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PROLOGUE

Cedric Diggory, always brave and never one to run from anything it seemed led the way, his wand at the ready, prepared for whatever might come their way. They found themselves in a dark, desolate graveyard, far from the safety of the maze and the camaraderie of the tournament.

Harry swallowed hard, clutching his own wand tightly as a cloaked figure approached, cradling something in its arms. Perhaps a baby of some sort?

A sense of unease settled over him as he braced himself for the encounter. The air was heavy with an earthy scent, mingled with the faint aroma of decaying leaves, heightening Harry's anxiety.

As the figure drew near, Harry's scar began to burn, a sharp pain shooting through his head. Fear gripped him as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. He could feel the chill of the night air seeping through his robes, sending shivers down his spine.

A voice, sharp and commanding, broke the silence, instructing to "Disable the spare." With a swift motion, another voice, one Harry recognized, cast a spell in a language he couldn't understand. 

Peter Pettigrew.

The realization struck Harry like a bolt of lightning, a sickening knot forming in the pit of his stomach. A flash of emerald light sliced through the darkness, followed by a heavy thud that reverberated through the graveyard like a mournful echo.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the horror that unfolded before him. When he mustered the courage to open them again, Cedric lay motionless on the ground, his still form a haunting testament to the cruelty of fate.

Was he dead?

Before Harry could gather his wits, Pettigrew abandoned the bundle he had been carrying, igniting his wand to cast an ominous glow. With a brutal force, he dragged Harry toward a looming headstone, its cold, marble surface unforgiving against Harry's skin.

Harry screamed, a desperate, gut-wrenching sound that echoed through the graveyard. He struggled against Pettigrew's relentless grip, but it was futile. As blood trickled down his forehead from the impact with the stone, Harry wiped it away, his heart pounding in his chest as he read the chilling inscription before him.

In eerie etchings, the name glared back at him:

Tom Riddle.

Chapter Text

The ceiling sported a noticeable crack. Despite moving into the flat just a month ago, after diligently saving for over a year, she was already met with this imperfection.

Staring at it, she wondered if it was a result of her upstairs neighbors, who seemed to possess the sex drive of rabbits.

Almost every night, morning, and afternoon, she could hear them; Lucy's passionate cries for Duke, begging him for more, echoing through the building for what felt like endless hours.

Duke, more please. Harder.

A swallow caught in her throat as she glanced at Ron, his mouth hanging open in slumber. Could their sex life ever measure up to that of her neighbors'?

A mischievous thought flickered through her mind, contemplating poking a finger into his mouth to see if he'd stir. A small smile played at the corners of her lips, but before she could act, a loud snore interrupted, accompanied by a dribble of drool.

With a resigned sigh, she settled onto her back, her gaze returning to the cracked ceiling.

Finally, they had done it, had sex.

Yet, it was nothing like she had anticipated. It had ended so abruptly?

There was only a faint ache between her legs.

Glancing down, she noticed a spot of blood on her sheets.

Her neighbors made sex sound so much more...

Just more.

She had wanted to try again, even push past the initial pain, but Ron had fallen asleep.

Why had they waited so long? It didn't seem like any big monumental deal. They'd even considered waiting until marriage. What a disappointment that would have been.

She cursed herself. Ron was everything she could hope for in a boyfriend, and her first. They loved each other and knew each other better than anyone else. They would probably get married one day; it was what everyone expected, part of her five-year plan. Lately, things had just been rocky.

Hermione stood and went to the bathroom, quickly jumping in the shower. She pondered the last twenty minutes and wondered if she felt like a woman finally. She didn't feel much different.

Maybe they should have tried again tonight. Then again, Ron had been working late nights, and he was on-call a lot lately, so she didn't really blame him. Being a junior Auror meant they called you at all hours of the day or night and sent you on all the unsavory cases or investigations. It also didn't help that they'd partnered him up with his worst enemy, at least in his mind.

Draco.

He and Harry seemed to get along splendidly. Ron, though, he was a grudge holder, and there was nothing Draco could do to change Ron's perspective of him. To Ron, he'd always be a Death Eater and the reason Dumbledore was dead.

Hermione shuddered.

There was only one reason Dumbledore and many of their friends and family were dead, and it wasn't because of Draco.

Most nights, she didn't sleep.

Just like that night when she should have been sleeping soundly beside her boyfriend after completing such an intimate act together, she avoided sleep like the plague.

Leaving her bathroom, wrapped in a towel, she stepped into the dimly lit bedroom. The air felt heavy with the weight of unspoken fears, sending a chill down her spine. She stared into the night, the darkness outside mirroring the turmoil within her.

The moon cast eerie shadows across the room, illuminating the corners with ghostly light. Hermione's eyes lingered on the patterns dancing on the walls, trying to distract herself from the looming dread that crept into her mind with each passing minute. The silence was palpable, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of the city outside.

Sleep meant nightmares.

And in those nightmares, she was never in control. All she could see were the dead bodies of her closest friends, those they all still mourned. The weight of their absence hung heavy in her dreams, haunting her every moment of supposed rest. Beneath her attempts to distract herself, a gnawing sense of guilt and grief churned within her, a constant reminder of the losses they had suffered and the uncertain future that lay ahead. Despite her efforts to push them away, her feelings of sorrow and helplessness clawed at her, threatening to overwhelm her fragile composure.

There wasn't anyone she could confide in about her nightmares. No one to discuss the unsettling sensations brewing within her—the sense of loss, the gnawing fear.

There wasn't a single soul she could open up to, especially not when her career hung in the balance.

After the Battle of Hogwarts and their subsequent victory, being hailed as war heroes, Hermione felt a calling to help others—to heal them, both physically and mentally. Just two and a half months after the harrowing events at Hogwarts, she embarked on her training as a healer and mind healer.

Sure, they had asked to see her, and she had spoken to someone then, but they had given her the all-clear. Cleared her within a month and only a few sessions.

They allowed kids and teenagers to fight a dark lord, but of course, there wasn't more to it than that. Not when it came to the Golden Girl. Not when it came to the trio of War Heroes. Ron and Harry went through a similar experience, but they seemed alright...

Then again, so did she.

Hermione, with her intellect, found it effortless to conceal her emotions, her feelings, her dread... That was the easy part.

The difficult part was keeping it up. To maintain her facade, not just for herself, but for everyone around her. For everyone who needed her. She had to keep herself together.

Sighing, she lay back down, the cool cotton sheets clinging lightly to her skin. She forwent pajamas, feeling the need for the comfort of the fabric against her. Hoping Ron would be called on some sort of Auror emergency, as usual, in the middle of the night, she longed for the moment he would rush off, leaving her alone. Perhaps he would head back to Grimmauld Place, where he lived with Harry afterward.

On the nightstand, the small rectangular blue box, resembling a tiny Muggle radio, sat on the end table, positioned on the side he slept on. She stared at it intently, willing for it to go off, for the urgent call that would whisk him away and grant her the solace of solitude.

Ten minutes passed, and perhaps it was her silent prayers to the Muggle god or just wishful thinking coming to fruition, but the box beside Ron turned red and started beeping incessantly. She closed her eyes tightly as she felt Ron stirring beside her, but he remained asleep. Suddenly, he jumped up with a curse under his breath. "Blimey, not again," he muttered, clearly annoyed by the interruption, though still half-asleep.

Within five minutes, she felt and heard Ron rushing around her room, the sound of fabric rustling and objects being hastily moved intermingling with his hurried footsteps. She could hear the soft thud of him finding his clothes, followed by the unmistakable clatter of his wand being grabbed from the nightstand. With a stumble, he dashed out of her room toward the living room where her small fireplace was situated. When she heard the distinct whoosh of the Floo network activating, she waited two more minutes before sitting up and taking in a deep breath.

Sleep would eventually find her. She just didn't actively seek it.

As she lay back down, she didn't close her eyes but instead stared up at the ceiling, her gaze fixated on the crack once again. Five minutes later, she heard a squeaking sound, a familiar noise that made her heart sink.

Her neighbors were at it again.

"For Merlin's sake, it's almost midnight," she huffed to herself, crossing her arms and staring defiantly at the crack in the ceiling.

The moaning started almost immediately, the sound carrying through the thin walls and echoing in her ears.

Hermione took her wand and cast a spell to mute the sounds of her neighbors' overly active sex drive, the incantation flowing effortlessly from her lips. With a flick of her wrist, the noise faded into a distant murmur, allowing her to finally find some semblance of peace. She closed her eyes, savoring the newfound quietness that enveloped her.

"Don't fall asleep," she told herself sternly, the words echoing in her mind.

Just think about all the work you have to do Monday. Where will dimwit Drew leave the weekend emergency care plans for her this time? Perhaps the coffee room. Talk about a privacy violation.

As she pondered her work responsibilities, the scent of brewing potions drifted into her thoughts, conjuring memories of the laboratory and the meticulous process of potion-making. The aroma of various ingredients mingled in her mind, transporting her to the familiar surroundings of Snape's classroom and the comforting routine of brewing.

And eventually...

She fell asleep.

The darkness seeped through and around her as she ran through the forbidden forest. It was a shadow of smokey evil, a palpable presence that lurked behind every tree and crept along the forest floor. The air was thick with the stench of decay, a putrid odor that assaulted her senses as she struggled to outrun the encroaching darkness.

Branches scraped against her skin, leaving angry red welts in their wake, and the ground beneath her feet felt like quicksand, sucking her down with each frantic step. The distant sound of sinister laughter echoed through the trees, sending shivers down her spine and fueling her fear.

She ran as fast as she could, her heart pounding in her chest, but the darkness seemed to grow larger with each passing moment. It loomed over her, a malevolent force that threatened to engulf her entirely.

And then it happened.

The darkness began to close in around her, wrapping itself around her body like a suffocating blanket. She felt its icy touch seeping into her skin, chilling her to the bone and filling her with a sense of dread unlike anything she had ever known.

A murkiness descended upon her, clouding her thoughts and weighing her down until she could barely move. It felt as though her very soul was being consumed by the darkness, swallowed whole by its insatiable hunger.

Unable to resist any longer, she succumbed to the darkness, her body growing limp as she sank into oblivion. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, she awoke in her bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. With a primal scream, she tore herself from the clutches of the nightmare, the echoes of her terror lingering in the stillness of the night. Putting her hand to her forehead, she wiped away a bead of sweat, her skin clammy with lingering traces of fear. Inhaling deeply, she focused on her breath, guiding it in and out with practiced precision. Breathing techniques.

Just breathe, she told herself, as if she were one of her own patients. Breathe. It's just a nightmare. It's not real. It's over. You're okay.

Just as her heart rate began to steady, she heard a faint sound emanating from her living room by the fireplace. Glancing at the clock on her wall, she noted with a sinking feeling that it was almost four in the morning.

Wrapping herself tightly in her blanket, she rose from her bed and crept cautiously towards the living room, her senses alert for any sign of danger. There, by the flickering glow of the dying embers, she saw Ron gasping for air, his form trembling with the aftermath of whatever had transpired.

Hermione rushed towards him, her concern evident in her voice. "Ron, are you alright?"

Ron continued to breathe heavily, each inhalation ragged as if he were struggling to fill his lungs. Finally, he seemed to steady himself and met her gaze with a look of urgency. "I need you to get dressed and get to St. Mungo's."

Her brows furrowed in worry, her mind racing with questions. "It's Saturday. Drew is the on-call weekend healer. Is something wrong?"

Ron began to shake his head, his movements jittery and erratic, like a leaf caught in a fierce wind. His expression was a mix of uncertainty and concern, his eyes darting nervously as if grappling with some unseen force.

"No, it's just, uh..." He hesitated, his voice trailing off into an uneasy silence.

Hermione's impatience grew with each passing second, her tone edged with worry and frustration. "Ron, you're scaring me. What's going on!?"

A nervous chuckle escaped him, but it sounded hollow and forced, like a feeble attempt to mask his underlying fear. "You won't believe me if I tell you. It's best you come and see for yourself."

She sighed deeply, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on her chest like a heavy stone. "Ron, honestly. What is it that I need to handle that Drew or Healer Rosenberg cannot handle? Is it a mental crisis for one of the Aurors on your team?" Her eyes widened with concern, scanning his face for any hint of the truth. "It's Draco, isn't it? He finally had a meltdown?"

Ron's features hardened, his gaze piercing as he met her eyes with unwavering intensity. "No, it's not Draco, Mione."

She rolled her eyes in frustration, the tension in the room thickening with each passing moment. "Well, I don't like surprises, so before I get there, you need to tell me."

He sighed heavily, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room like a foreboding omen. His gaze wandered, flickering between the floor, the ceiling, and back to her again, as if searching for the right words to convey the gravity of the situation. "It's Cedric."

Her brows furrowed in confusion, her mind racing to make sense of his cryptic words. "Who?"

He huffed in frustration, his voice tinged with desperation. "Cedric Diggory."

Her eyes widened in disbelief, her pulse quickening with a surge of adrenaline. "Ron, are you alright? Cedric Diggory is dead."

He shook his head adamantly, his resolve unwavering despite the doubt that lingered in her voice. "Did we ever see a body, Mione?"

Chapter Text

HARRY POV

Harry woke startled, his heart pounding against his ribcage as remnants of the nightmare clung to his mind like cobwebs. It wasn't so often now that the nightmares plagued him, but when they did, they were brutal, dredging up memories of battles fought and lives lost.

