectly capable of multitasking,” Evangeline called over from the potion station. She raised an eyebrow. “Especially if you can manage a dueling contest and charming Abraxas Malfoy. How’s my form?”

“Stir in the clockwise direction for five more counts, then reduce the flame,” Hermione called, glancing back at the cauldron with a critical eye.

Marigold spun Hermione in an unexpected turn, pulling her back into the frame. “Eyes here, Miss Granger. If you want to impress that pure-blooded gentleman of yours, you’ll need to hold your poise—like this.”

She took Hermione’s hand and led her in a confident, sweeping step. Hermione found herself laughing as she stumbled slightly, realizing Marigold was, in fact, the perfect makeshift partner. They danced in circles around the room, Hermione catching glimpses of Evangeline as she gracefully added ingredients to the potion. Evangeline was a meticulous, elegant figure in the softly lit room, a stark contrast to the energy Marigold poured into their lesson.

“Now, about Abraxas,” Marigold began, leaning in conspiratorially. “How close are you two? Truly.”

Hermione stifled a laugh as she nearly tripped over Marigold’s foot. “Close enough that he wants me to be his plus-one to his grand birthday ball. But it’s really not like that. We’re just… friends.”

Marigold let out a playful scoff, raising her eyebrows. “Yes, yes, ‘friends’ who host birthday balls together and meet alone frequently. You can say it plainly, Hermione, I’m not blind.”

At that, a sudden tapping at the window interrupted them, and an elegant tawny owl swooped in, a letter tied to its leg. Marigold released Hermione, darting over to retrieve it as Evangeline paused her potion-making, looking equally curious.

“Oh, what’s this now?” Marigold said, unrolling the letter. Her eyes grew wide as she read, then she flashed Hermione a delighted look. “It’s an invitation to Abraxas Malfoy’s and Hermione Granger’s birthday ball! And he’s invited the two of us, Eva!”

Evangeline joined Marigold’s side, glancing over her shoulder at the invitation. “Well, isn’t that something?” she said with a grin. “The event of the year, and Hermione here is co-hosting. Not too shabby for a supposed ‘just friends’ arrangement.”

Hermione felt her cheeks heat up, her mind racing. A guilty twinge prickled her thoughts—she could never tell Marigold and Evangeline the full truth, and yet here they were, genuinely delighted for her, believing this whole charade. She forced herself to smile, shaking off the guilt as Marigold took her hand again and resumed leading her across the floor.

“You know,” Marigold began, her tone growing serious despite her grin, “if you’re going to be co-hosting this little soirée, you might want to brush up on a few dance steps that don’t involve stomping on your partner’s foot.”

“Hey!” Hermione laughed, trying to match her friend’s confident steps. “That’s not fair—I only stepped on you once. Besides, you’re supposed to be teaching me, not critiquing!”

“Oh, I’ll teach you, darling, but you’ll have to keep up.” Marigold dipped Hermione in an exaggerated flourish, causing her to squeal with laughter.

Just as they straightened, another owl shot through the open window, dropping a glossy magazine onto the floor. The cover caught Hermione’s eye immediately— Witch’s Weekly, with none other than Abraxas Malfoy grinning up at them. In bold, elegant script, the title read: Wizarding Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor. Hermione’s eyes widened as she picked it up, marveling at the cover. There he was, posed with an air of casual charm, his hair elegantly swept back, looking every bit the stately, polished aristocrat.

“Oh, he’s quite the picture, isn’t he?” Marigold teased, peering over her shoulder. “Listen to this: ‘Abraxas O. Malfoy, turning 26 this Friday, stands as a paragon of grace and wit in Britain’s wizarding society. Widely sought after, with fortunes to rival his handsome charm, he is known as a collector of rare magical artifacts and a generous host of society’s most coveted events. After the tragic death of his late wife, he joined the list not only as Wizarding Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor, but also Widower.’” She winked at Hermione. “Sounds like a dream, doesn’t he?”

Evangeline chuckled, stirring the potion with a knowing smile. “Well, I’m glad he’s more than just a pretty face. We wouldn’t want you stuck with someone who sounds so insipid, would we, Hermione?”

Hermione blushed, flipping through the magazine absentmindedly until she stopped on a familiar face. Number twenty-seven on the list. Tom Riddle. She froze. There he was, dark eyes staring straight through the page, his face set in that unreadable, almost predatory expression. The picture looked like it had been taken at a Slug Club party, no doubt without his permission, and the text beside it read: Tom M. Riddle, elusive and intellectual, continues to stir mystery wherever he goes.

Marigold noticed her staring and raised an eyebrow. “And what’s got you so fascinated now?” She peered over Hermione’s shoulder once more and gasped. “Merlin’s beard, he made the list? Tom Riddle? ”

Evangeline looked up sharply, eyes narrowing as she crossed over to see for herself. “I’m surprised Witch’s Weekly dared publish his photo,” she murmured, exchanging a glance with Marigold. “They must be looking for trouble.”

Hermione, not wanting to give away too much, shrugged, trying to keep her voice casual. “It’s nothing. I just… ran into him recently. We had a bit of a disagreement.”

“A disagreement?” Marigold looked scandalized. “You know he’s famous for holding grudges. I remember, even back in Hogwarts, he had a knack for making people nervous—and not only in the fun way.”

Evangeline nodded. “He’s always had a darkness about him, even if most refuse to see it. Are you sure you’re alright, Hermione?”

Hermione tried to laugh it off. “Yes, truly. We just… crossed paths one too many times, and I made it clear I want him to leave me be, that’s all.” She knew she couldn’t share the full story—not with either of them. It was bad enough she was caught up in Riddle’s web, but the last thing she wanted was to drag Marigold and Evangeline into it as well. But it might come up somehow at the birthday party, and she did not want to explain then why she was fleeing from Riddle there.

A calm silence settled over the room as they each took in her response, and then Marigold squeezed Hermione’s shoulder, offering her a gentle smile. “Well, if he’s being difficult, you know we’re here for you.”

Hermione felt a swell of gratitude at the warmth in Marigold’s voice. “Thank you. I promise, I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” Marigold said, pulling her back into the dance stance. “Now, one more time, from the top. And this time, try not to step on me.”

Evangeline, meanwhile, tipped the completed Phoenix Flame Elixir into a glass vial with an approving nod. “There. Perfectly done, if I do say so myself. Hermione, your instructions were spot-on.”

Hermione looked at the vial, feeling a rush of satisfaction. She was one step closer to her goal, the future just a little nearer. As Marigold led her through the final steps, and Evangeline clinked the potion vial in a playful toast, Hermione’s heart felt lighter than it had in days.

With a grin, she glanced at both women. “Thank you—for everything. Really.”

“Oh, hush,” Marigold said, releasing her hand. “Now get back to your hotel, you need your beauty sleep before the ball in a few days”

Hermione laughed, tucking a few vials safely into her pocket. With friends like these, even the mysteries of her own plans felt a little more within reach.

And so when she left a few hours later with revived dancing skills, a few new doses of her Elixir and the remaining gold needed to pay the Goblin she felt closer to her goal to get home than ever.

***

Tom

Tom had summoned his Knights via the rings, instructing them to meet him at the gates of Malfoy Manor as soon as the sun set. He’d spent the last three nights scouring the forest of Albania, as the feeble Ravenclaw ghost had directed him, tirelessly employing his new spell. But he’d found nothing.

The conclusion was obvious: while he had mastered the spell, the forest itself was simply too vast. He would need his men to cover more ground.

Arriving last at the gates, Tom quickly counted his followers, observing the half-circle formation they’d assumed. His eyes flashed crimson as he scanned their ranks, noting immediately that one was missing: Abraxas. Without needing to turn, he sensed him strolling up the path, displaying his habitual lack of urgency.

Deciding Abraxas’ tardiness was not worth disciplining this evening, Tom turned back to the others and began without him.

“Tonight, I have a very important task for you,” Tom announced, his eyes flashing red, letting the light serve as a reminder of his power. He could see their anxious expressions in the dim light—even Sallow looked thoroughly unnerved after the latest round of tortures.

“We are going to a secret location to search for an object with a high concentration of magic. We’ll use a specific spell to detect it,” he paused, scanning their reactions. A few murmurs of “Yes, my lord” broke the silence, punctuated by Abraxas’ late arrival as he slipped into line.

“This spell is restricted by the Ministry,” Tom continued, his voice raising slightly, “and I expect everyone to be vigilant. Masks on.” The men quickly adjusted their hoods, shifting to full attention. Tom rarely raised his voice; they knew to take him seriously when he did.

He extended his arms. “Gather round and hold on tightly. This will be a long apparition,” he said, barely concealing his distaste for the physical contact.

“Do not let go,” he warned. “If any of you splinch, Nott will be responsible for cleanup, while the rest of us continue.” He doubted any would dare, but a touch of fear would keep them cautious.

Taking a breath, he prepared himself. Apparating nine grown wizards wasn’t a strain for him, but it would test the limits of their endurance. With a sharp crack, he transported them all, landing precisely in the clearing he’d selected in the mountainous Albanian forest.

Half of them began retching on arrival, Nott joining in more out of reflex than necessity. Abraxas, however, maintained his hold on Tom longer than the others, gasping for breath until Tom shrugged him off impatiently. He waited with an irritated expression as the others collected themselves.

When Selwyn wouldn’t stop retching, Tom’s patience waned. He began explaining the basics of Incantatio Spectaculum.

The Knights listened and attempted the spell, but none mastered it as quickly as he’d hoped, wasting nearly an hour before the group performed it correctly.

“Pay attention to the sensation in your body; it will pull you toward the powerful object,” Tom instructed loudly enough for all to hear. “We’re looking for a hollow tree. If you find something, do not touch it. Call me with your ring. We’ll reconvene here, and you’ll show me then.”

“Yes, my lord,” they responded in unison, and he motioned for them to begin.

“For whoever finds it,” Tom added, “there is a favor awaiting.” The incentive spurred them into action.

They dispersed in a star formation from the clearing, casting the spell as they moved further from one another. Tom positioned himself between Selwyn and Rosier, who he viewed as the weakest links, reasoning that his superior casting would help close any gaps in their efforts. Selwyn had still been throwing up when he tried performing the spell, so Tom had little faith in him tonight.

*

They had been at it for nearly three hours when Tom’s ring warmed. He instantly Apparated to the clearing and recognized the mask of Abraxas waiting at the center.

“You found it?” Tom asked, keeping his excitement masked. Years of searching for that cursed diadem, and tonight, it would finally be his.

“Indeed.” Abraxas extended a hand. “Let me show you.”

Tom grasped Abraxas’ hand, and they Apparated to the diadem’s location. Silence reigned here; no animals stirred, as though even they sensed the powerful magic hidden nearby. Abraxas pointed to a gnarled, collapsed tree. “Here, the pull was strongest. I didn’t disturb it, just as you ordered.”

Tom nodded and stepped closer to inspect the decaying tree, now mostly moss and mushroom-covered fragments. He cast Accio Diadem, but it didn’t respond. Narrowing his eyes, he used his own Incantatio Spectaculum —there was definitely something here.

“Help me,” he ordered calmly, dropping to his knees to scrape away the dirt and debris.

Abraxas hesitated briefly, then moved to the opposite side of the fallen tree and began digging with his hands as well. After a few minutes, Abraxas called out in relief. “Thank Salazar… Is this it, Tom?” He held up a delicate diadem encrusted with gemstones, glittering faintly in the dim light.

A rare smile spread across Tom’s face. “Yes, that’s it.”

He strode over to take it, his fingers brushing over the cold metal.

“All this trouble for a crown?” Abraxas remarked. “I could’ve given you a dozen. Besides, it looks quite feminine—certainly not your style.”

Tom raised his gaze from the diadem to Abraxas. “This is no ordinary crown, Abraxas. Its worth is beyond your imagination,” he replied without offering further explanation.

Finally, he had something from Ravenclaw—an heirloom powerful enough to serve as his next Horcrux. Now all that remained was to find an unwilling victim.

He glanced at Abraxas, suppressing the temptation to end his “friend” once and for all. Amara would have made a perfect sacrifice, but they were months too late for that.

No, he already had someone in mind: his little curly-haired nuisance. Hermione Granger. He would wring the location of his ring from her, then use her to create a new Horcrux. Poetic justice.

If she would not stand with him, then she was against him. He could not allow that.

Without another word to Abraxas, Tom Apparated to the rooftop of the Claridge Hotel, where he had watched her from the shadows just weeks ago.

*

Tom was certain Hermione had not vacated her hotel room. The curtains were drawn tight, making it impossible to see in, but he recognized the same faint, magical hum whenever he focused on her location. It was silent and dark inside; he couldn’t tell if she was asleep or out. While he knew she wasn't with Abraxas, she could be with anyone, anywhere. He’d just have to check. If she wasn’t here, he’d wait. If she was asleep, she wouldn’t know what hit her. Either way, he’d handle it.

Tom felt a cold satisfaction upon finding that, since his last break-in, she had added new protective spells around her room. Smart, but also deliciously fearful—she was scared of him. Good.

He pulled down his skull mask and got to work silently dismantling her security. Seventeen minutes later, he could feel sweat collecting as he encountered a particularly clever charm. Some spells he didn’t even recognize, a rare and, he had to admit, intriguing occurrence. The ice slide she’d hexed onto the balcony could have killed him if he weren’t such an exceptional flyer without a broom.

At last, he silenced the balcony doors and crept into the room, wand raised, with Ravenclaw’s diadem in his other hand. He noticed the cat first. The ugly orange creature lifted its head from where it lay curled at the foot of the bed, but, seeing him, it simply lowered its head and continued sleeping. Strange beast.

Tom’s eyes flashed red to better see in the dark.

Hermione lay on her side, masses of curls spilling around her across three pillows, her chest rising and falling in deep, relaxed breaths. Her throat was exposed, utterly vulnerable. She didn’t stir at his presence, her eyes shut, without the guarded look she wore normally when facing him.

It was the perfect moment to bind her, torture her, or use Legilimency to find the ring. He could kill her then, and complete his next Horcrux. Simple. Clean.

Until, suddenly, it wasn’t.

He found himself inventing reasons to wait. She could still be useful, an ally to manipulate to his cause, a source of valuable information about his future. What if she wouldn’t break and tell him where the Gaunt Ring was? Most disturbingly, he thought, it would be almost…unfair to kill her, just days after she had saved his life.

Tom clenched his teeth. Merlin, what was wrong with him? He didn’t do guilt.

But when it came to Hermione Granger, he realised he felt things—far too many things, if he was honest. Usually, Tom’s emotional range was a narrow spectrum from ambition to rage, with not much in between.

Yet looking at the witch asleep in front of him, he felt an entire, messy array of emotions. Intrigue for the secrets she still hid. Respect for her magic and resilience. Possessiveness over her, and jealousy over her closeness with Abraxas. A reluctant gratitude for saving his life, anger—and yes, even a whisper of fear—because she held his ring.

The sheer number of things he felt at once was baffling. But there was something more, something unsettling: he wanted to be near her, to touch her, smell her, even taste her.

Maybe he was going mad. Perhaps this was some effect of his cursed bloodline.

Whatever it was, Tom could not deny it—he did not want to hurt Hermione.

That was a first.

He lowered his wand, frozen in place, and let out a silent breath, unsure of his next move.

***

Hermione

Something stirred her awake. Probably Crookshanks.

Still groggy, Hermione turned from her right to her left, hoping to drift back to sleep—until she saw them. Two red eyes floated in the darkness, glowing from her favourite armchair in the corner of her hotel room.

Heart pounding, she fumbled to switch on the lamp by her bed. The glow vanished, but her relief was fleeting, as now she could see the man sitting in her red velvet chair, silently watching her. A silvery skull mask covered his face, similar to—but distinct from—the Death Eater masks she knew would come to exist.

It was Riddle.

She knew his silhouette, his stillness. Even blindfolded, she was sure she could recognize him, solely by the dark energy that seemed to radiate from his very core. He was utterly motionless, elbows on his knees, hands dangling loosely between them. Dirt lined his fingers and nails, an earthy mix of brown and green staining his skin. In his right hand, he held his wand in a relaxed grip, and in his left, a tarnished but unmistakable diadem—the one she’d helped destroy in the Room of Requirement.

Her heartbeat surged, racing from startled alarm to outright fear. He was here to make her his next Horcrux. It looked as if he’d just clawed it from the ground, coming directly to her to complete his dark ritual.

Breathing hard, she stared, waiting for him to move. Should she fight him? Why wasn’t he attacking? Hermione slowly straightened up in bed, gripping her wand, but still he didn’t so much as twitch. He simply stared at her, unmoving and unblinking.

Think, Hermione. If she tried to fight, she put her odds at a risky sixty-forty, and not in her favour at that. Maybe talking to him was the better option—but what could she even say? Hi, could you please not murder me?

Maybe he was doing her a favour by killing her now. She had likely wrecked her timeline beyond repair, and Voldemort seemed to lurk behind every corner on her path to fix her Time Turner, which felt as unreachable as it had the day she landed on that London rooftop weeks ago.

“So, do it then,” she finally said, breaking the silence between them. But he didn’t react.

Hermione threw off her blankets and stood, keenly aware that she was only in a flimsy, lacy nightgown. But better to be on her feet than defenceless in bed. She moved slowly, every muscle primed to dodge his wand if he finally decided to strike.

“But just so you know,” she said, voice firm, “if you kill me, the ring will be destroyed. I made sure of that.” The flames that would consume the ring might even scorch his precious diadem. She wasn’t sure how far the fiendfyre would spread once the runes she’d embedded in her hand activated.

Still, he didn’t reply or move, and, heart hammering, she took a deliberate step toward him.

“Are you going to get on with it, or kindly get lost?” she said, summoning a spark of bravery. “I’d much rather get back to sleep, thanks.” She took another step, wand outstretched. He didn’t even blink, only leaning back a fraction, his gaze following her intently from this new angle.

A yard separated them now, and the pause helped slow her breath, calming her frantic heartbeat. She was starting to realise: if he’d meant to kill her, he would’ve done it by now.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, though she didn’t expect an answer.

Another step. She needed to see his face, to read whatever emotion was lurking beneath the mask. Maybe he hadn’t come here to kill her after all. Maybe he wanted to know more about his Horcruxes—what they’d do to him.

Slowly, she raised her free hand toward his mask. When he still didn’t react, she began lifting it, carefully, inch by inch. The moment she shielded his gaze, however, his wand hand shot up. Hermione flinched, but he merely caught her wrist, guiding her to remove the mask fully and toss it aside.

He didn’t let go of her hand.

Hermione searched his face. To anyone else, he might have looked empty, cold as stone. But Hermione, who’d memorised every flicker of his expression since she’d first known him, could see the faintest hint of something darker, wearier. The arrogance, the self-assuredness—his usual certainty—had faded to something that looked strangely… defeated.

“What are you doing here?” she tried again, and when he still said nothing, she decided she’d Apparate away and abandon whatever belongings he might take. Except—oh, Merlin—Crookshanks was still curled up asleep at the foot of her bed, oblivious to the danger.

She began to pull her hand from his grasp, but his fingers tightened.

“I can’t do it.” His voice was barely a whisper, rough, as though it had cost him dearly to speak.

“What can’t you do?” she asked.

And then he did something she couldn’t have anticipated. Tom Riddle dropped his head forward, pressing his face against her stomach, just below her chest, while his grip on her arm tightened. “I came to kill you,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against her skin. “I couldn’t go through with it.” Hermione felt the vibrations of his words all throughout her body.

What the… How exactly was she supposed to respond to that? Console him on his failed murder attempt? Shove him off her and hex him for breaking into her room and terrifying her? What did he expect from her—a pat on the back? Fuck him!

She’d just freed herself from him a week ago, and here he was, back in her toom, practically leaning on her in some distorted imitation of intimacy. He felt far too comfortable in her space for her liking.

Every part of her knew she should be pushing him away, running, Apparating—anything. And yet, she did none of these things. She remained stock still, as stunned by his nearness as he had been frozen earlier.

He was shifting closer, she realised, now using both hands to pull her in, his wand and the diadem falling to the carpet. Without warning, her knees hit the chair, and she stumbled forward, falling against him.

His arms wrapped around her, catching her, lifting her slightly before settling her into his lap. Some deep, malfunctioning part of her allowed him to hold her close, pressing her against his chest, his nose buried in her hair as he inhaled her scent.With one hand he was holding her upper body and the other moved into her hair, fisting a big chunk of it. He did not pull, but just supported her head, so she did not have to hold it up herself.

He’s hexed me, she thought, dazed. He must’ve. I’d never…

But as his scent—dark and uniquely him, tinged with something earthy—settled around her, her heartbeat softened, her breathing slowed. Every muscle relaxed as though melting against him.

She could hear his heart beating beneath her ear. He was human. He was a man. And in that moment, Tom Riddle felt more real, more vulnerable, than she’d ever imagined possible.

Hermione waited for the other shoe to drop. For him to curse her or try and make this into something sexual, but it never happened.

They remained that way, him holding her in his arms on that seat in silence, neither moving nor speaking, breaths aligning. Seconds stretched to minutes, and gradually, Hermione’s eyes drifted closed, lulled by the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

*

When Hermione woke the next morning, she was alone, neatly tucked beneath her sheets as if nothing had happened. She might’ve dismissed it all as a strange dream—except for the silvery skull mask lying behind the armchair.

Chapter Text

Tom

Tom feared he was going mad. It seemed every thought turned back to Hermione. He pictured how she’d fit perfectly in his arms, her scent stirring something feral inside him. He craved to possess her, to have her in every sense, to make her his entirely. She consumed his mind, leaving him with one pressing question: what to gift her for her birthday tomorrow. Something that would prove, without doubt, she could trust him.

Tom rarely troubled himself over presents. People’s desires were obvious, and he usually cared little for giving them anything at all. But Hermione was maddeningly opaque. She had told him to leave her alone, yet in her every action, there seemed a subtle contradiction. She hadn’t actually pulled away from him that night—she’d relaxed, even melted into him, resting her head on his chest as if it were the safest place in the world. Her goosebumps, her heavy breaths, the way she’d buried her face against him…none of it had signalled that she wanted him to leave her be.

He had never misread anyone before, yet Hermione’s signals were mixed beyond reason. One moment, she was saving his life, comforting him, or smiling when he complimented her skill in duelling. She hadn’t even flinched when he’d dared to put his phantom hands on her. But the next, she was staring at him wide-eyed with fear, insisting he stay away, or binding and poisoning him as if she thought him dangerous. Well…he had debated killing her a few times, but he’d hardly acted on it. Perhaps she was the mad one. Then again, he’d long suspected genius often bordered on insanity.

Lost in thought, Tom waited in the bustling halls of Sotheby’s auction house in New York. This event was by invitation only, a token of appreciation for loyal clients of Solomon Sotheby’s magical branch, a blend of wizard and Muggle worlds like few others. After the recent death of the founder’s great-great-grandson, with no heirs to inherit the family’s vast collection, Sotheby’s was auctioning off items of staggering rarity. There was no catalogue—each artefact revealed only at bidding. Tom’s employer, Mr. Burke, had given him free rein, trusting him to acquire the darkest and most valuable pieces.

By noon, Tom had already secured a few unusual items: a pair of Luna Spectacles, which allowed the wearer to see erased text; a Basilisk Spine Brooch, granting temporary immunity to poisons; a Starlight Inkpot, visible only under moonlight; and Gossamer Gloves, enchanted to handle cursed objects without harm. But nothing so far had seemed truly valuable. Mr. Burke prized artefacts with shadows, relics that whispered of curses or dark enchantments.

As the day wore on, a new item caught Tom’s eye.

“And now, for the first time in over a hundred fifty years, we present the ancient Amulet of Ashkara,” announced the auctioneer, a wiry wizard with a shock of hair standing up in all directions as if he’d been struck by lightning. He levitated the amulet for all to see: delicate, unassuming, but legendary. Its protection was peerless, and all attempts to replicate its magic had failed. Tom remembered its lore, how it was said to create a binding link between the giver and the wearer. This would be the ideal gift for Hermione. A protection and a bond.

“Starting bid is five hundred dragots,” the auctioneer called. Tom set his bidding paddle down, unable to afford it outright. Instead, he waited and observed the intense bidding war between an elderly witch with paddle forty-three and a similarly aged wizard with paddle eighty-one. Finally, the wizard claimed it at two thousand, four hundred and fifty dragots.

*

The auction over, Tom lingered at the post-event reception, watching the successful bidders mingle. He usually avoided such gatherings, but the wizard who’d won the amulet was still there. 

Tom kept his eyes on him. When he was called to the back to collect his purchase, Tom disillusioned himself and followed the grey-haired wizard closely, his focus locked on the prize.

“Ah, Mr. Alkin, congratulations on your purchase. The amulet is truly one-of-a-kind,” the auctioneer praised as they met in the storage area of the auction house.

“Thank you. It’s for my granddaughter,” Alkin replied, chest puffed with pride. “She’s going to Ilvermorny next year, and I want her to be well-protected.”

“Of course, of course. No harm will come to her,” the auctioneer assured him, flattering him and his purchase. Tom’s lips curled in disdain. No, Alkin’s granddaughter would not be wearing the amulet. It would never even reach her hands.

Tom waited as the transaction completed, noting Alkin’s lack of caution as he handed over a hefty sack of gold. The amulet was safely tucked in a velvet pouch and exchanged with the flourish of a handshake. As Alkin turned to leave, Tom whispered a silent Imperius, sending him out through the front door and into the bustling streets instead of to the fireplaces most people arrived and left through. Together, they navigated a few city blocks, until Tom steered him down a deserted alley, far from prying eyes, and from there, Apparated them to the depths of the Albanian forest he had spent so many nights in.

“Hand over the amulet,” Tom commanded quietly. Under the Imperius, Alkin obeyed, drawing out the velvet pouch and handing it over without resistance. Tom pocketed it smoothly, satisfaction rising as he took his prize. A man as weak as Alkin did not deserve an artefact of such power. But Hermione did. It would look great around the neck of the strong and clever witch.

Tom raised his wand again, gaze flat. Alkin’s face was empty, no trace of fear—a disappointment. Tom preferred them afraid. Still, he’d gotten what he needed.

“You should have let them send it to you, instead of picking it up yourself.,” Tom murmured. “Would have saved you most probably.” Without another word, he whispered, “Avada Kedavra.”

Only as he transfigured Alkin’s dead body into the form of a deer did it strike him that he had wasted an ideal opportunity for a new Horcrux. His thoughts of Hermione were disrupting his priorities. Yet, somehow, he didn’t care. All he thought of was giving her the amulet.

Just as he prepared to Apparate back to London, the signet ring on his pinky warmed noticeably. Someone was calling him— now , in the middle of the night? His irritation simmered as he checked the message engraved on the ring.

Please come to MM, I’m calling in my favour – A

Abraxas, of course. At least he had the manners to say “please.” With a weary sigh, Tom slipped the ring back on and Apparated to Malfoy Manor.

*

Tom heard the shouting even through the heavy front doors of Malfoy Manor.

“You can’t do this, Brax! I’m your brother, no—closer than that!” yelled Sylas Sallow, his voice unmistakably heated.

“Yes, I can. She doesn’t want to see you, so—” Abraxas shot back, his tone calmer but firm, until Sallow interrupted, venomously, “So what? Who is she? Some little half-blood whore! Why does she have you wrapped around her finger? Is the Miss from Down Under going down under that often? Huh, Abraxas? Already forgotten about Amara?”

“Take that back, now, Sy, or I swear, I’ll kill you!” Abraxas roared, his anger crackling in the air.

Tom seized the moment to push open the doors for a perfectly timed entrance.

“Gentlemen,” he said smoothly. “That is not how my Knights conduct themselves, is it?”

Both men turned to stare, startled into silence. Sallow’s head dipped, his voice breaking as he stammered, “M-my Lord, I…”

Abraxas exhaled deeply, regaining his composure. “Thank Merlin you’re here. I told Sylas he’s not invited to the ball tomorrow, but he’s...less than pleased.”

“Yes, because we always go to these things together. Since when are witches more important than our own?” Sallow challenged, bitterness simmering beneath his words.

“Enough.” Tom’s voice was a blade, cutting through their bickering. “Sylas, you’ll face the consequences of your impulsive actions at the duelling competition. I agree with Abraxas. You’ll stay away from the Manor tomorrow night.”

Sallow did not protest but he also did not agree.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.” Tom’s voice held the faintest edge of menace.

“Of course, my Lord,” Sallow mumbled quickly.

“Good boy. Now leave. I’ll see you at the meeting on Sunday.” Tom dismissed him with a flick of his hand, and Sallow promptly disappeared into the night.

The foyer settled into silence, and Abraxas finally spoke. “Thank you,” he muttered, and Tom waved it off.

“Is this why you summoned me? Couldn’t you handle him yourself?” Tom asked, unimpressed. He’d expected more from Abraxas.

“He would’ve just feigned agreement and shown up anyway. It had to be you,” Abraxas admitted. He wasn’t wrong, but it left Tom questioning his strength. He was in a fine mood, though, certain that nothing the Malfoy fortune could buy would rival the gift he’d secured for Hermione.

“So, what are you giving Hermione for her birthday?” Tom asked, changing the subject.

“A dress, for the ball,” Abraxas replied absently. Then his gaze flicked back to Tom, his eyes narrowing as he took in Tom’s slightly dishevelled state. “What have you been up to?”

“Working.” Tom’s answer was clipped. Abraxas was perceptive—annoyingly so. He could read Tom better than anyone else in the group. It was a talent that made him valuable, though it was strange to see that insight turned on him.

“You’ve got that look,” Abraxas said, taking a step closer. His hair was wild, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, as if he’d been in a frenzy.

“What look?”

“The one you get...after you’ve killed someone.” Abraxas’s voice dropped to a whisper, as though afraid of being overheard in his own house.

Tom rolled his eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh.” Abraxas didn’t look convinced and, if anything, seemed more intrigued by Tom’s dark side. He moved even closer, his gaze flickering with something unreadable.

The clock in the foyer chimed, midnight’s solemn toll filling the space.

Abraxas looked at him, his voice dropping. “It’s my birthday,” he murmured.

“I didn’t get you a present.”

“A kiss would do,” Abraxas dared. But Tom merely scoffed; he didn’t give kisses, and they both knew it.

“Or you could promise not to play any games with Hermione or me tomorrow night,” Abraxas suggested, raising a brow.

“I never promised to play fair,” Tom retorted, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, I know you were just toying with me the other day at her hotel. She told me nothing happened.”

Tom’s smirk grew. “Ask her again whose arms she fell asleep in recently. I think you’ll get a different answer this time.”

Abraxas’s cheeks flushed. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

Tom stared at him, the man’s vulnerability almost laughable. It wasn’t very aristocratic. But when Abraxas began to look away, Tom’s hand shot out, grasping his jaw, turning his face back.

“I’ll promise no foul tricks, but I won’t stop pursuing her, Abraxas.”

Abraxas’s hand covered Tom’s, and he nodded. “Thank you. I think I’ll go to bed now. Tomorrow will be...a long day.”

“Indeed,” Tom agreed.

Slowly, Abraxas let go of his hand and turned to leave, but not before asking “Will you need a suit tomorrow?”

And still, Abraxas was loyal and helpful. It was his most likeable quality in Tom’s opinion. 

“Of course, how else would I be able to compete fairly?” He replied with a smirk

***

Hermione

Every day until her birthday, Hermione wrestled with the idea of moving to a different hotel, but each time she had her reasons for staying put. If Riddle had intended to harm her, he would have done so already. Switching hotels meant notifying several people of her new address, inconveniencing Crookshanks, who’d finally settled in at the Claridge, and possibly hexing more unsuspecting Muggles—something she preferred not to do.

And yet, each night she lay awake longer than the last, waiting, wondering if he would come back. But as the days passed without incident, Hermione found herself waking up on the morning of the ball feeling oddly excited. She told herself it was simply the prospect of gaining access to the Malfoy vault, not the anticipation of seeing Riddle or Abraxas—especially not Riddle. That would be absurd.

When a knock sounded at her door that Friday morning, Hermione was just stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a bathrobe. Picking up her wand and hiding it behind her arm, she opened the door cautiously.

It was only Robertsen, the hotel porter, pushing a cart with an extravagant breakfast and a large dark green box under his arm.

“Good morning, Miss,” he said politely, reading from a small note in his hand. “Mr. Malfoy wishes you a happy birthday and has sent you breakfast and a gift. He looks forward to seeing you tonight.”

Hermione smiled, stepping back to let him in. “How thoughtful,” she replied. Robertsen rolled the cart in, setting the breakfast on her table and carefully placing the large box, tied with an elegant bow, on the nearby sofa.

“Anything else, Miss?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” Hermione said, holding the door open for him. Once Robertsen left, she cast a quick glance at the steaming full English breakfast before her, feeling an unexpected thrill of curiosity about the gift. But food first, she decided; she couldn’t let it go cold.

After finishing breakfast, she eagerly opened the box, her eyes widening as she took in the contents.

Inside lay the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. The fabric shimmered in soft green and gold, delicate yet radiant, with tiny gemstones that sparkled densely at the ends of the sleeves and the hem. She brushed her fingers over the material, marvelling at its softness.

She glanced over at the dress she’d planned to wear, the one she’d slightly altered to disguise its re-use from Slughorn’s party. But this—this was leagues more refined, almost ethereal in its elegance. Abraxas Malfoy was a consummate gentleman: hosting the ball, sending her a dress and feeding her. She could only hope he didn’t expect to undress her later.

As she prepared for the evening, Hermione reminded herself of her true purpose: she wasn’t attending to flirt or enjoy herself but to get home, and whatever means necessary would justify that end.

The dress fit Hermione perfectly, though the low-cut back ruled out a bra, and the many layers of almost diaphanous fabric only allowed the tiniest undergarment. She’d never worn anything so daring—or so stunning. Admiring herself in the mirror, she noted this dress put her Yule Ball gown from fourth year to shame. Twenty-nine had never looked so good, and the confidence she felt now was worlds away from her shy teenage self.

Turning to inspect her reflection, she thought with a smirk that if Abraxas didn’t crumble upon seeing her like this, she’d have other ways to make him compliant. She was ready; nothing could distract her now—not even a certain young Dark Lord.

But a little voice, laughing knowingly, echoed in the back of her mind.

***

Tom

Abraxas gave Tom’s bowtie a final adjustment before stepping back to survey his handiwork.

“I am an artist,” he said, with an air of modest pride. “Though, strategically, I probably shouldn’t have outdone myself tonight. You look magnificent, Tom.”

Of course, Tom already knew this, but he allowed himself a quick glance at his reflection in Abraxas's full-length mirror. The midnight-blue dress robes Abraxas had chosen for him matched his eyes—dark as ink, with just a hint of blue in the right light. The deep black dress shirt offset the robes, and a dark blue bowtie, accented with a silver snake pin, completed the ensemble. Abraxas had even slicked back Tom’s hair, exposing his smooth, porcelain skin and sharp brows.

Tom didn’t take pride in his appearance; in fact, he often despised it. He looked so much like his father, who was little more than a reflection of the Muggle world Tom loathed. But appearances could be useful. People trusted him more, listened longer, and remembered him—often more than he preferred. Tonight, though, every edge was his to wield.

Tom turned to Abraxas, who was waiting, as most people did, for a response to his compliment. “You don’t look too bad yourself, mate,” Tom replied, which wasn’t a lie. Abraxas looked distinguished in his soft, pale green three-piece suit—dapper by wizarding standards, and almost Muggle in style, were it not for his charmed bowtie, which sparkled gold in the light. His hair was also slicked back, though not with the same meticulousness as Tom’s. They had to use more product to tame Tom’s waves, but Abraxas’ hair was perfectly straight already and did not need as much encouragement. 

Abraxas licked his lips, giving Tom a once-over. “You know, Tom,” he began, his voice soft, “we could end this petty rivalry right here. Just say the word, and I’ll walk out with you right now. Let them have their party.”

His eyes lingered, pleading in that way that had never once moved Tom.

“You know that’ll never happen,” Tom said, unyielding. Then he smirked. “But tell you what—if Hermione leaves without either of us tonight, I’ll help you let off some steam.”

Abraxas raised an eyebrow, chuckling. “Well, I don’t plan on letting her leave alone, if you know what I mean.”

Tom couldn’t help a bemused smile. Abraxas’s confidence was charmingly misplaced.

“Shall we, then?”

*

Though Tom rarely paused to appreciate beauty, the Malfoy banquet hall left him momentarily speechless. The walls were concealed by towering trees, their leafy canopies stretching to enclose the ceiling. The trees were carrying thick green leaves and grew all the way to the outside where they created a dense forest where usually the terrace was. Silver and gold serpents slithered through branches, glinting in the warm light cast by silver orbs. The scene evoked an enchanted forest, with an ambiance that was both intimate and grand. A string quartet tuned up in the corner, while trays of champagne floated through the room, ready to be claimed.

Abraxas noticed his interest. “Impressed?”

Magic was the purest beauty in existence, Tom thought and turned to look at Abraxas, when he saw her. And suddenly he realised that he had been utterly wrong. 

Hermione was the purest beauty in existence. She was radiant in a gown of emerald and gold, the fabric shimmering as she moved. It clung to her curves in ways he hadn’t thought possible and was cut daringly low, accentuating her neckline. The dress framed her face with her dark curls, which seemed to catch the light as if dusted with gold. Tom’s eyes drifted over her, momentarily lingering on the exquisite lines of her figure, yet he found himself drawn back to her face. Had her lashes always been so thick? Her skin so smooth? Her lips that shade of pink?

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He never stared at anyone, and certainly never this intently. But he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Something in him stirred, a warm, insistent pull. What was happening? He was Lord Voldemort, he didn’t yearn for anyone. And yet—

No longer in control of his own body, the corners of his mouth lifted. The expression wasn’t deliberate or strategic—it just was.

But Hermione was moving, her quick, graceful steps bringing her nearer... to Abraxas. And her smile, radiant and utterly entrancing, was directed entirely at the wizard beside Tom.

The genuine smile on Tom’s face died quicker than Mr. Alkin. His hands clenched, and he felt the amulet in his pocket sear with a bitter warmth. Why hadn’t she looked at him like that? He longed for her gaze, her attention, her smile.

“Abraxas,” she began when she reached them, “I thought we agreed on a reasonable celebration?”

Abraxas pulled her into a familiar embrace, kissing her cheeks. “Whatever do you mean, witch? This is toned down.” His expression was as smug as ever.

Tom scowled. Liar. The ballroom had never looked this decadent, even when Abraxas’s late wife had thrown her most extravagant gatherings.

Hermione inclined her head at his words. “Well, it’s beautiful, truly.”

Tom resisted the urge to scoff. How revoltingly sweet. Yet he couldn’t deny the tightening in his chest as he watched their exchange.

“And still, it pales in comparison to your beauty,” Abraxas replied smoothly. Her cheeks flushed at his words, and Tom’s jaw tightened. Never had he felt such distaste for Abraxas’s charming, silver-tongued nonsense.

But he could play this game, too. He had never failed to captivate when he wanted to—and tonight, he wanted her attention more than anything.

“I have to agree with Abraxas,” Tom said, stepping closer, reaching out an almost imperceptible pull of magic to subtly draw her toward him. As she shifted closer, he leaned in, greeting her with two light kisses as well, breathing in her scent—a delicate blend of fruity vanilla and something more intoxicating.

“Happy birthday, Hermione,” he murmured in her ear, just low enough that Abraxas couldn’t hear. His gaze met Abraxas’ for a brief, triumphant moment before releasing her. He was playing for keeps, and Abraxas knew it.

Hermione pulled back, her face a deep crimson. “Um, right… thank you, both of you…” She glanced down, fidgeting with the edge of her dress. Tom couldn’t help a self-satisfied smirk as he noted how flustered she seemed. Oh how much he would like to take a peek into her mind again. But he couldn’t. This was about building trust on her part and invading one’s thoughts would only trigger the opposite. Though Tom would love to see her so furious once more. She had been devastating, threatening him if he dared using Legilimency on her again.

Tom felt pressure building in his pants and was glad he was wearing the long dress robes. No one needed to know how much she affected him. 

“Are you ready to greet our guests?” Abraxas asked, gently reclaiming her arm. Tom held his position, watching as they moved to the large double doors, to welcome arrivals. For that part, he decided he was not going to hover like a third wheel.

Instead, he drifted through the makeshift forest, picking up a glass of firewhiskey and sipping it slowly. Soon, a steady stream of guests began trickling in, and Tom observed as Abraxas and Hermione greeted each one. A subtle hum of gossip buzzed through the room, snippets reaching his ears: whispers about this new witch and Abraxas’ surprising attachment to her so soon after his wife’s death. Tom smirked at the scandalised murmurings, briefly considering feeding a few rumours of his own to throw Abraxas off balance. But that would be fighting dirty. And so Tom just ignored them, until finally, Abraxas stepped onto a small dais to address the crowd, while Hermione lingered near the entrance with friends. Tom stayed with Nott and Lestrange as Abraxas raised his glass.

“Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between,” Abraxas began, eliciting polite laughter. “Thank you all for joining me on my twenty-sixth birthday.”

More laughter and applause followed as he lifted his glass in Hermione’s direction. “It so happens that Hermione Granger, whom I had the pleasure of meeting recently, shares the birthday with me. So, please, make her feel welcome in our midst.”

He raised his glass in cheers in the direction of Hermione. “Happy birthday!” he called out and many joined, taking a sip of their drink. Tom looked over to Hermione, meeting her eyes for a short moment, taking a slow sip of his own firewhiskey. She quickly turned to her friends, ignoring him a little too obviously. It triggered something inside Tom to no end. 

“Now. About the special treat for tonight” The crowd’s murmurs grew as Abraxas raised his wand, conjuring a metal bowl hovering beside him. “Tonight, we’re trying something with my family’s Pensieve,” he announced. “For the next hour, I invite each of you to place a memory within it. Happy ones, strange ones, funny ones—though let’s keep it suitable for polite company.”

Guests chuckled, and Abraxas continued, “Your memories will project around the room for us to experience together—a stroll through memory lane, as it were.”

It was a clever touch, Tom admitted, and he watched as Abraxas demonstrated, pulling a silvery strand from his temple and dropping it into the Pensieve. Then he turned to Hermione, extending a hand.

“Care to share one, my dear?”

Hermione hesitated, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face. But Abraxas coaxed her gently. “It can be a simple one. Perhaps a stroll through the gardens of the Manor? That’s what I put in.”

Reluctantly, she agreed, extracting her own memory and adding it to the swirling Pensieve.

“Wonderful!” He waved his hands and the lights dimmed. “Everyone, come up and let us share your memories!” he called to action and the people got bustling. “Oh and before I forget, outside in the forest you will find the fountain of Euphora, I advise everyone not to take more than one sip!”

***

Hermione

Hermione found herself surrounded by witches and wizards crowding in on the Pensieve, eager to share their memories. The openness surprised her; sharing something so personal with society at large felt oddly intimate, and it tightened her skin with an unease that grew by the minute. Searching for a way out, her gaze found Marigold and Evangeline where she’d left them, thankfully unmoved. She quickly made her way toward them, while Abraxas remained at the Pensieve, helping his guests extract their memories.

“Looks like Abraxas has really pulled out all the stops tonight,” Marigold remarked dryly, sipping champagne as bubbles drifted into the air and burst with a rich, heady scent.

“Is this not normal for him?” Hermione asked, raising a brow. Abraxas had promised a more understated affair. For her, it was anything but—but perhaps, for him, this was normal.

Marigold scoffed. “Hardly,” she replied, leaving Eva to add, “No, Hermione, it’s usually much more… restrained.”

At Hermione’s raised brows, Eva leaned closer with a small grin. “I think he’s trying to impress you.”

“He shouldn’t have gone to the trouble; it’s far too much,” Hermione replied, fidgeting with the fabric of her skirt. She felt uneasy with all that Abraxas had done: the dress, the early morning feast, the extravagant event.

“Don’t fret—it likely didn’t make the slightest dent in his fortune,” Marigold said with a shrug.

It does not, Hermione thought and managed a small smile.

“So… do you like him?” Eva asked quietly, her voice low enough not to carry to those around them.

Hermione hesitated, then said, “Even if I did, it wouldn’t work out in the long run. I’m… not staying here forever.” It was the truth, even if not in the sense that her friends would comprehend.

“You wouldn’t stay, even for love?” Marigold asked, wide-eyed as she exchanged glances with Eva. The question hung in the air, weighty. Hermione already knew her answer: absolutely not. Nothing could keep her from her goal, from returning home. No attachment, no romance—not for a man, or a Malfoy at that.

Before she could respond, Abraxas reappeared, leading a stately woman in her fifties and a young wizard closer to Hermione’s own age.

“Hermione, I’d like to introduce Minister of Magic Eleanor Spencer-Moon and her son, Maurice Moon,” Abraxas said, and polite introductions followed.

The minister seemed friendly enough, with a warm smile and gentle features. But when Marigold congratulated her on her re-election, a sharpness crept into the woman’s expression.

“Thank you, Miss McKinnon,” she said, her eyes gliding over Marigold before landing on Eva. “I see you haven’t… strayed from your ways.”

Marigold flushed, and a simmering anger flared under Hermione’s skin. She was stunned at the minister’s veiled insult, her blatant condescension. Hermione took a deep breath, words forming on her lips—until an invisible hand, somehow both silencing and steadying, seemed to close over her mouth.

“Perhaps we ought to add a few more memories to the Pensieve, what do you think, Abraxas?” Riddle’s calm, cool voice sliced through the tension, sharp as a dagger. Goosebumps prickled across Hermione’s skin, and while the minister didn’t outwardly react, Hermione saw her stiffen.

Hermione sensed him directly behind her and shifted slightly closer to Abraxas, instinctively making room for Riddle in their small, tense circle. The unseen restraint lifted from her, and Riddle stepped forward, flanked by Stellan Nott and Oren Lestrange, his gaze fixed on the minister.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s appropriate for tonight’s gathering, Tom,” Abraxas replied smoothly. “But perhaps Maurice could stay a little longer—give us a chance to rehash some shared memories. What do you say?”

Maurice swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked to his mother, who cut in coldly, “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for hosting us, Abraxas. As grand as ever.” She turned sharply, pulling her son with her, though he cast one last glance back at Abraxas.

As their footsteps receded, a strained silence lingered until Marigold broke it with a look at Riddle. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Riddle’s face remained impassive, his eyes detached and unfazed. Hermione’s breath hitched. His elegance tonight was formidable; the crisp, tailored robes emphasised his broad shoulders and the sheen of his slicked-back hair, every detail enhancing his ruthless beauty.

“Yes, he did,” Hermione found herself saying, eyes fixed on Riddle who shot her a look, dark eyes narrowing. “Her comment was uncalled for. Horrid, even.” She finished.

Hermione was unexpectedly grateful that Riddle had intervened—had stopped her from replying with what would have been an inadequate retort. He’d silenced the minister’s insult far more effectively than she could have. It was clear there had been something between Abraxas and Maurice, so the woman was hardly in a position to judge.

Riddle’s smirk was slight, just at the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he said, his eyes still locked onto her, their dark depths scanning every inch of her expression. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Heat rose in Hermione, and she glanced around, searching for a distraction. Thankfully, Abraxas turned to Nott. “So, Stellan, did you add anything interesting to the Pensieve tonight?” he asked, polite as ever. Hermione sighed in relief, focusing on Nott.

Stellan adjusted his glasses with a grin. “Yes, I did. And let’s just say, I think it’ll leave everyone a bit puzzled.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair,” Marigold interjected, her usual sharp wit resurfacing. “I imagine you see plenty of strange things in the Department of Mysteries.”

Hermione’s interest piqued—Nott worked in the Department of Mysteries? She knew they had an entire branch dedicated to time and time-turners. Could he help her procure temporal sand if things fell through with Abraxas? It wasn’t the advanced kind needed for a true time-turner, but with the right adjustments, it might work. She noted it as an option to explore.

“It’s not from the Department, at least not exactly,” Nott defended. “I can’t reveal secrets, but this is just a memory of a recent incident—something went wrong, and every clock in the building started ticking backward.” He chuckled, evidently amused by his own story.

“Oh really? What happened?” Evangeline asked, intrigued.

“There was a major disturbance—a ripple in time. Someone broke nearly every rule in the book and disrupted the Chronal Flux,” Nott explained. “So, for a few minutes, all the clocks were reversed.”

Hermione froze, her champagne glass halted mid-sip. Could it have been her?

“Yes, I remember the Prophet had to print a warning on time travel because of it,” Marigold added, oblivious to Hermione’s reaction. “What was it—two months ago?”

Shit, shit, shit. Hermione’s mind raced. Could they be looking for her? She’d assumed she’d slipped under the radar, but hearing this… could her little “mistake” mean Azkaban? Meddling with time was one thing; not reporting herself after it went wrong was another. A flicker of dread coiled in her stomach.

She glanced around. The others seemed only mildly interested in Nott’s story—all except Riddle, who was studying her intensely. His face was inscrutable, yet far too attentive.

Clearing her throat, she turned to Lestrange, who much to Hermione’s utter relief, did not sport the same uncanny resemblance to his descendants as Stellan Nott. His skin was of a dark tone, he had warm brown eyes and coily hair that he wore short. “And you—do you also work for the Ministry?”

Lestrange flashed a polite smile, showing straight, white teeth—a curious contrast to the future Lestranges Hermione knew. “Indeed. I’m an Auror in the Dark Wizard Surveillance Division. We keep tabs on suspected Dark Wizards and sympathisers, monitoring movements, communications, networks... doing our best to preempt dark activity.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Hermione; Lestrange served the man who would one day become the darkest wizard in history. She shot a look at Riddle, catching a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Once again, Hermione was hit by the deafening realisation that Riddle was Lord Voldemort all over again: He was not just any dark wizard, but a true monster.

“Urgh, Oren, don’t tell me you put one of your work memories in the Pensieve,” Abraxas said, cutting into Hermione’s thoughts. “I wanted fun memories.”

The conversation drifted on, and soon the lights dimmed, signalling the next phase of the evening. As the last memories settled in the Pensieve, Abraxas turned to Hermione with a hand extended. “Care to open the dance floor with me?”

Hermione smiled and took his hand, sending Marigold a grateful look. “I’d be delighted,” she replied, letting Abraxas lead her to the centre of the floor.

The quartet struck up a melody, and a cascade of light floated around them, projecting the memory Abraxas had chosen: their afternoon stroll through the manor gardens, bathed in warm sunlight. Birdsong filled the air, mingling with Hermione’s laughter as it echoed across the space. Hermione was charmed by his choice and let herself be drawn into the dance.

Abraxas’s focus was entirely on her, his hand firm around her waist, guiding her steps. His gaze lingered, his eyes glinting with unmistakable interest. Heat rose within her, her breaths growing shallow. She almost forgot why she was pursuing him; as he spun her around, she could imagine something more between them.

You could be Lucius Malfoy’s stepmother, a voice murmured darkly, and she had to suppress a laugh at the absurd thought. It would only ever be a thought—she would be gone long before anything like that could happen.

Completely unaware of her inner dialogue, Abraxas grinned. “Ready for the grand finale?”

Without waiting for her answer, he lifted her in the Gossamer Waltz, a move Marigold had taught her. He was surprisingly graceful, lifting her smoothly, and Hermione held onto his shoulders, enjoying the elegance of his movements. The last time she had done one had been with Viktor. And where he had been strong and gruff in his movements, Abraxas was determined but elegant.

Abraxas turned on the spot, holding Hermione by her waist and in the air, whilst twirling them both on the spot and the projected memory shifted, transforming into her own memory of studying in the library at AACOM, sunlight spilling through the windows. It had of course been her favourite place in the entire castle and she was sure it had not changed since the fifties, so it was not betraying her origins, but only solidifying her story.

On their third spin, golden sparks started drifting from her gown, scattering among the onlookers, who broke into applause. Other couples joined them, filling the floor as they spun around.

When the song ended, Abraxas lowered her, their faces inches apart, both of them catching their breath. He leaned in, voice hushed. “You are stunning, Hermione.”

A thrill ran through her, and she smiled, feeling light as air. No man had been so unabashed in his admiration before. She made a mental note to tell Draco Malfoy all about this upon her return—perhaps she’d even give Abraxas a kiss, if only to rile Malfoy up.

Grinning widely, she danced with Abraxas through three more songs before the first wizard approached to interrupt. Professor Slughorn asked to cut in, and Hermione happily accepted, gliding into a lively tune.

Hermione continued dancing for the next hour, pausing only briefly to sip a drink here and there. Partner after partner asked her for a turn on the floor—Professor Slughorn, Stellan Nott, Dorian Dagworth, Oren Lestrange, Ali Thakkar, John Longbottom, Augusta’S husband, Fleamont Potter, Julius Shacklebolt—all of whom she’d met at some point. But then a man she hadn’t seen before asked for her hand. Something about him seemed familiar. Reddish-blond hair, a face freckled and amiable. He introduced himself as Sebastian Sanders and led her around the dance floor with quiet confidence.

They made polite small talk, though Hermione couldn’t shake the nagging feeling she should know who he was. As they danced, a peculiar memory flickered around them—dark, churning waves, a lone figure swimming in rough waters. But there was no clear context, just the echo of someone else’s recollection.

As the music paused, she realised her energy was flagging and began to withdraw when Sanders smoothly offered her a drink from a floating tray.

“Would you like to rest a moment in the forest outside?” he asked with a smile.

She accepted the drink and nodded. “That sounds lovely, thank you.”

Outside, the fresh air filled her lungs, and they strolled to a bench at the edge of the trees. Sanders asked her about Australia, giving her a chance to catch her breath and soothe her aching feet. She was about to sip from her drink when a strange smell stopped her. She sniffed again—was that a sleeping draught? Her eyes snapped up to Sanders, who was no longer smiling. His wand was in his hand, casually resting on his knee, but it pointed directly at her.

Hermione’s heart raced. Her wand was secured beneath layers of fabric, strapped to her thigh, but unreachable in this position. Thinking quickly, she threw her drink at his face and sprang away. Sanders cursed, wiping the liquid from his eyes as Hermione scrambled to reach her wand.

She had just lifted her skirts to grab it when she heard, “Avada—”

But the curse was never finished. A low thump sounded behind her, and when she looked, Sanders lay sprawled on the forest floor. Her breaths came in shallow bursts as she tried to process what had happened. She hadn’t even had time to defend herself. Slowly, her eyes found Riddle standing a few yards away, his wand still pointed at the spot where Sanders had been.

“What…who…” Hermione’s voice trembled, unable to form complete questions. Riddle’s expression softened as his gaze shifted to her. Fury had etched itself across his face, but now it gave way to an unexpected gentleness.

“Are you alright, Hermione?” His voice was uncharacteristically soft as he crouched beside her, his hands steadying her arms, his fingers burning the bare skin of her arms.

“I...I think so,” she stammered. “Is he...dead?” She looked at Sanders, whose chest rose and fell, though faintly.

“No,” Riddle confirmed her assessment of Sanders state, “only stunned.” With care, he helped her to her feet. She managed to summon her wand, levitating Sanders upright and securing him to a tree, as Riddle retrieved Sanders' wand. Together, they inspected his face, and she asked, “Do you know him? He said his name was Sebastian Sanders.”

Riddle studied him, then murmured, “Finite Incantatem.” Sanders’ face shifted, hair darkening, freckles fading, nose and jaw reshaping into a familiar, unpleasant sight.

“Sallow,” Hermione spat. Rage surged through her. Riddle sighed and stepped back, fingering a ring on his pinky. Was this an act of personal vengeance from Sallow, or something else? She cast a wary glance at Riddle, who didn’t look pleased.

“Did you know about this?” she accused him. “Did you send him?” This was his man after all. His Knight of Walpurgis or Baby Death Eater or whatever they might call themselves these days. 

Riddle’s jaw tightened before he answered. “No, I didn’t.” Each word was clipped, as though admitting it pained him.

“Right.” She rolled her eyes, as if she could believe anything that was coming out of this master manipulator’s mouth. She turned to go find Abraxas or an Auror, but Riddle’s hand shot out, gripping her arm.

“Where are you going?” His voice hardened.

“To inform someone—anyone—capable of handling this properly,” she retorted. “He tried to kill me.”

“Don’t,” he commanded, his grip tightening.

“Let go of me,” she demanded, pulling back. Just then, footsteps approached. 

Without releasing her, Riddle addressed the new arrivals. “Take Sylas to Lestrange Manor,” he ordered, “keep him restrained, wait for further instructions. Do not let him out of sight.”

Hermione could now make out Lestrange and Avery as they instantly followed suit and approached the unconscious Sallow. Quickly they untied him and dragged him off out of the little forest leaving Hermione and Riddle alone. 

“What will you do to him?” she asked, not particularly invested in the answer. Sallow was a horrible wizard, who had attempted to murder her. She could not bring herself to empathize with him right now.

Riddle’s gaze was intense. “We’ll have a little chat, and then he’ll go on a trip far away. You’ll never see him again.” She knew his idea of a “little chat” was probably worlds apart from hers, but she did not really care. 

Hermione took a deep breath, calming her pulse. She had been careless; she didn’t belong here and needed to be more vigilant. Her gaze met Riddle’s, who still held her firmly, his eyes reflecting something unreadable.

“Whatever,” she muttered, pulling her arm free. She turned back toward the ballroom. He fell into step beside her.

“Will you tell anyone?” he murmured.

She sighed. “No, but if I see him again, I won’t hesitate to have him arrested.” Her glare was defiant.

Riddle had the audacity to smirk, lifting his hands. “Fair enough.”

“Fine, we’re agreed.” They stepped back into the ballroom, where slow music now played, the lights projecting a memory of someone flying over Hogwarts on a broom. Riddle’s hand extended toward her.

“Would you like to dance?”

For a moment, she almost accepted. But sense returned, and she pulled back. She had been too accepting of his advances the other night in her hotel room already. This had to stop. “No, thank you,” she replied as politely as she could.

Riddle’s hand curled and then unfurled. “You know, some might call it polite to accept a dance from the person who saved your life,” he said, his voice laced with irritation.

She set her jaw, resisting the temptation. “I don’t care what would be considered polite,” she whispered fiercely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my friends.” She turned to leave, but he caught her arm again , his voice low in her ear.

“Careful, Hermione,” he murmured, his breath brushing her cheek. “My patience is wearing thin.”

The familiar, alluring masculine scent of him sent a shiver down her spine, but she steeled herself. “I don’t care about your patience. Now let go, or I’ll lose mine.”

Just then, Abraxas appeared, concern in his expression. “Hermione, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, scanning her face. He seemed to see her distress and stepped closer. “Are you alright? Is he bothering you?” 

Riddle chuckled, but Hermione shook her head. “No, I just need a moment to myself,” she assured Abraxas, then addressed Riddle with a curt, “Thank you for earlier. I appreciate it,” while prying his fingers off her arm with her other hand 

Riddle released her reluctantly, his gaze hardening. “You’re welcome.” But she knew he didn’t mean it.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione watched as Riddle strode away, his movements sharp and deliberate, the hem of his black robes sweeping behind him like an extension of his will.

“You know,” came Abraxas’s quiet voice at her side, drawing her focus back, “if you need a breather, I might have just the thing to show you.”

Hermione turned to him, grateful for the distraction. A soft smile graced her lips. “Anything to escape the crowd, honestly.”

Like the consummate gentleman, Abraxas extended his arm. Hermione hesitated for only a moment before looping her hand through it, appreciating the civility of the gesture. He neither grabbed nor yanked her, a refreshing change from the overbearing man she had encountered just before. Abraxas company was... pleasant.

He led her away from the bustling ballroom, past a side exit off the main hall, and down a quiet corridor. The further they moved from the noise and grandeur, the lighter Hermione’s chest felt. When they finally stepped outside into the cool evening air, he conjured a cloak with a graceful flick of his wand and draped it around her shoulders with a care that made her pause.

They strolled through the manicured gardens of Malfoy Manor in a comfortable silence, the gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. Abraxas seemed to know the paths intimately, navigating them with quiet confidence. Finally, they stopped at a large wooden structure—stables, she realised as he pushed open the wide double doors.

“I know you weren’t keen on making an entrance atop one of them,” he said with a teasing smile, “but you must admit—they’re remarkable creatures.”

Inside, a group of magnificent winged horses stood in elegant stillness in the open plan stable. They weren’t quite as immense as the Abraxans Hermione had seen pulling the Beauxbatons carriage years ago, but they were larger than ordinary horses, their presence commanding. One, however, stood apart: a smaller, scruffy specimen with mouse-brown fur and a tangled mane.

“Abraxas,” Hermione began with a half-laugh, “are you... showing off your Abraxans?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?” he replied, a playful glint in his eye. He approached a white stallion, which responded by nuzzling him and brushing its wing lightly against his side.

Hermione watched him for a moment, noting the ease and affection between man and beast. “They are impressive,” she admitted, her tone genuine.

“They are,” he agreed, absently stroking the stallion’s neck. “They choose their rider themselves, you know?”

“I didn’t,” Hermione replied, intrigued. “How do they choose?”

Abraxas reached into his pocket and retrieved several sugar cubes, offering a few to her. “Simple. You present this as an offering and say, Anima Ventorum Alisquaerens. Then they’ll evaluate you, one by one, until one accepts.”

Hermione rolled the words over in her mind. My soul seeks the wind and wings. It had the cadence of an incantation. She hesitated, looking at the towering creatures. Flying had never been her forte—brooms, Thestrals, Hippogriffs, dragons—none had left her with fond memories. But this was a challenge she couldn’t walk away from.

With a small nod, she squared her shoulders and extended her hand, sugar cubes resting in her palm. “Anima Ventorum Alisquaerens, ” she said clearly.

The Abraxans, previously indifferent, turned their sharp eyes to her. One by one, they approached to inspect her outstretched hand, their movements graceful but deliberate. All except for the white stallion that stood steadfast by Abraxas’s side.

“Aurelion chose me in less than a minute,” Abraxas remarked, a note of pride in his voice.

Each winged horse had differently colored eyes that seemed to bore into Hermione’s very existence as they scanned her—just as Professor Dumbledore’s eyes had always felt to her. She and Harry had once discussed it, and he had described the sensation as being x-rayed. That was exactly how it felt now. Hermione was being x-rayed by a good two dozen winged horses.

“Some believe they look upon one’s soul to determine their perfect match,” Abraxas explained further.

Hermione held her breath when, finally, a massive black stallion approached her for a second time. His golden gaze seemed to pierce her as he leaned forward, plucking the sugar cubes from her hand with surprising delicacy. His velvety lips tickled her palm, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile.

“That’s Onyx,” Abraxas said, his voice quieter, almost reverent. “He’s the leader of the herd—strong-willed and the fastest. You’re very fortunate. He’s only ever allowed one rider before you.”

“Who was the other?” Hermione asked, her fingers tentatively brushing against Onyx’s neck. His fur was impossibly soft, his warmth a strange comfort.

“My sister,” Abraxas replied after a pause, his tone distant.

Hermione froze, her hand stilling. Abraxas had never mentioned a sister before. Now that she thought of it, he’d shared little about his family at all, aside from vague references to his parents being gone.

“You’ve never spoken about her,” Hermione said cautiously, her eyes searching his face.

He shrugged, his expression thoughtful rather than sorrowful. “She disappeared when I was eighteen. She and my mother both, on the same day. We never found them.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Do you know what happened?”

“No,” he said simply. “My father and I were blindsided. He spent the rest of his life searching for answers.” He gestured toward Onyx. “That Onyx chose you confirms what I’ve suspected for years—Athena is truly gone.”

There was a finality in his words, though it seemed long-accepted rather than newly realised. Hermione’s heart ached for him. “I’m so sorry, Abraxas,” she said softly, stepping closer. “Not knowing must have been unbearable.”

Abraxas’s fingers closed around hers as she reached for his hand. His grip was warm, steady, yet there was a vulnerability in the way his thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand.

“I can’t bear the silence of the manor anymore,” he murmured, his voice raw. “Now that Amara is gone too... I need someone to fill it again. With warmth. With laughter.”

His gaze dropped to her lips, and Hermione’s breath hitched. There was an undeniable longing in his expression, and though she knew she could never be what he needed - not long-term - the pull of the moment was almost irresistible.

Abraxas leaned in, drawing her closer. Hermione closed her eyes, tilting her head slightly, bracing for the soft brush of his lips when—

Crack.

Hermione flinched, her eyes snapping open to see a house-elf in a patchwork of floral fabric, that probably had once been a curtain.

“What?” Abraxas barked, his irritation sharp. Hermione withdrew her hand from his. Still a Malfoy, she thought.

“Diny is very sorry to disturb Master Abraxas,” the elf squeaked, wringing her hands. “But baby Lucius needs Master! No house-elf can calm him!”

Abraxas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned back to Hermione, apology written across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pained. “Please, take your time here—or go for a ride if you’d like. I’ll return as quickly as I can.”

Hermione nodded, watching him retreat toward the Manor with the elf in tow. Despite herself, she smiled. Whatever faults Abraxas might have, his devotion to his son spoke volumes.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how such a man could raise a truly horrible person like Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione turned back to Onyx and the other winged horses, grateful for the quiet. For once tonight, there was no chatter, no probing questions, no veiled threats. Just the soft rustle of feathers and the occasional snort of the horses. She hadn’t even begun to process what had happened tonight—or how close she had come to death.

It wasn’t the first time, of course. She’d grown almost used to brushes with mortality since arriving in 1952, but tonight felt different. Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Tom Riddle. She doubted his intentions had been entirely noble when he’d appeared in her bedroom days ago, yet he hadn’t harmed her. And tonight... tonight, he had saved her life.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Lord Voldemort, my saviour,” she murmured, the words dripping with irony.

If Harry were here, he’d have a thing or two to say about that. She could practically hear his voice in her mind, sharp with indignation. Hermione, that’s Lord Voldemort we’re talking about! If he knew who you really were, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.

At least Ginny might understand, to a degree. She’d experienced Tom Riddle’s charm firsthand. Hermione could imagine her warning, tinged with frustration: He can be so attentive, so disarming, but it’s all calculated. People are tools to him, Hermione, nothing more.

And Ron... well, Ron would go straight for the jugular. You’re letting his looks cloud your judgement—again! Don’t you remember Lockhart? Not again, Hermione! And Ron would be right, wouldn’t he? She had been blinded by charm and good looks before. She was human, after all.

“Wonderful,” Hermione muttered aloud, shaking her head. “Now I’m having full-on debates with my friends—in my head.”

Onyx whickered softly, and she reached out to stroke his sleek neck, her fingers moving absently over his warm, velvety fur. She found the repetitive motion soothing, even as her mind raced.

Then it came. The faintest pulse from the Horcrux on her finger. A subtle, insistent thrum that resonated up her arm.

At the same time, a prickling sensation crept over the back of her neck.

She stiffened.

Hermione’s hand froze mid-stroke on Onyx’s neck as her senses sharpened, every nerve on edge. She was no longer alone.

***

Tom

It was true, Tom had promised not to fight dirty tonight. But was it really breaking his word if Hermione declined a dance with him, and he just happened to slip into the manor, Disillusioned, to hex Lucius with a mild bout of constipation? Hardly. A little tummy ache and a teary-eyed baby needing his father—what harm could that do? Did he care if it technically counted as breaking a promise? Not in the slightest.

After all, he still hadn’t given Hermione her present, and saving her life apparently hadn’t done much to earn her trust. Admittedly, planting the idea in Sallow’s head to attack her might be considered a breach of that promise as well. But it wasn’t as if anyone could prove his involvement.

Tom wanted to speak with her once more, alone. This wasn’t over. Tom did not lose—not even at trivial competitions, and certainly not to Abraxas Malfoy.

He made no effort to mask his footsteps as he approached the stables. The double doors were ajar, and there she was, her back to him, curls spilling down the dark fabric of her cloak. He frowned slightly, disappointed the cloak hid the curves of her in that sparkling dress. He hated how much he noticed, how much he wanted. When had he, of all people, become so consumed by basic desires? Tom Riddle did not pine. And yet, here he was.

Hermione didn’t turn, but her voice carried back to him, sharp and unwavering. “Come to hex me in the back, Riddle?”

“No,” he replied smoothly. “I came to give you your present. Privately.” He paused, allowing a faint smirk to tug at his lips. “Besides, I don’t need to resort to trickery to beat anyone.” It was technically true, though he still had often relied on trickery. Beating someone and getting caught for it were two very different things.

She turned to face him then, suspicion etched into her features. Her gaze was piercing, but her eyes... those warm, impossible shades of brown, seemed to draw him in. He hated how much distrust was in those whiskey brown eyes when she looked at him.

“You got me a present?” she asked incredulously, her tone teetering between disbelief and wariness.

“Of course,” Tom said, his expression unreadable. “It is your birthday, after all. It is the proper thing to do.” He didn’t mention that Hermione was the first person he’d ever felt compelled to give a gift to.

“Right,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Let me guess: a cursed necklace that’ll strangle me the moment I put it on?”

A quiet laugh escaped him—an uncharacteristic, genuine reaction. She wasn’t entirely wrong, but she wasn’t right, either. “Please. As if a witch as powerful as you wouldn’t recognise dark magic at a glance.” His tone turned dry. “I’ve no interest in insulting your intelligence.”

The black Abraxan behind her let out a huff, as if expressing its own judgement. The beast’s protective stance almost made him laugh. As if it—or anyone else—could challenge him.

Tom raised his hands, feigning surrender, and took a deliberate step back. “If you don’t want it, I’ll leave you be.”

Her arms dropped immediately, and she took a small step forward. “No, wait! I want it.”

His smirk deepened. “Your wish is my command.”

From his pocket, he produced the delicate Amulet of Ashkara, holding it up for her to see. As expected, her eyes widened when she saw the necklace, a sharp laugh escaping her lips.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, her voice laced with mockery.

“This,” he interrupted smoothly, lifting the intricate gold chain with its green peridot pendant, “is the Amulet of Ashkara. A singular artefact of protective magic. Not cursed, as you so charmingly implied.”

She took a cautious step closer, the Abraxan behind her mirroring her movement. Her gaze flitted from the amulet to him, lingering on the swirling patterns etched into the gold.

“I’ve read about it,” she admitted, her voice softening with curiosity. “But isn’t it...” She trailed off, her thoughts evidently spinning.

“It was recently unveiled at an auction, the first sighting in centuries,” Tom continued, the amulet gleaming under the stable’s dim light. “And as you can see, I’m quite capable of handling it without consequence.”

Hermione raised a sceptical brow. “Yes, thank you, Einstein. I can see that.”

Tom refrained from hexing her for the insolence of comparing him to some Muggle, though he’d usually never let such disrespect slide. Instead, he extended the amulet closer to her, watching her fascination with quiet satisfaction.

Tentatively, she reached out, her fingers brushing the pendant’s smooth surface. Her touch was light, almost reverent, as her gaze flicked back to his. It stirred something awake in Tom,  like an unfamiliar flutter through his chest.

“Is it true it kills anyone who tries to harm the wearer?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not quite,” Tom said. “It burns the skin of anyone who touches the wearer with ill intent. The longer the contact, the worse the burn. It’s said to be lethal if prolonged, though no such deaths have been recorded.”

“Hm.” She hummed thoughtfully, raising her hand to tap her lips as she considered his words.

The small gesture tugged at something primal within him. He ached to know her thoughts, to dive into her mind and unravel every layer. But a promise was a promise, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, he wanted to keep this one.

Moments passed in silence as Hermione seemed lost in thought, her brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. Tom hated the void her inattention left, so he pressed on, his tone casual. “Another, less-known property of the amulet is its ability to warm in the presence of danger. It’s said to be powered by the magic of the one who fastens it around the wearer’s neck.”

Conveniently, he omitted the part about how only the person who closed the clasp could open it again.

At his words, her gaze flicked back to him, breaking the spell of whatever intellectual path she’d wandered down. Her eyes, burning with an uncertainty that annoyed him more than he cared to admit, scanned his face as if searching for deception.

“And you bought it at auction for me?” Her voice was so quiet it was nearly lost in the stillness of the stables.

No. I stole it from the man who did, then ensured he’d never find his way home. Instead, he said, “I’ve come to realise I’d rather see you unharmed.”

Not exactly an answer, but not a lie either. Yet she didn’t seem to notice the careful phrasing. She just stared, incredulous, as though she couldn’t fathom the idea of him doing something for someone else. Tom wondered why she found his truths so hard to believe. She thought she knew him from other people’s futures she had seen but hadn’t even bothered to get to know him in the present herself. 

She did not know what he was capable of. She did not know him.

Hermione’s silence hung between them, and for a fleeting moment, it made him feel oddly exposed. With her around, he was discovering parts of himself he’d long denied existed. Never had he thought someone—anyone—could occupy his thoughts like this, yet here she was, the centre of an obsession he couldn’t untangle. Tom had many obsessions before, but this kind was entirely new to him.

He clenched his hand around the necklace, breaking the moment. “Again, if you don’t want it—”

“Shut up, Riddle.” Her hand darted forward, catching his wrist with surprising force. Her skin burned against his—figuratively, not in the way the amulet might punish an enemy. “Of course, I want it. It’s a powerful artefact, and a pretty one at that. Who wouldn’t want it?”

Her fingers curled around his wrist, warm and firm, sending a rush of something unfamiliar coursing through him. Not magic, but something far more unsettling. For a moment, all he could focus on was the feel of her hand.

She’d told him to shut up. Bold, for someone so delicate. But he found himself caring far less than he should. She wanted his present—that was what mattered.

Biting back the smile threatening to betray him, Tom forced his voice to stay steady. “Turn around, then, love.”

Her fiery eyes narrowed, blazing with something both challenging and intoxicating. For a moment, she didn’t move, as though weighing the risks of turning her back on him. Then, slowly, she complied, sweeping her hair to one side with a dramatic gesture that sent the ends of her curls flying into his face.

The faint scent of her shampoo and something uniquely her clung to the air. It enveloped him, clouding his focus as he closed the distance between them. For a fleeting, maddening moment, he wanted nothing more than to breathe her in. Control yourself.

Fighting the haze of distraction, he positioned the amulet against her neck, waiting for her to lift the mass of curls. It took her a second to realise, and when she did, she yanked them aside so forcefully that another cascade of hair smacked him across the cheek.

Merlin. How much hair did this witch have?

Shaking off the distraction, he clasped the necklace with practised precision, careful not to let his fingers graze her skin. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he allowed himself even that brief indulgence.

When she turned to face him again, sweeping her curls back into place, his gaze dropped instinctively to where the pendant now rested. The amulet that was supposed lay nestled in the hollow of her collarbones now sat awkwardly on top of her cloak. Though its gold and green colours perfectly complemented her warm complexion.

Without thinking, he reached out and began unbuttoning her cloak.

Her breath hitched audibly, but she didn’t pull away. Nor did she hex him, which he took as implicit permission. Slowly, deliberately, he undid each button, watching as the heavy fabric parted to reveal her gown. The dress was even more stunning than he remembered, its low neckline revealing just enough to tempt.

The amulet now gleamed against her bare skin, as if it had been made for her.

“You look…” His voice caught. Divine. Ravishing. Mine. None of the words seemed adequate, and that unfamiliar tightness gripped his chest again. He swallowed hard, forcing composure back into his voice.

Hermione exhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm he recognized—a reaction she tried to suppress but couldn’t quite hide. She felt it, too.

Why, then, did she keep fighting him? She was a puzzle he longed to solve, a riddle all his own.

Behind her, the black Abraxan snorted, breaking the moment. Hermione spun around, her curls flying into his face again.

Tom closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. Merlin’s beard, this witch was a menace. Yet somehow, even her hair assaulting him was... pleasant. Not that he’d ever admit it.

For now, he let her attention shift back to the beast, but his thoughts remained entirely on her.

“Sorry, Onyx, I didn’t mean to ignore you,” Hermione murmured to the black Abraxan, stroking his neck with gentle hands.

Tom watched her with a calculating gleam in his eye as an idea took shape—a way to keep her with him a little longer. “Perhaps he’d like a ride,” he suggested smoothly.

Hermione scoffed, though her voice betrayed a hint of unease. “I’m not exactly a skilled flyer. He’d regret it the moment we took to the skies.”

Tom’s lips curved into a smirk, and a mischievous light flickered in his eyes. “Are you saying you’re afraid of flying?”