He sighed, his breath fogging the cold air of the opulent master bedroom that had once belonged to the Black family's patriarch and matriarch. This house, filled with echoes of a bygone era, had been in the Black family for generations, and now, it was his. Sometimes, despite the grandeur surrounding him, he felt like an imposter, but Sirius had gifted it to him, the closest thing to a father Harry had ever known.

Harry's family on his father's side had been of pureblood descent, a little-known fact that few outside of the wizarding world were aware of. Yet, unlike many of their ilk, they weren't tyrannical about blood status. When his father, James, had fallen in love with Lily, a Muggle-born witch, his family had accepted her with open arms, embracing her into their fold without hesitation.

But now, there was no one left alive on his father's side. Not anymore. No thanks to Voldemort.

The mere thought of that name sent a shiver down Harry's spine, his stomach twisting with a mix of fear and rage. It had only been a year since the final battle, since Voldemort's reign of terror had finally been brought to an end, but the wounds, both physical and emotional, still felt raw. The memories of those dark times lingered like ghosts, haunting his every waking moment, reminding him of the sacrifices made and the lives lost in the fight for freedom.

Ginny stirred beside him, her presence a comforting anchor in the swirling sea of his thoughts. Their wedding was only a few months away, a beacon of light in the midst of lingering shadows. Soon, she would move into Grimmauld Place, stepping into the role of lady of the house—a role that would surely stir the ire of the portrait hidden in the attic, a relic of a bygone era. Despite the disdain the portrait would harbor, Harry couldn't bring himself to sever the last tether binding the house to Sirius Black and his family. After all, without Sirius, he might not have been there at all.

He knew he could afford to leave, to seek refuge elsewhere. He could even offer Grimmauld Place to the last surviving Black: Draco. But Draco wanted no part of it, disavowing any connection to the tarnished legacy of the Blacks, especially in light of the atrocities committed by his aunt.

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of his decisions pressing down on him. Thoughts of his unexpected friendship with Malfoy over the past year stirred within him, a complex blend of emotions. While Ron resented it and Ginny understood it, they all remained connected, bound by the invisible threads of shared trauma, a silent pact they dared not vocalize. Except, perhaps, between him and Draco. They shared an unspoken understanding of their lives and the events that had shaped them.

So when Draco casually pushed open his bedroom door without so much as a knock a few minutes later, Harry didn't instinctively reach for his wand.

Harry eyed Draco wearily and sighed. The only reason Draco would interrupt his sleep at this hour was for work. Being an Auror meant being on call at all times, ready to respond to emergencies and handle unexpected situations. With their schedules often overlapping, it wasn't unusual for Draco to seek Harry's assistance, especially considering Harry was in charge of their team of Aurors, which included Draco, Ron, DesiAnn, and Martin.

As Draco entered, Harry braced himself for whatever urgent matter had prompted this late-night visit.

Draco's sullen face bore the weight of exhaustion as he met Harry's gaze. "Sorry to interrupt, Potter," he began, his voice tinged with weariness. His eyes briefly flickered past Ginny, who was peacefully asleep, before returning to Harry. "I should have knocked. It's just that this can't wait."

Running a hand through his tousled blonde hair, Draco let out a heavy sigh, his anxious energy palpable in the dimly lit room. Harry noted the tension etched into Draco's features and the urgency in his tone. With a silent understanding, Harry gently ensured Ginny remained undisturbed, pulling the blanket snugly over her sleeping form, before rising to follow Draco out of the bedroom.

In the hallway, Draco tapped his feet nervously, his eyes darting around as if searching for unseen dangers. Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes at the theatrics. "Come out with it, Malfoy. What's going on?"

Draco swallowed, his expression tense. "I found something."

Harry raised a brow, his curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

"In the manor... in my father's study."

Lucius had been in Azkaban for a year now, and Draco had not spoken to him since the day he had been escorted from the Manor grounds by the Minister's Aurors. Son and father were no longer close, nor were they on the same side.

Harry's eyes widened with concern. "A dark object?"

Ever since the battle, the Aurors and the Ministry had been hunting down rogue Death Eaters and dark artifacts that the Dark Lord had hidden or left behind. Thankfully, none had been Horcruxes. Those were all gone, of that Harry was sure. There would have been no way of defeating Voldemort if they still existed.

Malfoy reached into his pocket and held out a rolled-up parchment as Potter noticed the burn marks on Draco's hand.

"What happened there?"

As Harry took the parchment, Malfoy winced. "Found this in a secret compartment under the floorboard, by accident. There was a scratching sound as if some rodent or something was stuck underneath. When I pried open the floorboard, this parchment was in a vial of some sort of enchanted water. When I reached for it, my hand was burned by the substance, but once the parchment was out of the vial, it remained dry. The elves helped me heal the burn. Anyways, there are coordinates on here. Nothing more. I doubt my father knew this was in the study; he would have used it to his advantage to get better treatment in Azkaban." He paused. "I think HE hid it there while he stayed at the manor all those years ago."

Harry's mind raced with possibilities as he unrolled the parchment and studied the coordinates. He didn't need to ask who the "He" was referring to. They should bring this to the Ministry, he should run it past Dawlish, the head of the Auror Office, and Shacklebolt, the Minister. However, there was one thing Harry hadn't changed about himself since his time at Hogwarts. He had a tendency to run off and do things on his own, only consulting his superiors after completing a task or mission. It was something he often dragged his team along to do with him.

Malfoy had told him directly because he knew exactly what Harry's response would be. They shared an unspoken understanding—they both wanted to rid the world of every remnant of Lord Voldemort they could find and ensure that every Death Eater paid for their crimes, for the scars they had inflicted on their childhoods and their entire lives.

Without hesitating, Harry turned back toward his room to change and instructed Malfoy, "Call the others. We're heading out now."

***

Voldemort had a penchant for the dark and macabre, didn't he? Harry and Draco led the way through the underground tunnel, their footsteps echoing off the ancient stone walls as they ventured deeper into what was unmistakably a burial chamber. Ron and Martin followed closely behind, their expressions a mix of trepidation and curiosity.

DesiAnn had chosen to stay behind, a decision Harry didn't blame her for. DesiAnn was a stickler for rules, and this unauthorized mission didn't exactly fit within the Ministry's guidelines—yet. The silver lining was that she had agreed to serve as backup, ready to intervene if necessary and discreetly inform the Ministry only if they failed to return or if she grew genuinely concerned. She had a knack for keeping secrets, after all.

The chamber itself was a haunting sight to behold. The air hung heavy with the scent of ancient dust, mingling with the faint odor of decay that permeated the stone walls. Torches flickered sporadically along the passageways, casting long shadows that danced across the uneven floor. Sarcophagi lined the walls, their surfaces adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes of long-forgotten rituals and ceremonies. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional drip of water echoing from unseen depths. 

Ron muttered something under his breath behind them, a low grumble of discontent that hung heavy in the air. Harry could sense his friend's unease; they hadn't given him ample time to plan or fully grasp the gravity of the situation they were walking into. In that regard, Ron shared the same sentiments as DesiAnn, but he couldn't bring himself to leave his squad to fend for themselves.

"Speak louder, Weasley," Malfoy called back, his voice laced with a hint of mockery.

Ron shot him a scathing glare. "Shut it, Malfoy. I just think this is a terrible idea."

Martin shrugged nonchalantly as they pressed forward, the weight of uncertainty hanging over them like a shroud. A spider skittered past the wall, causing Ron to jump and roll his eyes in annoyance. Martin couldn't help but chuckle at the sight. "Seems like we lot never seem to have any good ideas."

Harry nodded in agreement, his determination driving him forward as he brushed past Malfoy impatiently. The tomb stretched out before them, its depths seemingly endless as they ventured further into the unknown.

Finally, they reached a black iron wrought door, its imposing presence casting a shadow over the group as they stood before it. It seemed almost absurd that their journey had led them to this simple threshold—a mere door, yet harboring untold mysteries beyond its cold facade.

Ron, ever the impatient one, coughed and strode past his companions. With a determined air, he reached for the door knocker and rapped twice.

Time seemed to stretch on indefinitely as they waited in tense anticipation. Then, with a creaking groan, the door slowly swung open, revealing a sight that left them all speechless with awe.

Before them stood a house-elf, unlike any they had ever encountered. Though small in stature, the elf exuded an air of dignity and wisdom, its large, luminous eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge. Its attire, though simple, was impeccably kept, adorned with intricate patterns that spoke of a proud heritage.

The house-elf regarded them with a mixture of curiosity and caution, its sharp ears twitching slightly as it awaited their purpose for disturbing its solitude.

"May I help you?" the small elf asked, its large eyes wide with curiosity.

Harry stepped forward, clearing his throat before speaking. "We are here to, uh..."

Ron cut in, his voice brusque and to the point. "Pick up the package."

The house elf's eyes widened in surprise. "You're here for the package?"

Malfoy coughed lightly, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. "Yes."

With a deferential nod, the elf stepped back and gestured for them to enter. As they crossed the threshold, the four of them exchanged puzzled glances, taking in their surroundings with a mixture of confusion and apprehension. They found themselves in what appeared to be an underground apartment unit, a peculiar sight indeed.

The living room boasted a modest dining table set for two, the candles atop it long extinguished, casting eerie shadows across the room. A small kitchenette occupied one corner of the open space, its countertops cluttered with pots and pans. Two closed doors stood sentinel against one wall, their purpose unknown.

"You're early," the house elf remarked, its voice tinged with surprise. "We were not expecting company for at least another two years."

Harry's gaze darted around the room nervously as he asked, "Who is 'we'?"

The elf, hands on hips, regarded him incredulously. "The package, sir. The one you are here to pick up. The prisoner."

Ron's brows shot up in alarm. "The what?"

A chill ran down Harry's spine as fear gripped his senses. Who had Voldemort hidden in this secret underground unit?

Martin, impatiently awaiting orders, sat at the small table while Draco followed Ron and Harry's gaze to the unopened doors. With a determined stride, Ron approached the first door and swung it open, revealing a bathroom complete with a tub, toilet, and sink—but no mirror.

Gulping audibly, Harry turned his attention to the remaining unopened door, a sense of foreboding settling over him like a suffocating blanket.

Harry stepped forward with determination, his hand reaching out to grasp the cold metal knob of the door. With a creak of protest, he pushed it open, and the four of them stepped into the room beyond.

The scene before them was a stark contrast to the relative comfort of the living area. The air was heavy with the scent of dampness and decay, suffocating in its thickness. The room itself was small and suffused with an eerie half-light, the only illumination emanating from a flickering torch mounted on the wall.

In the center of the room lay a young man, his form hunched and haggard, chained to a small twin bed that looked as if it had seen better days. His once-pristine black trousers were now faded and frayed, the fabric stretched taut against his emaciated frame. A plain white t-shirt, torn and stained with grime, hung loosely from his shoulders, the fabric threadbare and worn. He was barefoot, his feet bruised and calloused from endless pacing within the confines of his prison.

The room itself bore the unmistakable marks of neglect and decay. The walls were bare, their surface marred by cracks and patches of crumbling plaster. There was a stale, musty odor that permeated the air, a testament to the lack of ventilation and the passage of time within these confines.

A sense of profound sadness hung heavy in the air, a palpable reminder of the young man's suffering and isolation. It was a scene straight out of a nightmare, a grim testament to the depths of human cruelty and despair.

The young man lay on the bed, his long, matted brown hair obscuring his features as it cascaded over his face in tangled knots.

Draco's face paled visibly as he observed the figure, a tremor of disbelief coursing through him. Harry's brows furrowed in concern as he turned to Draco. "What is it?"

Draco shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's impossible."

Harry's gaze returned to the prisoner, and his eyes widened in shock as the young man lifted his head to meet their gaze.

No.

It couldn't be.

There was no way.

It couldn't be possible.

He was dead.

Dead for four years.

"H-Harry Potter," the young man stated, wearing the face of one of Harry's biggest nightmares and regrets in life: Cedric Diggory.

Alive?

Ron lunged toward the prisoner, his hand reaching for the shackles with determination, but Harry's voice halted him mid-action. "Wait."

They couldn't be certain if this was truly Cedric. It could be a trap, a deception, or some form of enchantment.

Turning to address the small house-elf, Harry asked, "Whose house do you serve?" Yet, to his surprise, the elf had vanished without a trace. Confusion swept through the group as they scanned the room, finding no sign of the elusive creature. Martin, ever vigilant, began searching the area, but the house-elf had disappeared without a trace, unnoticed by them all.

Ron let out a frustrated sigh. "What do we do now?" he asked, the uncertainty weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Draco stepped forward, wand at the ready, his hand steady despite the turmoil churning within him. With a firm grip, he pointed it at the man who bore the likeness of Cedric Diggory and bellowed, "Stupefy!" The spell shot forth, crackling with energy as it surged towards its target.

As the man crumpled to the ground, Harry turned to his companions, his voice firm and authoritative. "We take him to St. Mungo's, have him locked up in a high-security cell, and subjected to thorough examination by the healers and mind healers." His words rang out with a sense of urgency, a determination to ensure the safety of all involved.