Her head snapped toward him, her expression turning indignant. “I’m not scared,” she retorted, though the slight quaver in her voice undermined her confidence. “I’m simply pointing out that I’m not very good at it. Kindly refrain from putting words in my mouth.”

Tom’s smirk widened. How delightfully furious she looked. He noted how much she loathed the mere suggestion that she might not excel at something. Of course, she was a perfectionist—how could she not be? He had admired her drive before, even if it occasionally made her insufferable.

Plastering on his most disarming smile, he gave her an exaggerated bow. “As you wish, milady.”

Then, turning his attention to the Abraxans, he drew his wand and cast a silent Accio, summoning sugar cubes and carrots from Malfoy Manor’s kitchens. He didn’t miss the way Hermione’s body tensed at the sight of his wand, her gaze sharpening with instinctive wariness. Curious, he thought. She had no qualms snapping at him or issuing commands, but the moment his wand was involved, her unease was palpable. Did she truly think his wand was the only weapon he possessed?

Hermione’s voice broke the silence. “Abraxas claims they judge a person’s soul before allowing them to ride.”

Tom scoffed, not bothering to hide his disdain. “Say what you mean to say, witch.”

She tilted her head innocently, her lips twitching with a suppressed smirk. “Just that your soul is... damaged. I doubt any of them will choose you. They might even attack when they see you for the imposter you are.”

Her dramatic pause was infuriating, yet it sent a thrill through him. She knew how to provoke him, to toy with him, and for some reason, he didn’t mind.

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about me, love. I must admit, I’m touched,” he drawled, deliberately ignoring her jab about his soul. Damaged? Hardly. It was simply… divided.

“On the contrary.” She smirked, waving dismissively toward the herd. “Please, go ahead. I’m rather curious to see what happens to you.”

Something feral stirred within him at her brazen challenge, a primal urge to bend her over and thoroughly punish her… He cut off his thoughts, focusing instead on the task at hand.

“Anima Ventorum Alisquaerens,” Tom said clearly, holding out the carrots and sugar cubes he had summoned.

Every Abraxan turned to look at him. Their piercing gazes seemed to bore into his very core as they approached one by one, their heavy hooves echoing in the quiet stable. None lingered, each turning away after a brief moment, until finally, a small, scruffy creature with mouse-brown fur and a tangled mane shuffled forward. 

It accepted the carrot with a loud, wet crunch, chewing noisily as it stared up at him with doleful eyes.

The silence was broken by a strangled sound. Tom turned to see Hermione, hand over her mouth, shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter.

“Don’t,” he growled, narrowing his eyes.

“I—I’m trying,” she choked out, though her laughter spilled through her words.

Heat rushed to his face—something he hadn’t felt in years. He didn’t get embarrassed. He was always in control. And yet here he was, chosen by a winged pony that could barely be called an Abraxan.

“Are you blushing?” Hermione asked, her voice tinged with equal parts shock and amusement.

Tom ignored her, swinging onto the diminutive beast in one fluid motion. Once astride, he straightened his spine, looking down at her with calculated arrogance.

“Well,” he said airily, “I’m going flying. You’re welcome to join me—if you’re not too scared, of course. It would be perfectly understandable.”

Her eyes flared with indignation, just as he knew they would. She couldn’t resist a challenge. It was one of her most predictable—and delightful—flaws.

As his mount strutted past her, Tom noted how the massive black Abraxan, Onyx, pawed at the ground impatiently, clearly favouring Hermione. He glanced back over his shoulder.

“How am I even supposed to get on?” she called after him. “And don’t we need saddles?”

Tom smirked, flicking his wand with practised ease. Hermione shrieked as she was levitated unceremoniously onto Onyx’s broad back, her limbs flailing as she struggled to find her balance.

“That was uncalled for!” she yelled, her voice echoing through the stable.

Tom didn’t bother replying. Instead, he spurred his pony forward, and Onyx immediately gave chase, its hooves thundering against the ground as they raced into the open meadow.

Gripping the pony’s mane, Tom felt the wind whip through his hair as they gained speed. Behind him, Hermione’s Abraxan closed the gap with powerful strides.

His mount’s wings began to beat, the air rushing around them. With a final leap, they soared into the sky, leaving the earth behind.

A high-pitched scream tore through the night, and Tom turned just enough to glimpse Hermione clinging to Onyx as they too ascended, her hair streaming behind her like a fiery banner.

For a moment, he couldn’t help but grin. Hermione Granger was utterly breathtaking when she let go of her control.

***

Hermione

The wind tore at her carefully styled hair, sending it whipping around her face in wild, untamed curls. Flying on an Abraxan wasn’t entirely unlike riding a Hippogriff, though it was far smoother—more regal, somehow. Onyx’s powerful wingbeats grew less frequent as he soared, gliding effortlessly through the sky. The sensation felt faster, more exhilarating, than Hermione remembered from her youth. Not that she had much recent experience; it had been more than a decade since she’d ridden any flying creature.

Still, if given the choice, she thought she might prefer an Abraxan over a Hippogriff, Thestral, or a dragon. Onyx carried himself with an almost uncanny intelligence, as though he understood her limits and chose not to test them. His flight was steady, reassuring, unlike the erratic plunges of the scrappy brown Abraxan beside her.

“Whoaaaaaa!”

Riddle’s startled shout reached her over the rushing wind, and Hermione couldn’t stop a small, vindictive smile. She watched him cling desperately to his mount as it performed a reckless nose dive, then looped sharply upwards again in a way that made her stomach flip just observing it.

Serves him right, she thought smugly, though she tightened her grip on Onyx’s silken mane for good measure. When the black Abraxan turned his head to glance back at her, his golden eyes radiated calm reassurance, almost as if he were telling her to trust him. Hermione loosened her white-knuckled grip slightly and sat up straighter in the saddleless seat.

The night was breathtaking, the stars so vivid they seemed close enough to touch. Bathed in their soft glow, she felt a rare moment of serenity. Up here, soaring above the glittering lights of Malfoy Manor, her worries felt small—insignificant, even. For the first time in weeks, she felt light.

Her peaceful reverie was shattered as Riddle’s Abraxan spiralled around her and Onyx in a dizzying corkscrew. The smaller creature zipped past with terrifying speed, and Hermione heard another sharp yelp from its rider.

“Oh, do be careful!” she called, though her tone dripped with mockery rather than concern.

The image of Tom Riddle being unceremoniously dumped from his mount flashed in her mind, and she snickered despite herself. Of course, even if the Abraxan decided to throw him off, he could probably land safely—another missed opportunity, she thought with wry amusement.

Her smug thoughts were interrupted when Riddle and his mount plummeted toward the ground in what appeared to be a rather uncontrolled descent. Onyx huffed, as if in disdain, and began his own descent, a far smoother and more graceful movement that barely jostled Hermione.

When they landed in a small forest clearing on the eastern edge of the Malfoy Manor grounds, Hermione noticed how different Abraxans were from Hippogriffs in their descent. Rather than landing at a run, they hovered briefly, wings beating rapidly like giant hummingbirds, before touching down lightly on the grass.

Once Onyx’s hooves were firmly on the ground, Hermione allowed herself to release her death grip on his mane. Her legs trembled as she brought one over his side, hesitating. He was enormous—it must have been a two-yard drop to the forest floor. She considered casting a charm to soften her landing when Riddle stepped closer.

She froze as he approached. He was eye level with her thighs, seated as she was atop Onyx, and something about the angle stirred an unbidden warmth low in her stomach.

Without a word, he grasped her waist. His hands were strong, and he lifted her with surprising ease. Her breath caught as he lowered her slowly—far more slowly than necessary. Their proximity was intoxicating, his scent a blend of masculinity and something darker, something uniquely his.

Hermione stared fixedly at his shoulders, unwilling to meet his gaze. As she did, a thought escaped her lips before she could stop it. “Have you been… working out?”

Riddle set her down carefully, his hands lingering just a moment longer than was appropriate before releasing her. Onyx wandered off to graze, oblivious to the tension between his passengers.

“Pardon?” he asked, arching an elegant brow, his voice steeped in confusion.

Hermione flushed, grateful for the dim moonlight, though her embarrassment deepened when Riddle waved his hand, summoning dozens of fairy lights that bathed the clearing in a warm, golden glow.

“I mean—” She cleared her throat. “Your shoulders look broader than the last time I saw them.” She regretted it immediately and tried to recover. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

But his lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Ah, I see. You’re referring to when you had me half-naked and tied to a chair in your bedroom?”

Okay, so he had gotten over that at least. 

She blinked, startled by his directness, then straightened. “Yes, well, about that—I... Forget I said anything at all, it was a very inappropriate question.”

“That’s quite alright,” he replied smoothly, his gaze locking onto hers with disarming intensity. “I’ve been swimming daily. It strengthens the body, makes long-distance Apparition far less taxing.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes and gave his chest a light smack, her fingers brushing against solid muscle. “Planning another Apparition to Australia, are we?”

He glanced down at the spot where she’d hit him.

Shit. I hit Lord Voldemort.

For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he might retaliate. Instead, his expression softened, his dark eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.

Without answering, Riddle drew his wand and conjured a piano from thin air. It appeared with a shimmer of magic, the keys beginning to play a hauntingly beautiful melody of their own accord.

"I think you owe me a dance, Hermione." Riddle stepped into the open space of the clearing, his hand extended toward her.

She raised a skeptical brow, crossing her arms. "I must disagree. You saving my life was simply repaying a favor. Let’s not pretend it was anything more. Consequently, I owe you nothing."

The piano’s soft melody and the shimmering fairy lights added an unwelcome layer of intimacy to the moment, and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder: Was Riddle trying to be romantic? Was it honest or was this calculated? One glance at his sharp, confident features and those dark, daring eyes told her all she needed to know. He was playing a game. And she would not be a pawn.

“And before you argue,” she added briskly, “a gift is a gift. It shouldn’t come with strings attached.” Her hand briefly lifted to where the Amulet of Ashkara sat at the base of her neck.

Riddle arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “I wasn’t about to suggest—” He paused, clearing his throat. There was a strange hesitation in him, fleeting but noticeable.

“How about this,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “Do it just because I asked nicely.” He paused and then asked very politely: “Hermione, may I please have this dance?”

The unexpected "please" caught her off guard, and she faltered for a moment. Since when did he ask nicely? A glance at him, with his faintly amused smile and poised demeanor, made her wonder if she was hallucinating. But then again, tonight had already stretched the boundaries of reality.

He had been tolerable—nearly pleasant—even if still entirely too much for her to handle. Heroic, charming, and, dare she admit it, intriguing. She hated the way her thoughts wavered as her gaze lingered on his outstretched hand.

Saying yes felt dangerous. A symbolic surrender. Yet... she couldn’t quite resist. Perhaps it was the spell of the fairy lights or the lingering adrenaline in her veins. Or maybe it was the man himself, magnetic in a way that made her both furious and fascinated.

She wanted to take his hand, to have this dance with him. What harm could it do? She might have lost some time she should have spent working on Abraxas, but other than that, she was not in imminent danger—at least she didn’t think so. He had made it clear he did not want her dead. No, instead, he had saved her from Sallow’s attack and given her an invaluable protective talisman. She didn’t recognise him anymore.

But accepting his hand felt like a turning point. She was not half asleep like on those nights when he had come to her. She was fully present, with all her senses alert. Saying yes to this felt like saying yes to something more, and she didn’t want that. Did she?

She wanted to go home. There was nothing else for her here.

Still, Hermione met Riddle's eyes. Ice-cold fire burned in his black gaze, scorching her alive. Transfixed, she took a step toward him. After tonight, she would not need Malfoy anymore—if she played her cards right. Then she could put distance between herself and both Malfoy and Riddle.

Tomorrow, she told herself. But tonight, she could have this dance with this infuriatingly gorgeous man. Here and now, he was not Lord Voldemort to her. He was a little scary, yes, but he was not her enemy. At least, he didn’t know she was his, so it didn’t matter.

Slowly, she placed her hand in his. A shiver ran through her at the touch, her pulse quickening as his fingers closed around hers.

"Alright then, Riddle," she said, her voice firm but soft. "You may have this dance."

A flicker of triumph crossed his face, but he didn’t gloat. Instead, he pulled her close, his movements deliberate but unhurried. She rested her other hand on his shoulder, noting its solid strength. His free hand found her waist, guiding her closer still. He led with confident ease, and she found herself following his movements without hesitation.

Up close, the sheer presence of him was overwhelming. His dark gaze dipped to the amulet resting at her throat before meeting her eyes again. There was an intensity there, a quiet storm brewing beneath his composed exterior.

"Why do you keep calling me Riddle, even though I’ve given you permission to call me by my first name?" he asked, his voice low and quiet, breaking the heavy silence between them.

She tilted her head, pursing her lips. "Same reason you insist on using mine without permission," she replied. "Because I want to."

He sighed, a deep, indulgent sound that shouldn’t have been so distracting. Hermione bit her lip, willing herself to focus on his movements instead of the tantalizing thoughts threatening to overwhelm her. Thoughts of him making this sound in an entirely different much more horizontal position.

And then she stumbled. Just a small misstep, but it was enough to break her concentration. His arm tightened around her waist, steadying her effortlessly.

"Focus, Hermione," he teased, his tone light but edged with something deeper. "I’d rather not have you break my toes."

She managed a laugh, albeit a breathless one. "Please… your toes are fine."

Behind him, Onyx let out a soft whinny, and Hermione seized the chance to shift the topic. "Were you worried none of the Abraxans would choose you?"

His expression didn’t falter. "Worried? No. I’m not afraid of anything."

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. "Now, that’s a blatant lie."

As the melody swelled, he dipped her low, one hand firm at her back. The sudden proximity sent her heart into a gallop. His face hovered just above hers, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

"Did you see my fears in my future, Seer?" he asked, his voice a dark whisper.

She felt his strong hands tighten on her as he straightened her again, resuming their slow turn to the music. Hermione scoffed, finding her voice. "No, I am merely capable of logic and reason."

"Am I so predictable?" His tone was amused, but there was an edge to his question.

"You’ve made a Horcrux," she said evenly. "You’re clearly afraid of death."

His gaze darkened, and for a moment, she thought she might have gone too far. His lashes lowered, obscuring his expression, but when he looked back at her, it wasn’t anger she saw—it was something far more unsettling.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice like silk brushing against her skin, "who doesn’t want to live?"

She held his gaze, her breath catching. "Living, yes. But immortality? That’s a different kind of fear entirely."

His grip on her waist tightened briefly, and she wondered if her words had struck a nerve. But then he smiled—not a cruel smile, but one that was haunting in its beauty.

"You’re more perceptive than most," he said, almost as if to himself.

"And you’re less mysterious than you think," she shot back, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart.

Riddle didn’t reply. Instead, he simply turned her in time with the music, his expression unreadable but lingering on her as if searching for something she wasn’t ready to give.

Riddle’s eyes drifted toward the distance, his expression momentarily contemplative. Hermione, in turn, let her gaze linger on his face. The sharp lines of his jaw, the perfect symmetry of his features—it was maddening, really, how someone so utterly vile could look so flawless. A lock of dark hair had fallen free from its styled confines, curling onto his forehead like some hero from a dime novel. The urge to brush it back was almost unbearable.

“Also,” she began, breaking the silence, “I don’t think death is the only thing you’re afraid of.”

His attention snapped back to her, his lips curling into a sharp, knowing smile. “Please, love, enlighten me.”

There it was again—that word. Love. Casual, perhaps even meaningless when used by others, but utterly wrong when it came from him. Tom Riddle did not know love. He wielded the term like a weapon, just another tool in his arsenal of manipulation.

“You fear insignificance,” she said, tilting her chin up slightly. “The idea of being forgotten, of living an unremarkable life, terrifies you. That’s why you seek power, why you crave adoration. It’s not enough for you to live; you have to reign. You surround yourself with followers not because you value them, but because their devotion strengthens your position. Without them, you’d just be... ordinary.”

His fingers tightened again on her waist, digging into her skin with enough force to send a ripple of tension through her. She was speaking dangerous truths now, and she knew it.

“An interesting theory,” he murmured, his voice calm but edged with something sharper. “Tell me, what keeps you awake at night? Losing your precious loved ones, perhaps?”

Hermione stiffened. He was deflecting, steering the conversation away from himself. She could have resisted, but what would have been the point? “Yes,” she admitted simply, her voice steady. It was true, after all. It was her fear of never seeing her loved ones again that was the reason she was here tonight.

Riddle rolled his eyes, the gesture dismissive, almost bored. “How predictable. How... womanly.”

Her blood heated at his derision. “And what, pray tell, is so wrong with caring about others?” she shot back. “I may fear for the people I love, but that’s not all. I also fear failure. I want to leave this world better than I found it, and I’m terrified I won’t.”

His brow arched, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “A lofty ambition,” he remarked. “And how do you plan to achieve such a monumental feat?”

Hermione hesitated, then decided it was better he knew. Let him see where their ideals diverged. “I want to free the house-elves from slavery. I want children born to Ordie families to have the same opportunities as anyone else. I want the dragons in Gringotts to be freed from their torment. And I dream of a world where magic and Ordie technology work together, where we share art, culture, and knowledge. We could heal their ailments, and they could bring us—”

Riddle spun her suddenly, interrupting her words as the music swelled. When she came back around, her back collided softly with his chest. His breath brushed her ear as he murmured, “You’re an idealist.”

Then he turned her again. “It’s admirable,” he continued, his tone almost teasing. “But annoyingly so.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” she asked warily, scanning his expression for mockery.

“It is,” he replied evenly. “Your sense of justice and your relentless optimism are... unique. You want to heal, to fix, to protect. It makes you what most would call good and... light.” His words were deliberate, calculated. And yet, Hermione couldn’t help but hear what he left unsaid.

“You think me foolish,” she said, dropping her gaze to avoid the weight of his scrutiny.

His fingers caught her chin, lifting her face gently but firmly. “I think your goals are difficult, perhaps impossible. But you’re no fool. You’re intelligent, powerful, and tenacious. I believe you could accomplish almost anything, given time.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his gaze. The raw conviction in his voice was almost too much. She wanted to believe him, to take his words at face value, but with him, there was always an ulterior motive. Wasn’t there?

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The music built toward a crescendo. Hermione knew this moment wouldn’t last. One dance, and it would be over. She’d return to the manor, seek out Abraxas and her own ulterior goals, and keep her distance from Riddle.

But then he spun her again, this time with more force than necessary, and when she returned to him, her body collided with his. Before she could react, his lips descended on hers in a forceful, searing kiss.

The world froze. There was no music, no light, no air. Only him. His lips were hot and unyielding, demanding a response she wasn’t prepared to give. Her heart pounded in her chest, drowning out every other sound.

Then his lips began to move, his tongue seeking entrance, and Hermione snapped back to reality. 

What the actual flubberworm fuck?

She shoved against him with all her strength, but his grip was like iron. Fury coursed through her as she yanked her hand free and swung it toward him, landing an awkward backhanded slap that nonetheless left a small cut on his cheekbone.

Shit, I hit Lord Voldemort. Again.

For a moment, time hung suspended. His dark eyes blazed with anger as they locked onto hers. Slowly, his gaze shifted to her hand—and the ring on her finger. The notice-me-not-charm clearly failing now, that the ring had demanded notice by cutting his skin.

“You’re wearing it,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Hermione didn’t wait for him to make his move. A gust of wind, making of her wandless magic shoved him back, giving her just enough space to retreat.

“I’ve warded it,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “You can’t take it from me.”

His jaw clenched, fury radiating from him in waves. Hermione stepped back again, and her back brushed something solid and warm. Turning, she saw Onyx.

“Get me to Abraxas,” she pleaded. With another quick blow of air she climbed on top of him. The winged horse didn’t hesitate.

Onyx charged forward, building speed until they were airborne. Hermione couldn’t resist glancing back as they ascended, her breath catching at the sight of Riddle below. His broad shoulders were squared, his chest heaving, his eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

As the wind whipped around her, the term flight became a whole new meaning. 

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest. She might have gotten away for now, but whatever this was with Riddle, it wasn’t over. She was keenly aware of one unsettling fact—he had let her go. He could have stopped her easily, but he hadn’t.

He probably already regrets giving me that amulet, she thought bitterly, her mind spiraling. And here she was, regretting every life choice that had led to this moment, to him.

Lord Voldemort had tried to kiss her. No—he had kissed her.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat, escaping before she could stop it. The adrenaline still coursed through her veins, making her feel giddy and nauseous all at once. She had slapped him, cut him with his own Horcrux, and yet… here she was, still alive.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

Unless… unless he really didn’t want to harm her?

No. There was no way Tom Riddle—Lord Voldemort, the most malevolent man to ever walk the earth—was capable of anything resembling care. Let alone affection. Harry had once told her about Dumbledore’s theory—that Riddle’s inability to love stemmed from the love potion under which he was conceived. It was logical, reasonable. And yet, Hermione felt the ground of certainty shift beneath her.

She closed her eyes tightly, shaking her head as if to dispel the absurd notion. This was all a sick game, some twisted obsession he’d developed to unravel her secrets. Nothing more. She refused to entertain any other explanation.

The wind tugged at her hair and clothes as Onyx soared through the skies, the rhythmic beat of the Abraxan’s wings steadying her erratic thoughts. She had to stay focused. The sooner she cornered Abraxas alone, the sooner she could get what she needed. Then she could disappear—go underground until it was safe.

“Hermione, there you are!” Abraxas’s voice broke through her thoughts.

Her heart leapt, and a startled yelp escaped her as he appeared suddenly beside her in the night sky. She clung to Onyx with every ounce of strength, her muscles tensing.

“Whoa, sorry! Didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, raising a hand in mock surrender.

Hermione glared at him, still clutching Onyx’s mane. She’d half a mind to scold him but bit her tongue, exhaling sharply instead. “Warn a girl next time,” she muttered.

Abraxas chuckled, his easy confidence infuriating. “I was coming to look for you. Are you all right?” His sharp eyes scanned her, taking in her windblown hair and undoubtedly smudged lipstick.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, forcing her tone to stay even. “I was… looking for you, actually.”

Abraxas tilted his head, his expression skeptical but not unkind. “Were you? You look like you’ve been in a bit of a… situation. Were you with Tom?”

Hermione stiffened. “Can we not talk about him?” She tried to keep her voice casual, though she knew it wasn’t fooling anyone. “I think he’s… very angry with me right now.”

For some reason, her admission seemed to amuse Abraxas. The corners of his mouth lifted, though a trace of concern lingered in his eyes. “Fair enough,” he said lightly. “Would you like to return to the celebration, or—”

“No,” Hermione interrupted hastily. “Can we… go somewhere more private?”

That drew an outright laugh from Abraxas. “Well, I was going to suggest you freshen up anyway. You look a bit… ruffled.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean? I just flew at breakneck speed on an Abraxan. I’m meant to look like this.”

He raised a single, perfectly arched brow. “Are you?”

That’s when she noticed—there wasn’t a single hair out of place on his head. His robes were immaculate, as if the wind had politely chosen to bypass him entirely.

Realization dawned, and Hermione shot him a glare. “You could have said something!”

Abraxas smirked and flicked his wand lazily. The gusting wind stopped tugging at her hair and clothing instantly.

“Thanks,” she muttered, smoothing down her hair. “I could have thought of that myself.”

“Flying on an Abraxan is overwhelming, especially for a first-timer,” he offered diplomatically.

She snorted. “It’s not my first time flying.” She quickly reined in her irritation, forcing a small smile. While flying on an Abraxan paled in comparison to riding a dragon, she needed to keep him on her side.

As they began their descent toward the back of Malfoy Manor, she tried to steady herself.

Abraxas dismounted Aurelion with practiced ease, then turned to help her off Onyx. His hands were warm and steady, grounding her. They didn’t burn like Riddle’s touch had—didn’t send her nerves skittering like live wires.

His touch was safe.

But it didn’t make her pulse race, either.

Abraxas led Hermione up two flights of stairs to the west wing of the manor. At the end of a short hallway, he unlocked the heavy wooden double doors to what could only be the master chambers. But it wasn’t just a bedroom. The suite opened into a sitting area and study, illuminated by the glow of a roaring fireplace. A bar cart gleamed invitingly in the corner near a polished mahogany desk.

He gestured to a pot of Floo powder set beside the hearth. “I have to say official goodbyes to the guests leaving. You can use the Floo if you don’t want to wait up,” he said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t keen on her leaving.

Hermione nodded, keeping her expression neutral. She had no intention of leaving. Not yet. “Do you have a bathroom I could use to freshen up?” she asked. Tonight had been... eventful, to say the least, and she couldn’t afford to feel disheveled with what still lay ahead.

“Of course,” Abraxas replied, leading her through another set of doors into an adjoining bedroom. The sprawling space featured an enormous bed draped in dark green bedding, a walk-in closet lined with men’s clothing on one side and women’s—Amara’s, no doubt—on the other, and finally, the bathroom.

Hermione’s breath caught at the sight. Moonlight streamed through a skylight, illuminating a veritable jungle of plants. Greenery climbed the walls, hung in cascading vines from the ceiling, and framed the gleaming white porcelain fixtures. The shower was half-obscured by a lattice of ivy, while large-leafed plants curled around the edges of a freestanding tub with ornate serpent-shaped feet.

Abraxas lit several candles hidden amidst the foliage, their warm glow flickering over the leaves. “Feel free to use anything you need,” he said. “If there’s something missing, call for Diny or Dobby.”

She turned to face him and found his gaze fixed on her, a quiet intensity in his steel-gray eyes.

“I won’t be long,” he assured her.

Hermione tilted her head, letting a teasing smile curl her lips. “You keep saying that. Don’t keep me waiting too long, Abraxas.”

His eyes darkened, a flicker of hunger in their depths. “I love hearing you say my name.”

“Abraxas,” she murmured, her tone low and smoky.

He pressed his fist to his mouth as though battling some inner restraint. For a moment, the tension crackled between them, and Hermione felt the triumph of having him wrapped around her little finger. Perfect. If made a grand exit from the ball now, no one would miss him later.

“Go on, then, Abraxas,” she said, her voice lilting with an air of command. “Hurry.”

Instead of heading for the door, Abraxas closed the distance between them in three quick strides and kissed her. It was firm, fleeting, and utterly intentional—a promise, not an indulgence.

Before she could fully react, he pulled away, his expression unreadable as he turned and strode back toward the ball. His scent lingered: fresh air, firewhiskey, and clean aftershave with a hint of spearmint.

Hermione stood for a moment, absorbing the weight of his exit before turning to assess the room.

The bathtub beckoned. Its clawed feet shimmered in the candlelight, and the myriad taps reminded her of the Prefects’ Bathroom at Hogwarts. It practically begged to be used.

After magically closing and locking the bathroom door—one could never be too cautious—she unzipped her dress, letting it fall in a pool at her feet. She stepped out of her shoes and underwear, then turned to the mirror. Her fingers moved to the chain around her neck, attempting to remove the Amulet of Ashkara.

The clasp was infuriatingly intricate, and after several minutes of struggle, she gave up with a muttered curse. The amulet would have to stay. Her bracelet remained, too—Hermione never went without it—and Riddle’s ring stayed for practical reasons. Removing and recasting its protective enchantments was too much effort for one bath. She felt absurdly decadent soaking in a tub while adorned with jewelry, but she could hardly help it.

When the bath was filled, she shut off the taps and eased herself into the steaming water, careful to keep her hair dry as she leaned her head against the edge of the tub. The water was fragrant with herbs, spearmint mainly, its pale green hue perfectly complementing the greenery around her.

As she sank deeper into the soothing warmth, her fingers toyed idly with the amulet’s pendant. Its history tugged at the edges of her memory. She was fairly certain that it was in the possession of an American family in the second half of the 20th century. She had once read about the story of an old woman writing about the many instances in which it had saved her from harm. Yes—Jasmine Alkin, had written of its miraculous protective qualities in the late 20th century.

Hermione sighed, the weight of her situation settling over her again. Despite the time-stabilizing crystals in the True Time Turner, her presence was changing too much. Riddle giving her this amulet was a small ripple in the grand scheme, but she couldn’t ignore it.

Her thoughts churned like storm-tossed waves. There had to be a way to fix it. To set things right. The solution felt maddeningly close, just beyond her reach.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, the water cooling around her as her mind raced. Finally, the chill roused her, and she climbed out, scrubbing her face clean of smeared makeup and the sweat of the evening.

By the time she tied a bathrobe—soft as clouds and embroidered with the initials A.O.M. —around herself, her earlier buzz had faded. She needed a drink. Courage, liquid or otherwise, would be essential for what came next. Having to use an Unforgivable was not easy even with a stranger but cursing someone she actually liked, was an even bigger effort to overcome.

Padding barefoot to the bar cart, she surveyed its offerings. Firewhiskey, or… firewhiskey. No wine, of course. Wizards and their infernal taste for the strong stuff.

She poured herself a modest two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, the glass cool against her palm. Turning toward the fire, Hermione let the flames cast their flickering shadows over her face.

“Told you I’d keep you company when she left,” a voice drawled from the armchair by the fire.

Hermione froze. The glass slipped from her hand and hit the carpet with a muted thud.

She knew that voice too well by now.

Riddle rose fluidly from the chair, a book in hand, his gaze sharp and assessing.

“What are you doing here?” they both demanded in unison, their tones equally accusatory.

“Waiting for Abraxas,” they echoed again, voices overlapping, before silence settled like a storm cloud between them.

Riddle’s eyes roved over her, slow and deliberate, taking in every detail from her wild curls to the embroidered bathrobe cinched tight around her waist.

“I thought you’d left,” he said finally, waving his hand. The spilled firewhiskey vanished from the carpet, and the unbroken glass floated back to its place on the bar cart.

He moved closer, his strides unhurried but purposeful, his presence looming. Hermione’s muscles locked as he stepped beside her, his hand brushing hers when he reached for a fresh glass. He poured from a different decanter she’d chosen, his movements precise, deliberate.

He offered her the drink, and she took it, fingers trembling.

“Why didn’t you leave?” he asked, his voice unnervingly calm—too calm. It was the kind of calm that preluded chaos.

Hermione didn’t answer immediately, her mind racing for the right response. Riddle’s hand came up, brushing her curls back from her face, his touch light but suffused with a possessive energy.

“Answer me,” he commanded, his voice dipping to a murmur, as if daring her to defy him.

His scent enveloped her: dark, intoxicating, a blend of parchment and something sharper, uniquely him. He was everywhere—in her thoughts, in her space, invading her very senses. She quickly shot back the firewhisky, wincing at the sting in her throat.

“I told you,” she managed, her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her stomach. “I’m waiting for Abraxas.”

Riddle hummed softly, the sound vibrating between them. His eyes drifted to the amulet resting against her collarbone, his finger brushing the pendant in a featherlight touch that made her skin spark with heat.

“Now, what could you possibly want with him so late at night?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual, his black eyes fixed on her.

Hermione’s throat tightened. Every response felt like a trap. A lie was dangerous, but the truth would definitely be worse.

“I’d rather not say,” she replied carefully. “It’s... private.”

Riddle’s gaze sharpened, a faint smirk curling the corner of his mouth. He stepped closer, their proximity suffocating.

“Private?” he echoed, his voice soft, mocking. His fingers ghosted over hers as he took the empty glass from her hand, the brief contact setting her nerves alight.

“Now, if I didn’t know better,” he continued, his tone a silken taunt, “I’d assume you were waiting for him to... entertain you. But that’s not possible, is it?”

Hermione’s jaw clenched. She could neither confirm nor deny his insinuation, though the truth was far less scandalous. Her goal was the time-turner’s temporal sand, not Abraxas—or anyone else. But Riddle's words, his nearness, had her body betraying her better judgment.

Her silence only seemed to embolden him. His hand shot up, gripping her chin with cool, unyielding fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. His face, flawless and sharp as a blade, loomed so close she could feel his breath against her skin.

“No running this time,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “I demand to know: What could he possibly offer you that I can’t?”

Hermione’s mind raced, every instinct screaming for escape, though the floo was a tantalizingly distant option.

“I just… don’t want you,” she spat, twisting her face to break his grip.

“Don’t you dare lie to me.” His hold tightened, though not painfully. His voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes gleaming with a dark intensity. “I see how you look at me. How you tense when I’m near. How your pupils dilate when our eyes meet.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she forced a bitter laugh. “Have you considered I might be afraid of you?”

Riddle tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he was determined to solve. “I have,” he admitted, his tone almost curious. “But fear doesn’t explain this.” His free hand skimmed her arm, light as a breath, his touch igniting a trail of fire down her skin. Goosebumps spread all over.

“I’ve seen what you’re capable of, what you will become,” she bit out, summoning every ounce of defiance she had left. “Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid, knowing what I do.”

His lips curled into a faint smile, equal parts amusement and menace. “And yet, you claim to know some future version of me.” He leaned closer, his voice a velvety whisper. “But you’ve made no effort to understand this present version of me.” He pauses, his fingers lingering on her skin. “See? I can touch you, without harm. I have no ill intent towards you or the amulet would hurt me. What else proof do you need? I am not dangerous to you.” 

Oh, but he was. If he knew, who and what she was or when she was from, what she had done, he would know that she was his biggest enemy. All it took was one slip up.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest, though she willed herself to appear composed. “I believe you believe that,” she said evenly, “but I simply can’t trust you. Not with this.”

Riddle scoffed, releasing her with a sharp, dismissive motion. She stumbled a step back, startled by the abruptness of it.

“So, you trust Abraxas instead?” His voice was biting, rising in accusation. “He’s no better than me. Or have you not seen what he’s capable of?”

Hermione’s chin lifted defiantly. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t trust him either,” she snapped. The words were out before she could stop herself, and regret followed instantly. She had to stop blurting the truth to him.

Riddle’s laugh was humorless, his eyes glinting with anger. “Then what are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone almost a roar.

“I... I...” Damn it. Her mind scrambled for a plausible answer. “I need to talk to him.”

“In a bathrobe, no less,” he sneered, his lips curling into something between amusement and disgust.

Hermione’s hands balled into fists. “Urgh!” A frustrated sound escaped her. “Just get out! It’s private, and I don’t want you here.”

“You don’t get to order me around,” he shot back, voice chillingly calm now. Before she could react, he shoved her against the bookshelf behind her.

Hot anger surged through her veins, but she forced herself to remain calm. She couldn’t afford to lose her composure. His ego—bruised and bristling—was clearly the issue here. Men. They never changed.

Taking a steadying breath, she met his cold stare. “Look,” she began with forced calm, “this is getting heated. Let’s take a step back. If you want, we can talk later, but right now, I need you to leave. Please.”

Something flickered in his expression. Then, to her surprise, he chuckled. It was a low, menacing sound that sent more goosebumps racing up her arms.

“Oh, I see it now,” he murmured, stepping closer again, cornering her against the shelves. “You need something from him.”

Her heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t know. Could he?

Riddle’s gaze bored into her, dark and calculating. “Yes, that’s it,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “You said that you need something before you can go home. I saw his vault in your mind. You’re after something from the Malfoy fortune.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione replied, but her voice lacked conviction.

“Is it?” His smirk widened. “Your face says otherwise.”

His gaze raked over her, predatory and mocking. “So, what was the plan, then? Bat your lashes? Spread your legs? Offer up some little fun time in exchange for a key to the vault?”

Something in her snapped.

A sharp gust of magic erupted from her, slamming Riddle into the wall on the other side of the study. He crumpled with a grunt as books rattled on their shelves.

Hermione crossed the room in a flash, her face alight with fury. “You do not get to call me a whore!” she shouted.

Riddle’s shoulders shook with laughter. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, brushing nonexistent dust from his jacket.

“Alright,” he said, hands raised in mock surrender. “You’ve made your point. That wasn’t very gentlemanly of me. My apologies.”

Hermione glared, untrusting.

“How about a favour for a favour?” he continued, his tone now infuriatingly casual. “One word from me, and you could have anything you like from that vault.”

Her jaw tightened. “What do you want in return?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady. “A date, I presume?” she added bitterly, recalling his repeated attempts to drag her into his games.

“Oh no, love,” he drawled, smirking. “The price has gone up.”

Her stomach dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know,” he said softly, his tone darkly amused. “Since I could just tell dear Abraxas that his new... friend is only after his family’s treasures and that he should never give it to her….”

The implication hit her like a blow. “So what, then?” she demanded, her anger rising again.

Riddle leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Show me how much you want it,” he said with a slow, deliberate smirk. “Get on your knees.”

Hermione froze. He had to be joking. But his expression told her otherwise.

“You despicable—” she began, jabbing a finger into his chest.

The door beside them flew open. Abraxas stood in the threshold, his brows arching in confusion at the sight of them.

“What’s going on?” Abraxas asked, his eyes drifting over their closeness, Hermione’s disheveled state and the faintly smug look on Riddle’s face.

“Marvellous, mate! So good of you to join us,” Riddle exclaimed brightly, his entire demeanor shifting. “Hermione here was just about to tell me how urgently she needs something from your—”

Hermione silenced him by slapping her palm over his mouth. “How urgently I’d like some alone time with you,” she said quickly, glaring at Riddle.

To her surprise, Riddle didn’t stop her. If anything, he seemed amused, leaning lazily against the wall, his hooded eyes fixed on her with dark intent.

Abraxas hesitated, closing the door behind him. “Right,” he said slowly, his gaze darting between the two of them. “What were you fighting about?”

Before Hermione could answer, Riddle gently pried her hand from his mouth, his expression unreadable.

“It was nothing, really—” Hermione began, but her voice failed her.

Riddle had silenced her with a wordless spell and leaned forward to her. His lips brushed her ear as he murmured, low and menacing, “It’s simple, love. Do what I want tonight, and I’ll help you. Or I’ll make sure you never set foot in that vault. Do you understand?”

A lump settled heavily in Hermione’s throat. Even if she could speak, words would have failed her. Was this truly her choice now? Submit to Lord Voldemort's sadistic power play or abandon her only chance of returning home? Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall.

“You see, Abraxas,” Riddle said conversationally, as if discussing nothing more important than the weather, “Hermione needs something from your Gringotts vault. Isn’t that right, love?” His gaze lingered on her, a silent challenge. Choose how this ends.

Abraxas tilted his head, his confusion evident. “Well, what is it? We can go tomorrow if you’d like. Almost anything in there is yours for the taking—I’ve plenty to spare.” His voice was calm, almost kind, but it only made Hermione’s stomach churn.