Ron nodded in agreement, his expression grim. "By Monday, we'll know who we're dealing with, and this mission will appear as though it were approved and pre-scheduled."

Harry's gaze flickered between his friends, a silent acknowledgment of their shared resolve. "Get Hermione," he said, his voice tinged with urgency. Time was of the essence, and they needed her expertise now more than ever.

HERMIONE POV

The double-way mirror provided a discreet vantage point for the group of misfit Aurors, Hermione, and Drew, allowing them to observe the prisoner without his knowledge.

Drew sat atop a chair, his posture relaxed as he leaned back against the wall, assisting Ron with the daunting task of filling out Ministry paperwork and backdating some crucial information.

Meanwhile, both Harry and Hermione fixated their gazes on the man in the room. Sat at a chair and chained to a table, his once-handsome features now appeared disheveled and worn, bearing the weight of grief, exhaustion, and the toll of four years of imprisonment.

His hair, once neatly combed, now hung in disarray around his face, matted and unkempt. The lines etched into his young features spoke of hardships endured, of struggles fought in the shadows. And yet, despite the weariness that clouded his eyes, there lingered a flicker of something else—a glimmer of defiance, of resilience in the face of adversity.

Draco sat beside Martin, his eyes closed in silent contemplation. Hermione turned towards them all, her brow furrowed with concern, and stated, "He looks... different."

Ron sighed, setting aside his paperwork to meet her gaze. "Well, he's been imprisoned for four years, Mione."

That wasn't exactly what she meant. There was just something off about this whole thing. He looked... different. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Despite the conclusive blood work and thorough diagnostics conducted by Drew and Harry, confirming his identity in both scientific and magical senses, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling of disbelief. It seemed surreal, impossible even, that this could truly be Cedric Diggory. 

Drew stood up, his expression determined. "I'm going to go in and inform him he's being transferred to a different area. We have no reason to keep him in a high-security cell. This hospital is warded and guarded enough; he won't be able to check out without permission anyway."

Hermione nodded in agreement, her gaze following Drew as he left the backroom and entered the room that housed Cedric. Cedric looked up wearily, his eyes carrying the weight of untold burdens, before casting them downward in resignation. He hadn't said anything since he apparently uttered Harry's name when they found him.

Drew sat across from Cedric, his demeanor patient and compassionate. Despite being a bit scatterbrained, Hermione thought, he genuinely cared for others and was a skilled healer—a quality that was evident in his approach. "Mr. Diggory," he began, locking eyes with Cedric.

Cedric inclined his head in a gesture of affirmation before posing a question with a calm demeanor, "Do you smoke, Mr. Everhart?"

Drew appeared momentarily taken aback, a hint of surprise flickering across his features, before he responded, "Yes, I do. Why do you ask, Mr. Diggory?"

With a lopsided grin that suggested his time in captivity had been nothing short of a leisurely vacation, Cedric replied, "I haven't indulged in a Muggle cigarette in years."

An uneasy shift in Drew's posture betrayed his discomfort as he reached into his trouser pocket and handed Cedric a pack of cigarettes. The chains encircling Cedric's wrists served as a stark reminder of his confinement, both magical and physical. With a flicker of resignation, Cedric extracted a cigarette from the pack and brought it to his lips, where Drew wordlessly ignited it with his wand.

Observing the scene in stunned silence from the other side of the mirror, Hermione couldn't help but feel a surge of shock ripple through her. The others mirrored her reaction, their expressions a mix of astonishment and concern. Harry, in particular, hadn't taken his eyes off Cedric since his arrival.

If anyone was truly affected by the situation, it was Harry. Hermione made a mental note to schedule a session for him this week. This was a pivotal moment, one they couldn't simply sweep under the rug. It demanded attention and discussion.

Hermione watched in fascination as Cedric inhaled, the cigarette poised between his lips, the curling tendrils of smoke enveloping him in an ethereal haze. Despite the hardships of his imprisonment and the unruly state of his matted hair, he exuded a certain rugged charm that was impossible to ignore. She wondered how Cho Chang, now married, would react to the news of Cedric's unexpected reappearance.

Meanwhile, Drew spoke calmly as Cedric smoked, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "We are moving you to a secure room here at St. Mungo's. We'll need to perform a few more tests and exams to determine your health, and you'll gradually regain use of your magic. If all goes well, you'll be set free to return home. Two guards will be entering this room shortly to place a red band on your right wrist, which prevents the use of magic in all forms. They will then unshackle you and escort you to your private room. We trust you will comply and not attempt to escape. It's all for your own good."

Cedric nodded, exhaling a plume of smoke before responding. As Drew began to leave the room, Cedric called out, "Where is my father?"

Drew paused, his steps faltering before he turned back with a sigh. "Your assigned healer will be here in a few hours to discuss your treatment with you. Best of luck, Mr. Diggory."

Ron wrapped his arms around Hermione, offering her a comforting embrace as she stood gazing at her new patient through the double-way mirror. "Let's head to your flat and get some sleep before you come back here," he suggested softly.

But Hermione shook her head, a determined look in her eyes. Cedric was now her patient, and she felt compelled to gather as much information as possible before diving into her role as his healer. She knew Harry held valuable insights into Cedric's past, but he remained silent, still grappling with his own emotions since their unexpected encounter with Cedric at the hospital.

Finally, Harry turned to her, his expression heavy with sorrow. "His father is dead," he murmured, his voice weighted with guilt and grief.

Hermione felt a pang of sympathy for her friend, knowing the weight of Harry's burden. Martin and Draco sensed the somber atmosphere and took their leave, offering their silent support. Ron pressed a tender kiss to Hermione's forehead before promising to meet her at her flat.

As Cedric was escorted away, Hermione and Harry remained seated in silence at the table, lost in their thoughts. After a long pause, Harry broke the quietude. "I'll tell you everything I know, and then you should go and meet Ron and try to get some rest before diving into this, Mione. It's going to be difficult," he advised gently.

Hermione nodded in agreement, feeling the weight of the task ahead. She had observed Cedric only from a distance, hesitant to meet him face-to-face until she had gathered all the necessary information.

Once Harry had departed, the clock had already ticked past ten in the morning. Hermione hesitated in the corridor before finally making her way to the elevator, punching in the button for the 8th floor where Cedric Diggory was now housed in room 807.

Standing before the door, she paused, her heart pounding with uncertainty. With a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

The door creaked open, revealing Cedric on the other side, clad in a hospital shirt and pants, his long hair freshly washed and brushed down, framing his handsome features. Hermione couldn't help but gulp nervously.

As their eyes met, Hermione found herself captivated by Cedric's presence. He exuded a magnetic charm, with his tall stature and well-defined frame. His long, tousled hair added to his appeal, cascading in waves around his shoulders. Despite the pale complexion of his skin, his eyes held a mesmerizing depth, drawing Hermione in with their intensity.

Caught in the moment, Hermione couldn't deny the undeniable allure Cedric possessed, leaving her momentarily spellbound by his presence.

Hermione extended her hand in greeting, a nervous smile playing on her lips. "Mr. Diggory, I'm not sure if you remember me. I'm Hermione Granger, your assigned healer. Well, technically, I work under Healer Rosenberg as part of the team, but I'll be your primary point of contact for all your needs. If there's anything you require, please don't hesitate to reach out."

As Cedric took her hand gently, Hermione noticed the flicker of recognition in his deep, dark eyes.

A strange sensation washed over Hermione as she withdrew her hand quickly, her heartbeat quickening at the intensity of Cedric's gaze. Clearing her throat, she continued, her words stumbling slightly, "I-I'm just... I'm glad to see you well and... and alive."

He flashed her a crooked smile, his eyes devoid of warmth as he inclined his head politely. "It's going to be a pleasure working with you, Ms. Hermione Granger."

Chapter Text

The witch before him—he had heard her name before and knew she was Potter's friend and ally. As he looked at her now, a flicker of recognition sparked within him, mingled with a gnawing sense of unease.

She looked at him as if studying him and he could see the intellect in her eyes. He thought of reading her mind, unconfined by the weak magic cuff on his wrist but didn't bother, he still felt somewhat weak from his false imprisonment.

Some proper sleep and a real meal would do him well. 

The seers hadn't predicted his demise so soon, so he'd planned wrong in the timeline sense, and he'd been holed up in his own prison for at least a year—the elf still loyal to his former self and his wards on his own cuffs were not able to be removed by either him or the elf, something he should have planned better for.

"I trust you will be able to open up to me, Cedric," she stated as he inclined his head in respect and watched her continue to study him as if trying to see into his mind. He felt her suspicion and he began to regard her with some respect.

Indeed, gazing upon her, he could almost imagine she was part of the reason for his former self's demise, and he knew he would need to delve deeper, to unearth the truth of how his former self had been eradicated.

How had he been defeated again?

The question echoed in his mind, a puzzle begging to be solved. And with her standing before him, a living embodiment of his past failures, he knew that the answers he sought lay within her grasp.

Taking in her appearance, he wondered at the unfamiliar sensation stirring within his muscles and body. It had been ages since he had been in the presence of a woman, and with this new body, his dormant desires began to awaken. She was undeniably attractive...The allure of her presence, the subtle curves of her form, ignited a primal longing that he had long forgotten.

Suppressing the urge to succumb to his newfound desires, he masked his intrigue with a veneer of indifference. After all, he had far more pressing matters to attend to than indulging in base desires.

"I will do my best, Ms. Granger," his tone was soft, polite, and he watched as she looked down, as if suddenly embarrassed by the intensity with which she was studying his features. With a shuffle of her feet, she nodded and turned, calling back, "Get some rest. I will see you later today."

As she departed, leaving him alone with his thoughts, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air. There was something about her demeanor, her probing gaze, that set him on edge. And yet, buried beneath the layers of suspicion, he detected a glimmer of something else—a hint of concern, perhaps, or even compassion.

It sickened him.

Emotions and compassion seemed so trivial. So unnecessary.

All he cared for was power and purpose and he thought back to how he came to be again: 

What was the true meaning of essence?

According the to the muggle dictionary:

the quality or qualities that make a thing what it is. the essence of love is unselfishness. 2.: a substance physically or chemically separated from another substance (as a plant or drug) and having the special qualities (as odor) of the original substance.

For all intents and purposes, Cedric Diggory was indeed dead. His essence, stripped from his mind, body, and soul, was forcibly extracted and mingled into a sacrificial spell.

This occurred only shortly after Lord Voldemort had utilized Harry's blood to return from near death, in a desperate bid for resurrection. However, that macabre ritual had not proven sufficient. Despite inhabiting a monstrous body, one thing remained certain: he had no intention of remaining in such a form. Not when, in the prime of his existence, both as Tom Riddle and even as Lord Voldemort, he had been a remarkably handsome man.

Not that his own looks ever really mattered to him, but apparently to others, it did. His influence would be more potent with a better-looking canvas.

So, while Lord Voldemort waged war against the forces that sought to eliminate him and his Horcruxes, which unfortunately were linked to the Potter boy and were being systematically destroyed, he realized the necessity of not only preserving Cedric's essence for a new body for himself but also finding a way to resurrect himself in his prime form.

Resurgence meant not just returning as Lord Voldemort, but as Tom Riddle. It demanded meticulous planning, tapping into long-forgotten sacrificial magic. Amongst these ancient arts lay the forbidden tome of the Book of the Dead spell—a relic of ancient Egyptian magic, unknown to most of the wizarding world due to the Ministry's staunch prohibition.

In delving into these forbidden depths, Lord Voldemort sought to unlock the secrets of resurrection, to defy death itself and emerge anew, reborn in the image of his former glory.

As his defeat neared, utilizing the arcane powers of the Book of the Dead, Voldemort meticulously crafted his resurrection plan. With calculated precision, he extracted a fragment of his soul not in the way a horcrux was created and implanted it within Cedric's living body, allowing it to lay dormant until the moment of its awakening. As his monstrous form drew its final breath, the culmination of the spell unfurled, seamlessly merging the remnants of Cedric's essence with Voldemort's own and removing Cedric's existence from it. 

In an instant, his form shifted, his features morphing into the likeness of the man he once was—the embodiment of his prime: Tom Riddle.

However, there was a peculiar aspect to the spell. Despite appearing as himself, the essence imbued within him held a subtle enchantment, convincing all who beheld him that Cedric Diggory had always borne this countenance. It was a deception born of necessity, a means to seamlessly integrate into society once more, to begin anew.

Tom Riddle, now restored to his former visage, found himself bereft of memories of his defeat. Instead, his recollections began with the day the transfer began and he lay dormant inside the boy's body, now he stood in his room at St. Mungo's piecing together the fragments of his existence from that moment onward.

With calculated foresight, Lord Voldemort had deliberately concealed this aspect of his being, imprisoned himself in a sense under the protection of a loyal house elf, reserving it for the inevitable moment when they would encounter him. It was a calculated gamble, banking on the empathy and compassion of those who would perceive him not as the Dark Lord, but as the lost and vulnerable Cedric Diggory, deserving of understanding and redemption.

He had shed from his cocoon and resurged into a powerful young moth. 

Closing the door behind him, he settled onto the hospital bed, his surroundings triggering an odd resurgence of memories from his time at the orphanage. The dim lighting, the sterile scent—it all evoked echoes of a past he had long sought to bury. Shaking his head to dispel the unwelcome recollections, he forced those memories back into the depths of his mind.

A wicked smile played upon his lips as he surveyed the room. Though his appearance now mirrored that of Tom Riddle, he knew deep down that he would always be Lord Voldemort. The transformation may have altered his exterior, but the darkness that dwelled within him remained unchanged.

As his dark eyes flashed a menacing crimson red, a silent reminder of the power he wielded, he silently vowed to embrace his true nature once more. Forged in the crucible of his past, he would reclaim his rightful place at the pinnacle of wizarding supremacy, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

HERMIONE POV

She really needed to fix that ceiling crack. A simple wave of her wand would mend it, but now, she found herself fixating on it, unable to tear her gaze away.

Lying beside Ron, she stared up at the jagged line, the fracture in the plaster serving as a stark reminder of the imperfections that lingered in their lives.

It made her think about how she'd suddenly altered her five-year plan just a week after the Battle of Hogwarts. She was too exhausted to navigate the intricate politics of the wizarding world, too weary to champion the reforms she had once envisioned. And yet, despite her fatigue, her desire to help people still burned brightly within her.

Swallowing hard, she found herself unable to shake thoughts of the resident in room 826, their frail figure etching itself into her mind. Was it futile to believe she could make a difference?

Just look at her—she was broken. The realization weighed heavily on her heart, a stark acknowledgment of her own inner struggles. It was a truth she loathed to admit, yet it gnawed at her relentlessly.

And then, there was Cedric Diggory now.

Room 807. 

His presence lingered in her thoughts, his dark and probing eyes haunting her consciousness. There was something about him, something that stirred a strange sensation within her.

He didn't seem hopeless or broken. In fact, despite his reserved demeanor, he appeared more composed than most of the post-battle patients she'd encountered. But appearances could be deceiving.

Then again, according to Harry, Cedric had always been brave and strong—a beacon of resilience in the face of adversity.

She swallowed, a knot forming in her throat. Regardless of the façade he presented, she vowed to delve deeper, to uncover any hidden emotions or traumas he may be concealing.

What had the Dark Lord done to him before his death? The question lingered in her mind, demanding answers she feared to uncover. Yet, she knew she couldn't turn away from the truth, no matter how unsettling it may be.

Sleep eventually reached her, and hours later she awoke to Ron gently shaking her. "Mione, your alarm has been going off for half an hour."

Rubbing her eyes, she blinked in confusion, momentarily disoriented by the abrupt interruption of her slumber. How had she managed to sleep without a nightmare plaguing her? It was a rare occurrence, one she couldn't recall experiencing in quite some time. She must have been more exhausted than she realized.

With a grateful nod to Ron, she rose from the bed, the remnants of sleep still clinging to her senses as she prepared to face the day ahead.

Ron came into the bathroom while she showered, the sound of running water providing a soothing backdrop to their post-work routine. As she scrubbed her hair, lost in the rhythm of the task, she was startled when he opened the glass door and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"Heading to the office. We have a lot of explaining to do and I imagine a lecture to withstand," he said, his voice tinged with resignation. "Keep quiet about the Cedric thing. We don't want the papers spreading anything out yet."

She didn't return the kiss, her mind already consumed by thoughts of her new patient. How would Cedric fare in this world, post the Dark Lord?

Once Ron had left the bathroom, she pressed her body against the cool tiles of the wall, seeking solace in the silence. Closing her eyes tightly, she fought to suppress the memories of the Battle of Hogwarts, the images threatening to overwhelm her. With a determined exhale, she pushed them deep down into the recesses of her mind, steeling herself for the challenges that lay ahead.

Drew had stayed late, a gesture that afforded her the rare opportunity to catch up on some much-needed sleep. As she entered the front doors of St. Mungo's, fatigue still lingered in the corners of her eyes, but a renewed sense of purpose propelled her forward. She passed the receptionist table, where a few gossiping nurses exchanged hushed whispers, and made her way toward the elevators, her footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor.

Upon reaching her office on the fourth floor, she found Healer Rosenberg and Drew waiting for her, their expressions grave as they sat with legs crossed, a stack of paperwork occupying her desk.

Rosenberg wasted no time, her tone urgent as she motioned for Hermione to close the door and take a seat. As she sifted through the paperwork left on Hermione's desk, a look of incredulity crossed her features.

"Alive. I can honestly say I am still in shock," she murmured, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"As am I, Mrs. Rosenberg," Hermione replied, her own breath catching in her throat.

"We are keeping this quiet. Is that understood?" Rosenberg's gaze bore into both Hermione and Drew as she spoke. "The Minister called me this morning right before noon with the news and emphasized the need for utmost secrecy. You're both assigned as the primary healers now—Drew, since you were on call when he came in, and you, Hermione, as my prodigy, set to take over this wing in the next two years, Potter has also insisted. Security measures are already in place, with the 8th floor under tight guard. The nursing staff, including our Charge Nurse Amanda, has been briefed on the necessity of discretion and the restricted access to the patient."

Hermione nodded solemnly, her mind already racing with the implications of their newfound responsibility, as Drew stood, ready to conclude his shift for the weekend and be off for the next two days. 

"You're dismissed, Drew," Rosenberg stated firmly as she rose from her seat, and he obediently walked out, closing the door behind him.

Hermione remained standing, her thoughts swirling as she prepared to settle in at her desk. Just as she turned to focus on her work, Rosenberg's voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Mr. Diggory was known as the Golden Boy before his..." She paused, her words tinged with a somber note. "Capture. I trust he won't give us any issues. Nevertheless, we must do our utmost duty in ensuring that he is not a danger to himself or society before he is released."

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione replied, her voice steady despite the weight of the responsibility resting on her shoulders.

Before Rosenberg could leave, she turned back once more, fixing Hermione with a discerning gaze. "Oh, and Hermione, do get more sleep. You look exhausted."

Hermione managed a weak smile, her gratitude mingled with a sense of determination.

Adjusting her medical robes over her scrubs and ensuring her hair was neatly pinned back, Hermione grabbed the chart Drew had started on their new patient, making it a priority to check on him first. It was nearly three PM, and he would likely be finishing up his lunch meal.

As she stepped out of the elevator onto the 8th floor, she was stopped by Nurse Amanda, who gently grabbed her arm and led her down a quiet hallway. "Hermione, is that truly him? The famous Cedric Diggory?" she asked in a hushed tone, her eyes wide with curiosity.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "How has he been doing?"

Amanda, petite with short dark brown hair that fell past her ears and bright blue eyes, her skin pale like Draco's, bit her lip before replying. "He's quite reserved. Hasn't said much. Ate a quick breakfast, took a short nap around noon, asked for a book to read, and he's just been reading all day. We served him lunch about an hour ago. He should be wrapping up now. I was going to check on him or send Andrea to go pick up." She paused, a perplexed expression crossing her features. "He seems..."

"Fine?" Hermione offered.

Amanda raised a brow and nodded.

"Yeah, well, so did she," Hermione thought, knowing that appearances could be deceiving. She bid Amanda farewell as it was almost the end of her shift and made her way toward room 807.

Straightening her robes and clutching her clipboard tightly, she knocked on the door twice and waited.

When there was no immediate answer, she knocked again, and a smooth voice called out, "Yes, come in."

Hermione almost dropped her clipboard at the sight before her. The long mane of hair was no more. His hair was neatly coiffed and cropped, styled back in a manner reminiscent of the 1940s. He wore a white t-shirt with his hospital pants, and he sat before a small table with his plate of food perfectly arranged in front of him. Each component of the meal seemed to be separated into neat little piles on the plate, meticulously ensuring that no part of the food touched another. He sat poised and regal, exuding an air of aristocracy.

She swallowed hard as she took in his adonis like appearance. Dark hair, long lashes framing dark eyes, an aristocratic yet refined chin, and cheekbones to match. Had Cedric Diggory always been this handsome? The realization struck her with unexpected force.

With an air of refined sophistication, Hermione observed as Cedric took a napkin and delicately wiped his face before setting it down with precision. He then arranged his cutlery back into its proper place in front of him and looked up at her, a crooked smile gracing his handsome features.

"Ms. Granger, what a pleasure to see you again," he greeted, his voice smooth and charming.

She mentally pulled herself together and approached him, her demeanor professional yet warm. "Yes. How are you doing, Cedric? I trust you are being treated well. How do you feel?"

He quirked a handsome brow at her and chuckled lightly. "Ah, the famous 'How do you feel' question. Starting with that already?"

She bit back a smile as she settled into the chair across from him and nodded. "Yes, well, it's an important question."

Cedric seemed to pretend to contemplate her answer before responding with a playful glint in his eye. "When people answer, are they relatively truthful?"

"Define relatively," she responded, meeting his gaze evenly, her professional demeanor unwavering.

He observed her quietly for a moment before she coughed lightly, breaking the silence. "I was just stopping by to check on you and collect your lunch plate," she continued, smoothly transitioning the conversation. "It takes a few days to acclimate you enough to our routine before you can join the others. So I do apologize that you had to eat alone and will have to for a few days."

He nodded cordially as she stood, and he gently pushed his unfinished plate and cutlery towards her. "Are you sure you're done?" she asked, noting his hesitancy.

He eyed the food wearily and stated, "The food here is a bit..."

She bit the inside of her cheek, understanding his unspoken criticism. "I'll have them prepare something better for supper," she assured him, making a mental note to address his concerns with the kitchen staff.

"Please do," he responded, flashing her a sly grin as she took his plates and cutlery with her free hands and stepped back. "Is there anything else you need? I will be back sometime before supper to conduct our first session together."

He stared at her, his expression inscrutable, leaving Hermione feeling slightly unsettled.

Finally breaking the awkward silence, he asked, "Am I expected to stay here for more than just a few days?"

Meeting his gaze evenly, she gave him a blank stare before responding, "That decision will be made once our sessions are started."

He drummed a finger on the small table, his eyes piercing into hers as if searching for answers within her soul. "And what will determine if I am fit to return to society or not?"

"Well, for one, we want to make sure you're not a danger to yourself or..."

He interrupted her, dripping with sarcasm as he emphasized, "society."

She nodded as she turned and opened the door wandlessly, but before she could step out into the hallway, Cedric called her name.

"Ms. Granger."

Turning her head, she looked at him, her curiosity piqued. He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed yet composed, and crossed his arms.

"You look quite nice today," he stated.

Hermione chose not to respond verbally, offering only a nod of acknowledgment and a small smile of thanks. Once the door closed behind her, she headed down the hall towards the kitchen, her mind whirling with thoughts.

Cedric Diggory was dangerous.

Not in the typical sense, no. At least none she could see at that point but in the sense that she found herself inexplicably drawn to him. It was a dangerous attraction, one that stirred something within her that she couldn't quite explain. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks as she allowed herself to acknowledge the undeniable pull she felt towards him.

It was unsettling, to say the least. She couldn't afford to let her guard down, not with Cedric. He had a charm about him that was alluring and captivating, and she knew she needed to tread carefully.

After all, she had a boyfriend, Ron, waiting for her most likely at her flat this evening.

Spotting Nurse Annie down the hall as she made her way towards the kitchen, Hermione hurried over to her.

"Annie, who assisted Mr. Diggory with his haircut?" she inquired, her curiosity piqued.

Annie's cheeks flushed slightly as she looked down, clearly flustered. "I did, Miss. I know I'm not supposed to do such things without permission, but he asked so nicely, and he's just..." She trailed off, unable to find the words to articulate her thoughts.

Hermione nodded understandingly, a wry smile playing on her lips. Did Cedric seem to have that effect on everyone?

As Annie scurried off, Hermione sighed to herself, a mixture of frustration and bemusement swirling within her. Harry had warned her that this assignment would be challenging, but he'd failed to mention just how disarmingly charming Cedric Diggory could be.

HARRY POV

He hadn't slept a wink as Ginny stormed into the living room after returning from her Quidditch practice, her frustration palpable in the air.

"Where did you run off to last night?" she demanded, her tone sharp with concern. "You normally leave a letter or something to indicate you'd be back, or it was work-related!"

Harry looked up at his fiancée from the couch he had been sitting on for the last few hours, lost in contemplation, and then looked away.

Sensing Harry's distraught behavior, Ginny sat beside him and looked at him worriedly. "Harry, are you okay?"

He sagged his shoulders in resignation and then shook his head as she reached over and hugged him close to her body.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly, concern etched in her voice, as he released the cries he'd been holding inside for the last few hours. "I thought he was dead this entire time. I watched him die."

They both knew Harry had witnessed the deaths of many, so Ginny knew he must have been referring to something particularly distressing. She gently stroked his hair and whispered, "Who are you talking about, Harry?"

He removed his glasses, his eyes heavy with the weight of the revelation. "Cedric. Cedric Diggory is alive," he confessed.

Ginny's shock was palpable as she listened to his account, her brows shooting up and her mouth hanging open in disbelief. "Malfoy found some coordinates in his father's study," Harry explained further. "We think Voldemort hid it there. When we finally reached our destination, it was some ratted-out underground bunker. In a bedroom, we found Cedric chained to a twin bed. He's been a prisoner for the last four years."

Ginny's mouth remained agape as Harry continued, his confusion evident in his voice. "I just don't understand why he'd keep him prisoner. He normally killed everyone and anyone in his path. What did he want to keep Cedric alive for?"