She bit the inside of her cheek, willing herself not to cry. Showing desperation in front of these men would be a mistake she couldn’t afford. A silent Finite Incantatem washed over her, freeing her voice. But even with the spell lifted, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to speak. The weight of Riddle’s presence and her own spiraling thoughts paralyzed her.

Obliviating Abraxas had always been a fallback plan, but Tom Riddle? That was an entirely different challenge. Abraxas Malfoy was bound to him—Riddle’s shadow, his servant in all but name. No, there was no escape from this.

Could she do it? Could she degrade herself, barter her dignity?

She swallowed hard, the self-loathing already pooling deep within her. Hermione knew this kind of cruelty was uniquely reserved for women, an agonizing blend of humiliation and exploitation. Harry had faced death a hundred times over, but this? This was a different kind of battlefield.

“What will it be, love?” Riddle’s voice was a slow drawl, deceptively soft as his fingers brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Do you want to go to Gringotts with Abraxas tomorrow?”

Hermione’s resolve hardened. She would get the True Time-Turner and leave this nightmare behind. She wouldn’t rebuild her own; she wouldn’t stay here a second longer than necessary. She would get Crookshanks and return home with him. Home. 

She nodded once. A single tear betrayed her, slipping silently down her cheek.

Riddle clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Now, now. None of that, love. You should be thrilled—you’re getting exactly what you want.”

He reached out, brushing the tear from her face with infuriating tenderness before turning to Abraxas.

“Be a good mate,” Riddle said with a sly grin, “take a seat over there. Hermione has a little... show planned for you.”

Hermione froze. No.

But Abraxas, bewildered yet obedient, stepped into the armchair by the fireplace. “Tom, what’s going on here?” His voice wavered, but Riddle silenced him with a cold glare.

“Quiet.”

The air grew thick, oppressive, as Riddle turned his attention back to Hermione. He caught the tie of her bathrobe and gave it a single, deft tug. The fabric parted, slipping just enough to expose her stomach and hint at more beneath. The firelight danced across her skin, leaving no illusion about her vulnerability.

Riddle’s eyes dragged over her form with calculated precision. 

“Don’t you want to return the favour?” he mocked her and Hermione’s hands trembled as she reached for the buttons of his shirt. 

If only he were ugly, Hermione thought. But each button revealed more of his chest, every detail unnervingly perfect. His body was a cruel betrayal of his soul: lean, powerful, exuding masculinity without excess. Since the last time she had seen him shirtless, his pectorals had gotten more enhanced and his abs more defined. It was sinful how beautiful he was and even though Hermione did not want to like it, she could not deny how utterly sexy he was.

Her fingers faltered as she worked her way down, hating how warmth pooled low in her belly. She despised him, yet her body betrayed her under the weight of his attention.

When the last button slipped free, his shirt fell open, revealing the trail of dark hair leading below his trousers.

“Well done, love. Now lower the suspenders for me, would you?” Riddle purred, his praise cutting her deeper than any insult.

She reached out to Riddle's shoulders, stripping off the suspenders on each side, until they hung loosely from his hips. His skin was hot beneath her hands, which somehow surprised her. She would have expected him to be ice cold. 

“You did great.” he praised her, just like before. It deeply unsettled something rotten and needy inside Hermione. 

Behind her, Abraxas’s breathing was loud, ragged, though Hermione didn’t dare turn. She kept her focus on Riddle, whose smirk deepened as he shrugged her robe from her shoulders.

The fabric pooled at her feet, and Hermione stood utterly exposed. The firelight cast a golden glow over her skin, but the heat that bloomed wasn’t from the flames.

Riddle reached out, brushing his thumb over her left nipple. The touch sent an unwelcome jolt through her, and she bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a reaction.

“Kneel,” he said softly.

Hermione’s breath hitched. She met his gaze, silently pleading for mercy. He tilted his head, amused by her try. He was, after all, Lord Voldemort, and he did not know mercy or kindness. 

“Now.”

A wave of unseen force pressed down on her, forcing her knees to the carpet. She gasped, her heart hammering in her chest as Riddle stared down at her.

Hermione had always prided herself on control—in life, in love, in every aspect of her existence. But now, stripped of that control, she felt utterly adrift. Everything in her screamed to run, but a deep, depraved part of her told her to stay. To let him take this control, to steer her. To let go. 

Her hands moved on their own, trembling as she reached for his trousers. Her mind grasped at trivialities, like the antiquated buttons of his fly, to keep from unraveling completely.

But when she tugged the fabric open and saw him—hard, straining against the confines of his underclothes—her thoughts scattered. This was Voldemort, the darkest wizard of all time, and he was… massive. Her stomach twisted violently.

Hecate help her, what was even happening at this point?

“Touch me,” he instructed, his voice deceptively soft, a honeyed threat wrapped in civility.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry as parchment. Panic surged through her like icy water, and she realized with rising dread how unprepared she was. Her hand trembled as she reached out, closing around him through the fabric of his boxers. A shuddering exhale escaped him at her touch. He was thick, her fingers barely encircling him. Though he was the largest she had ever held, he wasn’t monstrous—just another reminder of his unnerving perfection.

The sensation was surreal. Hermione felt detached from herself, as if observing the scene from afar. Her grip tightened, a reflex of frustration and resignation, as she rubbed him more roughly than she would have under different circumstances.

Riddle’s hand shot out, seizing her jaw with equal force. His fingers dug into her skin, not enough to bruise but enough to establish dominance. “Rewards will be given to witches who behave,” he murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “Will you behave, or do I need to... encourage you further?”

The pressure of his grip made her wince. “I’ll behave,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she loosened her hold.

He studied her for a moment longer, then released her with a quiet hum of approval. Yet, inexplicably, she found herself missing the contact.

“Good,” he said smoothly. “Then get to it.”

The words sliced through her spiraling thoughts. She tried to focus on the logic of the situation: one act of degradation for freedom. A transaction, nothing more. With an effort, she Occluded her mind, pushing back the whirlwind of emotions.

Her hands moved mechanically as she tugged down his boxers, freeing his length. The firelight caught on him, casting shadows that made the moment feel even more intimate—and suffocating. She grasped him with one hand, the cool metal of his Horcrux ring pressing against his heated skin. She stroked him slowly, trying to buy herself time to fight against the dryness in her mouth, her thumb spreading the bead of pre-come glistening at the tip.

“Don’t take too long, love,” he warned, his voice strained but still laced with mockery. “I might start to think you’re not enjoying yourself.”

Hermione’s gaze flicked up, meeting his hooded eyes. The way he looked at her—predatory, possessive—was filthy and enthralling.

“Yes, Hermione, do it,” Abraxas urged from behind her, his voice thick with desire. “He tastes divine, I promise.”

Her stomach churned at the sound of his voice, but it was the nudge she needed to lean forward. Bracing herself with one hand on Riddle’s thigh, she took him into her mouth, testing her limits. When he hit the back of her throat, she stilled, struggling to adjust.

“That’s it,” Riddle groaned, his hand tangling in her curls. He guided her movements with an unsettling gentleness, pushing her further until she gagged. Only then did he let her pull back.

Hermione worked the length she couldn’t fit with her hand, maintaining a steady rhythm. Riddle was tense all over, his masculine scent all around Hermione, almost making her forget who was watching them.

“He likes it faster,” Abraxas suggested, his tone heated.

Hermione paused to glare at him, but before she could say anything, Riddle’s grip tightened in her hair, forcing her back to her task. “Eyes on me,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument.

She obeyed, increasing her pace. His breath hitched, and she felt a twisted sense of satisfaction at the effect she had on him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his praise sending an unexpected thrill through her. The words lit something deep and primal within her, a need she didn’t want to name. Her movements grew bolder, her tongue swirling around his tip, savoring the salty tang of him despite herself.

“You’re taking me so well,” Riddle praised, his voice thick with approval. His hand tightened in her hair, pulling her down further until she thought she couldn’t take any more.

She released him with a gasp, her cheeks flushed and her lips slick. “Squeeze his balls,” Abraxas suggested, his voice a low rumble.

Hermione hesitated but complied, her hand moving to cradle and gently massage Riddle. His groan was guttural, his grip on her scalp nearly punishing as he pushed her further onto his cock.

“Perfect,” Riddle said, his voice heavy with satisfaction. “You’re behaving so well.”

A moan escaped her before she could stop it. The sound embarrassed her, but the wetness pooling between her legs betrayed her conflicting emotions. Shame and desire warred within her, each feeding the other.

“On all fours,” Riddle ordered, pulling her head back so she was forced to look up at him. His eyes burned with dark promise. “You’ve earned a reward.”

Her body moved on instinct, obeying before her mind could catch up. As she sank to all fours, her heart raced with equal parts fear and anticipation.

“Come here, Abraxas,” Riddle said, his voice a low purr. “Our witch has been so obedient. Let’s not disappoint her, return the favour.”

For a moment, the room fell silent, save for the crackling fire and her ragged breathing. Then she felt him—Abraxas—kneel behind her. His fingers traced the curve of her hips, parting her cheeks with deliberate care, his breath hot against her skin. A shiver ran down her spine.

“Salazar’s mercy,” he muttered reverently before his tongue pressed against her, gliding over her slick pussy and drinking her in as though parched. “You’re exquisite… absolutely soaked for him.” His voice was low, almost guttural, as his breath teased her most sensitive parts.

Hermione gasped aloud, her body jolting as his tongue began circling her clit with unnerving precision.

“Didn’t I tell you, darling?” Riddle’s voice drew her attention, smooth and commanding. He knelt before her now, dark eyes locking with hers as he tilted her head upward with a sharp tug of her hair. “I always keep my promises to you.”

She barely had time to respond before his arousal was at her lips again. Guided by his firm hands, she took him in, her lips stretching over his cock. But the rhythm she had worked to maintain earlier faltered under the new onslaught of sensation. Abraxas was relentless behind her, his tongue exploring her, his grip on her hip tightening to hold her steady as he worked her over. Each flick and press of his tongue sent fire surging through her.

Her focus scattered like dry leaves in a gale, and she struggled to maintain her rhythm. When her teeth inadvertently scraped the underside of Riddle’s length, he hissed sharply. His grip on her hair tightened.

“Easy, love,” he murmured, his voice smooth but edged with warning. “No need to fret. Just follow my lead.”

With that, he took control, his hands guiding her motions. She surrendered, letting him dictate the pace, her lips and tongue yielding to his command.

“Perfect,” he praised again, his voice low and velvety. “Relax your jaw, pet. Take me deeper. You can do that for me, can’t you?”

Her nod was instinctive, her hum of agreement vibrating against him. It should have alarmed her how eagerly she obeyed, but there was no room for fear—only a desperate, burning desire to prove herself.

“Good girl. Now, look at me.”

She strained her neck, her eyes lifting to meet his. Those dark, magnetic eyes held her captive, his gaze swallowing her whole.

“Want to know how good you feel, love?” His voice dripped with wicked intent, and before she could wonder what he meant, the connection snapped into place.

His mind invaded hers with a force that left her breathless. Suddenly, she wasn’t just experiencing her pleasure—she was feeling his. The slick heat of her mouth around him, the tightness of her throat as he pushed deeper. The way her lips stretched to accommodate him. His hunger for her mirrored her own, amplifying every sensation until it was overwhelming.

A choked moan escaped her as he thrust fully into her throat. She couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this. She needed more of Riddle. More of Abraxas. More of everything.

Riddle pulled back, his length glistening with her saliva, only to thrust forward again with deliberate force. She gagged, her body straining as he spilled into her throat. Stars exploded behind her eyelids, the sheer intensity of feeling his orgasm leaving her trembling as his release coated her insides.

“Two fingers,” Riddle commanded sharply, his voice cutting through the haze.

Abraxas didn’t hesitate. His fingers slid into her, filling her, stretching her as another wave of pleasure crashed over her. The sensation was too much—too sharp, too deep. Her muffled scream vibrated against Riddle as her climax overtook her.

The connection severed abruptly as Riddle withdrew, leaving her gasping for breath. She collapsed forward onto her elbows, her body trembling with the aftermath. Spit and his release dripped from her lips and chin, the evidence of her submission impossible to ignore.

***

Tom

Hermione was a vision of disarray before him, her composure utterly shattered. The perfect, good little witch, now dirty and undone—because of him.

Behind her, Abraxas sat back on his heels, a wicked grin playing on his lips as he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt in one deliberate, filthy motion. His pale eyes flicked to Tom, silently seeking permission.

Tom didn’t acknowledge him immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered on Hermione. She was trembling, her breathing uneven as she braced herself on her forearms, her head lowered. Her weight shifted forward, her back arched, and her hips lifted in a silent, instinctive plea.

Tom rose fluidly, re-buttoning his trousers and stepping away toward the bedroom. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the stillness. Reaching the bed, he turned, seating himself on the edge as his commanding voice cut through the charged air.

“You can have her now,” he said, his tone clipped yet indulgent.

Hunger lit in Abraxas’ eyes—a spark of triumph. He’d been very good tonight, and Tom was a generous man.

Abraxas wasted no time, stripping off his shirt and tugging down his trousers in haste. His arousal was evident, and his breathing quickened as he positioned himself behind Hermione. His hands found her hips, stroking her with a mixture of reverence and greed. His gaze flickered between the enticing sight before him and Tom, as though seeking approval.

“She’s dripping,” Abraxas breathed, his voice thick with desire as his fingers explored her pussy. “So wet, it’s running down her thighs.”

“Good,” Tom said with quiet authority. “Then fuck her.”

Abraxas complied immediately, withdrawing his fingers to position his cock. Hermione let out a gasp at the loss, her hips instinctively pressing back, her need palpable. Tom smirked. He had felt her desire earlier—the overwhelming lust and yearning she had kept contained for so long. Tonight, she had finally let go.

Admittedly, exploiting her praise-kink and the firewhiskey he had given to her, that had been laced with a tiny dose of Amortentia, had helped. He should thank Dolohov later. He had often described how it could help with overcoming inhibitions and giving in to one’s desires, though Tom had never needed it before. Tonight it had given him the last advantage. She finally let go. He saw her lust for him. She wanted him. 

Abraxas teased her entrance, rubbing the head of his cock against her centre. Hermione stilled, her breath hitching in anticipation. Tom leaned back, pulling his wand from his sleeve. With a lazy flick, he cast a contraceptive charm over them.

The moment the spell took hold, Abraxas slammed into her, eliciting a moan that echoed in perfect harmony with the rhythm of his thrusts. Her body responded beautifully, her tanned skin glowing in the firelight, every movement a testament to her release of control.

“Don’t neglect her, Abraxas,” Tom instructed, his voice smooth yet edged with authority.

Abraxas obeyed, his hand slipping around to her front to stroke her clit. Hermione’s reaction was immediate—she threw her head back, her curls cascading away from her face as her moans grew louder. Her eyes found Tom’s, and the heat between them was palpable.

“That’s it,” Tom murmured, his gaze locking with hers. “Keep your eyes on me, love. Let him fuck you, but don’t you dare look away from me.”

Her defiance was gone, replaced by something deeper, more primal. She matched Abraxas’ movements, jerking her hips to meet his thrusts. Her eyes never left Tom’s, burning with a passion that thrilled him.

When her movements became frantic, Tom leaned forward slightly, his voice a sharp command.

“Say my name.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, and she bit down on her lower lip, refusing to comply.

“Don’t let her come until she says it,” Tom ordered. Abraxas slowed his pace, his fingers stilling as Hermione hissed in frustration.

“What should I call you? Lord Voldemort?” she spat through clenched teeth, her voice trembling with defiance.

Tom’s smirk widened. “I’ll take Tom.”

Her defiance only deepened, and her breaths quickened as her body tensed.

“Stop,” he instructed, and Abraxas froze instantly.

Hermione whimpered, her hips bucking back in a futile attempt to regain the friction she craved. Tom, with a subtle flex of his magic, held her still.

“Say my name, and you can come,” he told her.

For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by Hermione’s ragged breaths. Then, finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she relented.

“Tom.”

The word was barely audible, but it was enough. Abraxas drove into her with renewed vigor, his movements desperate and unrelenting.

“Clever witch,” Tom murmured, his tone one of dark satisfaction as he watched the two before him. Abraxas’ hand moved skillfully, stroking Hermione as he thrust into her, their bodies moving in perfect synchrony.

When Hermione’s climax overtook her, she screamed Tom’s name, over and over, her voice mingling with Abraxas’ groans of release. The sound was intoxicating—a divine symphony that left Tom breathless.

Leaning back on his elbows, he admired the aftermath. Hermione lay trembling, her breaths uneven as she collapsed forward. Abraxas knelt behind her, just as spent.

“Get her cleaned up and bring her to bed,” Tom instructed, his voice calm yet firm.

Abraxas nodded, carefully lifting Hermione in his arms. Tom watched them disappear into the adjoining room before retrieving a pair of silk pajamas—black for himself and emerald green for them.

When he returned, Abraxas laid out a half-asleep Hermione on the bed, her exhaustion evident. Gently, he helped her into the oversized green pajama top before tucking her beneath the heavy sheets. She murmured something unintelligible, her hand reaching for him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassured her, a pleased smile spreading across his face. He’d won.

Sliding into bed beside her, he gestured for Abraxas to join them.

“Get in before I change my mind,” he said.

Abraxas wasted no time, pulling on the green pajama bottoms Tom had left out for him and slipping in on Tom’s other side. As the fire dimmed to embers, Hermione and Abraxas both curled against him, their heads resting on his chest.

Tom leaned back, running a hand through Abraxas’ pale hair as he felt their breaths even out, their bodies relaxing against him.

“I know technically you won,” Abraxas murmured sleepily, “but I still feel like I did.”

Tom’s lips twitched in amusement. “As you should. Loyalty always earns its reward.”

Abraxas said nothing more, his leg draping over Tom’s as sleep claimed him. Tom lay still, listening to their synchronized breathing, the weight of his triumph settling over him like a warm cloak. No one defied him—not for long.

He always won.

Chapter Text

Hermione

When Hermione woke, she had no idea where she was. The silk sheets, cool and smooth against her skin, were utterly unfamiliar. She heard a man’s gentle snoring nearby, accompanied by the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. She was warm and cosy—lying on a man’s chest. 

And he smelled divine. Masculine and heady, like a fantasy she hadn’t dared to imagine brought vividly to life. 

Then it hit her. The memory struck like ice water: Tom Riddle.

She froze.

Her mind raced as she assessed the situation. She couldn’t determine if he was awake or asleep. Focusing on the snoring, she realised it was coming from Abraxas, lying further away. Riddle’s chest rose and fell beneath her cheek with a calm, steady rhythm, and his heartbeat remained even. If he was feigning sleep, he was a consummate professional. Convinced he was asleep, Hermione cautiously began to move. 

She gingerly lifted his arm, which was draped around her waist. The weight of it sent a shiver through her that she forced herself to ignore. Inch by inch, she freed herself and slid off the bed.

The room was dim, the faint light of the moon and stars filtering through the many windows casting silvery shadows. Hermione could barely make out the two men lying there. Abraxas was shirtless, his pale skin and platinum hair gleaming faintly in the darkness. 

The sight only added to her growing sense of disorientation. She felt untethered, as though trapped in a fever dream. With her heart hammering, she slipped into the plant-filled bathroom through the adjoining walk-in closet. 

Her bladder had been the cause of her waking, but relieving herself in the moonlit bathroom did little to clear her mind. What had happened? 

Hermione wasn’t prudish, but she’d never been particularly sexual either. She’d enjoyed her partners in the past, certainly, but nothing like this. She had never felt this overwhelming, insatiable desire—this raw hunger. She had never been this wet, this… undone. And she’d never climaxed so hard that her body gave out from exhaustion. 

And two men. She gripped her hair tightly. Blackmail or not, it wasn’t just out of character—it was inconceivable. Who had she become? That memory didn’t feel like her. 

Her eyes fell to her reflection in the floor-length mirror, then to the silk sleep shirt adorning her body. She certainly hadn’t put it on. One of them must have dressed her. The vulnerability of that thought twisted her stomach. She clutched at the thin fabric, her mind spiraling with possibilities. What if the notice-me-not charm on her scar had failed? What if they’d tried to remove the cursed ring from her hand? What if they’d triggered Fiendfyre-rune in the process?

She gazed at her hand, at the ring gleaming faintly on her finger. Perhaps it was the Horcrux, sinking its claws into her, manipulating her thoughts. 

It doesn’t matter, she told herself firmly. As soon as she got her hands on the Time Turner, she would leave it—and its owner—behind. 

Just a few more hours.

Hermione sat on the toilet for far too long, debating with herself. She needed space to think, to breathe. She couldn’t return to that bed. 

Steeling herself, she found her underwear near her discarded dress and slipped it on. She tiptoed past the sleeping figures, pausing only to retrieve her wand from the bathrobe on the floor of the study. Clutching it tightly, she crept out of the room. 

The only part of the manor she could reliably navigate to was the ballroom. It should be empty at this hour. 

When she stepped inside, she was startled to see the remnants of Abraxas’ memory projected across the space: the two of them strolling through sunlight-dappled grounds. Hermione’s laugh echoed softly through the air, a ghostly sound that didn’t belong in her current state of mind. Her younger self looked carefree and hopeful, with Abraxas at her side, baby strapped to his chest. He had seemed so kind then—charming, even. Just a father and a flirt. 

But it had all been a lie. She had fooled herself into believing he wasn’t like the others. That he wasn’t Lord Voldemort’s follower, wasn’t a soon-to-be Death Eater. But he was. He was a Slytherin. A Malfoy. A man who had gone along with whatever Riddle wanted, exploiting the situation without hesitation. 

A tear slipped down her cheek as the memory shifted. It was replaced by the scene from her own past—a sunny afternoon in the library of the AACOM. Hermione’s chest tightened. She remembered that day vividly: the relief of finishing exams, the carefree chatter of students enjoying the summer weather. She had gone to the library instead, poring over her notes, checking answers she thought she might have gotten wrong. 

Rowan Thorne had come to drag her outside, teasing her for her dedication. It was the first time in months she had felt like herself again—free from the crushing weight of war and survival. No Horcruxes. No Death Eaters. No Voldemort. Just school. 

Her vision blurred as more tears fell. But here she was again, back in the thick of it. Back to Horcruxes and survival. Back to him. Every thought, every fear, circled inevitably back to Tom Riddle. 

The projection changed again, this time to the dark, churning waves she had noticed earlier. The inky water swirled violently, engulfing her. She shivered. It mirrored her turmoil too perfectly, as though the magic itself could see inside her. The oppressive loneliness of it was suffocating, a stark contrast to the sunny memories from before. 

Then, abruptly, it shifted back to Abraxas’ memory, the bright sunshine almost blinding after the darkness. She realised it must be the memories of the only remaining people at the manor. All others had left and taken their memories with them. 

The endless loop of recollections only deepened her despair. She was swimming in an ocean, not equipped to withstand the waves and streams whipping her around. She couldn’t escape it—none of it. 

She sank to the floor, hugging her knees tightly as the projections played on. The scenes blurred together as the hours passed, the faint light of dawn creeping through the grand windows. Hermione sat there, staring blankly at the shifting memories, her tears flowing freely. 

***

Tom

When Tom woke, he immediately knew she was no longer beside him. Abraxas’ soft snoring came from his left, but her presence, her warmth, her curly mane was gone.

A flicker of annoyance stirred in him. He no longer had any of her belongings enchanted to track her movements, which left him in the irritating position of not knowing where she had gone.

He checked the adjoining bathroom and study, his movements quiet and precise. 

Nothing. 

She was nowhere to be found. The realisation grated on him. He wasn’t done with her. How dared she leave?

Without a sound, Tom slipped through the window. The chill of the night air barely registered as he flew, as always not requiring a broom, to the iron gates of Malfoy Manor. Passing through them with practiced ease, he apparated directly to her hotel.

Breaking through her protective spells took mere minutes, though he allowed himself a sliver of satisfaction at how intricately she’d layered them and added new ones since the last time. But when he finally stepped inside her room through the balcony doors, the only thing that greeted him was the ridiculous orange cat.

She wasn’t there.

For a moment, his actions felt rash, almost absurd. Breaking into her room yet again, as if compelled, was becoming tiresome. He stood there, jaw tightening, and made a vow: the next time he entered this room, it would be because she had invited him.

But the thought of her, the memory of her, was maddening. He had only just begun to taste her, and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

His gaze flickered over the room, the cat winding itself through his legs. With a touch of amusement and irritation, he bent down to stroke the creature once. Then he cast an Invenio Tenebris on everything she owned, imbuing each object with the spell that would allow him to find her again, should he need to.

As he moved through the room, a strange sensation fluttered in his chest when he noticed what was tucked beneath her pillow: his torn, bloodstained shirt.

He picked it up, staring at it for a moment. She must have slept with it, and as he brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, his body reacted instinctively. He hardened immediately, the desire for her crashing through him like a wave upon smelling her so intensely.

It was almost unbearable, this hold she had over him. It wasn’t something he had anticipated, nor something he particularly liked, but it was undeniable. With a sigh of frustration, he took the shirt, unable to leave it behind.

That was when he noticed the strange rectangular object with white cords attached, resting on her nightstand. It seemed important to her, though its purpose eluded him. He picked it up, studying it briefly, before charming both the shirt and the device to be sent to his flat, where they would wait for him.

Satisfied for now, Tom turned on his heel and left the room. He apparated back to Malfoy Manor, his determination to find her sharper than ever.

***

Hermione

There was a faint pulse from the Horcrux on her middle finger. Hermione assumed he was watching her from the entrance to the banquet hall, though he didn’t make himself known. She could feel him, his gaze heavy on her.

“What?” she called out, her voice echoing sharply in the empty hall.

“Pardon?” came his smooth reply, far closer than she’d expected. She whipped around to face him, her heart pounding.

The light from Abraxas’ memory flickered across his face, highlighting his perfect features. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed intently on her.

“What do you want?” she snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. “Haven’t you gotten enough?”

Riddle took a few unhurried steps toward her, his movements casual yet predatory. “I personally don’t understand why you are being so sensitive,” he said, a cruel grin playing on his lips. “You’ll have everything you wanted soon enough. You’ll leave, just as you planned all along.”

Hermione bristled, tears pricking at her eyes yet again. His obsession with her was unbearable, suffocating. He knew she had no intention of staying—she had been clear about that. And yet he continued to torment her, as if her admission had struck some unseen nerve. Why wouldn’t he just let her go?

“Fuck you,” she spat, lowering her head to her knees and turning away from him.

She heard him approach but refused to look up. When he settled beside her on the floor, close enough for her to feel his warmth but not touching her, she felt her frustration boil over.

“I have to say, Hermione,” he began, his voice low and mocking, “you are the brightest witch I ever met, but I’m finding you sorely disappointing at the moment.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes blazing with fury. She was so over his behaviour. His words and actions cut her deeper than she ever thought possible and now he came just to belittle her further? Hermione was baffled at the audacity of this man. 

“Spit it out, Tom. I don’t have the energy for your riddles.”

He scoffed, the sound derisive. “You claim to be such a skilled potioneer, yet you haven’t worked it out?”

The air between them froze, the weight of his words sinking in. Hermione’s breath caught as a terrible realisation took root in her mind.

No. He didn’t.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, unable to mask her shock. He looked infuriatingly composed, his dark eyes glinting as though daring her to put the pieces together.

He couldn’t have.

But he had.

Hermione felt her stomach twist, her mind spinning with horror and disgust. Her thoughts jumped to Merope Gaunt, to the stories she had pieced together about how Riddle’s mother had enslaved his father with the very same potion. The irony was staggering.

The whiskey. He had poured her a glass from a specific decanter. He had known exactly what was in it. And she hadn’t smelled the Amortentia because it had been masked by the overwhelming familiarity of the scents it conjured for her: spearmint toothpaste, the herbal bath she’d just taken, fresh parchment from Abraxas’ study, and… him. His cologne, his aftershave, his presence.

She never stood a chance.

“You used a love potion on me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The disbelief was so overwhelming that she forgot to sound angry.

Riddle shrugged, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Couldn’t have been more than a few drops of Amortentia. Hardly worth mentioning.” He explained, propping up a leg, his dark eyes daring her. Hermione wondered if he wanted her to hex him. She considered him wanting to dominate her once more in a duel to be something he might get off on. Maybe that was his kink. 

A bitter laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. The absurdity of it all was too much. But it also led Hermione to a very intimate realisation of an entirely different kind. He apparently didn’t even know. He had no idea that the potion his mother had used to trap his father was likely the reason he existed at all.

And now, here he was, using the same vile tactic to ensnare her.

As she looked at Riddle’s perfect face. She knew he was testing her. Provoking her to see where her limits lay.

Riddle’s expression shifted, his brows furrowing slightly as she continued to laugh. He remained silent, watching her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

He was such a mommy’s boy, and he did not know. 

Just. wow. 

When her laughter dissolved into tears of anger and desperation, Hermione wiped her face with trembling hands. “I hate you,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion.

Riddle waved her words away dismissively. “Don’t pretend I could have done anything to change your prejudiced opinion. You’ve despised me from the start. Nothing I’ve done has altered that.”

She shook her head, fixing him with a glare that burned with all the fury and anguish she felt. “No, listen to me. I. Hate. You.”

“Why are you being so emotional about this?” he asked, his tone almost bored. “Is there a fiancé or a husband waiting for you in Australia?”

“No,” she replied shortly.

“Then I fail to see the issue. You clearly enjoyed yourself earlier,” he said, reaching out to brush the tears from her cheek.

She caught his wrist before he could touch her again, her grip firm. Their eyes locked, his dark gaze as intense as ever. Once, that look would have shaken her to her core, but meant nothing to her anymore now that he finally had shown his ugly true self.

“From the bottom of my heart,” she said, her voice steady and cold, “I hate you, Tom.”

***

Tom

While part of him was thrilled that Hermione had finally addressed him by his first name, the far greater part was not at all pleased that she despised him with such intensity.

“There’s so much passion in hate,” he murmured, pulling his hand back. “I am truly blessed you bestow it upon me, love.”

She glared at him, but he saw the truth in her defiance. She might hate him, but she wanted him too. It was there in the way only he could ignite her temper, in the way her fire burned brightest when directed at him. And it was undeniable—etched into his mind—the way she had screamed his name, even as another man had been inside her.

Hate was manageable. Lust was an opportunity. Hermione Granger was on her way to becoming his in every way that mattered. She simply didn’t realise it yet.

His words seemed to stun her into silence, her tears slowing until they barely glistened on her flushed cheeks.

“The potion,” he said, his voice soft yet unwavering, “was not potent enough to alter what you want at your core. It merely… encourages. The choices you made were still yours. Do not torture yourself over the sacrifices you made to get what you wanted, especially when you seemed to enjoy them so much. The body craves what it craves. There is little you can do to change that.”

It was an excuse he had repeated to himself countless times. Adolescence had brought challenges he hadn’t anticipated. He had learned quickly that if he didn’t address certain… physical urges, his temper would shorten, and his focus would waver. Yet those urges had always been impersonal, mechanical. A means to an end. He had never wanted another person the way he wanted Hermione. And he could not accept that it wasn’t the same for her.

Watching the devastation written across her features, Tom realised something. It wasn’t the events of the night before that troubled her—it was her own desire.

“Unless that’s the problem,” he mused, his tone deliberately provocative. “You feel shame because you liked being with two men? Because you enjoyed sucking my cock and then being fucked by another?”

She started to respond, her fury palpable, but a voice interrupted them.

“There you are. What are you doing here?” Abraxas stood in the open doorway, shirtless and looking remarkably unconcerned.

Hermione and Tom both turned toward him. The moment Abraxas noticed Hermione’s tear-streaked face, he strode over to her, dropping to his knees in front of her. He cupped her face, his brows furrowed with concern.

“What’s going on?” he asked softly.

Tom watched with satisfaction as Hermione leaned away from Abraxas’ touch, her aversion to Tom seemingly extending to his accomplice.

“Hermione needs to decide,” Tom said calmly, “if the events of last night will break her or if she can overcome the trivial moral discomfort of enjoying what happened to achieve what she wants.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped back to him, the fire in her eyes rekindling. Ah, there it was. The fury, the defiance. His little menace was back.

“I have endured things tenfold worse than this. You could never break me so easily,” she shot back, her voice like steel.

Tom’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk. That was the Hermione he wanted—the force to be reckoned with, the unyielding witch who matched his own intensity.

“What do you mean?” Abraxas asked, his tone uncertain. “What have you endured that was so awful?”

Hermione fixed him with a sharp look, clearly debating whether or not to answer. After a moment, she tilted her chin up and began.

“I have been hunted and tortured. I have fought dark wizards and won. I have nearly had my soul stolen by the kiss of a Dementor. I have ridden a dragon and fought trolls. I have endured slander from the press. I have conquered the Veil of Fears. I have been petrified by a basilisk and survived. Shall I continue?” Her voice dripped with defiance, her brown eyes gleaming with pride.

Abraxas gawked at her. “No, that’s fine… but there’s no way you’ve ridden a dragon!” he exclaimed, though the awe in his voice was unmistakable.

Tom kept his expression neutral, but her words struck a nerve. The mention of the basilisk sent a ripple of unease through him. It was dangerously close to secrets he could not afford to have uncovered. He needed to redirect the conversation before it lingered there.

“What is the Veil of Fears?” he asked smoothly, drawing her attention back to him.

Hermione’s angry gaze locked on his. It was infinitely better than the numb despair she’d worn earlier. For the first time, Tom realised something startling: he didn’t enjoy seeing her broken. He didn’t want to hurt her, though he could have done so easily. No, he wanted her fiery, furious, and alive. He wanted all her emotions, raw and vivid, directed at him.

Caught in his gaze, Hermione hesitated before responding, and it was Abraxas who answered first.

“It’s just a cautionary tale parents tell their children,” he said dismissively. “You know—‘eat your vegetables, or the dark wizard will make you go into the Veil of Fears.’ That sort of thing.”

Hermione interjected, her voice sharp with indignation. “It is more than that. The Veil of Fears is real. It’s located in the mountains near Durmstrang. Few dare to enter, and even fewer emerge unscathed.”

As she spoke, her tone shifted into the familiar cadence she used when lecturing, and Tom felt a flicker of something akin to admiration. He could listen to her endlessly, narrating things he had never seen or heard before. She was a living testament to the wonders of magic.

“So it’s like a boggart that kills?” he asked, still not entirely understanding.

“No,” she corrected, her hands gesturing animatedly as she explained. “A boggart shows you your worst fear. Let’s say your biggest fear is dying, a boggart might show you your lifeless body, but the Veil might force you to experience it—perhaps even make you choose how you die. But everything feels real. You wouldn’t know it’s the Veil until it’s over.”

Tom’s brows furrowed. “But then I would be dead. And if dying is my biggest fear, why would I do it?”

Hermione clicked her tongue and waved her hand like he was not seeing the obvious. “It could have you choose from either being killed painfully or in an undignified way or offer you to do it yourself in a manner of your choice. But that is the thing, you don’t know that it is the Veil. You can either overcome and conquer your fears, which the fewest do or you could endure it, or you could succumb to your fears.”

“And die?” 

“Maybe. Or you might survive, but not unscathed. Some go insane. They’re never the same again. Imagine the aftermath of a Dementor’s kiss—that sort of hollow existence,” she said matter-of-factly.

“But you survived,” Tom said, his voice low and intent. “Did you endure or conquer?”

Hermione’s lips curved into a slow, proud smile. “I took control. I overcame everything the Veil put me through and made it my own.”

Her pride shone brightly, and Tom felt a surge of admiration. She was strong, clever, and powerful. The perfect counterpart to his ambition. To have her stand beside him, even with her moral compass pointing in the opposite direction, would be his greatest victory.

“How is it that I’ve never heard of this Veil of Fears?” Tom asked, his tone casual but probing. He didn’t doubt Hermione’s words, but he wanted to see how she’d respond to further questioning.

“Because it’s not real,” Abraxas interjected dismissively, though his voice lacked conviction.

Tom, however, was certain Hermione was telling the truth. While she often skirted full disclosure, this time her words carried the unmistakable weight of honesty.

“Except it is real,” Hermione countered, her voice steady but tinged with exasperation. “You’ve never heard of its location or true properties because Durmstrang professors and alumni keep it hidden—both from the public and their younger students.”

Tom arched a brow. “As far as I know, you weren’t a Durmstrang student either.”

“I wasn’t,” she admitted, her gaze briefly flickering downward. “But… a boyfriend of mine was. He connected me to his old professor, thinking it could help me deal with some trauma. I studied under the professor for months after my graduation, and it was he who prepared me and took me to the Veil of Fears.”

Bitterness stirred in Tom’s chest. The thought of another man playing such a significant role in her life, being privy to her pain, filled him with loathing. He despised the idea of anyone else courting her, let alone earning her trust.

“Half of my family went to Durmstrang,” Abraxas said skeptically. “None of them ever mentioned the Veil being real.”

Hermione didn’t argue. Instead, she rose gracefully to her feet and approached the Pensieve. Her smooth legs, exposed beneath the hem of the silk shirt she still wore, caught Tom’s eye. He forced himself to focus on her movements, on the deliberate care with which she extracted two wispy strands of memory and placed them in the basin.

“If you won’t believe me,” she said evenly, “let me show you. This is only part of what I endured, but it will give you an idea.”

The air in the room shifted as the memory unfolded. Warm sunlight gave way to the cold, grey light of overcast skies. Rain pattered softly on a needle-covered forest floor. The AACOM library was gone, replaced by a dense forest drenched in mist. The memory’s Hermione stood beside an older man, clad in plain black robes that mirrored her own. His grey ponytail and weathered face gave him an authoritative, forbidding presence. Together, they stood before the entrance to a dark cave. But it wasn’t just a cave—it was something far more foreboding. A shimmering, almost liquid curtain covered the gaping mouth of the cavern.

“See the gleam?” the real Hermione said from beside the Pensieve, her voice soft but firm as she pointed toward the curtain. “Once you step through, there’s no turning back. You forget everything—the Veil, why you’re there, how you arrived, or at least I did. I do not know what it is like for others, but what you experience feels entirely real. That is the same for everyone”

In the memory, Hermione looked younger, yet older in a way. Her face carried a weight of responsibility and sorrow that made her appear as if she’d aged beyond her years. Her expression was set in grim determination as she inspected the shimmering curtain.

“You must decide now,” said the older man, his heavily accented voice rolling his "r"s with sharp precision. “Enter or leave.”

Hermione nodded, taking a deep breath. Without hesitation, she stepped through the glimmering curtain.

The memory shifted instantly. The ballroom was plunged into absolute darkness, so complete that even the faint light of the Wiltshire sunrise couldn’t pierce it. Tom’s vision was useless, though he could hear Abraxas breathing beside him, shallow and strained. Even his own heartbeat seemed muffled in the oppressive void.

Then came the scream.

It tore through the silence like a blade, raw and unrelenting. Hermione’s scream. It was the sound of pure agony, filling every inch of the space.

Tom’s eyes flashed red, illuminating the scene with an eerie glow. He saw the real Hermione still standing on the dais by the Pensieve, her expression distant as she listened to the memory’s cries. In the memory, there was no visible figure, only darkness. But the sound… Tom knew it. He had heard it before. It was the unmistakable cry of a person enduring the Torture Curse.

“It felt like the Cruciatus,” the real Hermione said, her voice cutting through the cacophony. She turned to look at him, her gaze easily finding his blaring red eyes. “I thought I was back in the time when I had been tortured. Everything that had happened since was wiped from my memory. I had no idea where I was or what was happening.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. He did not like this—any of it. The thought of someone torturing her, making her scream like that, stirred a murderous rage in him.

“Who tortured you?” he demanded, his voice sharp and dangerous.

Hermione’s expression didn’t falter. “That’s irrelevant, as they’re not alive to tell you about it,” she replied coolly. “This goes on for a while—until there’s light. A person I’d thought long dead appeared, offering to end it if I agreed to commit to their dark cause and help them torture others in return.”

As she spoke, the memory shifted. A dim, flickering light revealed the scene: Hermione’s younger self lay crumpled on the ground, blood trailing from her nose, eyes, and ears. Above her loomed a pale, wild-haired witch, her black curls streaked with grey. The witch’s hollow face was illuminated by a single candle, her yellowed nails clutching a wand pointed directly at Hermione. The younger Hermione twitched and whimpered beneath her, no longer screaming, her body wrecked by what must have been hours of torment.

“Be smart, girl,” the witch whispered, her voice soft and wicked. “Help us. Bow to him , and all of this stops.”

Tom’s blood boiled. Who was “him”? And who was this vile woman daring to torture what was his?

The real Hermione stepped closer to the memory, pointing at herself. “I had been resisting for hours by this point,” she said. “I think I would have gone insane if I hadn’t ended it here.”

In the memory, Hermione’s battered form nodded weakly, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. The witch above her lowered her wand and cleaned her up with a muttered spell, though her expression remained predatory.

“You’re making the right choice,” the witch said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Your powers will be very useful to our cause. Follow me.”

The witch extended a hand to help her stand, and Hermione hesitated before taking it, her movements slow and deliberate. Even in her broken state, Tom could see the wheels turning in her mind. She was still thinking, still planning, still resisting in her own way.

The memory began to fade as the two figures walked into the void, leaving behind an empty, dark expanse.

“You have to understand,” Hermione said, her voice steady but distant, “my greatest fear was always that these dark wizards would harm my friends and family.” 

Tom pondered if they had been in league with Grindelwald perhaps. But he could not imagine why his followers would have tortured her. Also the timing did not line-up with her age.

Tom turned his attention back to the scene around them. The memory Hermione walked through the endless void, the soft flicker of a single candle her only source of light. Beside her, the older witch loomed like a shadow, her presence oppressive and insidious. Ahead, the void shifted, revealing a small cell illuminated by the faint orange glow of the candlelight. Inside stood a man around Tom and Abraxas’ age, clad in crimson robes that resembled a uniform. His strong brow, slightly crooked nose, and close-cropped dark hair gave him an austere appearance. His eyes, however, were arresting—dark, severe, and unwavering. He held himself tall and proud despite the dire circumstances.

“This is Viktor,” the real Hermione said, her tone softening as her gaze lingered on the young man. “He was my boyfriend at the time. He introduced me to his old professor. Even though I didn’t remember him as my boyfriend at that moment, I felt something—something deep and undeniable. He had always been so good to me.”

Tom’s jaw tightened as a bitter heat surged in his chest. He hated Viktor instantly. The sentiment in Hermione’s voice as she spoke about him was unbearable. It grated on him, sharper than any blade. He found himself wishing she would just get on with it—curse the man, make him suffer, something—anything to sever the connection she clearly still felt.

“Go on then, girl, you make him submit, just like I just showed you.” The older witch ordered Hermione, whispering in her ear from behind her and put a wand in her right hand. Hermione stood very still staring at the young man in the cell. 

In the memory, Hermione raised her wand, her hand trembling. Viktor didn’t flinch or plead. He simply met her gaze with a calm resolve.

“Do it, Hermione,” Viktor said, his voice steady and tinged with the same accent as the professor who had taken her to the Veil. “I will never help them, but this isn’t your burden to carry.”

Tom’s lips curled into a sneer. How noble. How insufferably self-sacrificing. He despised Viktor even more for it.

“You must understand,” the real Hermione interjected, pulling Tom’s attention back to her. “I am not a murderer. I never was. I’ve always been morally opposed to killing—still am, actually. But the Veil doesn’t care about morals. It forces you to become your own worst nightmare.”

Tom returned his gaze to the memory, his sharp eyes fixed on Hermione’s trembling hand and the pain etched into her face. Her emotions were raw and unguarded—pain, regret, and an unyielding determination clashed in her features. She stood frozen, caught between her ideals and the unbearable weight of what was demanded of her.

Tom felt a surge of something he rarely experienced: the urge to protect. He wanted to destroy the witch behind Hermione, the one who had orchestrated this cruel test. He wanted to obliterate anyone who had hurt her, anyone who dared to torment what he now considered his.

In the memory, Hermione’s trembling stopped. Her shoulders squared, and her hand steadied.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The flash of green light was blinding in the darkness. Viktor’s body crumpled to the ground with a sickening finality, the sound echoing in the oppressive void. The older witch behind Hermione let out an angry scream, but the memory-Hermione’s face betrayed no emotion beyond resolve.

The scene dissolved, replaced by the familiar light of the AACOM library. The real Hermione reached into the Pensieve and pulled the silvery threads of memory back into herself.

“She went back to torturing me after that, because I did not torture him like she wanted me to” Hermione said, her tone flat but heavy with meaning. “We repeated the same scenario with my parents, my best friends… anyone I cared about. But I never tortured them. I ended their torment before it could start. I became a killer so they could be free.”

Tom studied her face as she spoke, the quiet weight of her words sinking into the air between them. He understood now. Hermione believed death was preferable to a life of pain, and she had embraced the role of executioner to spare her loved ones.

It was a choice he could respect, though he didn’t agree. He would have done things differently—he would have chosen torture, manipulation, whatever was necessary to keep them alive. But then… What if it had been her? What if Hermione were the one lying on the floor, pleading for him not to hurt her? Would he have been able to harm her? The thought unsettled him. No. He would protect her, not destroy her.

“How did you get out?” Abraxas asked, his voice cautious, almost reverent.

“The Veil ran out of people I cared for,” Hermione said simply, her gaze flitting between Abraxas and Tom. “After that, it set me free.”

She twisted her wand between her fingers, the small movement betraying the tension she still carried.

Tom tilted his head. “So… did it help? With your fears?”

Hermione’s expression remained neutral, but her words carried a sharp edge. “I realised I always had a choice. And I learned that, while I prefer not to, I am a very skilled killer. Not once has my Killing Curse failed me.”

Her whiskey-brown eyes locked onto Tom’s, unyielding and defiant. Lesser wizards would have crumbled under her gaze, but Tom only smiled. His witch was threatening him—it was utterly endearing. Their journey was far from over, and with each passing day, Tom grew more certain that she was meant to be part of his future.

A slow smile spread across his face. “You are extraordinary, love, and so is your Killing Curse.”

It might have been the most genuine compliment he had ever given, though Hermione didn’t appear flattered. She looked away, her gaze dropping to the floor as she continued to twist her wand in thought.

“He’s right, Hermione,” Abraxas added. “And I must admit, the Veil of Fears looks very real. Please forgive me for ever doubting you.”

Hermione offered him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes, well, I’ve been through worse,” she replied. There was no bitterness in her voice, only quiet acceptance.

“Marvellous,” Tom said, his tone brisk. “Then everything’s settled. We can return to bed, and as soon as the banks open, we’ll apparate to Diagon Alley.”

Something shifted in the room. Hermione and Abraxas exchanged a glance, a look laden with unspoken understanding. Tom’s eyes narrowed.

“What is it?”

Neither of them spoke. More glances, more silent communication.

“Out with it,” Tom demanded.

Abraxas opened his mouth, but Hermione kicked him in the shin before he could speak. “There’s no need for you to come with us,” she said quickly, speaking over Abraxas’ pained “Ouch.” “Abraxas and I can handle it on our own in the morning.”

Tom’s lips curled into a condescending smirk. “No chance. I’m far too curious to see what’s so important that you’d get on your knees for it.”

He flicked her nose in a move that felt both patronising and strangely affectionate. It was an unnatural gesture for him, but it pleased him nonetheless.

“No, you can’t. It’s not what we discussed—” Hermione began, but Tom interrupted her smoothly.

“Save your breath. I’m coming, or it’s not happening.” He turned to Abraxas, who was still rubbing his leg. “And you—what were you about to say?”

Abraxas hesitated, glancing at Hermione, who shook her head in resignation. “We don’t need to wait for Gringotts to open,” Hermione admitted finally. “The Malfoys have a private entrance in their cellar.”

Tom’s pride bristled at being out of the loop on something so basic, but he kept his expression neutral. “Even better. Let’s get dressed, then.”

***

Hermione

Everything was awful. Hermione dressed quickly and privately in the jungle bathroom, the delicate bracelet on her wrist providing a fresh set of robes. The sound of water dripping somewhere in the distance and the humid air clinging to her skin only added to the oppressive weight on her mind. She paced the small space, her steps muffled against the plush bathroom rug as her thoughts raced.

She needed a plan. Something quick, decisive, and effective. Grabbing the Time Turner was her only priority, but how? Her options felt limited without tools like P eruvian Instant Darkness Powder or any other of the Weasleys’ ingenious inventions. She cursed herself for not being better prepared. Maybe she could create a distraction—a well-placed Reducto perhaps? It wasn’t ideal, but it might buy her the time she needed.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. “Are you ready?” came Abraxas’ polished voice.

Hermione paused, staring at her reflection in the fogged mirror. Her brown eyes stared back, burning with determination. “Wing it,” she whispered to herself before opening the door.

Abraxas stood there, tall and immaculately dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit. The silver tie he wore bore the Malfoy crest, catching the light as he adjusted it casually. He looked every bit the aristocratic pure-blood, annoyingly handsome in his effortless elegance.

Behind him, Riddle stood in stark contrast, dressed all in black, his suit sharp and minimalist. He had foregone a tie, leaving his collar open just enough to reveal the pale skin at his throat. Where Abraxas was handsome, Riddle was striking—an image of refined beauty that bordered on otherworldly perfection. It was maddening.

The two men exuded civility as they led her through the manor, their polished appearances a stark juxtaposition to the wild, primal versions of themselves she’d faced only hours ago. Hermione’s stomach churned at the memory. These men had been feral monsters, yet now they played the roles of perfect gentlemen, as if nothing had happened.

Silence hung heavy between them as Abraxas guided them down to the cellar. At the end of a dimly lit hallway, they stopped in front of what appeared to be a blank stone wall. Hermione frowned as Abraxas removed his signet ring, twisting it until a tiny needle emerged. Without hesitation, he pricked his finger and pressed it against a specific brick in the top right corner of the wall.

“Indigo,” he said clearly.

The wall began to shift. Bricks rearranged themselves with a grinding sound, much like the entrance to Diagon Alley, until an archway revealed itself. Beyond it, Hermione could make out the rough, cave-like walls of Gringotts’ depths. The dim light filtering through the arch cast jagged shadows on the uneven stone, giving the space an eerie, ancient quality.

“Do you choose the password?” Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Yes,” Abraxas replied. “I change them every full moon.”

Riddle’s dark eyes flicked toward her, his brows furrowing slightly at her question. Hermione ignored him. She didn’t care if her interest seemed suspicious; she would be gone soon enough.

“You’ll need to hold my hand to pass through,” Abraxas explained, extending his left hand toward her. “Only Malfoys or those they bring can cross, but there must be contact.”

Hermione took his hand, feeling its coolness against her palm. Riddle took Abraxas’ other hand, completing the chain. Together, they stepped through the archway.

On the other side, they emerged onto a small stone platform overlooking the vast, cavernous depths of Gringotts. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint metallic tang of earth and ancient magic. A single goblin stood behind a lectern, dozing lightly. The space was lit by a few enchanted torches that flickered weakly against the damp stone walls, their light barely cutting through the gloom.

Abraxas cleared his throat, and the goblin startled awake, his horn-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. His nametag read Magnar , and Hermione noted his short chestnut hair and the faint lines on his face that suggested middle age for a goblin.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” Magnar said, his tone polite but brisk. “I see you’ve brought guests. How can I assist you today?”

“I require access to my vault,” Abraxas said curtly, withdrawing a small key from his jacket pocket. The politeness he extended to Hermione was absent here, his tone cold and commanding.

“Certainly,” Magnar replied, flipping through a ledger without looking up. “Would you like to update the blood wards, or shall we address that another time?”

Abraxas stiffened beside her. Hermione glanced at him and saw his jaw tighten. She didn’t need to be told what this was about. She remembered his earlier confession of loneliness and his grief over the loss of his wife and family. This question was a painful reminder of those losses.

Without thinking, Hermione reached out and squeezed his hand. His fingers were cold, but he returned the gesture, his grip firm yet grateful.

“Yes,” he said finally, his voice clipped. “You may remove my late wife from the wards.”

Magnar made a note in his ledger, scratching out something with a quill. “Shall I add your son in her place?”

Abraxas’ grip tightened briefly in hers before he released her hand. “Not today. He’s not with me.”

Hermione’s mind raced. She hadn’t accounted for Abraxas’ child in her plans. Of course the baby was a Malfoy. It was a lazy oversight.

“And Demeter and Athena Malfoy? Are they to remain on the wards?” Magnar asked.

Abraxas flinched, the smallest jerk of his hand betraying his pain. Hermione looked up at him, her chest tightening at the grief etched into his face.

“You may remove Athena,” he said stiffly. “I am certain now that she is dead.”

Hermione’s intuition told her to glance at Tom. She needed to see if this revelation was news to him. His flawless face betrayed nothing, not a single flicker of emotion. But she kept looking, scrutinising every detail.

Then she saw it—a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth. The barest hint of a smile.

Hermione’s breath caught. He knew. No, more than that, he was involved. She was sure of it now. Tom Riddle had something to do with the disappearance of Abraxas’ family.

Her wand slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stone floor. Tom turned at the sound, his eyes meeting hers with a cold, unreadable expression. Then he smiled, polite, calculated, fake. With a flick of his hand, he levitated her wand.

“Careful, love,” he said, placing it in her hand. “Don’t lose this.”

A chill ran down her spine. His tone was light, almost teasing, but Hermione saw the truth in his eyes. He was taunting her. She tightened her grip on the wand, her knuckles turning white.

The goblin motioned for Abraxas to follow, leading them to a metal rail track where a small cart awaited. Tom extended a hand to guide Hermione forward, his touch hovering near the small of her back. She didn’t move.

“I know what you did,” she whispered.

Tom leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “If you’re talking about me coming down your throat, then yes, I know what I did too.”

Funny , Hermione thought. 

“I know you killed his mother and sister,” she said coldly, ignoring his vulgar comment.

Tom inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of him wrapping around her like a trap. “There’s no proof,” he murmured, his voice calm, almost amused.

Hermione stepped away from him and went to join Abraxas in the cart. “I don’t think he’ll care about proof when I tell him.”

She didn’t wait for a response, leaving Tom standing on the platform. He climbed into the cart behind her, his presence looming as they shot forward into the dark, twisting depths of Gringotts.

The cart drove at a breakneck speed, veering around sharp corners and plunging down steep slopes. The wind howled past, whipping her hair into her face, and she could feel Riddle swiping it away irritably a few times; it must have slapped him in the face, too. The clattering of the metal wheels echoed off the rocky walls, amplifying the sense of chaos as the cart twisted and turned through the labyrinthine tunnels of Gringotts.

Magnar, entirely unfazed by the dizzying speed, casually turned to Abraxas. “The vault number, if you please,” he instructed. “The wagon won’t stop otherwise.”

Hermione knew the number well—too well. She had spent countless hours inside it during her apprenticeship. The memory of those days, so different from now, seemed almost like another life.

“Vault number 003,” Abraxas said, his tone clipped and formal.

The cart screeched to an abrupt halt, the force of it sending Hermione tumbling into Abraxas and Riddle. She muttered an apology under her breath, but neither man acknowledged it. They climbed out onto the stone platform, the cool air of the underground brushing against her skin.

“The key, please,” Magnar said, extending his hand.

Abraxas retrieved the intricate key from the inner pocket of his jacket and placed it carefully into Magnar’s palm. As the goblin turned to lead them forward, Hermione took in their surroundings. Three dark tunnels extended ahead, each yawning like the open mouth of some ancient beast. The faint sound of dripping water echoed around them, accompanied by the low rumble of distant machinery.

Beside the railroad tracks sat a wooden box filled with familiar contraptions. Magnar gestured toward it. “Everyone, take one of these.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted as she recognised the objects: dragon deterrent noisemakers. The small bells and clappers were a crude reminder of the horrors once used against these magnificent creatures. The image of the dragons she had helped liberate in 2004 burned in her mind. Back then, they had been banned from underground vaults, thanks to her tireless efforts. But now, standing in this moment decades before her appeal, the grim reality of Gringotts’ cruelty hit her with full force.

She took one of the noisemakers, her fingers curling around it reluctantly, and followed the group into the leftmost tunnel. Darkness enveloped them, the dim glow of Magnar’s lantern casting eerie, flickering shadows on the damp walls. The sound of dripping water grew louder, mingling with the rhythmic tap of their footsteps. The further they walked, the cooler the air became.

Suddenly, a burst of hot flame illuminated the tunnel ahead, its heat briefly brushing against her face. Hermione froze, her heart pounding as the roar of the fire echoed around them. Magnar immediately began shaking his bells, and the rest of them followed suit. The harsh, discordant clangs reverberated through the tunnel, sending shivers down her spine.

A screech answered the noise, sharp and agonised. Hermione clenched her jaw as they rounded the corner and entered a large cavern. Her eyes went straight to the source of the sound. A dragon.

The creature was cowering in the far corner, its massive frame hunched protectively over its head. Its once-majestic wings were shredded, the membranes hanging in tattered ribbons. Scales that should have gleamed like polished armour were dull and marred with scars. The dragon’s laboured breaths filled the space, a low, guttural rumble that resonated in Hermione’s chest.

She averted her eyes, unable to bear the sight any longer. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill yet again. She hated this—hated wizardkind and their willingness to exploit and abuse anything they deemed lesser. Even the smug grin on Magnar’s face reminded her that goblins were no different when it came to cruelty toward those they considered beneath them.

Her righteousness, she knew, was one of her most polarising traits. But how could she stop herself? Who else would stand up for house-elves, dragons, and Muggles if she didn’t? Still, it pained her deeply that there was nothing she could do for this dragon today. She would leave it here, alone and broken, when she returned to her own time.

Focusing on the task at hand, Hermione turned her attention to the massive iron doors of the Malfoy vault. Abraxas and Magnar were busy with the elaborate unlocking process, which required a combination of Abraxas’ blood, the key, and goblin magic. Hermione knew what was coming next—Riddle wouldn’t miss the opportunity to press her about her earlier threat.

“If you tell Abraxas anything, I will—”

“Look,” she interrupted, her tone sharp before he could verbalize his threats. “I’m not going to say anything if you just wait here outside the vault and let me look for what I need, okay?”

“Not going to happen,” Riddle replied smoothly, his dark eyes gleaming. “I’m far too curious to see what’s inside. And you know I can always adapt his memory, no matter what nonsense you tell him.” he was not fazed in the slightest she had interrupted him. She should have counted how many times she could get away with it before he would kill her.

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. There was no point in arguing with him—his obstinance rivalled her own.

“Fine,” she said tersely. “Just don’t hover. Go make yourself useful elsewhere.”

Riddle raised an elegant brow. “What is it that you want so badly that I cannot see?”

Before Hermione could answer, the iron doors groaned open, revealing the treasure-laden interior of the Malfoy vault. Abraxas waved them forward, stepping inside first.

Hermione turned to Riddle, her tone softening into a plea. “Please, Tom. I just can’t have you breathing down my neck the whole time.”

For a moment, she searched his face, hoping against all reason to find some flicker of empathy. And to her astonishment, she did. A faint softness rose in his black eyes, so fleeting she almost missed it.

“I’ll only do it,” he said at last, “if you promise not to cry again.”

Before she could respond, he withdrew a crisp cotton handkerchief from his inside pocket and extended it to her. The gesture was so unexpectedly kind—so out of character—that Hermione blinked in surprise. She had not been about to cry because of him, but she supposed it didn’t matter and telling him that the dragons had upset her would only make him revoke his offer. 

She took the handkerchief and dabbed at her watery eyes. “Agreed,” she said quietly.

Riddle inclined his head in satisfaction, stepping aside as she moved past him into the vault. 

The vault looked almost identical to how it had appeared in 2008. The towering piles of gold coins, the heaps of glittering trinkets, and the countless shelves filled with obscure artefacts gave the space an overwhelming sense of decadence. A few more dangerous objects seemed to linger here—items likely cleared out over the decades as Gringotts tightened its regulations—but otherwise, it was exactly as she remembered.

The space was massive, stretching so far into the dimly lit cavern that Hermione couldn’t see the far corners from where she stood. Shadows danced across the uneven stone walls, cast by the faintly glowing sconces embedded in the rocky ceiling. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of aged metal and dust, and it clung to her skin like a reminder of her purpose. She knew where she needed to go. In the far-left corner of the vault stood the statue—the place where she had found the True Time Turner before.

She prayed it hadn’t been moved.

Riddle stepped in behind her, pausing to take in the sheer wealth surrounding them. His dark eyes roamed over the treasures, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind as he processed the riches of the Malfoy lineage.

“Can I help you look for what you need, Hermione?” Abraxas’ voice was polite, almost kind, pulling her from her thoughts.

Hermione hesitated, her mind racing. She couldn’t simply tell him what she was truly after, but she could distract him with something she also needed. “Yes. I need an item about four inches in length and at least two inches wide. The material must be goblin-wrought silver of the highest quality.”

At her words, Magnar stilled, his sharp eyes flicking toward her with something between suspicion and disdain. But it was Abraxas who smiled. “That shouldn’t be hard to find,” he said brightly. “Though I can’t say I’d know the difference between good and poor quality silver.”

“I can,” Riddle interjected smoothly, tilting his head to inspect a towering pile of crockery. “Perhaps the goblin could assist you while we spread out to search.”

Hermione clenched her jaw at Riddle’s casual dismissal of Magnar, but the goblin appeared unfazed. “If Mr. Malfoy permits, I may assist,” Magnar said, addressing Abraxas with measured deference.

“Yes, an excellent idea,” Abraxas agreed, gesturing toward the vault. “Tom, Hermione, feel free to take anything else you like while you search. Just be cautious—some of this is cursed.”

Hermione knew that already. As an apprentice curse-breaker, she was all too familiar with the dangers lurking in his vault. Still, the warning might not do much for someone less experienced.

“I’ll take the left side,” she announced, making her way toward the statue, pocketing the handkerchief, while Riddle veered toward the middle of the room.

She passed familiar items as she walked, relics that sent shivers down her spine. A set of ornate throwing knives sat in their original display case, their blades gleaming malevolently. She gave them a wide berth, remembering all too well how they had attacked her during her first encounter with them. Her satisfaction grew when she heard Riddle grunt in pain as one of the knives nicked his arm. He subdued them quickly, of course, but Hermione relished the moment nonetheless.

Step by step, she edged closer to the statue, careful not to draw attention to herself. She picked up a few items of goblin-wrought silver along the way, using them as a pretext to linger near the far corner. And then, at last, she saw it—the hideous golden statue of a bearded wizard.

Her breath caught.

The True Time Turner still hung delicately around the statue’s neck, its delicate chain gleaming faintly in the dim light. The sight of it made her hands slick with sweat and her mouth go dry. This was it. Her way home. The culmination of everything she had endured.

She glanced quickly over her shoulder. Abraxas was too far away to see her, engrossed in his search with Magnar. Riddle stood with his back to her, inspecting an intricate collier adorned with black diamonds. This was her chance.

Hermione turned back to the statue, her heart hammering in her chest. Slowly, she extracted the tiny bottle of True Invisibility Potion from the apothecary charm on her bracelet. She uncorked it and carefully measured out two precise drops with the pipette.

With quiet deliberation, she placed the goblin-wrought silver items on a nearby stool and raised her wand. She aimed a well-placed Reducto at a towering mountain of crockery near the front of the vault.

The effect was instantaneous. The pile collapsed in a deafening crash, shards of porcelain and metal cascading to the ground like an avalanche. The noise reverberated through the cavern, drowning out any other sound.

Hermione didn’t wait to see the chaos unfold. She swallowed the drops of Invisibility Potion and vanished from sight. In the ensuing commotion, she sprinted toward the statue, her legs burning with the effort. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she closed the distance, her eyes locked on the gleaming Time Turner.

When she reached the statue, she didn’t hesitate. She lunged forward, her outstretched hand closing around the delicate chain—

But it vanished.

Her fingers grasped nothing but air.

Panic flared in her chest as she frantically searched the ground, thinking it had fallen. Gold coins and dust littered the base of the statue, but the Time Turner was nowhere to be found.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she tried to Accio the Time Turner, but the spell failed. Of course it did. She knew better than to expect it to work on such a powerful artefact.

The sound of voices calling her name cut through the haze of her panic. She was afraid Abraxs or Riddle would come looking for her. “I’m alright!” she called back distractedly, her voice strained. She searched the statue and its surroundings one more time, but it was useless. The Time Turner was gone.

Dread settled in the pit of her stomach as she remembered Draco’s words when she had blackmailed him: It can only be found by someone who doesn’t want to use it for their own gain.

Her intent had been pure the first time she found it—driven by curiosity, a desire to understand its properties and use it to free the house elves. But this time… this time she had come with a selfish purpose. She wanted to return to 2008, not for some noble cause, but simply to escape. To go home.

She dropped her hands, the weight of failure pressing down on her shoulders. The Invisibility Potion wore off, and she quickly stepped away from the statue. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back, determined not to cry again in front of them.

Everything she had endured—the humiliation, the manipulation, the pain—had been for nothing. One thought echoed relentlessly in her mind, drowning out all others:

I failed.

It became a mantra, repeating over and over as she stood there, paralysed by the realisation. She had failed.

As the voices of Riddle and Abraxas drew closer, Hermione steeled herself, shoving the rising tide of emotions deep down. She would not let them see her break. Not now. Not ever.

***

Tom

When the cascade of tableware finally halted under the force of his Immobilus charm, Tom surveyed the aftermath with a sharp eye. Pieces of shattered porcelain and warped silverware lay strewn across the floor, their chaotic descent having dragged half a dozen other precariously stacked treasures with them. 

“Thanks for your concern, love,” he called out, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “We’re also unharmed, in case you wondered.”

No response.

Suspicion flared within him, rising from a subtle itch to a raging inferno. He would have bet a Horcrux that she was responsible for this mess, but why? What had she been trying to achieve?

His strides quickened as he moved toward where he’d last seen her, his sharp eyes scanning for any sign of her intentions. When he finally spotted her, she was standing unnervingly still, a few items of goblin-wrought silver resting in a small pile at her feet. She didn’t turn to acknowledge him as he approached, nor did she seem to hear him at all.

The absence of her usual fire once again was disconcerting.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice measured and laced with carefully concealed concern.

Hermione didn’t answer immediately. When she finally nodded, her gaze didn’t meet his. Instead, she stared somewhere near his throat, her eyes distant and unfocused. Her movements were mechanical as she bent to pick up the silver items she’d collected. Tom noted her pallor and the way her hands moved with an uncharacteristic stiffness, as though she were detached from the body she inhabited.

He studied her closely, every detail of her demeanor. She wasn’t crying—no trembling lip or wet cheeks betrayed her emotions. Yet the numbness in her face was almost worse. Hermione moved as if she were under an Imperius Curse —obedient, detached, lifeless—but without the serene expression of compliance that usually accompanied the curse. It was unnerving.

Tom didn’t speak as she walked past him toward Abraxas and Magnar, who were bickering over how to restack the fallen crockery. She moved like a ghost, her presence barely registering with those around her.

Abraxas, ever the gentleman, reached out to her, his voice low and solicitous. “Did the noise frighten you?”

Hermione didn’t respond, didn’t even glance at him. She simply handed over the silver items for Magnar’s inspection, her face a blank slate.

Magnar, oblivious to the tension in the air, squinted at one of the items, a small dagger, before nodding approvingly. “Finest goblin-wrought silver I’ve seen in decades,” he remarked, his tone almost reverent as he handed it back to her.

Hermione took it without a word and turned on her heel, walking out of the vault without so much as a backward glance.

Tom watched her go, his unease deepening with every step she took. Abraxas turned to him, confusion etched into his sharp features. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, his tone accusatory.

Tom met his gaze with a look that could have frozen fire. “Nothing I did,” he replied, his voice cold and clipped. It was true, at least for the time between entering and leaving the vault. But even he couldn’t be entirely sure. Hermione Granger was a puzzle—one he couldn’t solve, and it was beginning to irritate him.

The ride back to the Malfoy Manor platform was silent. The only sounds were the metallic whine of the cart’s wheels on the tracks and the occasional shifting of the dagger Hermione held in her lap. Tom’s eyes remained fixed on her the entire time, watching for any flicker of emotion, any clue that would give him insight into her strange behavior.

But she gave him nothing. No tears, no anger, no biting remarks. Just silence.

It was the silence that unsettled him the most. Hermione was never quiet, never detached. She was a force of nature. This muted, shadowed version of her felt wrong, and he hated it.

When they returned to the platform, Hermione wasted no time. She stepped off the cart, her movements swift but lacking any real urgency. She didn’t look back as she went all the way through the archway, followed by Tom and Abraxas, and then walked right outside and exited through the Malfoy Manor’s main gates, disappearing beyond the iron barriers. A sharp crack of Apparition followed moments later, leaving Tom and Abraxas standing in the manor’s grand entryway, staring after her.

“What did you do?” Abraxas asked, his voice low and accusing.

“Nothing,” Tom repeated, his tone flat. It wasn’t a lie. Whatever had happened to Hermione in that vault, it wasn’t of his making. 

Abraxas’ frown deepened, but he didn’t press further. Tom ignored him, his mind racing with questions he had no immediate answers to. Hermione’s behavior wasn’t just odd. She wasn’t merely upset or overwhelmed; she was hiding something. He could feel it in his bones.

And whatever it was, it added yet another layer to the ever-deepening enigma that was Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The rest of Saturday passed in a haze of tears. Hermione lay curled on the bed, clinging to Crookshanks like a lifeline. Her mind churned endlessly, replaying the shameful reality of the previous night. She had whored herself out for nothing. The time-turner had disappeared on her, and she was left with nothing but regret and self-loathing.

She berated herself over and over. If she hadn’t changed her plan, if she had stuck to modifying the device rather than trying to use it, she might have succeeded. If she had listened to Draco’s accidental warnings, maybe—just maybe—she wouldn’t have failed so miserably.

No matter how many scenarios she ran through, they all led her to the same conclusion: she was not only a failure but also an idiot.

And a whore.

The word clung to her, wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud. She felt used. She felt ashamed. She felt stupid.

Probably stupid most of all.

She had ignored every warning. Draco’s surprised expression when she’d first told him about acquiring the time-turner should have been enough. She had failed to anticipate Riddle’s obsession and cunning, had forgotten how dangerous he was. She’d underestimated him.

She really was so stupid. Thinking she could just take the time turner and go home. Trusting Riddle to help her get it, all for the price of a blow job. Yeah right. Stupid. 

Timeline was fucked anyway most probably. 

It was best if she just continued to lay there in bed until she died. Or the hotel kicked her out. Whichever came first. 

Hermione buried her face in Crookshanks’ fur, her fingers stroking his soft coat as if that alone could soothe the storm inside her. She whispered bitterly to her feline companion.

“What do you say, Crooks? Should we just stay here forever? Never leave this room again?”

The cat blinked at her as if to say she was being ridiculous.

“Yeah,” she muttered, wiping at her damp cheeks. “You’re right. I am ridiculous.”

*

By Sunday, the tears had dried, leaving Hermione in a hollow, detached state. The world felt distant, her senses dulled. She hadn’t moved from her bed when the owls arrived, fluttering onto her balcony one after another.

The first letter was from Marigold.

Dear Hermione,

I do hope you’re alright. You disappeared at the ball before we could say goodbye. Is all well with you? I trust you made it home safely and in one piece.

I was wondering if you’d fancy joining me and the girls for gossip and tea at my place this afternoon? It’s been far too long, and I insist on catching up properly.

Much love,
Marigold

Hermione stared at the parchment, her chest tightening. Marigold’s familiar handwriting and warm tone felt like a distant echo of a life she couldn’t afford to return to. She couldn’t respond. She shouldn’t risk dragging her friends into this mess any further.

The second letter came from Abraxas.

My Dearest Hermione,

You must write to reassure me that you are well! I confess, you gave me quite a fright the other day. If I have offended you in any way, I beg you to tell me so that I may apologise properly.

I cannot stop thinking about our time together. Every moment spent with you was a delight beyond measure, and the thought of holding you in my arms again, of kissing you, is one I cannot seem to banish.

Yours most devotedly,
Abraxas

She read his letter several times, her fingers tightening around the parchment until it crumpled slightly. None of this was truly Abraxas’s fault, and yet she couldn’t suppress the surge of anger bubbling in her chest.

Angry at his drinks laced with Amortentia, angry at his descendant for setting off the bloody time turner in the first place. Angry at his stupid time turner that broke so easily.. Angry at the memory of his touch—the way his tongue and hands had felt so good when she hadn’t wanted them to.

Tears blurred her vision. Hermione threw the letter onto the floor, clenching her fists tightly.

And then came the third owl.

Hermione,

I’m surprised I haven’t received an angry owl yet. Surely you’ve noticed by now.

Tom

Her heart sank as she read it. Riddle. Of course, he wouldn’t leave her alone. She looked around the room, her eyes darting to her belongings.

Everything appeared to be in its place. Her stomach twisted as the realisation struck her. She darted around the room, searching frantically.

Her iPod.

It was gone.

Panic surged through her as she tore through drawers, the wardrobe, her bedside table. She even tried summoning it. Accio iPod! she cried, but the silver device did not appear.

“Damn you, Riddle,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

She couldn’t breathe. The air felt heavy, suffocating. Her hand flew to her throat, clawing at the necklace she still wore. His necklace.

Hermione could feel him, his presence, his hands tying it around her neck. It burned against her skin, a cruel reminder of his manipulation and power. She clawed at the clasp, desperate to remove it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Get off,” she hissed, yanking at it with all her strength. When that failed, she pointed her wand at it, casting a severing charm. Nothing worked.

Her breaths came faster, more shallow. She stumbled to the floor near the balcony, pressing herself against the open door as the crisp autumn air brushed against her skin. It didn’t help. The weight of the necklace was unbearable, as if pressing against her windpipe, tightening like a noose.

She gripped the cold stone floor, willing herself to calm down, to breathe. The fresh air didn’t soothe her, but it kept her from completely spiraling. Her vision blurred at the edges as her mind repeated one cruel, unrelenting thought: I can’t escape him.

*

By Monday, Hermione was spiraling further. The walls of her hotel room seemed to close in around her as her mind raced, desperate to find a way back to her own time. The paths ahead were limited, bleak, and riddled with obstacles.

Two options presented themselves, neither of them promising.

The first: convince someone else to retrieve the Time Turner for her. Someone who didn’t desire it for themselves. It couldn’t be someone she coerced, paid, or tricked, as that would still count as personal gain. Perhaps a friend could do it? Marigold? Abraxas?

The thought of involving Abraxas made her cringe. After how she’d acted in his vault, there was no way he’d let her in there again. And even if he did, he’d never give up something so valuable voluntarily. She suspected he had feelings for her—feelings that might make him resist helping her leave. Worse still, he might tell Riddle. And Tom Riddle would undoubtedly find a way to ruin everything.

Marigold was no better an option. How could Hermione even begin to explain what she needed her to do? The mental image of sitting Marigold down and asking her to infiltrate the Malfoy vault was absurd enough to make her snort bitterly.

The second option: revert to her original plan. Procure the Time Turner only long enough to extract a small amount of temporal sand—enough to repair her own broken device—and then return it to the vault. No harm done and unused.

Except she’d still need the bloody sword for the goblin to forge it anew. Which meant breaking into and stealing from both the Malfoy vault and Hogwarts.

The thought made her groan aloud. It was impossible. She was royally, irreparably, completely screwed.

Because she’d failed.

Because she’d been so, so stupid.

Her fingers tangled in her hair, pulling at the roots as she tried to claw her way out of her own existence. The self-loathing was suffocating, a weight that crushed her until she could hardly breathe.

She was a failure. A whore. A stupid failure.

Two sharp taps on her window broke her downward spiral, and Hermione glanced at the window just as two owls swept in, their feathers rustling as they landed on the back of the chair by her desk. The first carried a letter with Abraxas’ familiar, elegant scrawl.

My Dearest Hermione,

Why haven’t you replied? Have I done something to upset you? If so, please tell me—I can’t stand not knowing.

You’ve been on my mind constantly. I keep thinking about how clever and beautiful you are, and I miss your presence more than I can say. Please, let me hear from you.

Yours sincerely,
Abraxas

Hermione stared at the letter, her chest tightening as irritation bubbled up inside her. She crumpled the parchment slightly in her hands.

The second letter bore the looping handwriting of Marigold.