As the shock began to fade, Ginny nodded slowly, her voice barely a whisper. "Are you sure he's Cedric?"

Running a hand through his hair, Harry affirmed, "Yes, we took him to St. Mungo's. We ran all the tests. It's him. Cedric is alive."

He observed as Ginny gulped and averted her gaze, "But why?" she mumbled, more to herself than to Harry.

Harry shook his head, feeling the weight of the unanswered question. "That's what we've been tasked to investigate. The why."

HERMIONE POV

Hermione went about her rounds, tending to her regular patients, deliberately avoiding room 826. She felt drained, and after reviewing the nurses' notes, she found no urgent need for her presence there today.

As she shut the door to her office, intending to focus on reviewing care charts and signing documents, her mind drifted back to her encounter with Cedric, and she felt a twinge of nervousness.

Perhaps, she thought, Ron and she just needed to give it another try this evening. Maybe if they could navigate through their issues, the strange attraction she felt toward her new patient would dissipate, they just needed to do whatever it was her neighbors were doing. 

Her usual work schedule ran from 10 am to 7 pm for four consecutive days, followed by three days off. However, she often found herself spending more time at the hospital than at home. Unless Rosenberg insisted she take a break for Merlin's sake or Drew practically pushed her out the door, she was there even on her days off.

Since she had arrived just before 3 pm that day, Hermione made a conscious effort to stay until at least 9 pm to make up for lost time.

Deciding it was the right thing to do, she resolved to visit room 826 before heading home.

As 5 pm approached, she gathered her things and made her way to the elevator, intending to return to the 8th floor to meet with Cedric.

This time, she knocked only once before he swung the door open before she could even knock a second time.

Standing before her, he possessed an almost god-like presence, exuding an energy she couldn't quite decipher, as if he had the power to draw people into his orbit. Flashing her a sly grin, he gestured for her to come in. It was then that she noticed the book he held in his free hand.

"Hogwarts: A History?" she observed.

That was her favorite tome to read and reread, endlessly fascinated by its intricate details and rich history.

He nodded cordially. "One of my favorites," he stated, walking over to an empty white bookshelf. With a graceful movement, he placed the book there, as though it joined a collection of others in the bare white room. Taking a seat at the small, empty table, he motioned for her to join him, and she sat across from him, intrigued.

As she withdrew her muggle pen and notepad, he observed her with his own intrigue, his curiosity clearly piqued by her actions. Continuing to speak, he revealed, "I particularly enjoy thoroughly reading and rereading about the founders and their backgrounds. I quite enjoy history and learning from it." Toward the end of his statement, there was a subtle edge to his voice, a hint of intensity that she found oddly captivating.

"I agree," she stated simply, her hands folding neatly on her lap as she regarded him with a blank expression.

He leaned back, a smug smile gracing his lips as he spoke, "Let's get the facts out of the way, since I know you'll need to ask the questions you already know the answers to first. My name is Cedric Diggory. Born on June 24, 1975, son of Amos and Diana Diggory. I am an only child. My mother passed away when I was six from natural causes. I studied at Hogwarts as a wizard, where I was sorted into Hufflepuff. I enjoy playing Quidditch, reading, and am particularly fond of potions. Anything else, Ms. Granger?" he asked casually, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a packet of cigarettes and a match, which he lit with practiced ease.

Hermione's gaze shifted to the pack of cigarettes and then to the clinically white and clean room, a sigh escaping her lips. "Who gave you those?" she inquired; her tone tinged with concern.

"The security guard posted in the east corridor by the men's restroom, I believe his name is Julian. Quite a nice young lad," he responded casually, taking another drag from his cigarette.

She shook her head disapprovingly and looked at him sternly, "We don't allow smoking here."

He shrugged nonchalantly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "He didn't mention that when I asked him to get me a pack and a set of matches."

Hermione furrowed her brow, swiftly jotting down a note in her pad: "Manipulates others?" She glanced up at him, catching the flicker of a wicked smile playing at his lips as he took another drag from his cigarette.

"I should make you put that out," she stated firmly, her resolve evident in her tone.

He leaned back further in his chair, a confident smirk crossing his features. "But you won't," he remarked, his voice laced with certainty.

A blush crept up Hermione's cheeks as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat, momentarily avoiding his gaze. Clearing her throat, she composed herself and looked back up at him. "You may keep your pack of cigarettes if you continue to comply with our rules and procedures."

"I'll take that negotiation," he responded smoothly, accepting her terms with a hint of satisfaction.

"Why do you need cigarettes? Did you smoke those before..." Hermione paused, her voice trailing off, her concern evident.

Cedric interrupted her with a knowing smile, "Before I was kidnapped and imprisoned?"

"Yes," she affirmed, reminding herself to maintain professionalism despite the unexpected turn of conversation.

He took a thoughtful drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, before pointing to her muggle pen and notepad. "Why are you using a ballpoint pen and notepad instead of an enchanted feather and scroll?" he inquired, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

"It reminds me of home," Hermione replied without hesitation, her gaze momentarily distant. "My life before Hogwarts."

"As a Muggle-born?" Cedric inquired; his interest piqued.

She nodded, and as Cedric inhaled from his cigarette, the soft glow of the ember illuminated his features. His eyes, usually filled with a glint of mischief, now held a thoughtful intensity as he regarded her. A curl of smoke lazily rose from the tip of the cigarette, swirling around him like a transient veil before dissipating into the air. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and understanding, as if he was trying to grasp the intricacies of her past and how it shaped her present.

The intensity of his gaze should have been unsettling, yet it only served to deepen her intrigue. Hermione fought back the blush that threatened to betray her composure once more as she steered the conversation back to Cedric. Pointing subtly to the cigarette between his fingers, she posed the question again, her tone gentle but insistent, "Did you smoke before?"

He nodded solemnly, acknowledging her question. "I smoked in the past, yes."

Hermione quickly jotted down his response before looking up, her expression serious. "What do you remember about the night you were captured?"

Cedric extinguished the cigarette butt on the table, the faint smell of burnt wood lingering in the air. The enchanted surface prevented any damage, but the action left a visible mark on the pristine tabletop, until it disappeared slowly. He carefully replaced the pack of cigarettes and matches into his pocket before crossing his arms, his demeanor becoming guarded. "Not much," he began, his voice filled with a hint of bitterness. "Potter and I were in a graveyard, and then everything went dark. When I awoke, I was in a room chained to a twin bed. A house elf barely tended to my basic needs. Once or twice a month, he'd force me to bathe. The chains prevented me from using any magic, so I could not escape. I was given two small meals a day, which tasted spoiled, and was allowed to relieve myself in the bathroom when needed."

She quickly transcribed the information into her notepad, poised to delve deeper into Cedric's harrowing experience. However, before she could pose her next question, he preemptively answered.

"No, Lord Voldemort never came to see me."

At the mention of the Dark Lord's name, pronounced with a reverence that sent a shiver down Hermione's spine, she nearly jumped in discomfort. "How did you know it was he who kept you imprisoned?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cedric sighed heavily, the weight of his memories evident in his expression. "The elf reminded me every day that I was only alive because of Lord Voldemort's will." His words hung in the air, heavy with the sinister implications of his captivity.

"And why did he want to keep you alive and imprisoned?" Hermione asked, her voice steady despite the unsettling nature of their conversation.

Cedric's face fell into a blank expression, masking any hint of emotion as he replied, "The essence of the truth is, I have no idea." There was a subtle nuance in his tone that Hermione couldn't quite decipher, but she chose to disregard it, focusing instead on maintaining her professional demeanor. Cedric then flashed her a seductive smile, his charm momentarily distracting her from the gravity of their discussion.

Chapter Text

TOM POV

Sitting on his neatly made crisp white hospital bed with his legs straight and his feet crossed, Tom Riddle found himself unable to concentrate on his reading as the brown-eyed muggleborn witch had left him... bewildered. Her face haunted the recesses of his mind, stirring a mix of curiosity and frustration. 

He suddenly found himself fascinated by someone, an emotion he couldn't quite place. It made him irate that he couldn't dissect this feeling, couldn't control it like he did with everything else.

A muggleborn... he suppressed his disgust at himself and his desire. He was Lord Voldemort, resurrected time and time again to aid the world in eradicating this plague.

Calmly, but with a rage building inside him, he set the book down and glared into his room. The sterile walls seemed to mock him, a reminder of his current predicament.

He really should end this charade, walk out of the hospital, and just go on about his new life. But staying there was a necessary inconvenience, a strategic move to gain the world's trust and be welcomed with open arms into society. The thought gnawed at him, a reminder of the game he was playing, a game he intended to win at any cost.

He mulled over Harry Potter and his friendship with his healer, deducing that to succeed in this new world and ascend the social and political hierarchy, befriending him would be imperative. And when least expected, he'd strike. Potter was as good as dead. Vengeance for the torment he had endured would be exacted.

The pathetic young man had looked like he was about to weep when he spoke his name upon finding him in his own prison. Guilt etched his face deeply, and it would be all too easy to exploit that guilt against Potter.

A light knock on his door interrupted his mental reverie as he pressed the imaginary wrinkles from his white t-shirt down and stood, making his way to the door. As he opened it, he saw the Charge Nurse Amanda, followed by the younger nurse Anne towing a cart behind her. The aroma wafting from the cart indicated that Ms. Granger had indeed kept her word about speaking with the kitchen staff.

He smiled to himself, pleased with the outcome. 

Their conversation had ended quickly; and he had noted how Ms. Granger had seemed flustered towards the end. It intrigued him. Had he managed to earn her trust as quickly as he did with most? Time would tell.

The nurses and others, however, seemed to trust him beyond a reasonable doubt despite his recent arrival. It was a testament to his charm and charisma, skills honed over years of manipulation and persuasion.

Wearing his old countenance, he felt a familiar sense of power, reminiscent of the days where a simple flash of a smile and some silver-tongued words were all it took to bend others to his will. It was a feeling he relished, a reminder of his true nature lurking beneath the facade of convalescence.

"Mr. Diggory," Amanda, the head nurse he had surmised by then, greeted him with a warm smile as Anne walked forward, deftly taking his plate of food and setting it on the small, empty table in the room. She then laid out some cutlery with practiced efficiency.

"Amanda," he responded politely, acknowledging her presence and nodding towards Anne that stood shyly in the corner. He noted the subtle attempts at familiarity from the nursing staff. Perhaps they encouraged patients to use their first names to foster a sense of openness and trust. However, such tactics had little effect on Tom Riddle, who harbored a deep-seated distrust of others.

It was a shame, he mused inwardly, that he couldn't bring himself to trust a single soul. But years of betrayal and manipulation had taught him to guard his secrets closely, even in the most seemingly benign of settings. 

Amanda adjusted herself, her gaze briefly faltering under the weight of his intense stare. "I just came to check to see how you're doing," she began, her tone gentle and accommodating. "Is there anything we can do to make your stay here more comfortable?"

Tom's youthful new body took in her appearance with detached observation. His mind, however, remained disinterested; she didn't evoke any semblance of attraction or intrigue. Judging by their minimal interactions, she certainly wasn't a witch he found mysterious or intellectually stimulating. Not on his level, at least. And as he subtly probed into her mind, he noted that she lacked the skill to shield her thoughts as adeptly as Ms. Granger did. Granger's mind was guarded, but not impenetrable. However, she'd feel him probing in the recesses of her mind if he delved in further, a sensation he preferred to avoid for now.

He'd already decided he'd learn more about Ms. Granger the old-fashioned way—through observation, subtle inquiries, and perhaps a bit of manipulation if necessary. After all, unraveling the secrets of those around him had always been one of his greatest talents.

Amanda's mind, on the other hand, seemed open, like an easy children's book waiting to be read.

In a flash, he glimpsed her fleeting fantasies involving him. With a crooked smile, he responded curtly, "No, not at the moment. I am quite comfortable." His words held an edge, a subtle reminder of his self-assuredness and unwillingness to engage further.

"Very well," Amanda replied, nodding to him and to Anne. Once Amanda had left his room, Anne turned to him, gesturing for him to sit on his bed as he probed into her mind and was unsurprised by her thoughts. Very similar to Amanda’s.

He obliged, settling onto the mattress as Anne approached. She retrieved her wand and began to perform a diagnostic spell, the tip of her wand emitting a soft glow as it scanned his vitals.

"Any headaches, pain, anything you'd like me to add or report on your chart for the healing team?" Anne inquired; her tone professional as she maintained her composure. Yet, despite her attempts to appear unaffected, he noticed a faint blush coloring her neck as she studied him intently.

Tom's thoughts of Hermione Granger lingered like a shadow as the young nurse's fantasies swept through him, a stark contrast to the present situation.

He needed to sate this urge. 

Kill it, if necessary.

Rising from his seated position, he noticed Nurse Anne instinctively step back in concern as he moved towards the open door, closing it behind him with a decisive click.

Turning back to face Anne, he regarded her with a calculating gaze before uttering, "There is something that ails me."

Anne's nervous gulp was audible, her widened eyes betraying her unease as she absorbed his presence. "Yes, what is it? How can I help?" she whispered; her voice barely audible.

Stepping closer, Tom felt a flicker of fascination ignite within him. It had been years since he indulged in such primal urges, the raw desires of youth coursing through him.