Dear Hermione,

What’s going on with you? I’ve sent an owl and heard nothing back—I’m starting to worry. If you’re overwhelmed or need some space, just let me know. Merlin knows we’ve all been there.

But if something’s wrong, please tell me. You know I’m here for you, no matter what. Owl me, or better yet, come by—I’ll have tea and biscuits waiting.

Much love,
Marigold

Hermione’s throat tightened as she read Marigold’s words. How could she possibly explain the mess she was in? She’d already put Marigold at risk by befriending her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a third owl swooping into the room. The letter it carried was shorter and far more provoking.

Hermione,

Abraxas informs me that you’re not replying to him either. Do reassure him it wasn’t his passionate physical efforts that frightened you away—he won’t stop sulking.

Don’t make me come and find out the truth myself.

Tom

She gripped the parchment tightly, her eyes narrowing. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Riddle was trying to teasingly flirt with her. It was maddening, as if he thought this entire situation was some kind of game.

Hermione tossed the letters onto the desk, her emotions swinging wildly between anger and astonishment. Perhaps she should leave. Find some remote corner of the world where no one would ever find her and live out her days in peace. Australia was nice—beaches, sunshine, and maybe a few koalas to keep her company and she knew her way around there.

But the fantasy was fleeting. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t run. Not really.

But if she didn’t get back home, what else should she do? If time was possibly irreparably damaged already, could she change it for the better?

A small voice whispered in the back of her mind. There was another way. A path of sacrifice and great risk. She could stay. She could try to influence Riddle, to steer him away from the darkness. He was obsessed with her, perhaps that gave her a certain power over him.

But the idea was ridiculous. It would likely get her killed.

I’m dead anyway, she thought bitterly.

Yet the thought persisted, twisting into something darker. Her thumb brushed against the black-stoned ring on her finger as another option surfaced in her mind.

She could kill him.

Hermione swallowed hard, her mind racing. She could end him before he became the monster who destroyed so many lives. She knew of two Horcruxes that existed for certain right now—the diary and the ring. The diadem could possibly be another one, if he decided to turn it into one by murdering someone else, after he had left her unharmed. And checking if Hepzibah Smith was still alive would be an easy task. 

She could stop him.

Couldn’t she?

Her thoughts spiraled deeper into darker places. She debated everything—turning herself in to the Ministry. The only thing stopping her was the possibility she would have to go to Azkaban. The possibility of them helping her to get home was infinitely too little to risk a lifetime in that horrible prison. She had almost been kissed once already and she would not like to repeat the experience. 

When her thoughts took a particularly sinister route of just ending it all, if she should be stuck here to protect the timeline from her influence, a knock on the door pulled her from the abyss.

Hermione curled tighter under the blanket on her bed, hugging her legs as if trying to make herself disappear. She didn’t move or make a sound. If it were the hotel staff, they would announce themselves. Her heart pounded in her chest, every knock raising her anxiety.

What if it was Riddle?

No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t the knocking type. He’d already proven time and again that he preferred breaking in to making polite entrances. He was many things—a stalker, a manipulator, a thief—but courteous he was not.

As she debated whether it could be Abraxas, another knock sounded, this time accompanied by a feminine voice.

“Hermione, it’s Marigold. Open up.”

Relief swept over Hermione like a wave, lifting the suffocating weight that had been pressing on her chest.

“Please, open the door. I’m worried about you,” Marigold added.

Hermione sniffled as tears welled again. Marigold was worried about her. She’d made friends in 1952—friends who cared enough to check on her. The thought was both comforting and overwhelming.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, Hermione swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, her feet brushing the carpeted floor. Before she could even stand, Marigold banged on the door with unexpected force.

“In the name of Rowena Ravenclaw, if you don’t open this door right now, I’ll break it down!”

Hermione scrambled to her feet, hurrying to the door in nothing but her small nightgown—a constant reminder of where she’d come from. She opened it just as Marigold was about to throw her full weight against it. The blonde stumbled through the doorway, nearly colliding with Hermione.

A small smile tugged at Hermione’s lips despite herself. “Why don’t you come in?” she quipped.

Marigold, flustered and trying to regain her balance, huffed as she straightened up. “Yes, well, you have a lot of explaining to do! Why didn’t you answer my owl or—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes scanning Hermione’s disheveled appearance.

“What happened? You look dreadful, dear.”

“Cheers,” Hermione muttered, rubbing her swollen, sore eyes.

Marigold frowned and hurried to her side, wrapping her arms around Hermione in a firm embrace. The door clicked shut behind them. “That’s not what I meant. I can see you’ve been crying. Why? What’s happened?”

The genuine concern in Marigold’s voice cracked something inside Hermione. She clung to her friend’s petite frame, breathing in the sweet scent of Marigold’s perfume. It was light and floral—feminine in a way that made Hermione feel momentarily grounded. Hermione felt the overwhelming need to share at least some of her troubles with her. With someone. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione whispered. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

Marigold hushed her. “Don’t mention it. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

As they separated, Marigold studied Hermione with wide, worried blue eyes. The gentle encouragement in her gaze was too much, and Hermione broke down again.

“It’s just… at the ball, Riddle, he…” Hermione’s voice faltered, the words catching in her throat.

Marigold’s face darkened. “I knew it. That bastard. What did he do? Did he try to kiss you?”

Hermione nodded, but her voice shook as she added, “That’s not all.”

Marigold held up a hand. “I’m sorry, but if we’re going to talk about boys , I need reinforcements.” She flicked her wand in a quick, graceful motion. A magpie burst forth, her Patronus shimmering brilliantly in the dim light.

“Go fetch Pippa and Augusta. It’s urgent—we’re at Hermione’s hotel,” she instructed the bird.

Once the magpie soared out of the window, Marigold turned her attention back to Hermione. She picked up the handkerchief from the nightstand, pausing when she saw the embroidered initials: T.M.R. Her brows furrowed.

“Did you cry in front of him?”

Hermione nodded again and threw herself onto the velvet sofa, deliberately avoiding the armchair where she and Riddle had sat all those nights ago.

“It was awful, Marigold,” Hermione said, her voice shaking. “First, we were flying on the Abraxans, and then he conjured this—this romantic dance floor in the middle of the woods. He tried to kiss me, so I hit him, and—”

“You hit him? Merlin’s beard, Hermione, you hit Tom Riddle?” Marigold’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Hermione nodded weakly.

Marigold’s curiosity flickered beneath her shock. “Alright, but… how was the kiss? I’ve never seen him kiss anyone. I didn’t even know he did that!”

The question was so sincere, so utterly something only a girlfriend would ask, that warmth washed over Hermione. While Ginny had been close to her in later years, Hermione had never really had any proper girlfriends growing up. Finding Marigold felt like unearthing a gem in the midst of her misery.

“I can’t tell you much,” Hermione admitted. “I sort of froze. And then I slapped him. So…”

Marigold looked mildly disappointed, prompting Hermione to offer a tidbit to soften the blow. “But it was smooth. We were dancing to this song from an enchanted piano he’d conjured, and as we twirled, he used the momentum to pull me into the kiss.”

Marigold’s jaw dropped. “He might be in love with you.”

Before Hermione could respond, a voice called from the hallway: “Who’s in love with her?”

Pippa.

Marigold practically leapt to open the door. “Tom Riddle kissed Hermione, and she slapped him for it!”

“And you’re still alive to tell the tale?” Pippa strode into the room with an impressed look, her sharp eyes softening as she took in Hermione’s state. She immediately joined her on the sofa.

“Oh no, did he hurt you?” Pippa asked, running a comforting hand down Hermione’s arm.

“Not physically, no,” Hermione replied truthfully.

Marigold sank into the armchair with a relieved sigh at the news of Hermione’s physical well-being. Hermione avoided looking at the stupid armchair.

“So you ran from him. Then what?” Marigold pressed.

“I ran into Abraxas. He took me to his chambers to calm down. And then… well, he kissed me too.”

Both witches gaped at her, their expressions a mix of shock and intrigue.

“Did you… sleep with him?” Pippa asked hesitantly. “Did he treat you poorly?”

Hermione exhaled deeply. “You could say that.”

Marigold’s confusion deepened. “Wait, I thought Riddle did something?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “He did.”

“I don’t understand—did they fight over you?”

Heat crept up Hermione’s neck. “No. They were fine… sharing.”

The room fell into stunned silence, the weight of her words crashing down like a thunderclap.

Both Marigold and Pippa stared at Hermione, then at each other, their faces frozen in shock.

“Let me get this straight,” Marigold said slowly, her voice almost a whisper. “You were intimate with both of them?”

Hermione nodded.

“At the same time?”

Another nod.

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione. That’s… insane,” Pippa muttered, while Marigold blurted out, “How was it?”

Hermione hesitated before replying, her voice barely audible. “I… came so hard I nearly passed out.”

Her friends’ eyes widened to the size of saucers, their stunned expressions prompting Hermione to give a little more context. “Riddle went into Abraxas’ study while I was in the bathroom. When I came out, we were both surprised to see each other. We talked, and he offered me a firewhiskey. It was laced with Amortentia—I didn’t realise at the time. Then Abraxas came back, wanting to know what was going on, and… well… things escalated from there.”

Pippa’s expression darkened, and she reached out to give Hermione’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “That’s awful, Hermione. I can’t believe he did that to you.”

“We heard rumours about girls who suspected they’d been given love potions at Hogwarts, and even sometimes afterward,” Marigold added, her tone dripping with disgust. “I always thought it was Dolohov behind it, but maybe I was wrong or the tactic spread.”

Hermione threw the cotton handkerchief she’d been holding onto the floor. “It doesn’t matter now. It happened. I can’t undo it. All I can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” Marigold said firmly. “It was a vile trick, and it’s not your fault. You wouldn’t have gone for him under normal circumstances.”

“She’s right,” Pippa added. “If anyone should feel ashamed, it’s him. And Abraxas too, for being part of it.”

Hermione felt a flicker of relief at their support, though it didn’t quite soothe the ache inside her. Attempting to lighten the mood, she added, “Well, at least they made sure I didn’t come up short.”

Her friends burst into laughter, the ridiculousness of the moment cutting through the tension.

“Alright,” Pippa said, recovering somewhat. “If you don’t mind me asking… how does that even work?”

Hermione blinked. “How does what work?”

“She means,” Marigold interjected, “who was doing what and from where?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by a rapid knock on the door.

“It’s me,” Augusta called, her tone hurried and urgent.

Marigold leapt to her feet once more, throwing open the door. Augusta strode in, her face alight with the promise of dramatic news. “You’ll never guess what’s happened! I’ve just come from an emergency Auror meeting with Ogden.”

“In a minute, Augusta,” Marigold interrupted, waving her off. “Hermione was just about to explain how she worked Riddle and Malfoy at the same time, after they tricked her with Amortentia. Whatever gossip you have can wait!”

Augusta froze, her head whipping toward Hermione. “I’m sorry… what? ”

Hermione shrugged, as if to say, It is what it is.

Augusta stared, her mouth working silently for a moment before shaking her head. “Never mind. This is more important.”

“What’s happened?” Pippa asked, curiosity overtaking the momentary shock.

Augusta leaned forward, her voice low but urgent. “Dumbledore and Hagrid were found petrified in Hagrid’s hut. The monster from the Chamber of Secrets is on the loose again.”

Hermione’s heart stopped. Then it slammed into overdrive, racing faster than she thought possible. Her body felt hot and cold all at once as the room tilted slightly. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“What?” Marigold gasped. “When?”

“This evening,” Augusta replied. “Professor Grubbly-Plank found them hours ago. They’ve been moved to the hospital wing, and now they’re talking about sending all the students home before anyone else gets hurt.”

“No, no, no,” Hermione whispered to herself. This was wrong—entirely, catastrophically wrong. The timeline was unraveling, and she was the reason.

She thought back to that Saturday, to the moment she’d run into Riddle at Hogwarts. He’d been on the wrong path then. He must have been in the chamber just then.

“This is awful,” Pippa said, wringing her hands. “What happens to Hogwarts if they send everyone home? What about their education?”

“And why would the monster attack Hagrid?” Marigold speculated. “Everyone already thought he was the one who—”

Hermione didn’t hear the rest. Her mind was racing, piecing together the implications. Dumbledore could have died. If Hogwarts shut down, the domino effect on the timeline would be catastrophic. Everything hinged on her fixing this.

“Mary,” Augusta said, interrupting her thoughts. “You should head to the Prophet . You might still have time to be first in and interview Dippet.”

Marigold nodded. “Good idea. Will you all stay with Hermione? I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

“Stop,” Hermione said sharply, freezing Marigold in her tracks.

They turned to her, their faces expectant.

Hermione drew a deep breath. If this was her fault, then it was her responsibility to put it right. But she couldn’t do it alone.

“I think I know how we can stop the monster,” she said slowly, her voice steady despite the chaos in her mind.

“What is it?” Pippa asked, her eyes wide. “Did you see it in the future?”

Hermione nodded, ever grateful about this idea of hers to pretend to own Seer abilities. “But if we do this, you can never tell anyone. Not about what we did, or that we were involved at all.”

The three witches nodded in agreement. Augusta, ever the Gryffindor, was the first to speak. “What do we need to do? What’s the monster?”

Hermione turned to Pippa. “Remind me, do you kill a basilisk with chickens or cocks?”

The room collectively gasped, except for Pippa, whose eyes widened in realization.

“Cocks,” she said.

Hermione nodded, her mind snapping into action. “Marigold, you need to interview Dippet and find out the password to his office. Augusta, I need you to retrieve something from the Ministry’s evidence chamber—something loud and flashy we can use to create a massive distraction. And Pippa… I need you to get me as many cocks as you can find.”

Marigold blinked. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough of those lately?”

For a moment, Hermione was stunned into silence. Then Pippa burst into laughter, quickly followed by Hermione, Augusta, and Marigold. The room shook with their giggles, the tension breaking as they doubled over in fits of mirth.

“We meet tomorrow evening,” Hermione managed between laughs, “in the alley next to Honeydukes, half an hour before closing.”

The laughter slowly subsided, replaced by a resolute energy. Hermione felt something she hadn’t in days: determination.

This was her chance to fix things, to take control.

To win.

***

Tom

On Saturday, Tom was five minutes early for his afternoon-to-evening shift at the store—a far cry from his usual ten-minute punctuality. He was distracted. His thoughts kept circling back to that peculiar little witch who occupied far too much space in his mind.

Had he pushed her too far?

He even entertained the idea that he might have broken her, though he couldn’t pinpoint how or why. She’d seemed perfectly fine after their encounter in the ballroom. She’d hurled her cute death threats his way, practically glowing with her unique brand of defiance. No, something had shifted between her entering the Gringotts vault and her departure.

It wasn’t her discovery that he’d been involved in the deaths of Abraxas’s mother and sister. She’d been so unbothered that she used Abraxas’s misery to her advantage. Whatever had occurred, it wasn’t that.

She had insisted on being alone in the vault, and yet her prize had supposedly been nothing more than a few pieces of goblin-wrought silver. That, Tom knew, made no sense. What could have so thoroughly derailed her mood in such a short time? The answer hovered tantalisingly close, yet it evaded him.

The thought of it plagued him all through the busy Saturday. Even with the shop bustling with witches and wizards eager for cursed artifacts and rare magical items, his mind drifted back to her between customers.

Despite his preoccupation, Tom managed to sell six valuable items, earning himself a respectable commission. With each sale, he carefully recorded his share of the profit. It was a pittance compared to the vast wealth of Malfoy or his other followers, but it still filled him with immense satisfaction. He’d risen from nothing, from the bleak orphanage where he’d lacked even a galleon to his name, and now even the richest wizards bowed to him. It was proof of his superiority—his power and intellect, his cunning and ambition.

*

When he returned to his flat late that evening, he was exhausted. The combination of work, restless thoughts, and minimal sleep the night before had worn him down.

A hot shower offered some reprieve. As the steam rose around him, he allowed himself the indulgence of recalling Hermione—her lips on him, the sound of her voice crying his name as Malfoy took her from behind. The memory was satisfying, a rare moment where everything had been as it should be.

Afterward, as he stood before the mirror to shave, he noticed the small cut on his cheek, left by his own Horcrux, now crusted over. He considered healing it but ultimately decided against it. The sting when he smiled was a reminder, a tangible connection to her and her streak of violence. Sentimental, perhaps, but it felt right to leave it. A weakness he might have never permitted before, but he found himself unable to care.

She, too, would think of him whenever she touched the necklace he had fastened around her throat.

Clean and freshly shaven, Tom moved into the only other room in his flat besides the kitchen and bathroom. His white shirt, still stained with his blood, and the strange silver device he had taken from Hermione waited for him on his impeccably made bed. The pristine white sheets, made from the finest Egyptian cotton, were the sole luxury he allowed himself.

Growing up in the orphanage, his bedding had been coarse and unpleasant. The scratchy wool had left its mark on him, and now, as a man, he refused to endure such discomfort. Yet, he couldn’t shake the habit of making his bed to military precision. It was a lingering echo of the discipline forced upon him during his first seventeen years of his life.

He picked up the shirt, charmed it to preserve its scent, and pressed it to his face. Her scent and the fruity shampoo still clung strongly to the fabric, though it was a poor substitute for the real thing. He clenched his jaw, the yearning catching him off guard.

Never in his life had he desired to hold someone. Never had he cared to share his space or his bed. And now, here he was, craving the very things he had always scorned.

He shook the thought away, focusing instead on the silver device. If he wasn’t going to indulge in these softer urges, he could at least find a decent meal.

Salazar, what was becoming of him?

Rather than continue his night in solitude, his only companion, his research on his one particular blood ritual he had found, he decided to indulge in something more substantial. Disillusioning himself, he apparated to Naples, recalling a small restaurant Abraxas had once raved about. He lifted the disillusionment when no one was watching and went inside.

The place was a humble Muggle establishment, packed with patrons even at this late hour. The scent of wood-fired pizza and rich red wine filled the air, and the bustling chatter of diners created a lively hum.

 A waitress spotted him as he stepped inside, her dark eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “Buonasera,” she greeted, her Italian lilt warm and inviting. “Table for one?”

“Yes,” Tom replied smoothly.

The young woman led him to a small table near the window, her steps slow and deliberate as if to draw his attention to her figure. Tom paid the muggle girl no mind, his focus already returning to the silver device in his hand.

“Would you like wine, signore?” she asked, leaning slightly closer than necessary.

He glanced up briefly, his expression cool. “Red.”

She lingered for a moment before leaving, and Tom returned to his investigation. The silver device was utterly baffling. Tom turned it over in his hands as he lounged at the small table in the bustling Neapolitan restaurant. It was lighter than it looked, cool to the touch, and unnervingly intricate. He studied it as if it were a dark artifact, his sharp mind determined to conquer its secrets.

The word Menu was engraved on a small white circle, though what it could possibly have to do with food eluded him. There was a smaller, raised silver circle in the middle of the white one, and he quickly deduced it was one of those “buttons” he had heard about from the other kids or the radio in his youth.

The attached white cords were equally mystifying. Their ends were smooth and round, almost like earplugs. He had seen Hermione put them into her ears before, so he decided to mimic her actions. After a moment of awkward fumbling, he managed to fit them in.

Nothing happened.

Tom frowned. He tapped one of the buttons, expecting some sort of reaction. Still nothing.

Perhaps it required some form of Muggle trick to get this technology started. He tilted the device, noticing the word Hold etched into a tiny switch at the top. His brows furrowed. Was it supposed to "hold" something? What was it holding? He slid the switch experimentally, and to his astonishment, the black square in the middle of the device suddenly lit up .

Tom recoiled slightly, his pulse quickening. A tiny, glowing window flickered to life, displaying small, glowing words. His first instinct was to check if it was enchanted, but he quickly reminded himself that Muggle contraptions had their own bizarre ways of functioning.

His initial surprise gave way to intrigue. The word Music was highlighted in a blue strip, and he stared at it, his mind racing. Since Hermione was using this device with the white cords in her ears, maybe this was how she listened to music.

He cautiously pressed the silver button again, and the blue strip moved. The text shifted, revealing more words. His lip curled slightly. Title, Artist . The glowing letters were making more sense now, though he still felt no closer to understanding how it worked.

"Merlin’s beard, how does this play music?," he muttered under his breath, earning a curious glance from the waitress as she placed his wine on the table.

"Is everything alright, signore?" she asked, her Italian accent lilting with curiosity.

"Fine," he replied curtly, waving her off. He gestured vaguely at the device. "This... music device. Do you know how to work this?"

Her brows furrowed. "Scusi? Oh! I’m sorry I have never seen anything like this before."

Tom shot her a withering look, how could he have expected a muggle to know more about this than he did. "Never mind."

Once she left, he poked the device again, this time clicking the middle button more forcefully. Suddenly, noise erupted from the cords in his ears.

He ripped them out instantly, the loud, jarring sound grating against his senses. What in Merlin’s name was that?

The sound continued to play, muffled through the cords. Hesitantly, he lifted one and pressed it back into his ear. A woman’s rhythmic, almost chanting voice assaulted him, accompanied by a strange, repetitive beat.

"What sort of incantation is this?" he muttered, his irritation growing. He listened for a few more seconds, the words becoming clearer: She’s a maneater... make you work hard... make you spend hard...

The song ended, only for another to begin. This time, a woman's voice crooned sweetly: I hear you call my name... and I am down on my knees, I wanna take you there...

Tom froze, the suggestive lyrics catching him completely off guard. His brows furrowed as he listened, trying to decipher what exactly this "Madonna" woman was singing about, if he could believe the text displayed were the song title and artist.

Then came another voice, this one male and far more dramatic: It’s my life... it’s now or never...

Tom scoffed. "Overly sentimental," he muttered, though he didn’t skip the song.

The next track was loud, fast, and energetic: I’m just a girl in the world... that’s all that you’ll let me be...

He grimaced. "What nonsense."

But despite his complaints, he couldn’t stop himself from listening to song after song, curious about what else Hermione had chosen to store in this mysterious device.

The next song was slower, almost haunting, with a male voice crooning: Every step you take... every move you make... I’ll be watching you...

Tom paused, narrowing his eyes. This one felt more sinister, though the soft melody masked it. Was this some form of romantic obsession?

And then: Oops, I did it again... I played with your heart...

Tom let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "This is utterly absurd."

By the time Tom returned to his flat, he was thoroughly perplexed by the music device. It had consumed his attention for the entire meal and even after finishing his pizza, he had stayed at the restaurant for over an hour, experimenting with the device.

The music was endless, song after song pouring through the tiny cords. Some were obnoxious, loud, and grating. Others were strangely entrancing, their melodies staying with him long after they ended. He had quickly learned how to adjust the volume with the strange white circle, though the mechanics of the device still puzzled him.

He spent the rest of his night listening to Hermione’s music and reading up on ancient Mesopotamian blood rituals to strengthen one’s life force.

*

Late Sunday morning, Tom sat at the head of the long table in the Malfoy Manor drawing room, his sharp eyes following his Knights and other followers as they filed out of the meeting. Abraxas, however, lingered behind, whining incessantly about Hermione.

“I wrote to her early this morning, but she still hasn’t replied. What if I’ve done something wrong, you know during the, er, thing? Should I write again, or would that make me seem desperate—”

Tom raised a hand to silence him, his patience fraying. While he wasn’t about to admit that he, too, had written to Hermione, there were far more pressing matters to attend to.

“Stellan,” he called out sharply, his voice carrying across the room.

Nott, who had been nearly out the door, froze in his tracks and hurried back toward Tom. He pushed his glasses up his narrow nose and inclined his head respectfully. “Yes, my Lord? What do you require?”

“Go to Abraxas’s library and fetch me anything you can find on blood rituals from ancient Mesopotamia,” Tom instructed, his tone measured and precise. “I’m particularly interested in the runes they used to manifest their outcomes.”

Nott nodded eagerly. “Of course, my Lord. I’ll get right to it.” He bowed deeply, his movements clumsy as his glasses slid down once more.

The moment Nott left, Abraxas resumed his insufferable monologue.

“I just can’t stop thinking about her,” Abraxas confessed, as though this were some groundbreaking revelation. “She was so strange the other day. Do you think she’s upset with me? Should I write again? Or maybe I should wait and—”

Tom closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. His patience, though vast, had its limits, and Abraxas seemed determined to test them.

“... but honestly, you’ve no idea what it was like being inside her. Merlin, she was so tight, I thought I might have gone in the back—”

“Enough!” Tom snapped, cutting him off before he could continue. “Spare me your dormitory-level drivel, Abraxas. Merlin's beard, we are adults.”

Abraxas looked slightly chastened but pressed on. “You must admit, though, she wasn’t herself. Something was off.”

For once, Tom agreed, though he loathed to admit it aloud. “Yes,” he said, his tone clipped, “something was off. She was… different. But you babbling incessantly won’t solve it.”

Abraxas slapped the table with the air of someone vindicated. “So, what do we do about it?”

Tom had never regretted being the leader of this group more than at that moment.

“I will write to her,” he said evenly. “You, on the other hand, will procure me a Muggle couple in their twenties.”

Abraxas blinked in confusion. “What sort of couple?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said with a wave of his hand, irritated by the question. “Perhaps newlyweds. They’re supposed to be fond of each other. And don’t frighten them.”

Abraxas frowned. “What do you need them for?”

Tom’s lips curled in a faint smirk, though his eyes remained cold. “To test a blood ritual I’ve been reading about.”

At that, Abraxas quickly lost interest. “Fine,” he said, dismissively. “But should I also write to Hermione again?”

“Do whatever you like, Abraxas,” Tom replied curtly. “Just, for Salazar’s sake, stop whining about it.”

Tom stood abruptly, his robes sweeping the floor as he left the room, abandoning a crestfallen Abraxas behind.

He apparated to his usual spot atop a jagged cliff overlooking the crashing waves of the sea. The salty air stung his skin as the wind whipped through his hair, the sound of the waves below roaring in his ears. He stood there for a moment, letting the chaos of the ocean mirror the storm brewing within him.

Methodically, he removed his clothes, leaving only the snug boxer briefs Hermione had once conjured for him. They were a strange souvenir of his less than impressive try at long-distance apparition.

He stepped closer to the edge, his bare feet gripping the cold stone. Without hesitation, he jumped, plunging toward the jagged rocks below. The icy spray hit his face as he spiraled upward at the last moment, soaring into the open sky.

He flew far out to sea, so far that the coastline became a faint blur behind him. When the cold began to seep into his skin, he cast a warming charm and dropped into the dark, churning water.

Tom swam for an hour, cutting through the waves with practiced ease. He had made this part of his routine—a daily exercise to build his strength and endurance. The exertion was grounding, but today his mind refused to focus.

Hermione lingered there, always just at the edge of his thoughts. How could he coax her out of this strange, detached state she seemed to have fallen into? She was so unlike herself, and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

*

The rest of Sunday was spent buried in books.

When he returned to Malfoy Manor, he found that Nott had laid out a selection of volumes on the long mahogany table in the library. Ancient tomes, their spines cracked with age, lay open to intricate diagrams of blood runes and ritual circles.

Tom sat down, the flickering light of a nearby candelabra casting shadows across his face as he poured over the texts. He deciphered the old Mesopotamian scripts with ease, noting the parallels between their rituals and those of modern magic.

*

On Monday evening, as Tom was closing up the shop, the heated pulse of his ring demanded his attention. He glanced at the engraved serpent signet ring, the faint glow fading as the message etched itself into his mind:

OL: Meet at LM now. Reg. AD.

Dumbledore. Tom’s jaw tightened. Could it be? Had his basilisk succeeded so soon? It had not been long since he tasked the creature with eliminating the persistent thorn in his side.

The crack of his apparition echoed faintly along the jagged cliffs of Cornwall, swallowed almost instantly by the roar of the sea. Lestrange Manor was not far from the spot where Tom swam most days, its looming silhouette perched like a sentinel over the turbulent waves below.

The manor was a foreboding sight, its black granite spires stabbing into the overcast sky. It seemed to absorb what little light remained on this cold September evening, shrouded in an aura of foreboding. The iron gates, etched with the coiled serpent and dagger of the Lestrange crest, swung open without a sound as Tom approached.

The air tasted of salt and something darker, a lingering residue of curses etched deep into the land. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. He enjoyed the theatrics of this place. It suited his purposes well, even if he allowed himself neither awe nor fear.

The yew trees lining the path seemed to lean closer as he passed, their twisted branches casting long, jagged shadows across the gravel. At the foot of the stone steps stood Oren Lestrange, clad in his Auror robes, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering sconces flanking the oak doors.

“You’re fast,” Lestrange remarked, inclining his head. It was neither a bow nor an informal nod but a careful balance between respect and camaraderie.

“I don’t waste time,” Tom replied, his tone crisp as the wind whipping at his robes. “You said you had news regarding Dumbledore.”

“We’ll get to it,” Lestrange said, his voice measured. “A few others are already inside. I’ll wait for the rest.”

Tom pushed past him, gripping the heavy oak doors with one hand and forcing them open. They groaned on their hinges, revealing the shadowed interior of Lestrange Manor.

The entryway was vast and oppressive, the polished floors reflecting the green glow of floating flames. Tapestries depicting violent wizarding triumphs hung from the high walls, their frayed edges whispering faintly in the drafts. Tom’s gaze swept across the space, noting every detail: the stillness of the air, the faint scent of damp stone, the quiet power thrumming beneath the surface.

He moved with purpose through the narrow corridors, their darkness pressing in on all sides. The sound of his footsteps on the cold stone floor was muted, as though the manor itself sought to swallow all noise. At last, he descended the spiral staircase carved into the rock, each step colder than the last, until he reached the Obsidian Chamber.

The door was an imposing slab of blackened iron, its surface etched with glowing red runes. They pulsed faintly under his hand as he pressed it against them, and with a low creak, the door swung open.

Inside, the chamber was dominated by a long table of polished obsidian, its surface gleaming like liquid shadow. Faintly glowing runes ran along its edges, humming with latent power. The walls were lined with alcoves housing sinister relics and grim artifacts, each emanating its own dark presence. At the far end, a massive tapestry displayed the Lestrange family tree, it's dark branches twisting like veins. The names of disowned members were scorched into oblivion, leaving only blackened patches.

Tom took his place at the head of the table, the iron-backed chair reserved for him casting a shadow across the room. Those already gathered—Nott, Dolohov, Selwyn, Avery, and Rosier—rose as he entered, murmuring amongst themselves about the reason for their summons.

“I heard the Aurors were convening an emergency meeting just an hour ago,” Nott said, his voice low.

Tom’s lips twitched in a faint smile. If the news was what he expected, their meeting was hardly a surprise.

Not long after, Lestrange and Mulciber entered the chamber, laughing quietly between themselves. They were followed by Malfoy, who—as expected—was the last to arrive.

“Shall I fetch Sylas, my Lord?” Lestrange asked. He had been locked in a cell in this manor since Friday night, when he attempted taking Hermione’s life.

Tom waved him off dismissively. “No. Sallow has yet to learn his lesson.” His tone was icy, and Lestrange’s faint disappointment did not go unnoticed. Tom was well aware of the strong friendship between the two, but examples had to be made. Defiance could not go unpunished. And since none of them knew he had planted that seed in Sallow’s head himself, he could not give in to Lestrange’s request yet.

Once they were all seated, Lestrange cleared his throat. “You’ll read about it in the Prophet tomorrow, but I’ve been instructed by you to share major news regarding Dumbledore immediately.”

Tom schooled his expression into a neutral mask, his dark eyes betraying none of the anticipation coiling in his chest.

“Head Auror Ogden has just informed us,” Lestrange continued, his voice steady, “that both Dumbledore and Hagrid were found petrified on Hogwarts grounds.”

A dark murmur rippled through the chamber.

Petrified. Not dead.

Cold, icy rage swept through Tom, chilling him to his very core. His basilisk, a creature of unparalleled lethality, had failed again. How could something so deadly falter so often? 

The others were speculating, discussing when and where the two had been found, but Tom heard none of it. His thoughts spiraled into cold fury, his mind racing for solutions.

An urge to kill rose within him, fierce and unrelenting. He stood abruptly, and the room fell silent.

“Well done, Oren,” he said, his voice calm and measured despite the storm raging beneath the surface. “That was good intel.”

He turned on his heel and strode from the chamber, his robes billowing behind him.

He needed blood. Whether it was to torture or murder, the Muggle world would provide him with the release he craved.

Chapter Text

Hermione

The next day, Hermione met the girls at half past six sharp in the little alley beside Honeydukes in Hogsmeade. It was a quiet spot, with most of the evening shoppers heading home, and the village settling into the calm of dusk. Honeydukes looked just as she remembered it from her school days, its windows glowing warmly and shelves overflowing with colorful confections.

Pippa arrived first, carrying a sleek leather briefcase in hand. She grinned, tapping it proudly.
“Copied my boss’s technique,” she explained. “Undetectable Extension Charm.” She knocked lightly on the briefcase, and faint crowing could be heard from within.

“Phenomenal,” Hermione said, a smile tugging at her lips. “How many have you got?”

“A whole dozen. But that’s not all.” Pippa leaned in conspiratorially just as Marigold joined them. “I spoke to Newt about basilisks, and he taught me a blinding spell. If you hit the beast directly in the eye—or the open mouth—it loses its lethal stare.”

“Open mouth?” Marigold wrinkled her nose in distaste. “That sounds positively ghastly.”

“The scales are nearly impenetrable,” Pippa explained. “But if we can strike it in one of its vulnerable spots, we might stand a chance. That is, if we’re attacking together.”

Hermione was touched by Pippa’s dedication, though she had no intention of dragging all of them into the Chamber of Secrets. It was far too dangerous, and she wouldn’t allow her friends to risk their lives for her mission. She had another plan entirely for securing reinforcements.

“Brilliant work, Pippa!” Hermione praised her warmly, then turned to Marigold. “Did you get the password?”

Marigold grinned triumphantly. “Of course! It’s ‘Celestina Warbeck.’ I suppose Dippet’s a fan.” She chuckled, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Perfect! You’re amazing.” Hermione cheered, feeling a genuine swell of gratitude for her friends.

Augusta arrived next, slightly out of breath. “Sorry for being late,” she huffed, her cheeks flushed. “I had to wait for a shift change in the evidence room. No chance Lestrange would let me poke about unsupervised.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted at the mention of Lestrange. If her read of him at the ball had been correct, he was one of Riddle’s most loyal followers. But it appeared Augusta’s clever timing had paid off. “Did you manage to get something?” Marigold asked eagerly.

“Oh, I got plenty,” Augusta replied with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Figured the more, the merrier.”

Hermione felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude. “Thank you. Truly. I’d never have been able to pull this off without all of you.” She made sure to meet each witch’s gaze, her sincerity shining through.

“Of course, Hermione,” Marigold said with a beam of pride. “I told you, we were the most capable witches of our year!”

Hermione laughed, her tension easing slightly. “You’re right. And I never doubted it for a second.” She gestured to the alley ahead. “Now, before we move on, Invisibility Potion!”

She pulled a small vial from her pocket, drawing out the clear liquid with a pipette. “Tongues out,” she instructed. One by one, they obeyed. As she placed five drops on each tongue, their forms shimmered and disappeared.

While she worked, Hermione explained, “The cellar of Honeydukes has a secret passage that leads directly into Hogwarts. We’ll use it to get inside without being seen.”

Once invisible, Hermione instructed Marigold to take her hand, forming a chain with the others. Together, they slipped silently into the alley and toward the shop. By sheer luck, a customer was just leaving, and Hermione tugged her friends through the open door before it closed behind them.

The sugary scent of the shop was almost overwhelming, and Hermione’s stomach gave a low growl. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, nerves keeping her appetite at bay. Around them, shelves were packed with colorful sweets, and the shopkeeper was busy at the counter, chatting with a short witch about her grandchildren.

Holding her breath, Hermione led the group toward the staircase at the back of the store, guiding them down to the cellar. Once there, she released Marigold’s hand, lifted the heavy stone tile and whispered, “Everyone through, quickly.”

Though she could not see them, she heard as the others passed through the hidden entrance quietly. Hermione followed last, closing the opening behind her as darkness enveloped them. She lit her wand with a quiet Lumos, casting a soft glow.

“You can speak now,” she said, breaking the silence.

“I had no idea this was here,” Augusta remarked, her voice tinged with awe. “Where does it lead?”

“To the hump of the One-Eyed Witch statue on the third floor,” Hermione answered quickly.

“You sound like you’ve used it before,” Marigold said, a hint of suspicion in her tone.

Hermione hesitated. “Once,” she admitted. “A long time ago.”

“I wish we’d known about this at school,” Augusta said wistfully. “Think of all the adventures we could’ve had!”

“You mean all the sweets we could’ve smuggled,” Pippa added, laughing softly.

“Okay, let’s go. This is quite the trip—you’d better have your wands ready to illuminate the way; there are steps ahead,” she instructed, and they followed her as she began the descent.

“So, what’s the plan when we get to the castle?” Pippa asked directly behind Hermione.

“I have to ask each of you to get something,” she began. “Who among you is best at identifying potions?”

“Pippa,” said Augusta and Marigold in unison.

“Perfect. Then I need you, Pippa, to go to Slughorn’s office and steal a vial of Felix Felicis,” she said, turning to hand Pippa her magical Swiss Army knife. “This opens any lock, even if Alohomora doesn’t work. Just be careful in case Slughorn has placed any additional wards on his classroom.”

“That’s brilliant, Hermione. This should minimise the risk of getting killed!” Pippa said gleefully. “Newt was so worried when I asked so many questions about basilisks.”

“What should I do?” Marigold asked next.

“You need to go to Dippet’s office and retrieve the Sorting Hat for me,” Hermione replied.

Silence.

“Why?”

“He will help us,” Hermione said, although she wasn’t sure if the hat would appreciate being stolen rather than being brought voluntarily by a phoenix.

“Okaaay,” Marigold said, audibly less enthused by her task compared to Pippa’s.

“Let me guess—I should make a big spectacle so Slughorn and Dippet aren’t in their respective offices?” Augusta deduced cleverly.

“Exactly. Everyone should be at dinner or just leaving dinner when we arrive. You have to make sure they’re thoroughly occupied,” Hermione agreed, then added, “And when you’re done, I need you to fetch us three brooms from the broom closet.”

“No problem. I’ve brought confetti cyclones that explode into a never-ending storm of colourful bits of paper whilst screaming and tangle bombs that burst into quickly growing vines. They’ll keep anyone from heading back to their dorms anytime soon,” Augusta confirmed. “What will you do?”

“I’m going to try and get beastly back-up,” Hermione replied ominously. She didn’t want to frighten them with the full details of her plan.

They walked in silence for a while until the passage began sloping upward once more. Hermione quickened her pace, eager to get this over with.

When they reached the top of the stairs that led to the hump of the One-Eyed Witch she paused. In the dim light Hermione handed each of them a pair of sunglasses from her robes. “Put these on and do not take them off under any circumstances. They’ll protect you from the basilisk’s deadly gaze. It could be anywhere roaming in the castle.”

She then distributed vials of True Invisibility Potion. “One pipette equals about half an hour. Use it wisely.”

The witches nodded, their determination clear. “Augusta,” Hermione instructed, “wait ten minutes before starting your distraction. We’ll meet again in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.” Then she opened the exit withing the hump for the girls to slip through.

“Yes, boss,” Marigold quipped, grinning as she vanished into thin air.

“Good luck,” Hermione said softly, watching her friends disappear into nothing, leaving for their personal missions in the depths of Hogwarts. She steeled herself, taking a deep breath before slipping out of the statue’s hidden exit herself.

*

Very invisible and very quickly, Hermione strode toward the castle's Entrance Hall and then outside. Each determined step brought her closer to the Forbidden Forest. It didn’t take long for her to spot a trail of spiders forming a visible path. The spiders varied in size from Knut to Bludger, and Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle at the mental image of Ron following them. It must have been hell on earth for him. She felt a fleeting moment of gratitude that she didn’t share his arachnophobia. Resolute, she marched on, her pace brisk and purposeful, the survival instincts she’d honed through years of battles kicking in.

Everything in her was back in survival mode, unleashing the animal within that was ready to confront evil head-on. She first felt this primal ferocity during her fifth year, founding the DA with Harry and Ron, and later at the Department of Mysteries fighting against the Death Eaters.

Now, however, she was stronger—more knowledgeable, more powerful, and more confident in her abilities. She could do this.

As she stepped into the dense foliage of the Forbidden Forest, she conjured a hot flame in her palm, a product of her elemental magic, rather than using the light of her wand. She decided she would show no weakness to the Acromantulas; she would be the monster to fear.

Deeper and deeper into the woods she went, the spiders scuttling ahead of her. The further she ventured, the darker the forest became. Hoofbeats echoed faintly now and then, perhaps deer, unicorns, centaurs, or even Thestrals. None of it worried Hermione. She was more dangerous than anything lurking here.

She hurried, eager to finish her mission quickly so the girls wouldn’t have to wait long. Suddenly, a smooth, deep voice called out behind her.

“There you are.”

Hermione froze. Slowly, she turned, fully visible now as her potion had worn off minutes ago.

Standing no more than five yards away was a centaur. He had approached her so silently that she wondered how she hadn’t sensed him. Towering and strikingly handsome, the centaur possessed a brutal beauty. His black fur gleamed in the faint moonlight filtering through the canopy above, and his skin was a shade so dark it seemed to absorb the light. His long, black hair was tied in a half-up braid that reminded her of ancient warriors, and his broad, bare chest rippled with muscle. The sight of his sculpted form made Hermione feel a bit… unsteady.

“Excuse me?” she asked, catching herself ogling and forcing her attention back to his face.

He took a small step closer, drawing her attention to his equine lower half, reminding her that he was only partly a man. Or so she tried to tell herself.

“You are a little late, but it is good you are here now. The others will finally believe me,” he said, closing the gap between them. Hermione tightened the flame in her palm, allowing its glow to illuminate his face better. His wild, starlit eyes gleamed like onyx against the night’s shadows.

“Have you been expecting me?” Hermione asked cautiously. Could he have foreseen something? Was this the one being she could confide in about her accidental journey through time?

“The stars were merciful and showed me that you would come,” he said, his voice like the rustle of leaves in a summer wind. “A long and branching path lies ahead of you.”

“Right. Do you have any hints about whether I’ll get back home?” she pressed. While she didn’t believe much in divination, she knew centaurs had knowledge far beyond human comprehension. They were allies, after all, having fought alongside them during the Battle of Hogwarts.

“Venus burns brightly upon many paths forward,” he murmured, his eyes unwavering on hers, “but the stars are not aligned on which is correct. The one common thread is you—you are the pivot of choice.”

Of course, he was no help at all. Why had she even bothered? She didn’t have time for riddles.

“Thanks,” she said, forcing politeness into her tone. “I’ll be taking the path to the spiders now, if you don’t mind.”

“Hmmm.” The centaur’s tone was thoughtful, almost detached. “Yes, you must hurry.”

“Well, it was nice chatting…?” She trailed off, realizing she didn’t know his name.

“My name is Kaan,” he said, dipping his head slightly.

“Hermione,” she introduced herself. “It was nice meeting you, Kaan.” She turned to leave, but his heavy hand fell gently on her shoulder, halting her.

“Aragog is not in these woods at the moment,” Kaan said gravely. “He searches for other places for his kind. The creature in the castle grows too bold, too close for their liking. You will need his mate—Aradna. She is the Matriarch. She will aid you.”

This was the most useful thing he had said so far.

“Should I still follow the spiders?” she asked.

Kaan nodded once, his gaze lifting toward the sky. “It is a long way yet. I will take you.”

Before Hermione could protest, he effortlessly lifted her over his head and settled her on his back. A surprised squeak caught in her throat as she marveled at his strength.

“You may hold on,” he said calmly. “I will move very fast.”

And he did.

Hermione barely had time to stifle her flame and grab hold of his bare shoulders before he galloped forward, weaving through the dense forest with a speed that made her stomach lurch. Not a single branch or thorn scratched her, though the wind whipped her hair wildly. His strength and agility were staggering, his movements seamless and precise.

“We are almost there. Show no fear—only the lioness within—or she will sense it,” Kaan instructed as he slowed to a halt.

The forest seemed alive, shifting and writhing around them. But it wasn’t the trees, it was the spiders, thousands of them, their many legs and eyes glinting in the faint light. Hermione felt her stomach churn. Even her tolerance for arachnids was being tested now.

“Thank you,” she managed, her voice steady as she slid off Kaan’s back with considerably less grace than she’d intended.

“The stars guide forward, never back,” Kaan said cryptically, before vanishing into the shadows, leaving Hermione alone among the skittering swarm.

She lit her renewed flame. "Only forward," she whispered to herself, and began walking again. The flame burned brighter, a beacon against the oppressive darkness.

With every step, Hermione took great care not to crush any of the spiders beneath her boots, afraid she might unintentionally offend the Matriarch. Their numbers were overwhelming now, a carpet of scuttling legs and gleaming black bodies that completely obscured the forest floor.

“Aradna,” Hermione called out, her voice steady despite the unsettling sight before her. She stopped at the edge of the spider mass, where the trail of scurrying creatures seemed to vanish into a dense cluster of ancient, gnarled trees. “Aradna, I need to speak with you. It’s urgent!”

The ground quaked slightly beneath her feet, a telltale sign that something enormous was approaching. The rhythmic vibration of massive footsteps reverberated through the trees, accompanied by the faint clicking of mandibles. Hermione strengthened her flame, letting the orange light push back the shadows. She held her ground.

“Who dares disturb the Mother?” a sharp, feminine voice hissed from above. Hermione tilted her head back just in time to see a Labrador-sized Acromantula descend from the branches above, its hairy legs moving with eerie precision. It landed less than a yard away and began circling her, its black, glittering eyes reflecting the flickering flame in her palm.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Hermione replied coolly, holding her ground as the spider stalked around her. “What matters is what I plan to do tonight.”

The spider clicked its mandibles in what might have been irritation, but before it could respond, a deeper, raspier voice echoed from the shadows ahead.

“Let her speak.”

The circling Acromantula skittered back as another tremor shook the ground. Emerging from the darkness was the largest spider Hermione had ever seen. This must be the Matriarch. Aradna. Her body was enormous—easily the size of a carriage—and her legs extended far beyond that, their jointed curves gleaming like polished ebony in the dim light. Her eight eyes glinted with intelligence, their dark depths unreadable.

Hermione strengthened her resolve and stepped forward, careful to avoid flinching. She could do this.

“Dim your flame,” Aradna commanded, her voice rasping like dry leaves caught in the wind. “My kind does not appreciate fire.”

Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second before obliging. She muttered a charm, and her flame shrank to a dull ember, casting just enough light to make out the gruesome surroundings. The nest itself loomed behind Aradna, a cavernous hollow in the ground, its entrance lined with thick, silken webbing that glistened like frost. The threads stretched into the trees, draping the surrounding area in a suffocating cocoon-like canopy. The faint, sickly-sweet smell of decay wafted from within.

“Are you Aradna?” Hermione asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“I am,” the Matriarch replied, her mandibles twitching. “Why does a human seek me out?”

“I need your help,” Hermione said plainly, knowing there was no point in preamble.

A low chuckle rumbled from Aradna’s massive form, an unsettling sound that reverberated through the nest. “Why should I help your kind? We have our own troubles, human. The beast within your castle grows bolder by the day, forcing us to seek refuge elsewhere. I do not see humans rushing to our aid.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Hermione countered, her voice growing firmer. “My friends and I are going to kill the beast tonight. It attacked Hagrid. It has terrorized your kind. It cannot be allowed to live any longer.”

Aradna went silent, her eyes narrowing. The smaller Acromantulas surrounding them stilled, their clicking mandibles quiet. Finally, the Matriarch spoke.

“You are brave, human,” she said slowly, her tone tinged with skepticism. “But bravery alone cannot slay such a creature. What makes you think you stand a chance?”

Hermione’s grip tightened around her wand. “I know its weaknesses,” she said simply. “But we can’t do it alone. If you help us, we can distract and overwhelm it. Together, we can succeed.”

Aradna’s mandibles clicked thoughtfully. “And how many of you are there?” she asked.

“Three others will join me,” Hermione replied. She hesitated, then added, “For Hagrid. For your home. Please, help me.”

The Matriarch studied her for a long moment, her eyes glinting like polished stones. Then she chuckled again, the sound softer this time. “For Hagrid,” she echoed. “Very well. I shall match your number with four of my daughters. But heed this, human—show no fear. They will sense it, as will the beast.”

Hermione exhaled, relief flooding her. “Thank you,” she said earnestly.

Aradna turned, her massive body shifting with surprising grace. She emitted a series of clicking sounds, and four spiders the size of Mini Coopers emerged from the shadows. Their mandibles clacked in unison as they approached Hermione, their eyes glinting with a predatory gleam.

“Lead the way,” one of them said, its voice high and chittering.

Hermione nodded, pulling her broom charm from her bracelet. With a flick of her wand, it expanded to full size. “Try to keep up,” she said, mounting the broom and kicking off the ground.

She shot forward through the dense forest, weaving between the trees with practiced ease. Behind her, the sound of thirty-two legs pattering against the earth was both unsettling and strangely reassuring. They moved like shadows, swift and silent, never falling behind.

When the edge of the forest came into view, Hermione slowed, putting her sunglasses back on. The chaos from Augusta’s distraction reached her ears—high-pitched shrieks and shouts echoed from the castle. She paused just inside the treeline, turning to face her companions.

“Can you climb the castle walls from the outside?” she asked the largest of the four spiders.

“Of course,” it replied, its mandibles twitching.

“Good. Second floor, eastern side of the castle. Follow my lead.” Hermione took off again, flying in a path that would allow the Acromantulas to climb discreetly. They stayed to the shadows, moving between windows and avoiding the torchlight spilling from the castle. Her arachnid companions scaling the walls with eerie grace to follow her.

By the time they reached the designated spot, Hermione’s heart was pounding—not with fear, but with determination. This was it. The first step in righting so many wrongs. 

When Hermione finally reached the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, she hovered just outside the window and peered inside. The scene before her was a little chaotic. Augusta stood by the door, wand drawn, like a sentry guarding a fortress. Marigold, holding the Sorting Hat, appeared to be in a heated argument with someone unseen. Pippa, meanwhile, clutched her briefcase close, looking mildly exasperated.

Hermione knocked on the glass three times to get their attention. All three heads whipped around, startled, and Pippa rushed to the window. She threw it open, her eyes widening.

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione! Where did you come from?” Pippa exclaimed, holding the window open as Hermione floated inside.

“No time to explain—leave it open!” Hermione said, hopping off her broom, but her attention was quickly drawn to the argument Marigold was having. To her shock, Marigold wasn’t arguing with an invisible foe—she was arguing with Moaning Myrtle.

“I said no such thing!” Marigold declared, her tone sharp. “All I meant was that we’re here to help, so it would be unwise to tattle to Headmaster Dippet!”

“You let those screaming tornados of confetti loose just to sneak in here!” Myrtle wailed, floating higher in indignation. “Unacceptable! You’re causing so much trouble—everyone’s already on edge because of Slytherin’s monster! No one should be out, or do you want someone else to get killed, just like meeeeeee!”

Hermione winced at the ghost’s shrill outburst, which drowned out even the cacophony of screaming students and confetti explosions echoing from below. But Myrtle’s piercing scream abruptly shifted into a horrified shriek as her gaze landed on Hermione—and the towering Acromantulas behind her.

“What in Rowena’s name is THAT?” Marigold shrieked, pointing at the spiders. Myrtle turned even paler (which seemed impossible for a ghost) and joined in with an over-the-top, “Arrrggghhhhhhh!”

“Hermione,” Pippa said, remarkably calm in contrast to the chaos, “do you know there are several Acromantula younglings following right behind you?”

Before Hermione could reply, Myrtle launched into another tirade, this time aimed squarely at her. “You’ve brought monsters here! Are they here to kill Muggle-borns and staff? Are you the attacker? Did you kill me?” she accused, her voice growing higher and more hysterical with every word.

“Enough!” Hermione snapped, panic creeping into her voice. She turned to Myrtle, trying to regain control. “Myrtle, please stop screaming! These spiders are here to help. In fact, we’re going to kill the monster that took your life.”

“She’s right, Myrtle,” Augusta chimed in, waving her wand lazily. “And don’t worry—I’ve charmed the door. No one outside can hear a thing, thanks to these two squabbling for the last ten minutes.”

Myrtle folded her arms, her translucent form sulking. “Why should I believe you?” she demanded. “I don’t even know you!”

“Myrtle,” Hermione began earnestly, stepping forward, “it doesn’t matter if you know me. I’m here to avenge you. Your life mattered, and your death does too. We’re here to make sure no one else suffers the same fate.” She gestured to her friends and the spiders. “We’re all here to stop Slytherin’s monster.”

“That’s right,” Pippa said, stepping up and holding out her briefcase. “And in here is the weapon we need to fight it.”

Marigold, never one to miss an opportunity to throw a verbal jab, added, “You know I’ve never liked you, Myrtle. But you also know I’m not a liar. The only thing we want to harm is the thing that did this to you.” She waved dramatically at Myrtle’s ghostly form.

Myrtle sniffled, her voice softening slightly. “So… so, they’re not the monsters?” she asked, eyeing the spiders warily.

“No,” Hermione confirmed, turning to check on the spiders, who were now crowding the bathroom. It was becoming comically cramped. Two of them had taken to crawling along the ceiling, their hairy legs casting unsettling shadows. “They’re here because the basilisk is a threat to them too and one of their friends was attacked.”

“Indeed,” one of the spiders clicked in its eerie voice. “We are our mother’s fiercest warriors.”

“How… lovely,” Marigold muttered, her expression one of barely concealed disgust.

“Think of it as a very adventurous girls’ night out,” Hermione suggested, trying to inject some levity.

“Oh, it’s already been an unforgettable girls’ night,” Augusta said with a wry grin. “So, what now? Why did we meet here?”

“Because,” Hermione said, gesturing to the sinks, “the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is right there.”

Augusta raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. It’s no coincidence Myrtle died in here. This is where the basilisk enters the castle.”

Hermione turned to Pippa. “Did you get the Felix Felicis?”

Pippa nodded, tucking her briefcase under one arm. She pulled a small vial from her pocket and held it up. “This is it, right?”

“Yes! Perfect!” Hermione beamed and clapped her hands, feeling a surge of hope. “This will make all the difference.”

Augusta had placed four brooms by the door, looking ready for anything. Hermione’s confidence grew as she saw all the pieces falling into place.

“Pippa, can you teach me that blinding spell you mentioned earlier?” Hermione asked.

“What do you mean, you?” Augusta interjected, narrowing her eyes. “There’s no way you’re going down there alone.”

Hermione turned to face them, her expression serious. “You’ve already helped me so much, but I can’t ask you to risk your lives. This is my fight.”

“That’s not what we agreed,” one of the spiders interrupted. “One warrior for each of yours. You heard our mother.”

“She’s got a point,” Augusta added, folding her arms. “We’re in this together.”

Before Hermione could argue, Marigold stepped forward and took her hand. She removed her sunglasses to meet Hermione’s eyes directly. “Don’t fight us on this. We’re here for you.  For our school.”

The silent message in Marigold’s gaze was clear: they were more than friends—they were family now. Hermione’s throat tightened, and tears threatened to fall. She nodded, unable to speak for a moment.

“Alright,” she said finally, her voice thick with emotion. “Everyone, grab a broom. Take a sip of the liquid luck and keep your glasses on.”

The Felix Felicis worked instantly. As soon as Hermione knelt by the sink, she spotted the tiny engraved snake without even needing to look for it.

“Sssah-hasss-sssay,” she hissed in Parseltongue, copying what Ron said so many years ago. The engraved serpent glowed faintly, and the sink shifted, sinking into the floor to reveal a dark, gaping hole.

Behind her, the girls, the ghost, and the spiders leaned in to watch, their faces a mix of awe and apprehension.

“What did you just say?” Marigold asked.

Myrtle answered before Hermione could. “It sounded just the same as the words I heard from that boy before I died…”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed, her voice steady. “It’s Parseltongue. I only imitated what I heard once before.”

“Well, that was brilliant,” Augusta said. “But now what?”

Hermione turned to the group, her eyes blazing with determination. “Grab a broom. We’re going in!”

Then she jumped first into the hole in the ground sliding down the ancient tunnel for the second time in her life, calling after the others to follow her.

The descent into the Chamber of Secrets was harrowing in more ways than one. The tube she slid down was wet with slime, sending Hermione and her companions speeding along in a chaotic jumble. The walls were damp and narrow, and the air smelled stale, as though centuries of secrets had suffocated the space.

“Watch your elbows!” Marigold yelped from somewhere behind her.

“I can’t control where I land!” Pippa called back.

The Acromantulas followed, their many legs producing an unnerving symphony of scrabbling noises as they expertly navigated the vertical descent. Myrtle drifted along just behind Hermione, muttering to herself.

Hermione braced herself as the tube spat them out onto the hard stone floor of the cavern below. She landed with a grunt, narrowly avoiding colliding with Marigold, and began dusting herself off.

“Lovely landing, Hermione,” Marigold quipped, brushing moss off her robes.

“Don’t start,” Hermione muttered, standing and summoning her wand. She cast Lumos , illuminating the dark, cavernous space. Her light revealed a familiar sight, snake carvings stretching along the walls, their emerald eyes gleaming ominously. 

The air inside the tunnels leading to the Chamber of Secrets felt heavier than Hermione remembered, damp and suffocating with the weight of ancient magic. As they descended deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels, the sound of their footsteps echoed faintly against the cold stone walls. The Acromantulas skittered along behind them, their many legs making a rhythmic pattering that set Hermione’s nerves on edge.

Hermione’s heart clenched as she recalled her previous trip to this chamber, so many years ago, when the basilisk was already dead and she and Ron only sought to get its teeth. Now, she was back, leading her own fight against the creature she wished had never been unleashed. Now, with her friends and the spiders, she felt the weight of leadership pressing heavily on her shoulders. This wasn’t just about defeating a basilisk; this was about ensuring everyone made it out alive.

The group pressed forward, their footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. Hermione kept her wand raised, illuminating the path ahead, she knew would lead where they wanted to go. The Acromantulas moved with an unsettling grace, their hairy bodies blending into the shadows.

“This place reeks,” Augusta muttered, wrinkling her nose as they rounded a corner where the tunnel widened slightly. The faint stench of sulfur lingered in the air, growing stronger as they moved closer to the heart of the Chamber.

“Smells like something died here... or should,” Pippa quipped, clutching her little leather suitcase close to her chest. Despite her dry humor, her voice wavered slightly, betraying her nerves.

Hermione didn’t respond. Her focus was on the next obstacle: the massive stone door that blocked their way forward. The ornate carvings of snakes twisted and writhed across its surface, their eyes glittering in the glow of her wandlight. She placed a hand on the cold stone, her fingers tracing the patterns of the serpents. She could feel the magic thrumming beneath her fingertips, ancient and unyielding.

“Is this it?” Pippa asked, her voice hushed.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Beyond here is the main hall. Stay close.”

She remembered this door vividly. The first time, Ron had spoken the words, his imitation of Harry’s Parseltongue opening the way. Now it was her turn once more. She closed her eyes, letting the words Ron had once uttered resurface in her mind a second time.

“Sssah-hasss-sssay,” she hissed, mimicking the guttural cadence of Parseltongue.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a deep groan, the snakes slithered apart, the door grinding open to reveal the vast chamber beyond.

The towering statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed at the far end, its long beard cascading down like a frozen waterfall. Water pooled on the floor, reflecting the statue’s eerie visage. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew and something sharper, something that set Hermione’s teeth on edge.

“Blimey,” Marigold whispered, her voice barely audible. “This place is even worse than the stories.”

“It’s just a room,” Hermione said firmly, though her heart was pounding in her chest. “A room with a very big, very dangerous snake.”

The group spread out cautiously, their wands casting long, flickering shadows across the chamber. The Acromantulas took up positions near the walls, their legs clicking as they waited for instructions.

“Now what?” Augusta asked, her broom clutched tightly in one hand.

“We need to lure it out,” Hermione said. She turned to Pippa, the magical zoologist of their group. “Any ideas?”

Pippa nodded, pulling out her wand. “Basilisks are territorial. If we make enough noise or disrupt its space, it’ll come looking for the threat.”

“We’ve got plenty of noise,” Augusta said, jerking her thumb toward the roosters, which were still inside Pippa’s enchanted briefcase. One of them could be heard crowing, the sound echoing faintly in the chamber.

Hermione nodded. “Alright, everyone spread out. We’ll draw it out, but stay on your guard. Use my potion, stay invisible if you can, and keep your wands ready.”

The group moved into position, each taking a different corner of the chamber. Hermione took a deep breath, her hand tightening around the Sorting Hat she had taken from Marigold and tucked it under her arm. She didn’t have time to second-guess her plan. The Felix Felicis coursing through her veins made her feel certain, almost untouchable. She would know what to do when the moment came.

Pippa opened the small leather suitcase, and a dozen birds fluttered out, their crows filling the chamber. The effect was immediate. A low, guttural hiss echoed from the shadows, followed by the unmistakable sound of something enormous moving through the dark. Hermione’s heart raced as the water rippled, the vibrations growing stronger.

“It’s coming,” she said, mounting her broom. “Stay in the air, and remember your sunglasses!” The others followed suit, their brooms lifting them off the ground.

The basilisk emerged slowly, its scales shimmering like black-green armor. Its head was massive, its golden eyes slitted and cold. Its jaws opened, revealing rows of jagged, yellowed teeth, and its forked tongue flicked out to taste the air. The stench of its breath hit Hermione like a physical force, acrid and sulfurous.

The roosters continued their cacophony, and the basilisk recoiled slightly, shaking its head as if in pain. Its movements grew more erratic, its body coiling and uncoiling in agitation.

“It doesn’t like the sound,” Pippa noted, her voice tinged with awe. “But it’s not enough to kill it outright.”

As the roosters crowed again, the sharp sounds piercing the air. The basilisk reared back, hissing furiously, its movements becoming erratic. The spiders seized the opportunity, launching themselves at the beast. One of them managed to shoot a thick web at its tail, temporarily pinning it to a column.

“Now!” Hermione shouted. “Blind it!”

Pippa aimed her wand, shouting the incantation: “Occaecus Lumina!” A burst of blinding white light shot toward the basilisk’s head, but the creature jerked violently, and the spell missed, striking the wall instead.

“Again!” Hermione urged as the basilisk thrashed, breaking free of the webbing. One of the spiders lunged at its side, sinking its fangs into the thick scales, but the beast swung its tail, sending the spider crashing into a column.

The roosters’ crows came again, louder and sharper. The basilisk shuddered, its movements growing more erratic. Its scales began to darken, small cracks forming along its back as if the sound itself was tearing it apart.

The basilisk let out a deafening roar, its jaws snapping shut just inches from one of the Acromantulas. The spider hissed and leapt onto the serpent’s back, sinking its fangs into its scales. The basilisk thrashed, sending the spider flying into a wall with a sickening crunch.

“No!” Hermione shouted, her chest tightening as the spider lay motionless.

“Occaecus Lumina!” Pippa cried, aiming her wand at the basilisk’s head. A burst of blinding white light shot toward its eyes again, but the serpent whipped its head aside at the last moment, avoiding the spell.

“Again!” Hermione shouted. “Keep trying!”

Pippa and the others continued casting the blinding spell, their voices echoing through the chamber. The basilisk roared in fury, its movements growing more frantic as the roosters’ crowing filled the air.

Hermione darted around the chamber on her broom, her every movement guided by the Felix Felicis potion coursing through her veins. She swooped low, narrowly avoiding the basilisk’s snapping jaws, and grabbed the sorting hat from where it had fallen on the floor.

“Come on,” she muttered, clutching the hat tightly. “I need that sword.”

She plunged her hand into the hat, her fingers searching for the hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor. But the hat remained empty.

“Damn it,” she whispered, her heart sinking. She didn’t have time to dwell on it; the basilisk was still thrashing, its massive body tearing through the chamber.

The fight devolved into chaos. The girls flew on their brooms, casting spells to distract the basilisk. Myrtle, surprisingly bold, floated directly into its path, waving her arms and shrieking, “Over here, you slimy beast!”

The basilisk lunged at her, its jaws snapping shut on empty air. But Myrtle’s act of heroism wasn’t without cost. The basilisk’s gaze caught her as she darted away, and she froze mid-air, her translucent form turning a ghostly grey.

“Myrtle!” Marigold screamed, but there was no time to mourn. The basilisk turned its attention to her, its jaws snapping dangerously close. She veered sharply, and only escaped its venomous teeth at a hair’s width. “Marigold!” Hermione’s heart stopped. 

Hermione clutched the Sorting Hat, desperation surging through her. “Please,” she whispered. “Help me. I need the sword.”

The hat remained silent. She shoved her hand inside, feeling nothing but fabric.

Another Acromantula leapt onto the serpent, its fangs finding purchase in the soft flesh near its neck. The basilisk hissed in pain, its tail whipping around and knocking Augusta off her broom. She hit the ground hard, her sunglasses askew.

“Augusta!” Hermione shouted, diving toward her friend. But the basilisk was faster. It lunged, its fangs bared, and Hermione’s heart stopped as she saw its deadly bite heading straight for Augusta. Its teeth sank right into her arm she was using to cover her head with, blood sprayed the ground around her. 

As the basilisk reared back to strike again, Hermione’s instincts kicked in. She threw herself between it and Augusta, clutching the hat tightly. “Come on!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “I’m not afraid of you!”

The hat grew warm in her hands, and a voice whispered in her mind. You have proven yourself worthy.

The basilisk lunged, and Hermione thrust her hand into the hat one last time. This time, her fingers closed around something solid. She pulled with all her might, and the Sword of Gryffindor emerged, its ruby-encrusted hilt gleaming.

Time seemed to slow. Guided by Felix Felicis, Hermione moved with precision and grace, the sword slicing through the air. She struck the basilisk’s neck, the blade biting deep into its flesh. The beast let out an ear-splitting roar, its body convulsing as it collapsed to the ground.

The chamber fell silent, save for the group’s ragged breathing, even the cocks seemingly understanding the severity of the moment. Hermione dropped the sword, rushing to Augusta’s side. Her friend was pale, her breathing shallow.

Her sleeve had been ripped into ribbons and as the others gathered around they could watch as the venom was spreading. Thick, black veins creeping up her arm creating a horrible pattern under Augusta’s tanned skin.

“How did this happen, we all took the liquid luck? This should not be happening! Fuck, fuck, fuck, what do we do now?” Marigold was panicking beside Hermione gripping Auguta’s healthy arm. 

“There is only one cure for the venomous bite of a basilisk.” Pippa said with a quiet voice, but Hermione could hear her panic. “Did anyone bring Phoenix tears by chance?”  

Merlin's beard, of course. A relieved half-cry half-laugh escaped Hermione.

“Solara.” Hermione remembered, fumbling with her charm bracelet. She extracted a small vial of phoenix tears, her hands shaking as she poured a few drops onto the bite wound on Augusta’s arm. The dark veins receded almost instantly, color returning to her face.

“Thank Hecate, Hermione, how do you have those just with you?” Marigold cried out in relief.

“You did it,” Augusta whispered weakly, a small smile on her lips.

“No, we did it,” Hermione replied, tears now streaming down her face.

They collapsed onto the chamber floor, laughter bubbling out of them in hysterical bursts, a release of adrenaline and relief after the chaos they had endured. One by one, they pulled off their sunglasses, the surreal scene around them coming into clearer focus. The spiders clicked their mandibles, an oddly rhythmic sound that Hermione interpreted as approval.

“This,” Augusta said, lying back in the basilisk’s and her own blood, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath, “is the best girls’ night out ever.”

Hermione let out a snort of laughter, wiping at her blood-streaked cheek with the back of her hand. She glanced around at her unlikely team, a swell of pride and exhaustion washing over her. Against all odds, they had done it. Together.

Leaning back, Hermione accidentally rested against the open snout of the basilisk and recoiled with a sharp, very undignified “Urgh!” which only sent the others into another fit of giggles.

“You lot were incredible,” Hermione said, her voice soft but sincere as she turned to the three spiders still standing. “Thank you for helping us.”

The largest of the Acromantulas inclined her body, her voice clicking as she replied, “Likewise. We will return to our mother, proud of our service. Now, our kind can live safely.”

The mournful tone in the spider’s voice was not lost on Hermione. She nodded, respectful of their loss. Without another word, the Acromantulas turned and skittered off into the shadows, their departure leaving an eerie silence behind.

“They weren’t as bad as I expected,” Marigold said after a beat, though her shudder betrayed her lingering discomfort. “Still, I’m not exactly sorry to see them go.”

“Same,” Augusta agreed, pale but steady. She glanced down at her blood-streaked robes and grimaced. “I think I’ve had my fill of spiders and snakes for one lifetime.”

Hermione pushed herself up, brushing dirt from her robes. “Let’s grab some of these teeth and get out of here.”

Marigold shot her a wary look as Hermione bent to grip one of the basilisk’s massive fangs. “Why on earth would we do that?”

“Basilisk venom is incredibly rare,” Hermione explained, gritting her teeth as she pulled. “It’s priceless for potion-making. Trust me, Eva will be over the moon if you bring her some.”

That was all the convincing Marigold needed. With a resigned sigh, she crouched beside Hermione, and together they managed to extract six teeth. Each one was heavy and glistening with venom, the edges razor-sharp. 

Hermione wanted them just in case. A witch could never be too prepared.

“You think you’re fit to fly?” Hermione asked Augusta as she pocketed half of the teeth.

“I’ll manage,” Augusta replied, sitting up straighter and rolling her shoulders. “Let’s not linger. This is already seared into my memory—I don’t need to keep staring at it.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Marigold muttered, casting a wary glance at the fallen basilisk. She gestured toward Myrtle, still hovering petrified in the corner. “What about her?”

“We’ll take her to the hospital wing,” Pippa said decisively, tucking her collection of roosters back into their cage. “The professors will know what to do.”

Hermione nodded, hefting the sword and handing Marigold the other three teeth and the Sorting Hat. “Let’s fly up—it’ll be the fastest way out of here.”

One by one, they mounted their brooms. Marigold used her wand to levitate Myrtle’s stiff form, keeping her close. Augusta, though still shaky, managed to steady herself as they began their ascent. As they flew over the rubble of shattered statues and crumbled stone, Hermione’s stomach flipped when she felt the familiar, ominous pulse from the ring on her finger. She came to an abrupt halt mid-flight, her broom jerking to a stop.

“Hermione?” Pippa called from behind her, nearly colliding. “What’s going on?”

Hermione’s heart raced. She scanned the chamber, her wand gripped tightly in her free hand. The pulse could only mean one thing. Was he here? She strained to feel that unsettling sense of being watched, but there was nothing—only the silence of the cavern.

“Take more invisibility potion,” Hermione ordered, her voice sharp with urgency.

The girls didn’t question her. One by one, they vanished, brooms and all, leaving Hermione hovering alone. She gripped the sword and wand tightly, her breath shallow. If he was coming, it had to be her he found. Not them. But no one appeared.

“Hermione,” Marigold’s voice broke through the tension. “Are you going to tell us what’s going on?”

Hermione hesitated before shaking her head. “Sorry. False alarm, I think.” She turned her broom to leave, but as she moved, the pulse returned—stronger this time. She froze, her eyes narrowing as she caught a glint of black amidst the rubble below.

There, half-buried in the debris of a shattered statue, was Tom Riddle’s diary. Hermione’s breath caught as she descended slowly, her hand trembling as she picked up the familiar black leather book. There was no mistaking it—the golden initials, T.M.R., gleamed mockingly in the dim light.

She was frozen for a moment, her mind racing. How? Why here? But then, a fierce determination settled over her. This was an opportunity—a gift. She could end this piece of him, right here, right now.

She might not have been The Chosen One , but she truly was the luckiest girl alive. Or at least that evening.

“You lot go ahead,” Hermione called to her friends, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “Marigold, get Myrtle to the hospital wing. Pippa, help Augusta and tell Dippet the students and staff are safe now. Make sure he swears to never speak of this to anyone. I’ll meet you back at the One-Eyed Witch.”

“Are you sure?” Marigold asked, her concern evident.

“Positive,” Hermione replied. She waited until the faint hum of their invisible brooms faded into the distance before dismounting. Drawing her wand, she cast, “Homenum Revelio.” The chamber was empty. She was alone. Kneeling on the wet, blood-slicked stone, Hermione set the diary down before her. She opened it once, the blank pages mocking her, then closed it again.

“Sorry, Tom,” she murmured, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and grim satisfaction. “But you deserve this.” Her hand hovered over the venom-coated tooth before gripping it tightly. With a deep breath, she drove it down into the diary’s cover. The reaction was instant. Ink gushed out like blood, black and viscous, pooling around her knees. The diary shuddered as a high-pitched scream pierced the air, making Hermione flinch. She didn’t stop. Again and again, she stabbed the tooth into the book, each blow punctuated by a furious scream of her own.

“You don’t get to break me!” she shouted, tears streaming down her face. “I am strong. I am powerful. And you—you’re just a man!” The final stab silenced the diary, the ink slowing to a stop. The ring on her finger pulsed once more, a weak, feeble protest, before going still, as if in hiding from her violence.

Hermione stared at the destroyed Horcrux, her chest heaving. For a moment, she considered taking the ring off and destroying it as well. But she knew she couldn’t. Not yet. Riddle could never know what she did here.

Rising to her feet, she wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked around the chamber one last time. The sword of Gryffindor gleamed in her grip. Her hunger for revenge satiated, Hermione mounted her broom and flew toward the exit. She was one step closer to getting home.

Chapter Text

Tom

He was wrist-deep inside the chest of the brown-haired Muggle when Tom finally felt the tug that told him Hermione was on the move.

For three days, she had barely stirred from her hotel room. He knew this because his owl had returned twice without his letters, indicating she had accepted them from the owl, but refused to reply. The familiar pull of the Invenio Tenebris , the charm he had placed on nearly everything in her room, now told him she had Apparated quite a distance. Still within Great Britain, most likely, though near the continental mainland remained a possibility.

A hollow sensation had been gnawing at him, one that he was not accustomed to. Restlessness. Irritation. Now that she was finally moving again, he felt what could only be described as relief. He had wondered why she had kept to her room for days on end. 

His fingers tightened instinctively around the unbeating heart he held in his grip.

Tom had more pressing matters than monitoring Hermione Granger at that particular moment. He was already spending too much time thinking about her. This was more important.

Or so he told himself.

A strangled whimper from the dungeon floor reminded him of his immediate company. The bound Muggle woman sobbed, tears streaking down her dirt-streaked face as she watched in horror. Tom had split open her husband’s chest with practiced precision, reaching inside as if rummaging through a drawer, all in the name of research.

He had gagged her earlier when her incessant screaming had started to grate on his nerves.

Tom glanced down at his pocket watch, tracking the time.

There.

Exactly sixty-six seconds after the man had died, his heart began beating again.

Withdrawing his hand, Tom flicked his wand lazily over the Muggle’s chest, sealing the wound. The man’s body convulsed violently as breath returned to his lungs. His mouth opened and closed in frantic gasps before he managed a hoarse, pitiful whisper.

“Please… please… stop. I can’t— I can’t take it anymore—stop, stop—”

Tom raised a brow. “An hour ago, you begged me to kill you instead of her. Changed your mind, have you?”

The man sobbed, his entire body trembling. “No, no, leave Theresa alone. Don’t hurt her, please —”

Tom exhaled, disappointed by the predictability of human nature.

Five times now, he had killed this man. Strangled him. Bled him dry. Stabbed him. Used spells that should have ensured permanence. Every time, sixty-six seconds later, the man returned to life.

This experiment was proving far more fruitful than every other of his previous attempts of a very ancient and very forbidden blood ritual.

Tom idly considered how long it would take before the man lost his mind entirely.

His fingers curled around the Muggle’s face, twisting his head in one swift motion. The sharp crack echoed through the cold dungeon, accompanied by a muffled, agonized wail from the woman.

Tom checked his watch.

Sixty-six seconds passed. The man gasped back to life.

Fascinating.

He wiped his bloodied hand on his robe and called, “Dobby.”

With a sharp crack, the house-elf appeared. Tom fought the urge to sneer. These creatures always disgusted him, filthy rags hanging off their frail bodies, servile mannerisms, those wide, pathetic eyes.