Though his pursuit of power remained unchanged, the methods to attain it had evolved. Magic was no longer his sole reliance; now, there was a newfound potency in the rawness of physicality. Violence remained an option, but one to be used sparingly, especially in places where Hermione Granger held sway.

Anne looked down shyly, her cheeks flushing with discomfort as she murmured, "Mr. Diggory, this is very inappropriate."

Meeting her gaze with a wicked grin, he responded smoothly, "Please, call me Cedric." His words carried a hint of mischief, a subtle reminder of his allure and the game he enjoyed playing. It was as if he were the predator, stalking his prey with calculated precision, while she, unaware, remained unwittingly within his grasp.

"Cedric, I-I," she started, but before she could finish, he had turned her around and pressed himself against her. He knew she could feel his hard manhood pressing against her backside, sending a shiver down her spine as he whispered in her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "I don't believe in kissing, but if you're willing, before I eat my supper, there is another hunger I need satiated," he murmured, his voice low and seductive, his hands exploring her body with an undeniable urgency.

She hesitated for a moment, as he probed into her thoughts; her mind racing with conflicting emotions, before finally giving in to the undeniable attraction she felt towards him. 

He's just so beautiful, he heard her thinking.

With a trembling hand, she guided his down her scrub pants, allowing him to feel her warmth as he held her aggressively towards him.

She wasn't exactly what he desired, but in this moment, she was enough to satisfy his insatiable need. 

He didn't want to look at her face, didn't want to acknowledge the reality of what they were about to do, but the primal urges coursing through him demanded release.

With a mixture of gentleness and roughness, he explored her, his fingers eliciting gasps and moans of pleasure from her lips. 

As his desire consumed him, he couldn't hold back any longer. He pulled her pants and knickers down, and then pulled his own down while slightly bending her over as he entered her without restraint, gripping her violently as she cried out in pleasure or pain.

He wasn't sure and he didn't care.

He pulled on her hair, eliciting a gasp of pain as he tore into her, his movements rough and forceful. A muffled scream escaped her lips, but he covered her mouth with his hand, silencing her cries.

The violence with which he took her should have elicited pleas for him to stop, but her mind was consumed with a relentless mantra: "I'm having sex with Cedric Diggory, the famous and beautiful Cedric Diggory." He'd implanted that mantra in her mind the moment he sensed himself losing control, the rage boiling within him at the thought of wanting to inflict this very act upon his mudblood healer.

You filthy little whore, he thought to himself as he imagined pulling on brown curls.

When he finally pulled out, he made sure not to release himself inside of her. Instead, he forced her to turn around, his grip firm as he inserted himself into her mouth, urging her to swallow. She complied, her compliance fueling his sense of power and control.

With a smug and satisfied look, he surveyed the bruises on her hips and arms, evidence of his dominance over her. As she pulled her scrub pants and knickers up, brushing her dirty blonde hair back, he felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight of his handiwork.

She wiped her mouth, her movements tinged with a sense of resignation, as Tom turned away from her and made his way to the small table.

Without bothering to glance back, he remarked, "I am going to eat my supper now. Have a pleasant evening, Anne."

He didn't look up as she stalked out of the room silently, closing the door behind her. He didn't need to read her mind or see her face to know that she felt used.

As he removed the lid from his plate, a smile crept onto his lips as he observed the meal before him.

Steak, potatoes, a vegetable medley—each item meticulously arranged, with not a single component touching the other. But it wasn't the food itself that elicited a grin from him.

No, it was the fact that his observant healer, Ms. Granger, had made sure to instruct the kitchen staff to keep his meal meticulously separate. It was a small detail, but one that spoke volumes about her attention to detail and her desire to ensure his comfort.

"Astute and observant, my little mudblood is," he whispered to himself, a cruel smirk dancing on his lips as he meticulously arranged his fork and knife on his plate before commencing his meal.

HERMIONE POV

Right after finishing with Cedric, she gathered her notes and retreated to her office, staring at them in frustration. She had intended to speak to him for at least an hour, but found herself unable to concentrate, her mind consumed by memories of his smile towards the end. It left her flustered and irritated with herself. For Merlin's sake, she was a professional, and he was...

Cedric Diggory, the Golden Boy.

The Brave, Intelligent, and God Handsome Cedric Diggory.

"For Merlin's sake, Hermione, get it together," she mumbled to herself.

After checking on her other patients from floors 4-9, she hesitated before reluctantly making her way to the room she dreaded visiting.

Room 826.

She avoided the hallway that housed Cedric's room, her footsteps heavy with apprehension.

When she finally reached the door, she braced herself. There was no point in knocking; the person behind the door would never open it.

As the door creaked open, she swallowed hard, steeling herself for what lay beyond.

Very few rooms in the hospital had a window, but this one did, offering a view of the gardens where she occasionally took patients for walks.

Swallowing, Hermione stared at her patient: 

Her face was as pale as ever, and her once vibrant blue eyes now held a lifeless grey tint as she stared blankly out into the gardens. She'd shaved her head a few months back, driven to desperate measures to regain some semblance of control. Escaping into the men's restroom, she had found a shaving blade and ruthlessly sheared off her long, wispy white-blonde locks. Now, instead of cascading strands, she sported a choppy, boyish haircut.

Hermione approached her quietly, hoping not to startle her, and settled into an empty chair by the small table. She folded her hands over her lap, crossing her legs, and observed the person before her whom she'd once called "friend."

"Luna, how are you feeling today?" she inquired softly, her voice laced with concern.

Luna turned to face her robotically, her expression devoid of emotion as she stated matter-of-factly, "Well. The voices are louder today. They're whispering to me about the resurrection of a Dark Prince." Her words hung heavy in the air, casting a chilling aura over the room.

Hermione's heart began to race as she thought of the occupant in room 807, but she quickly pushed the thought away. Luna had been spewing the same line for months.

Hermione maintained her composure, masking any frustration that threatened to surface. "Luna, we've talked about this. Voldemort is dead," she said gently, her tone calm and reassuring. 

She shook her head ever so slightly, her expression conveying concern as she replied, "He used his essence to return, he came back." 

For some reason, Luna's mind seemed fixated on a particular event—the end of the fourth year at Hogwarts, during the Triwizard Tournament. It was as if she were trapped in that night, unable to move past it. Her behavior had become increasingly erratic shortly after being rescued from Malfoy Manor. Then, after the Battle of Hogwarts, she had completely lost her grip on reality. She repeated the same things over and over again, and any attempt to calm her down resulted in violent outbursts. She had even attempted to hex, curse, and stab those around her in the process, leaving everyone deeply troubled by her deteriorating mental state.

Luna was a permanent resident of St. Mungo's along with Neville Longbottom's parents.

"Yes, he used Harry's blood to return, but then Harry killed him, remember? At Hogwarts. We were all there," Hermione gently reminded her, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and determination. Despite the repetition and Luna's seeming inability to grasp reality, Hermione persisted in her attempts to reach her friend, holding onto hope that one day Luna would listen to reason.

"No," Luna stated simply, shaking her head before returning her gaze to the window. "The Dark Prince is back. He has returned."

Hermione sighed inwardly, feeling a pang of sadness for her friend's tortured mind. She stood and retrieved a muggle coloring book and colored pencils from her bag, placing them gently on the table before Luna. It was a small gesture, but Hermione hoped it would provide some distraction for Luna amidst her troubled thoughts.

Luna occasionally paused her chanting or staring out the window to engage with the coloring books Hermione left.

Some days, she would fill the pages with repetitive chants and mantras instead of colors. Regardless, Hermione was determined to provide her friend with something to occupy her mind.

***

Ron was in her kitchen, attempting to cook, and by the time she arrived back in her flat, it was almost ten pm. Whatever it was he had made, smelled burnt.

"Bollocks," he muttered, pulling a charred roast out of her oven. "I swear it said 45 minutes on the package." He turned to search for the discarded packet somewhere on the cluttered counter as Hermione set her bag down in the foyer and approached him, a mix of amusement and exasperation evident in her expression.

"It's alright, Ron," Hermione reassured him as she settled onto a stool at the kitchen counter. "I'm honestly not very hungry."

Ron's expression softened with concern as he glanced at her. "You haven't been eating much lately."

Surprised by his observation, Hermione offered a nonchalant shrug. "It's been very busy at the hospital."

He nodded in understanding, abandoning his culinary endeavor to join her at the counter. "Yeah, it's been hectic at the office and in the field. Harry wants us to eradicate every dark object the Dark Lord ever touched and capture every rogue Death Eater, as if it all didn't end just a year ago. Barely gives us any time to breathe," he sighed, frustration evident in his tone. "Did you know he denied Martin paid time off for his niece's birthday party? How cruel is that?"

Hermione nodded absentmindedly, her attention drifting as Ron continued to vent about work. However, her focus was abruptly pulled back when she heard faint moaning from upstairs. She struggled to concentrate on Ron's words until he spoke directly to her again.

"Mione, are you alright?"

Shaking herself inwardly, Hermione met Ron's gaze and offered a forced smile. "Yes, just tired." It wasn't a complete lie; she was genuinely exhausted. But more than that, she simply couldn't bring herself to engage in Ron's venting session when her mind was consumed by other worries.

He made a move to stand, announcing, "I am probably going to stay at home tonight. Harry wants us in the office by 6am, and I need to catch up on some sleep."

However, Hermione grabbed his hand, halting him mid-rise, her expression wry as she bit her lip. "Well, I was thinking before you do that, we should..."

Ron raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You want to, again?"

Hermione nodded, feeling an urgent need and a sensation down there that needed fulfilling.

Ron scooped her up, a sense of urgency in his movements, as he rushed them to her bedroom. With a swift motion, he ripped off his clothes, and she followed suit, shedding her garments in a rush of anticipation. He might have been inexperienced in the act itself, but his familiarity with foreplay had always been there.

Closing her eyes, Hermione allowed herself to relax as Ron slowly removed her knickers. The sensation of his mouth on her folds elicited a smile of pleasure, and she let out a soft sigh as he licked and sucked gently. But deep down, she yearned for more.

An undeniable urge pulsed through her, a need for something more intense. She wanted him to be less gentle, more forceful, more assertive and sure of himself, more in control.

Midway through, he looked up at her through her spread legs, seeking affirmation. "Is this okay?"

She nodded eagerly, her desire clear, and then urged him to move up and come closer, craving a different kind of intensity.

He entered her slowly, a gentle pressure building as he squeezed his eyes shut, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Hermione closed her eyes, the sounds of the upstairs neighbors' escapade serving as an unwelcome distraction.

He moved in and out of her with a cautious rhythm, but it wasn't enough.

"Please," she urged, her voice desperate. She needed him to go faster, harder.

But he persisted with his gentle thrusts, prompting her to close her legs tightly around him, pushing herself up to meet his rhythm and urging him to increase his pace. Just as he began to comply, she closed her eyes and pictured dark lashes and deep brown eyes.

"Yes, faster, Ron," she moaned, her imagination conjuring a sly, crooked grin.

And just as she felt herself on the brink of orgasm, he abruptly pulled out, his release spilling onto her abdomen. With a frustrated grunt, he muttered, "Fuck."

He turned away from her and collapsed back, his breath heavy with exertion, while Hermione closed her eyes, ignoring the burning desire between her legs. She swallowed her frustration as the sounds of her female neighbor's ecstatic cries pierced the air. "Duke, yes! Yes! Yes!"

Ron remained quiet no longer perturbed by her neighbor’s lovemaking sounds. 

He left shortly after, pressing a kiss to her forehead before flooing out from the fireplace. As she watched him depart, Hermione felt a sense of emptiness settle over her. Once he was gone, she made her way to the bathroom, her steps heavy with a mix of disappointment and longing.

Turning on the shower, she repressed a sigh as she washed her hair and scrubbed her body, but the persistent urge and sensation between her thighs remained.

Finally, she adjusted the water to the hottest temperature she could bear and traced her fingers down between her legs, closing her eyes as she tried to conjure the image of Ron delving into her with rough passion. Yet, as she neared the brink of orgasm, his face morphed into another's:

Cedric Diggory's absurdly handsome face.

She gasped, feeling a mixture of guilt and desire surge through her as she continued to pleasure herself, unable to resist the allure of her forbidden fantasies. When she finally reached climax, her release washed over her, mingling with the overwhelming sense of shame and self-loathing.

Slumping down beneath the showerhead, she curled into a fetal position, her tears mixing with the water cascading down her face. She felt broken, a shattered mess of emotions.

A fucking disaster.

Chapter Text

HERMIONE POV

The darkness swirled around her like a malevolent entity, its tendrils reaching out, whispering her name, and imploring her to heed its call as she dashed through the forbidding canopy of the Forbidden Forest. With each step, her heart pounded against her chest, her skin prickled with an icy sensation, and a chilling aura threatened to envelop her.

"Leave me be!" she cried out into the dense shadows, her voice echoing through the eerie silence of the forest, though she knew her words would find no listener. Despite her desperate sprint toward the familiar safety of Hogwarts, she couldn't shake the relentless pursuit of the darkness.

It seemed to glide effortlessly, matching her pace, and closing in with an unfathomable determination. With a dreadful inevitability, the darkness breached her defenses, seeping into her very being, its cold touch sending shivers down her spine.