But he knew this one. He had noticed how Hermione had stared at this elf, as if she were seeing some lost saint. That alone had made Dobby’s name worth remembering.

The elf bowed low, his ears twitching. “Master Riddle has called for Dobby. How can Dobby assist Master Abraxas’s guest?”

The Muggle man groaned, shuddering as he fought to return to full consciousness. Tom ignored him and conjured a second dagger, identical to the one he had used earlier. He handed it to the elf.

“I will count down from three. When I say now, you stab her.” Tom pointed to the bound woman on the floor. “Through the heart.”

Dobby stared at the dagger in horror, his large bat-like ears trembling. His gaze darted wildly around the room, as if searching for an escape.

“Oh, Dobby does not think—” the elf stammered, voice high and reedy. “Dobby is not a violent creature, no, no, no—”

“Don’t fret,” Tom drawled, tone light but merciless. “They’re just Muggles. They’re no more valuable than cattle. You’ve seen cows butchered before, haven’t you?”

Dobby clutched the dagger with shaking hands, turning to face the sobbing woman. Her husband began screaming again.

“No, no—don’t hurt her! I’ll kill you! I swear, I’ll—”

“Three.” Tom’s voice was calm.

“LEAVE HER ALONE!” The Muggle man thrashed against his restraints.

“Two.”

The man’s sobs turned to frantic pleas. “I’ll do anything. Please, I— I beg you—”

“One.”

Tom smiled.

“NOOOOO—”

“Now.”

Both blades plunged down.

Blood spattered across the stone floor, hot and thick. The woman’s body convulsed before going limp. Dobby’s dagger clattered to the ground with a sharp clang as he scrambled back, wringing his hands.

The Muggle man howled in grief and pain, a sound more primal than human, as his body slackened, the life in his eyes gone once more.

Tom checked his watch.

Sixty-six seconds passed. Neither corpse moved.

“Should I even ask what you’re doing?”

Tom turned to see Abraxas standing in the doorway, pale brows arched.

If he was at all disturbed by the carnage, he did not show it.

Abraxas had never had an issue with Tom’s cruelty. If anything, he admired it. Tom had seen it in his mind before, the quiet, awed reverence that lingered there, the understanding that he was in the presence of something greater.

Still, Tom replied as if his methods required no justification.

“I’m testing the limits of an ancient blood ritual.”

Abraxas stepped inside Tom’s murder dungeon, surveying the scene. “Go clean yourself up, Dobby,” he muttered. The elf vanished with a miserable squeak.

Then, folding his arms, he asked, “And what exactly does this ritual do?”

Tom flicked his wand, vanishing the pools of blood from the floor.

“It binds two lives together,” he explained.

Abraxas tilted his head. “You mean… a ‘you die, I die’ sort of thing?”

Tom shook his head. “No. As long as one heart is still beating, the other must beat as well.” He paused, watching the realization dawn in Abraxas’s eyes. “If the ritual is successful, unless you kill both simultaneously, they cannot die.” 

Tom suspected that if a body was destroyed to a certain degree, it could not be revived either, but this theory still had to be tested.

Abraxas exhaled a low whistle, stepping over the bodies. “That sounds an awful lot like necromancy.”

“It isn’t,” Tom corrected smoothly. “The body never grows cold. It revives exactly sixty-six seconds after death. However, these two here were my only successful experiment. For the other three pairs the ritual did not take root as it should have.” 

Abraxas’s gaze flickered to the unmoving corpses. “So, why did it for these two?”

Tom’s jaw tightened. That was the one piece of the puzzle he had yet to solve or rather confirm .

“I don’t know.”

“If they were the first successful case, what makes them unique?” Abraxas crouched by the bodies, studying their faces.

Tom hesitated. He didn’t like admitting uncertainty.

“If my translation is correct, the ritual only works if their hearts are already bound .” He inhaled sharply. “The handwritten notes suggested that they must be married.”

“I assume you’ve tested on married couples before?”

“Of course.”

“Then what’s different about these two?”

Tom’s fingers curled at his side. He already knew the answer, though he despised it.

“They were quite devoted to each other.”

Abraxas smirked. “That’s why you wanted a newly wedded couple! Because they love each other.”

Tom said nothing.

Abraxas stood, dusting off his robe. “That’s your missing variable.”

Tom remained silent, his mind working through the implications he had also guessed at. 

While Tom had suspected this might be the crucial factor, it remained intangible. Love could not be measured. There was no proof it truly existed, let alone held any magical significance.

Yet, he could think of no other variable that accounted for the ritual’s success.

“He was certainly willing to die for her,” Tom confirmed, and with another wave of his wand, he cleansed himself of the man’s blood.

“You could test whether platonic, maternal, or romantic love makes a difference,” Abraxas suggested. It was a surprisingly academic thought, considering Abraxas had always been happiest on a broom rather than in the classroom. Still, it was a good idea.

But one question remained, one Tom could not shake all night. It carved out a hollow space inside him, an unsettling void. What if any kind of love was truly the necessary ingredient? Could he ever perform this blood ritual himself?

Tom did not believe in love. He had never loved anyone. And as far as he could tell, no one had ever loved him. No mother, no father. While Abraxas undoubtedly harbored some form of affection for him, it was conditional. If he ever learned that Tom was responsible for his wife’s, sister’s, or mother’s deaths, that affection would vanish in an instant. But could there exist a love that was unconditional? How did one recognise it? And more importantly, how did one measure its level?

For a moment, he considered abandoning the ritual altogether. While the results had been extraordinary, the chances of it ever working for him were far too slim. He should seek alternative means.

And yet, his thoughts kept circling back to the same face, filling every empty space in his mind. Hermione.

If anyone, it would be her.

Later that night, lying in bed, his subconscious conjured her image again and again, until he finally drifted into sleep, thinking of her firewhiskey eyes, the warmth of her soft body, and the lingering scent of her on the shirt he had worn during the Splinching-incident.

***

Hermione

After the best night’s sleep she had since arriving in 1952, Hermione wrote to Griphook, informing him she was ready to deliver the pre-payment.

As she dressed for the day, she found herself missing her iPod more than ever. Apart from Crookshanks, it had been her only tangible connection to home. Somewhere in a folder, she even had a picture stored of her and the boys.

Harry and Ron.

The moment their names crossed her mind, all of Hermione’s relaxation and contentment vanished.

She had known that showing Riddle a memory of his grim future might backfire. She had even accounted for the possibility that he would become more obsessed with her afterward. But who could have predicted that the actually obsessed psychopath would steal her iPod?

Well, perhaps an actual Seer.

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands.

If Riddle figured out how to use the device—and knowing him, he would—he could find a photograph of the boy who would one day defeat him , sitting comfortably next to Hermione.

And even worse—so much worse—the iPod had a date on it.

It wasn’t easily visible, hidden away in the extras menu, but if he went looking, it was there.

Hermione lifted her head, staring blankly at the ceiling as dread settled like a lead weight in her stomach.

Shit.

Now, it wasn’t just annoying that he had stolen her beloved iPod. It was a threat. A threat to her identity. A threat to her entire mission. A threat to her way home.

Every time she thought she was making progress, there he was. Stalking her steps, derailing her plans, throwing up obstacles.

And just like the night she had first landed in 1952, Hermione screamed.

She screamed into her pillow, cursing Riddle’s very existence, his birth, his mother, his stupid, perfect face (and his father’s, for that matter), his cruelty, his obsessive nature, and most of all, herself.

Had she been more careful, had she thought ahead, had she not been so preoccupied with her plan to get home, she wouldn’t have reacted so oddly to him that day at Borgin & Burkes. She could have avoided him entirely.

But before she could spiral further into self-recrimination, an owl tapped at her window.

Griphook’s reply.

Hermione forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath through her nose before opening the letter.

He wanted to meet in Hogsmeade immediately. He would take her to Tranlok’s forge from there. Hermione clenched the parchment in her hands.

Priorities.

The iPod could wait. If Riddle had discovered anything, he would have confronted her about it immediately. He wasn’t exactly known for his patience.

One thing at a time.

Exhaling slowly, Hermione turned her focus back to the task at hand.

She placed an undetectable extension charm on the left pocket of her robes and carefully packed the thousand Galleons, the goblin-wrought knife from the Malfoy vault, the remaining fragments of the True Time-Turner, her notes of the inscribed runes, and—most significantly—the Sword of Gryffindor.

It felt heavier in her hand than she remembered. Smaller, too.

*

Griphook was waiting for her at the village’s entrance, standing on the wooden bridge and watching the stream below as it babbled softly over smooth river stones.

Now that she was back in Hogsmeade, Hermione finally took a moment to appreciate how quaint it looked. The September sun shone brightly overhead, making the turning leaves glow in shades of gold and crimson, as if the entire village had been painted in warm, autumnal hues.

It almost felt like home.

Mocking her.

“You act fast,” she greeted Griphook in Gobbledegook, strolling up to him. It was crucial that she showed no weakness, no desperation. Goblins were shrewd creatures, and any inch she yielded would be taken as an invitation to bargain.

“I didn’t think you’d pull through,” he replied, eyeing her from head to toe.

Hermione smiled coolly, stepping closer. She reached into her pocket just enough to flash the gleaming ruby pommel of the sword, letting it catch the light.

“I always prevail.”

Griphook’s gaze lingered on the hilt in her hand for a long moment before he gave a sharp nod.

“Very well. Let’s go.” He extended his hand for her to take.

Hermione, however, remained still.

“You can bring me,” she said smoothly, “but I’ll only discuss my inquiry with Tranlok.”

Griphook narrowed his coal-black eyes.

“It’s nothing personal,” she added, “but I can’t risk anyone knowing more than necessary.”

She extended her hand, stopping just short of his. Leaving the decision in his hands.

But she already knew his answer.

For all of Griphook’s posturing, his ambition outweighed his caution. He wanted the sword too much.

“You drive a hard bargain.” His fingers wrapped around hers, surprisingly warm and smooth. But as he pulled her closer, his voice dropped. “But know this—if harm befalls one of us because of a wand-wielder, the repercussions will be swift and merciless.”

Hermione met his gaze, unflinching.

“You have nothing to worry about from me.”

With a soft pop, they Disapparated.

*

The sensation of side-along Apparition with a goblin was no different from that with a wizard, tight, compressed, and nauseating.

They landed before a gap in a rocky cliff face.

The air smelled of damp stone and something salty, perhaps the sea. Hermione turned her head slightly, taking in the jagged peaks that rose behind them.

They couldn’t have traveled far from Hogsmeade. The landscape still had the wild, untamed feel of the Highlands, but the air was thicker here, charged with an energy she couldn’t quite name.

“Follow me.”

Griphook released her hand and strode into the cave without another word. Hermione followed, her eyes immediately drawn to the intricate carvings lining the stone walls. The goblins had chiseled elaborate patterns into the rock, interwoven lines and runes that pulsed faintly in the flickering torchlight placed at intervals along the passage. The deeper they went, the narrower the tunnel became, twisting in on itself like the spiraled shell of a snail.

By the time they reached their destination, any trace of natural light had long since vanished.

The forge was a vast, cavernous chamber, its ceiling lost in the darkness above. The air shimmered with heat from roaring fires, illuminating the space with a molten glow. At the center of the room, the broad-shouldered Tranlok hammered relentlessly at a glowing piece of metal atop an immense black anvil. Sparks leapt with each strike, vanishing before they could touch the soot-stained floor.

Griphook stepped forward, calling out over the rhythmic clanging.

“Tranlok, Miss Granger has the payment.”

The older goblin did not pause his work immediately. He completed a few more strikes with deliberate precision before setting the hammer aside. Then, wiping his calloused hands on the cloth hanging from his leather apron, he finally turned to face them. His sharp eyes fixed on Hermione.

“I didn’t think you’d manage it,” he said, switching smoothly into Gobbledegook.

Hermione was used to being underestimated, just like Griphook and so many others had before him. It had taken a war for people to take her seriously. She was not about to let a goblin look down on her, no matter how legendary his skill.

A slow smirk curled her lips.

“I always keep my promises,” she said simply.

Tranlok let out a low grunt, neither impressed nor dismissive.

“How do we proceed?” she asked, keeping her tone even.

“You hand the payment to me. I manage Tranlok’s assets,” Griphook interjected before the older goblin could reply.

Hermione’s gaze flicked to Tranlok, silently asking for confirmation.

“Indeed,” the smith rumbled.

She exhaled softly, her fingers tightening slightly around the weight in her pocket. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll hand over the prepayment, and then you leave us to it.” She directed this solely at Griphook.

He studied her for a beat before nodding.

Carefully, Hermione pulled four heavy pouches from her pocket, handing them over one by one. Griphook weighed each sack in his hand before stashing them inside his robes.

Then came the hardest part.

She reached into her pocket and withdrew the Sword of Gryffindor.

The moment her fingers slid from its hilt, something in her chest twisted.

It felt wrong, as if she were surrendering something vital, something that had become a part of her and her story.

Griphook, however, had no such sentimentality. He examined the blade with a keen, appraising eye, his fingers running over the ornate silver inlay and the gleaming rubies.

“Good luck with your endeavors, Miss Granger,” he said with a curt nod.

And with a soft pop, he was gone.

Tranlok exhaled through his nose, finally turning his full attention to her.

“How did you come by it?”

Hermione lifted her chin slightly.

“That’s not important.”

The goblin grunted, either satisfied or unwilling to press further. “Very well. What do you want me to create?”

“First,” Hermione said, “you’ll need to make an Unbreakable Vow. This project must remain secret.”

Tranlok’s brow creased, his sharp nails tapping against his leather apron.

“Under one condition,” he countered, “if I cannot do it, I can decline and keep the price.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t a fool. Pre-payments were always dangerous. She would have to ensure the terms of their agreement were ironclad. 

“If you truthfully cannot do it,” she conceded, “you may keep the price.”

A slow nod.

They clasped hands. Tranlok’s palm was rough, his grip like iron as his long fingers curled around hers. Hermione drew her wand.

“Do you swear to keep the nature of this project secret?” she asked, voice steady. “To never breathe a word of it to any being?”

“I swear it.”

A thin, golden ribbon encircled their joined hands.

“Do you swear to attempt its creation to the best of your ability?”

“I swear it.”

Another band of light.

“Do you swear to fulfill our contract as swiftly as possible and deliver the object to me immediately upon completion?”

“I swear it.”

A final golden thread wound around their wrists. Magic hummed between them, sealing the vow with a burst of heat before vanishing into their skin.

Slowly, they released each other’s hands.

Hermione reached into her pocket, drawing out the shattered fragments of the True Time Turner.

Tranlok’s expression did not change, but his fingers twitched slightly as he took the largest piece.

“I see,” he murmured.

“You do?” she asked warily.

He turned the delicate metal over in his hands. “Where is the rest?”

“I’ll have the sand and glass by the end of next month,” she said.

“Good. I cannot acquire those myself.” He examined the fragments a moment longer before speaking again. “And the runes?”

Hermione nodded and took the page with her notes out, handing it to him.

Tranlok’s eyes scanned the carefully inscribed markings, his expression unreadable.

“It will take time,” he said eventually. “I will need to mine silver from the Atacama Desert, and other materials from Siberia.”

“So you can do it?”

Her heart was hammering so violently she could barely hear her own voice.

“I can.” His voice was calm, contemplative.

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“Would this speed up the process?” She reached once more into her pocket, producing the goblin-wrought knife from the Malfoy vault.

Tranlok took it without hesitation.

“Yes,” he said absently, running his thumb over the metal.

But then his gaze flicked to her throat.

Hermione stilled as his eyes lingered just below her chin.

“I see you’ve acquired considerably more goblin-wrought treasures since we last spoke.”

Her fingers instinctively curled around the Amulet of Ashkara.

“It was a gift,” she said carefully.

Tranlok did not react in an offended manner to her statement. “It was forged by one of my ancestors.” 

Hermione’s brows shot up.

“So maybe you can help me?” she asked, hope slipping into her tone. “I haven’t been able to take it off.”

Tranlok’s expression did not change. “Who gave it to you?”

Hermione hesitated. “Why?” she asked warily.

“Because only they can remove it.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Excuse me?”

“It is not the amulet itself that protects you,” he explained. “The moment it was placed upon you, a fraction of that person’s magical core bonded with it. The stronger their magic, the more powerful the protection. No one can remove it but the one who fastened it.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold.

If Riddle didn’t take it off… she’d be stuck with it forever.

Her mouth opened, but no words came.

Tranlok’s gaze dropped to her hand. He reached out and turned it over, studying the black stone of the Gaunt ring.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

“Yes,” she replied firmly.

Tranlok did not seem convinced. “Truly?”

Hermione wrenched her hand back. “Would you like me to turn the answer three times before you believe me?” she shot back.

His eyes widened slightly.

“Well,” he mused, “it is clear that a very powerful dark wizard has laid claim to you.” He tilted his head. “You needn’t fear any goblin crossing you, Miss Granger.”

Dizziness washed over her.

She clenched her fists.

“I’ll bring the remaining materials as soon as I can,” she said stiffly.

“See that you do.”

Hermione turned on her heel and strode toward the exit, barely breathing until the crisp air hit her face.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, she Apparated back to London, adding yet another impossible problem to her list.

*

Retrieving her iPod was the next urgent task on Hermione’s ever-growing list. With the next full moon still weeks away, she had no choice but to wait until October 3rd to harvest the time crystals in Switzerland. Until then, she could focus on ensuring her stolen device didn’t expose all of her secrets to a certain aspiring Dark Lord.

And as one of the best curse-breaker apprentices Gringotts had seen in years, she knew exactly what was in order.

A break-in.

With a sharp crack , she Apparated straight to Scrolls & Spells, the magical library that doubled as an access point to the Daily Prophet headquarters. If anyone knew where Riddle lived, it was Marigold.

At the back of the dimly lit library, she found the enchanted parchment stand she needed and picked up a quill. With a swift stroke, she wrote her name and reason for entry:

Hermione Granger – Urgent need to speak with reporter Marigold McKinnon.

Her black ink vanished instantly, replaced with shimmering golden script:

Third floor, second door on the left. Not currently in a meeting.

With a low click , the wooden panels of the back wall slid apart, revealing a narrow staircase. Hermione hurried up, her steps muffled by the aged wooden boards. As she ascended, a disembodied voice echoed softly through the stairwell, reading the latest headlines from the Daily Prophet, with every step that she took.

"After Attack: Hogwarts to Remain Open." Was the last one, before she reached the entrance door to the third floor.

She pushed on, emerging into the chaotic bullpen of the newspaper office. Quills scratched furiously against parchment, and the air buzzed with hurried conversation. Weaving through the mess of desks and floating memos, Hermione finally found Marigold in a tiny, two-person office with an even tinier window.

Though the parchment had assured her that Marigold wasn’t in a meeting, she was very clearly in the middle of a heated argument with a young man sitting opposite her.

Hermione hesitated at the glass door, knocking lightly, but neither of them turned, so she carefully opened the door and halted in the doorway.

The man, who, upon closer inspection, had the flawless Diggory bone structure written all over his face, jabbed a finger in Marigold’s direction, his expression thunderous.

“I don’t know how , but you stole that story from me, McKinnon. I’ve got seniority over you, there’s no reason you should have gotten the Hogwarts attack piece!”

Marigold, completely unfazed, leaned back in her chair with an infuriatingly slow smirk.

“Now, now, Daniel,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Talent should outrank seniority, wouldn’t you say?”

Hermione nearly choked on a laugh.

Marigold must have finally sensed her presence because she glanced toward the door, her brows shooting up in surprise.

“Hermione! What are you doing here?” she asked, standing so quickly it was almost unnatural.

Hermione cast a glance at Daniel, then back at Marigold. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” she asked. “In private?”

Marigold nodded before turning to Diggory with an expression of pure amusement. “Why don’t you go cover the replacement professor at Hogwarts? Dumbledore won’t be back for a while, they’ll need someone filling in for him.”

Daniel scowled, rising abruptly.

“We’re not finished discussing this,” he muttered before squeezing past Hermione and stomping off.

“Come in, come in,” Marigold said, gesturing for Hermione to take Diggory’s vacated seat. “What’s so urgent? Has there been a new development with the, you know—” she lifted her arms and mimicked a slithering motion.

Suppressing a snort, Hermione shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I actually just need to know where Tom lives.”

Marigold’s face scrunched in confusion.

“Tom?” she echoed before realization dawned. “You mean Tom Riddle ? As in…?” She made a vulgar gesture with her hand and tongue, mimicking the look of a blow job.

Cringing at the intrusive memory, Hermione pressed her thighs together and forced herself to nod.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “He stole something from me, and I need to get it back. I’m planning a little, uh… unannounced visit.”

Marigold was momentarily speechless. Then, to Hermione’s immense relief, she nodded.

“I do know where he lives,” she said, and Hermione exhaled, tension bleeding from her shoulders.

Thank Merlin, that saved her the trouble of stalking him after work.

“Brilliant. Where is it?”

Instead of answering, Marigold stood. “I’ll show you. It’s not far, and I could use a long lunch. Diggory has been spewing venom all morning.”

She breezed past Hermione, a whiff of floral perfume lingering in the air as she held the door open. As they stepped back into the newsroom, Hermione cast a sideways glance at her.

“Are you in trouble because Augusta tipped you off about the Hogwarts attack?”

Marigold scoffed. “Diggory’s just a sore loser,” she said. “Don’t worry about him.”

Together, they exited through the library and stepped onto Diagon Alley.

“We can walk there?” Hermione asked, considering the possible locations. If they didn’t need to Apparate, then—

“It’s in Knockturn Alley,” Marigold said. “Some dingy basement flat between number 70 and 72, or something.”

Hermione blinked.

Of course he lived in Knockturn Alley. It was practical, close to his work, but… she had expected something grander, somehow.

Then, an idea struck.

“Hold on,” she said, stopping abruptly. “Let’s check if he’s actually at work first.”

Marigold raised a brow but shrugged. “Fair enough.”

As they neared Borgin & Burkes, Hermione plucked a vial of her True Invisibility Potion from her bracelet.

“What are you doing?” Marigold asked, eyeing her warily.

“Well, I’m not just going to waltz in there to check if he’s inside,” Hermione replied, carefully measuring out a few drops of the potion. “The whole point is to avoid him altogether.”

Marigold’s brows knit together in disbelief.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said, arms crossing. “You haven’t even asked him to return your things?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably.

“He’s not going to give them back,” she muttered.

“You won’t know unless you ask,” Marigold countered, exasperated.

Before Hermione could protest, she turned on her heel and strode straight toward the shop.

“Marigold—stop! What are you doing?” Hermione hurried after her, grabbing her arm before she could enter.

Marigold turned, her expression steely.

“It should be him who’s too embarrassed to face you, not the other way around,” she said firmly. “I’m going in to see if he’s there—and if he is, I’m going to demand your property back.”

Hermione hesitated.

She should be standing up for herself. Marigold was right. But something in her balked at the thought of facing him, of speaking to him, of… thinking too much about him.

“Alright,” she relented, sighing. “But I’m going to watch from invisibility.”

Marigold rolled her eyes. “Fine. As you wish.”

Without another word, she straightened her shoulders and strode confidently into Borgin & Burkes.

Hermione quickly downed a few drops of the Invisibility Potion, feeling the familiar shimmer as the world around her distorted.

As Marigold reached the door, Hermione hurried to keep up, her voice barely a whisper.

“It’s called an iPod ,” she told her. “A Muggle music device. He’ll know what I mean.”

With a flick of her golden curls, Marigold stepped inside.

***

Tom

He knew Hermione was on the move again when the tug of their connection alerted him while he was walking to work, listening to the peculiar sounds of the silver device. By now, he had played through every song at least once. Some, multiple times. He was beginning to recognize patterns in the music, certain beats and melodies that seemed to be repeated across different tracks, as if Muggles had found a way to bottle emotions into sound.

He spent the morning in the shop’s storage rooms, cataloguing new acquisitions and theorizing about the Blood Ritual, how he could manipulate it, bend its power to his will. The notion that love might be the missing variable gnawed at him. It was absurd. Love was nothing more than an invented construct, a sentimentality to explain foolish impulses. And yet, the ritual suggested otherwise. He despised the uncertainty of it.

Though, he had to admit, his mind strayed from the research more than it should have. He kept finding himself thinking about her .

While he was certain she was still in Britain, she had been moving about quite a bit since last night. If she was still out by the time the shop closed, he might go and see what she was doing. Not because he cared , he simply disliked mysteries. Especially ones that involved her.

But by midday, the tug of the spell changed.

She was back in London.

He felt nearly no pull at all, meaning she was close. Very close.

Tom allowed himself a moment of indulgence, picturing her walking through the aisles of Flourish & Blotts, skimming the shelves with sharp, discerning eyes, a slight furrow in her brow. Or perhaps she was at Madam Malkin’s, selecting another one of those perfectly tailored dresses that clung to her body just so. Or—his grip tightened around the silver device—perhaps she was purchasing another of those tiny lace nightgowns.

A low groan built in his throat as he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting himself in his trousers.

This was becoming a problem .

He hadn’t allowed his thoughts to derail like this since he was sixteen.

Scowling, he forced himself back to work, refocusing on the stock list, when Burke’s voice carried through the dusty shelves.

"Tom, my boy, there's someone here to see you."

Tom’s spine straightened instantly.

Could it be her?

He schooled his features into neutrality just as Burke approached, his beady eyes alight with amusement. "Pretty one, well done, my boy," he said in passing, clapping Tom on the shoulder before retreating to his office.

Something strange happened in Tom’s chest. His pulse sped up—too fast, unnatural. A twisting, hollow sensation curled in his stomach, unpleasant and unfamiliar. For a brief moment, he considered the possibility that he was unwell. He had not been sick since he was a small child.

The sensation only worsened when he stepped into the front of the shop. And saw that it was not Hermione.

His mask slipped, just for an instant, before he smoothed his expression into something unreadable.

"McKinnon," he greeted, voice cool. "Good to see you. How can I help you?"

Marigold McKinnon stood before him, arms crossed, her icy blue eyes glittering with sharp amusement.

“Indeed, good to see you again, Tom,” she said with a saccharine smile. "I trust you had a wonderful time at Abraxas’ and Hermione’s birthday?" She stepped closer, her voice lowering. "I meant to thank you for your discretion in front of the Minister. That was very kind of you.”

Tom offered her his most polished smile, the one that worked on every other witch. Though it had never quite worked on McKinnon. She had other preferences.

"You’re welcome," he replied smoothly. "And yes, I did have a wonderful time. How about you?"

He thought of Hermione’s lips wrapped around his cock, and his smile turned genuine.

Marigold tilted her head, scrutinizing him. "Hmm. I thought you might say that."

Tom flexed his fingers, suppressing the flicker of irritation at her knowing tone.

She turned away from him, taking her time looking around the shop. Wasting his time on purpose. She dragged her fingers along a display case, feigning interest in the cursed trinkets within.

Tom did not bite. He merely watched, waiting. Silence had never been a torment to him. If she thought she could unsettle him, she was gravely mistaken.

Still, he scanned the shop windows, glancing outside. He could feel Hermione was nearby, but she was nowhere in sight.

Finally, McKinnon stopped her leisurely perusal and faced him once more.

“Hermione wants her eye pot back,” she announced, her gaze locking onto his.

Tom blinked.

"Pardon?" he asked, feigning ignorance. He knew exactly what she meant, though she had him wondering why it was called an ‘eye pot.’

“Don’t play dumb," she snapped. "It’s not yours. Hand it back.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing himself to remain calm. McKinnon is Hermione’s friend. That was the only reason he wouldn’t gut her where she stood. That, and the vague knowledge that it would distress Hermione. And that was an inconvenience he was unwilling to deal with.

Instead, he kept his tone light. “I don’t have it with me.”

She scoffed.

He continued before she could argue. “But… if Hermione wants something from me, she should come ask for it herself.” He tilted his head, studying her reaction. “I wouldn’t be giving you anything either way.”

McKinnon’s mouth opened, undoubtedly to deliver some cutting remark, but Tom raised a hand to halt her. "Besides," he added, his smirk widening, "she also has something of mine that I want back. I might be willing to trade. You can tell her that."

That seemed to catch her off guard.

“I see she didn’t tell you that part,” Tom mused. “Did you not notice the new ring she’s been wearing as of late? You should recognize it, I wore it all the time during our last years at Hogwarts.”

McKinnon’s expression darkened.

"Very mature, Riddle," she said, voice laced with scorn. "One might think you’ve already done enough to her."

And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the shop.

Tom did not move for several seconds after she left. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tight with lingering frustration.

It took him several moments to regain control, to school his features back into something neutral, something detached.

Then, with a slow exhale, he turned back to the storage room.

The silver device still played in his pocket, soft melodies filling the air. He slipped the earphones back in, turning up the volume.

***

Hermione

"Hmm. That doesn’t seem right," Marigold said, watching as the door to Riddle’s flat continued to glow an angry, pulsing red.

Hermione scowled, stepping back to assess her work. She was certain she’d applied the correct counter-runes to nullify the blood wards, but instead of allowing her access, the magic had flared up like a warning beacon, potentially drawing unwanted attention to what they were doing.

Her pride as an almost-cursebreaker took a serious hit.

Tapping her chin with her wand, she muttered, "No, that should have worked. I was sure this was the right sequence."

The red glow flickered slightly, pulsing one last time before extinguishing. Hermione stared at the door, lips pressing into a thin line. This is getting ridiculous.

It was the third time she had tried dismantling the blood wards. She had already removed every other protective charm and curse layered over the entrance, leaving her with just this final obstacle, along with what she suspected was a password-protected locking spell. And considering the door likely required the same or similar phrase that opened the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, she would need to get past the blood wards before she could even attempt to speak Parseltongue.

Behind her, Marigold paced the alleyway, keeping watch for any nosy passersby.

"This is taking too long," she muttered. "I have a different idea. Wait here."

And before Hermione could argue, Marigold turned on the spot and Disapparated with a soft pop .

Hermione sighed, running a hand through her curls in frustration. She had no choice but to wait. While she did, she attempted another variation of the ward-breaking rune sequence, only for the door to shudder violently, as if rejecting her entirely.

Damn it.

She was seriously considering kicking the door, because it would at least make her feel better, when Marigold returned with a soft pop , looking far too pleased with herself.

With an enormous grin, she held up a small, wriggling creature, its tiny black eyes gleaming mischievously.

"A Niffler ?" Hermione gasped, immediately recognizing the furry, mole-like creature. At a second glance, she noted its velvety coat and twitching paws, clearly eager to get its tiny hands on something valuable.

Marigold beamed. Hermione practically threw her arms around Marigold. "You utter genius!" she exclaimed. "You got it from Pippa?"

"She’s been keeping a few for research, something about observing their hoarding tendencies," Marigold said, setting the Niffler down gently on the cobblestones of Knockturn Alley, just outside Riddle’s door.

Hermione crouched beside it, watching as the little creature sniffed the air, tiny claws scraping at the ground.

"These blood wards only work on humans, right?" Marigold asked. "I remember Professor Delaney saying something about that in Runes class."

Hermione nodded, barely containing her excitement. "Exactly. The magic won’t recognize it as a threat. He should slip right through."

And indeed, before their eyes, the Niffler twitched its nose, then jerked forward with surprising speed, squeezing its chubby little body magically through the tiny gap beneath the door.

Both witches leaned in, straining their ears.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

CRASH!

A loud, catastrophic noise echoed from inside the flat. The sound of something heavy toppling over. Then the unmistakable clatter of glass shattering, followed by frantic scrambling noises and a succession of rapid thuds —as though the Niffler had knocked over an entire bookshelf.

Hermione and Marigold froze.

Then, slowly, they turned to look at each other, blue eyes meeting brown.

Marigold’s lips quivered.

Hermione pressed a hand over her mouth.

They burst into laughter.

Shaking from barely-contained giggles, Hermione tried—and failed—to suppress the mental image of Tom Riddle walking into his flat later that evening to absolute destruction.

"He is going to be livid," Marigold panted, clutching her stomach.

Hermione could see it, his expression twisting in barely-contained rage, sharp midnight blue eyes darkening, lips curling into a sneer. Perhaps even muttering some inventive curses under his breath.

Maybe—just maybe —this was more dangerous than killing his basilisk or destroying his diary.

But Godric, it was worth it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of rattling, banging, and general mayhem, the Niffler reappeared, waddling back through the gap beneath the door, its little pouch bulging with stolen goods.

Marigold knelt down, her hands hovering excitedly. "Alright, let’s see what you got, you little menace."

One by one, they sifted through the Niffler’s spoils.

Among the items retrieved: Ravenclaw’s Diadem . A rather large pile of galleons. A very expensive-looking Muggle pen, engraved with Tom Marvolo Riddle . A pair of serpent-shaped cufflinks. A dagger adorned with emeralds.

But—

No iPod.

Hermione’s heart sank.

"It’s not here," she whispered, dumbfounded.

Marigold scowled, crossing her arms. "That sneaky bastard. I knew he was lying! He had it on him the whole time."

Hermione exhaled sharply, raking her fingers through her hair in frustration. “Now what? ”

Marigold, however, simply grinned. "Well," she drawled, "I think the answer is pretty obvious."

Hermione turned to her, brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Marigold gestured pointedly at the collection of valuables now scattered at their feet. "You have more than enough leverage to make a trade."

Hermione blinked.Then, slowly, a mischievous smile curled at the edges of her lips.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

She picked up the Diadem, turning it over in her hands, watching the way the torchlight shimmered against the ancient silver.

"Marigold," she mused, "you’re truly a genius."

Her mind was already racing ahead, a new plan forming.

***

Tom

When Tom returned home after work and found a note hovering at eye level in front of his door, he knew exactly who had left it.

Even without ever seeing her handwriting, he would recognise it immediately. It was precise, efficient, neat but rushed, with the occasional smudged ink where she had pressed too quickly. No unnecessary flourishes, no wasted effort.

Straight to the point.

Sorry for the mess.
Meet me on Stoatshead Hill at midnight, we’ll trade our valuables. Come alone.

His lips twitched upward.

Ah, my little thief.

Amusement lingered for only a second before he pushed open the door to his flat and froze.

The smug satisfaction on his face vanished instantly.

His flat was a disaster. Every piece of furniture that wasn’t bolted to the floor had been overturned. His belongings were scattered haphazardly, cutlery, books, clothes, all tossed about as if a storm had blown through. His bedding was inexplicably in the bathroom.

His fingers clenched around his wand.

With a wave, everything flew back into place, restoring order, but the chaos itself wasn’t what unsettled him. No, what disturbed him was the how. How had she gotten inside?

His blood wards were impenetrable. Even if she had managed to bypass every other layer of security, even if she had unraveled his protective enchantments, she should not have been able to break the blood wards. Nor should she have known the Parseltongue password he had set for the door.

Yet, despite the disaster, nothing truly important was missing. His most valuable artifacts, his books, his research, his personal diary, remained untouched. Even his experimental notes, carelessly left on his nightstand, were exactly where he had left them.

It was as if a very stupid person had gone through his things and only taken valuable materials . But Hermione was not stupid. A little emotional sometimes yes, but far from daft. And a stupid person would certainly have not made it inside his flat. Another puzzle. Another riddle to add to the growing mysteries of Hermione Granger. 

Tom decided to see the positive in the situation. It was a great lesson learned.

Silently, he turned on his heel and flicked his wand, reinforcing his defenses inside his flat. Additional anti-intruder charms. Internal detection wards. He would not make the same mistake twice.

But as his magic sealed the room tighter than before, Tom caught himself.

Why wasn’t he angry?

He had provoked her first. He had stolen from her. He had wanted a reaction, and now he had it.

Why was this so important to him?

Yes, the Diadem was valuable, but it was not yet what he intended it to be. And while he certainly wanted his belongings back, they weren’t essential.

But she was.

He wanted her. Not just as a servant. Not just as an asset. Not even as a warm body in his bed.

He wanted her, fully and willingly. He wanted her to want him back.

And he would make her see it.

*

Exactly one minute before midnight, Tom left his flat and Apparated.

Stoatshead Hill was nothing remarkable, a lonely rise of land near Ottery St. Catchpole, with no historical significance, no magical properties.

Nothing at all, except that Hermione was waiting for him there.

He arrived with his wand in hand, expecting an ambush, a hex, something, but nothing happened.

Hermione simply stood atop the grassy hill, silhouetted against the crescent moon. She watched him approach, her wand drawn but not raised.

"You came," she said, her voice betraying the slightest hint of surprise.

Tom’s smirk was immediate. "Of course I came. You asked me to . "

Her expression flickered, something unreadable flashing behind her firewhisky eyes. He watched as she took in the sight of him, his sharp black suit, his deliberate ease.

"You said you were willing to trade?" she asked, eyes never leaving his.

"Indeed," he answered smoothly, closing the distance between them. "I want my possessions back just as much as I imagine you want yours."

A slow, dangerous smirk curled her lips. "As it happens, I acquired quite a few of your belongings today. Which one, exactly, would you like in exchange for my eye pot ?"

Tom chuckled, shaking his head and getting closer to her. "It’s all of it, or no deal, love."

She didn’t retreat. If anything, she stepped closer.

"My insurance is off the table, I’m afraid," she said airily, wiggling the hand that bore his ring, his Horcrux , as if it were nothing but an accessory. "But I do believe Ravenclaw’s Diadem might interest you."

Oh, she was playing with him now.

Tom prowled forward, slowly closing the gap. "You can keep the gold," he murmured, voice smooth as silk. "The rest? I’m afraid I’ll need it all back."

He watched with sharp satisfaction as her throat bobbed.

"You know," he mused, "we could come to a different arrangement altogether."

Hermione’s breath hitched.

"And what exactly would that entail?" she asked, voice low.

His smirk widened. "You already know it. I want a date."

She blinked, clearly thrown off.

"Sunset to sunrise," he continued. "One night. And you can have your music device back."

Tom reached out, lightly taking a curl between his fingers, rolling it between them. Even her hair fascinated him, the way the delicate ringlet bounced back into place as he let it go.

Hermione inched closer, closing the last bit of distance between them. Her eyes flickered down, to his lips, to his chest. She raised the wandless hand with his ring on it, gliding it from his shoulder over his chest, until she took hold of his tie.

A pleasant shiver raced through Tom’s body. He craved her touch. He wanted her to do more. He wanted no more clothes separating her warm hand from his torso. He wanted to feel her more. He needed more. More. More.