She jolted awake, her screams piercing the stillness of her bedroom, her hands instinctively clutching at her chest, her heart racing, and panic gripping her in its icy embrace.

With the morning calm still reigning, her alarm remained dormant, granting her a reprieve until the day officially started. Checking the enchanted cuckoo clock, she noted it was only seven in the morning.

Running her hand through her tousled hair, she found herself trembling slightly, seeking solace in the familiar gesture. Clutching her shoulder tightly, she focused on regulating her breath, reciting a comforting mantra she'd come to rely on.

"Breathe. Just breathe."

Inhale. Exhale. You're safe. Everything's okay. The battles are behind you. Voldemort's gone. The darkness has no power.

Taking in her room, she felt a sense of relief that Ron hadn't stayed over. It was just her and the quiet of the morning.

Straightening her bed and tidying her surroundings, she found comfort in the simple routine.

Making her way to the bathroom, she performed her morning rituals, opting for the traditional Muggle way of washing her face and brushing her teeth, a small homage to her roots and her parents' teachings. They would have been proud.

Despite having showered the night before, she took another quick rinse, the warm water washing away the lingering discomfort of her nightmare.

Despite the early hour, she resolved to head to work and check on her patients over breakfast. Upon entering St. Mungo's, she bypassed the bustling group of nurses and healers on the first floor, making her way up to the mind healer's floor where her office was situated. She had spent two months studying with the regular healers before they accommodated her request to work with those in need of mental healing.

Her focus was on healing the minds of the broken, the victims of war and prejudice, and the soldiers who had fought for a better world. It seemed that everyone was still grappling with the aftermath in some way.

As for Harry, he had shown no signs of slowing down. Unlike Ron, who took a brief respite before diving into Auror training, Harry had thrown himself into the task of eradicating any remnants of the Dark Lord's reign. She wondered when he would find the time to fulfill his promise to visit her or even Rosenberg, as he had vowed to do.

Healer Rosenberg stood in the hallway as Hermione passed, causing her to nearly stumble back in surprise when she noticed the two figures standing beside her.

The Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, stood tall in his signature purple Ministry robes, with the Head Auror Dawlish positioned protectively at his side. Hermione imagined that more Aurors were discreetly scattered throughout the building, given the presence of the Minister himself. Upon catching sight of her, Kingsley paused mid-conversation with Healer Rosenberg and beamed warmly in her direction.

"Hermione Granger!"

"Kingsley!" she exclaimed excitedly; her curiosity piqued as Healer Rosenberg eyed her apprehensively. "What brings you to St. Mungo's?"

The Minister glanced down; his expression weighted with regret. "Well, I should have been here sooner, but we've come to see the boy."

Hermione's brows perked up; she didn't need to ask who the boy in question was. Cedric Diggory. Of course, he'd want to see this miracle for himself.

"Oh, of course," she replied.

Healer Rosenberg cleared her throat and continued, "Well, yes. As I was explaining to the Minister and Mr. Dawlish, I wanted to run it by you first. Other than our nursing team, you've had the most communication with our new charge. Do you think it's a good idea for the Minister and Mr. Dawlish to speak to him today?"

Hermione pondered, recalling Cedric's seemingly casual demeanor and how he appeared genuinely fine. She bit her lip before responding. "I'd like to speak to him first. Will you be needing him in the interrogation room?"

Dawlish nodded. "Yes, I believe that's the safest approach."

Hermione nodded and turned to both gentlemen. "Let him finish up breakfast. I'll head in there and speak with him before escorting him to the room."

They all agreed and arranged to meet Hermione on the third floor in an hours' time, in the very same room where they had initially housed Cedric on the first morning Harry and the other Aurors had brought him in. Hermione wondered if they had gotten into trouble for embarking on that mission without proper authorization, just as Ron had predicted. She made a mental note to ask Ron if he happened to stop by her flat that evening.

Heading to her office, Hermione rifled through her files and meticulously checked the care plans from the previous evening, ensuring everything was submitted and reviewed. After waiting forty-five minutes, she finally made her way to Cedric's room.

She raised her hand to knock, but before she could even touch the door, it swung open.

Her heart seemed to skip a beat, then stop altogether as she took in the sight before her.

There stood Cedric, his hair neatly combed in an aristocratic manner, clad in a simple white T-shirt and scrub pants, his crooked smile plastered on. "Ms. Granger," he drawled. "What a pleasant morning this has become."

Hermione swallowed, mentally composing herself. Nobody should look this attractive; it wasn't normal. It was... strange.

"I apologize for disturbing you so early, Cedric. I hope you were able to finish breakfast and slept well."

He nodded and studied her intently.

Before she could utter a word, he spoke—or perhaps questioned, she wasn't entirely sure. "The Ministry has finally come for me, then?"

She nodded. "Yes, the Ministry is here to speak with you."

He tilted his head, his expression curious. "The word of the junior Aurors not enough, then?"

Perceptive.

Cedric Diggory was uncannily perceptive. "I believe it's just a matter of protocol. I will need to bring you back to the first room we had you in and..." Hermione sighed, reaching into her medical robe pocket and producing a pair of magical cuffs, which she displayed to him. "As per protocol, you will need to wear these since we're leaving the Mind Healing Unit."

He regarded the magical cuffs stoically, then extended both his hands with his wrists pressed together.

She clasped the cuffs onto his wrists, and he walked towards her as she closed his door wandlessly behind him. They stood side by side as they walked down the hallway, his presence quiet yet commanding. Hermione could not help but steal a side glance at him. He was tall, much taller than she, taller than Ron. He carried himself with a subtle strength, lean yet muscular, and she wondered how he maintained such physique after years in captivity.

As they passed the men's restrooms and the guard standing there, Cedric nodded to the guard curtly. Once they reached the elevator and Hermione pressed her wand to the wall, allowing the wards to bend to her will and call the elevator forward, she stood waiting beside him patiently.

Her foot tapped nervously on the floor, and when she looked up, she found him smiling down at her with a wicked twinkle in his eye.

"Ms. Granger, I'm sure I'll be alright. If you're worried, that is."

She fought back a blush and shook her head. "No, of course I'm not worried, Cedric. I'm sure everything will be fine."

He raised an eyebrow and glanced up as the elevator door dinged, indicating their floor.

Before it opened, he said, "If you say so."

HARRY POV

Harry sat at his cubicle, his gaze fixed on the open file before him, the initials "CD" emblazoned on the tab. It still didn't feel real. No matter how many times he mulled it over, the fact remained incomprehensible. And yet, Cedric was alive.

Draco strolled towards him, an ancient dark relic in his hand, idly tossing and turning it as he approached, his gray eyes piercing as they met Harry's.

Ron's voice cut through the office from his own desk across the room. "Put that back into evidence, Malfoy."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Weasley. Martin and I rid this thing of all its dark magic. It's a useless glass ball now."

Martin, seated nearby, glanced up from his desk, weariness evident in his expression as he shook his head. He then returned his attention to the Daily Prophet, muttering, "The Wizarding World's top 5 eligible bachelors are still unmarried, but let's talk about the top three, who are leading the Auror Department in eliminating the world of all dark matters regarding our most recent Dark Lord."

DesiAnn brushed past Draco, purposefully bumping his shoulder as she made her way to her desk across from Martin's. With a nonchalant air, she propped her feet up on her desk and shook her head in mock exasperation. "Who's number one this week?"

The top bachelor spot in the media's eyes seemed to rotate among Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, and Ronald Weasley, depending on the week and the prevailing sentiment. It was a peculiar phenomenon, considering both Harry and Ron were clearly taken. Despite the fact that the Daily Prophet knew Harry was engaged to Ginny Weasley—front-page news at one point—Rita Skeeter had the audacity to publish an article a week later, declaring him a bachelor until married.

This incensed Ginny for over a week; she was burning copies of the Prophet left and right and sending Rita howlers.

Harry shook his head, amused by the memory, as Draco eyed DesiAnn with a hint of irritation. 

Setting the artifact on Harry's desk, Draco then made his way back to his own desk, situated across from Harry's. Draco and Desi had a complicated relationship, veering between love and hate, often fueled by toxic, alcohol-infused sex escapades. 

Their tumultuous dynamic had begun around the time Draco managed to break off his long-planned engagement to Astoria Greengrass—a union arranged by his father when Draco was just a child.

Fortunately, Draco hadn't been disowned by his father, although with Lucius in Azkaban, he had little choice but to forge his own path and repair the strained relationship with his family, free from his father's controlling influence.

"It's Ronald Weasley this week, with Draco second and Harry third," Martin replied, flipping through the pages of the Daily Prophet.

Ron made a gagging sound. "Mione is going to love this."

Draco laughed mockingly. "I doubt Granger feeds into the media's nonsense."

Harry nodded in agreement. Hermione seemed to exist in her own sphere. She hadn't made the slightest effort to engage with the hero media frenzy, constantly turning down appearances, interviews, and events. She spent most of her time either holed up in that hospital in her flat or immersed in a book at the bookstore. It had been a while since they had all been out together in public, and Harry sometimes wondered if she was okay.

He wasn't.

And she made it clear that she knew it, too.

He swallowed hard, contemplating the idea of scheduling an appointment. Just to talk to someone about it, someone who could understand him better, other than Ginny.

Dawlish and Shacklebolt had left as soon as they arrived at work that morning, stating they needed to verify for themselves the discovery Harry's team had made.

Did they not trust his judgment?

They had found Cedric Diggory, and the world remained unaware. What sort of storm would they face when the media inevitably discovered the truth? How long were they supposed to keep it under wraps?

Harry pondered the fate awaiting Cedric. What would they do with him?

Staring at the artifact Draco had placed on his desk, Harry wondered how they would unravel the mystery of why Voldemort had kept Cedric alive. Could they achieve what they all desired: to rid the world of every trace of him?

Months had passed, and they were still at it.

Death Eaters remained at large, and artifacts continued to surface. Would it ever truly end?

HERMIONE POV

Hermione observed Cedric through the double glass mirror, his posture rigid as he sat across from the Head Auror and the Minister, his expression stoic.

They bombarded him with questions about his childhood and heritage, as if quizzing him on his identity. Cedric answered each inquiry with ease, displaying neither anger nor discomfort, just an air of boredom.

Finally, Dawlish folded his hands in front of him and asked, "Why do you believe the Dark Lord held you captive?"

Cedric sighed and shook his head. "How would I know the answer to that question, gentlemen? I am not sure. Maybe he planned to use me as a hostage at one point and forgot about me? Maybe he fancied my face. Who knows?"

The Minister nodded in understanding and sympathy, while Dawlish scrutinized him with suspicion.

Shacklebolt spoke next, his voice carrying a tone of genuine remorse. "We are very sorry you had to endure captivity, Mr. Diggory. I hope you are comfortable here at the hospital, and we ask that you trust the process. However the Ministry can be of service to you, we shall be."

Cedric inclined his head slightly. "Where is my father?"

Hermione swallowed, realizing she had avoided asking about his family and informing him of this information in order to gauge his mental state before revealing the truth to him.

Dawlish glanced at the Minister, who nodded, giving Dawlish the go-ahead to answer Cedric's question.

"I regret to be the one to inform you of this, Mr. Diggory. However, your father passed away during the war. He fought valiantly on the side against the Dark Lord and perished in the Battle of Hogwarts. You are the only Diggory left."

Cedric looked down, a flicker of sadness crossing his features, as the two gentlemen stood. The Minister spoke, "It was very nice to see you, Mr. Diggory. If all goes well, you should be released from St. Mungo's by the end of the week. Upon your release, I need you to come to my office so we can discuss your future."

Cedric remained silent and didn't look up as they left.

Hermione watched as the Minister and the Auror exited the room, then turned her attention to Cedric Diggory's inclined head. 

As if sensing her presence, he looked up and stared at the mirror intently, his expression stoic and unyielding. It felt as if he could see right through her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she swallowed nervously and made her way out to meet the two men in the hallway.

Shacklebolt spoke first, his tone measured. "It seems Mr. Diggory is coping surprisingly well given what he has endured. When do you anticipate releasing him?"

Hermione considered his question carefully before responding. "I'd prefer to wait a few more days, integrate him with the others tomorrow, and if there are no issues or outbursts, we can proceed with his release. But what about introducing him to society again?"

Dawlish interjected, his voice firm. "We'll hold a press conference on the day of his release, once he's safely at the Ministry."

Hermione furrowed her brow. "Why does he need to go to the Ministry?"

Shacklebolt pressed a hand to his temple and sighed. "His father left him with nothing in his will. Mr. Diggory is essentially penniless. There's a fund for war survivors we can tap into to assist with his transition, and there's also the matter of his father's position at the Ministry, which we haven't filled."

Hermione swallowed, processing the information. "The vacant Diggory Wizengamot seat?"

Dawlish rolled his eyes. "Yes, a noble house seat, belonging to the Diggory family. We were planning to elect a new house at the end of next year, but since there's a living Diggory, the seat belongs to Cedric if he wants it."

She widened her eyes, understanding the implications. "That's a lot to take in all at once. Should I be present for this conversation?"

Shacklebolt nodded. "Yes, of course. There's also the matter of integration. We'll need a sponsor, and that choice will be left to Mr. Diggory, of course. I'm sure he had plenty of friends. If you could ask him if there's anyone he'd like to reach out to, it would be best so we can arrange that prior to his arrival at the Ministry."

Once the two gentlemen had left, Hermione returned to the room where she had left Cedric. He looked up at her and smirked as she approached, unchaining him from the seat. "All is well, Ms. Granger," he stated to her.

She managed a meek smile. "I'm sorry about your father, Cedric."

He looked away as he stood. "He was a brave man."

As they walked back together to the elevator, Hermione asked, "Is there anyone you'd like me to reach out to? Anyone you could stay with once we discharge you?"

Cedric walked beside her, maintaining a pace that ensured he never walked ahead of her. "Did my father sell our home?" he inquired.

Uncertain if it was her place to disclose such information, Hermione simply nodded.

Cedric fell silent for a moment as they entered the elevator, then spoke, "I see." He turned towards her, his expression tinged with sadness. "I don't believe I have anyone left, then."

Hermione realized then that being Cedric Diggory, the Golden Boy, was going to lead to a lonely existence. Did he even have any friends left? How could he, when everyone believed he was dead for years? Even his ex-girlfriend was already married and had moved on with her life. It was a sobering thought, realizing the isolation he must feel, despite his return to the world.

TOM POV

It was well past midnight when he rose from his hospital bed with a heavy sigh. He could sense and perceive everything within the confines of any room or wall in the hospital if he willed it. And he had been eavesdropping. He'd spent years integrating his soul and his very essence with magic of all shapes and forms. The red band on his wrist, supposedly meant to suppress his magic, did little more than tire him out.

Throughout the day, he had mulled over the revelation about the Diggory house seat and the prospect of reentering the world penniless.
 
The idea of living like a destitute orphan again and starting from scratch was repulsive to him. 

No, that would not suffice.

Fueled by irritation and a clear destination in mind, he cast an enchantment on his bed, creating the illusion of a slumbering Cedric Diggory lying on it.

With a sharp crack, he Disapparated from the room.

The sensation disoriented him, his new body unaccustomed to the exertion of such magic. He doubled over, retching violently as he appeared on a cold, dark, jagged cliff. Clutching his stomach, he endured the relentless nausea.

Once the bout had passed, he wiped his mouth clean and gazed ahead at the looming stone building, determination flickering in his eyes.

The frigid night air enveloped Tom Riddle's form as he stood upon the desolate cliff, his dark eyes gleaming with a chilling resolve. The taste of bile in his mouth was but a fleeting inconvenience, a minor nuisance in the face of his indomitable will.

Before him loomed the formidable stone structure, its imposing presence a mere obstacle to be overcome. The moonlight cast eerie shadows across its jagged facade, yet Tom remained unmoved, undeterred by the ominous aura that surrounded it.

As he approached the foreboding edifice, a sense of anticipation stirred within him, a hunger for the power that lay dormant within its walls. Memories of his past deeds flickered through his mind, each one a testament to his unyielding ambition and unwavering determination.

Azkaban.

He chuckled softly as he sensed the impenetrable (not for him) wards surrounding the forbidding fortress. 

Tom Riddle's lips curled into a sardonic smile as he reflected on the fortress's defenses. It was better guarded in the days when Dementors prowled its corridors, their soul-sucking presence serving as a potent deterrent to any would-be escapee.

He pondered for a moment, wondering where he might find his favorite creatures now. 

As he drew closer, Tom concentrated his formidable will, pressing through the wards with ease. A faint prickle of sensation danced across his skin—a subtle alarm triggered by his presence, yet one that would remain unattributed to Cedric Diggory or Lord Voldemort. They would never know who had breached the fortress's defenses.

Time was of the essence, and he wasted none. With a swift mental command, he conjured the image of his childhood friend, summoning the bloodline that had once aided his ascent to power. With a sharp crack, he Disapparated into the darkened cell.

Expecting to find the prisoner slumbering, Tom was surprised to see him seated at a desk, engrossed in writing. Sensing an intruder, the prisoner's gaze snapped up, and his body tensed as he locked eyes with the dark figure before him. His silver blonde hair gleamed. 

Tom stepped into the dim light, his features cloaked in a sly smile. 

"Cedric Diggory?" he inquired, his voice dripping with amusement. "A ghost haunting my cell. I must be losing my mind."

Tom's smile widened, a flicker of crimson dancing in his eyes as Lucius rose from his seat, his heart pounding in his chest as he held his hand to it. Lucius' eyes widened in disbelief, realizing the form before him was corporeal. "Godfather?" he whispered, his voice trembling with uncertainty and sadness.

"Is this how they treat a noble pureblood family now?" Tom mused, his gaze sweeping disdainfully across the cell's decrepit surroundings—the unmade bed, the cluttered desk, the dusty shelves. The once-proud House of Malfoy reduced to such squalor was a sight that filled him with disgust.

Lucius bowed deeply, his voice trembling with reverence. "My Lord, is it truly you? Have you come to free me from this wretched place?"

Tom ceased his pacing, fixing his piercing gaze upon Abraxas Malfoy's son. With a shake of his head, he responded, his tone measured and commanding. "Not yet, Lucius. But there are tasks that require your attention—tasks that only you can fulfill, given your bloodline's unbreakable vow and your influence over your son."

Lucius straightened, his expression a mix of disbelief and apprehension. "How can this be? How are you alive?" he began, his words faltering as fear gripped his heart. "I watched as Harry P—"

Before Lucius could finish the forbidden name, Tom's eyes flared crimson, a silent warning of the consequences of his indiscretion.

With a mental command, he tightened his grip on Lucius's throat, cutting off his words and stifling his breath.

"Do not utter that name in my presence," Tom hissed, his voice laced with a cold fury that brooked no defiance.

As Lucius gasped for air, his understanding was evident in the swift nod of his head. Tom released his mental hold, allowing Lucius to regain his composure and sink back into his seat.

"I apologize, my Lord," Lucius murmured, his voice subdued.

Tom settled into an empty chair beside the table, his movements deliberate and precise as he cleaned its surface with a flick of his hand. Crossing his legs, he fixed his penetrating gaze on Lucius, his tone grave yet commanding.

"Listen carefully, Lucius," he began, his words carrying a weight of urgency. "Our time is short, and there are matters of utmost importance that require your immediate attention."

Lucius swallowed hard, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Tom as he nodded in silent agreement.

Chapter Text

LUNA POV

The voices persisted, their whispers weaving through Luna's thoughts like an eerie melody. They spoke of his presence, his proximity, until Luna could almost feel his breath on her skin. As the morning sun cast its gentle glow into her room, Luna found herself lost in a trance, rocking back and forth in her chair.

"He's here. He's here," Luna murmured to herself, the words barely audible over the soft rustle of the curtains in the breeze.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, and behind them, a collage of images flickered: a handsome face, a crooked smile, a wicked laugh. With a sudden jolt, Luna's eyes snapped open, and a piercing scream tore through the air.

Nurse Amanda swiftly entered the room, her expression a mixture of concern and reassurance as she approached Luna.

"Luna, darling, let's try to keep the volume down, alright?" Amanda urged, her voice a soothing melody amidst the chaos. "Think you're up for joining us for breakfast in the dining hall?"

Meeting Amanda's gaze, Luna felt a flicker of determination ignite within her. With a tentative nod, she rose from her seat, allowing Amanda's gentle touch to guide her towards the door.

"No outbursts today, Luna," Amanda reminded her with a playful wink, her tone light-hearted yet firm. "Behave yourself, and I'll see about getting you some pudding for lunch."

"Pudding?" Luna's eyes sparkled with anticipation, a grin spreading across her face. "Any flavor?"

Pistachio.
Chocolate.
Vanilla. 

Well any flavor would do, she loved pudding!

With a nod of affirmation, Nurse Amanda escorted Luna to the bustling dining hall, where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of breakfast delights. Luna settled into her seat beside Timmy, affectionately known as Ten-Second Timmy for his fleeting attention span, and an elderly woman whose name had slipped her memory. 

She attributed her forgetfulness to the whimsical nature of wrackspurts, those elusive creatures believed to cause absent-mindedness among the residents.

Observing the eclectic mix of individuals in her new community, Luna wondered if the voices that plagued her were merely manifestations of these fantastical creatures. 

With a shake of her head, she dismissed the notion, mentally shooing away any lingering wrackspurts and blibbering humdingers that dared to intrude upon her thoughts. 

The Longbottoms up ahead were playing with their food and poking each other, Luna observed with a gentle smile. She watched as the nurses intervened, gently guiding them to sit apart from each other, a scene that tugged at her heartstrings, reminiscent of her dear friend Neville Longbottom. As she waited to be served her own breakfast, Luna's thoughts drifted to Neville, his earnest demeanor and unwavering loyalty leaving an indelible mark on her memories.

"Neville was such a handsome fella. I sure wonder how he is doing nowadays," Luna mused aloud, her gaze lingering on Ten-Second Timmy beside her.

Timmy glanced at her, his attention fleeting as ever, before nodding and uttering a single word, "Neville."

Luna's smile widened at Timmy's response, her fondness for Neville evident in her voice as she continued, "Yes, Neville is studying to be a professor, did you know?"

Confusion flickered across Timmy's face as he pondered her words. "Who is Neville?" he asked, his brow furrowing in thought.

With a patient sigh, Luna regarded Timmy with affection. "We really need to get those wrackspurts out of your brain," she remarked gently, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes.

Timmy nodded eagerly, his gaze wide with anticipation as their breakfast trays were placed before them.

Luna picked up her spork and began to eat her eggs, the faint aroma of breakfast mingling with her thoughts of her coloring book.

Today, she decided, she would immerse herself in hues of purple and blue, her favorite colors.

As she savored her meal in quiet contemplation, Luna's tranquility was shattered by the onset of a pounding headache, accompanied by the return of the haunting voices.

With a grimace, she swallowed her last spoonful of eggs, her hand trembling as she dropped the utensil onto the tray, drawing the curious gaze of the elderly woman beside her.

"You alright, daughter?" the woman inquired, concern etched into her weathered features.

Luna shook her head, her heart heavy with the weight of her own disorientation. She wasn't the woman's daughter, but perhaps their shared age contributed to the confusion.

The voices crescendoed, their urgent cries echoing relentlessly in Luna's mind, each whisper growing louder and more insistent with every passing moment.

"He's here! He's here!"

Desperately, Luna closed her eyes, willing herself to remain composed as she fought back the overwhelming urge to scream.

Suddenly, the sound of the dining hall doors swinging open drew her attention, and she peered ahead to see Nurse Anne ushering a new resident into the room.

He stood tall and lean, his presence commanding attention. His features were chiseled, his dark eyes possessing an intensity that seemed to pierce through one's soul. Yet, it was the aura of darkness that enveloped him, a palpable cloud of foreboding, that set him apart.

And then there was that crooked smile, too familiar and haunting in its essence. It was a smile that had haunted her thoughts, her dreams, her every waking moment for the last thirteen months.

A primal scream tore from Luna's chest as panic engulfed her, her instincts driving her forward as she clutched her spork and rushed towards the source of her terror.

TOM POV

He'd used Anne once more that morning, succumbing to his primal desires without a hint of remorse. His own needs and urges took precedence, and he had no qualms about exploiting Anne's vulnerability to fulfill them. Despite the bruises marring her neck and arms, Anne concealed them with a simple charm, a facade to mask the physical toll of their encounter.

But the damage ran deeper than skin-deep. With insidious thoughts planted in her mind, he ensured that Anne never questioned his actions or harbored ill feelings towards him. He wielded his power over her with a ruthless efficiency, manipulating her perceptions and distorting her reality until she found twisted pleasure in the very act that caused her harm.

Anne escorted "Cedric" to the dining hall for breakfast that morning, her steps measured and professional despite the unease that flickered in her eyes. Tom Riddle concealed his disdain for the prospect of dining among what he perceived as a gathering of mindless lunatics with a practiced smile, his lips curved into a crooked grin that belied his true feelings.

As they passed a group of guards stationed along the corridor, he nodded at them with feigned politeness, a subtle acknowledgment of their presence. Behind the facade of pleasantries, his mind churned with contempt and superiority, his disdain for those around him veiled beneath a mask of false civility.

The doors to the dining hall swung open, and Tom stepped inside, his mind pulsating with impatience. He yearned to conclude his stay at the hospital swiftly, eager to resume his plans and embark upon his new life. But as he entered, a piercing scream shattered the calm of the room, snapping his attention to a small blonde woman brandishing a spork with alarming intent.

Reacting with instinctive precision, Tom moved swiftly, grasping her before she could inflict harm. She squirmed and clawed at him, her voice trembling with disbelief and terror.

"You're supposed to be dead! You are him, but you should be dead! You should not be here, Dark Prince!" The woman's frantic screams reverberated through the hall, a chilling testament to the fear that gripped her soul.

As she clawed and scratched at him, leaving visible marks, nurses and guards approached with urgency. There was something uncannily perceptive about her, she knew exactly who he was, he could feel it.

Tom knew he needed to act swiftly. Despite her struggles, he maintained his grip, his fingers tightening with each passing moment. Feeling her resistance, Tom delved into her mind, navigating through the murky depths of seer's magic, distorted and confused. She recognized him, a liability he couldn't afford. He had to rectify this, to make her forget before others caught on.

With a soft whisper in her ear, just as the nurses closed in, Tom planted the seeds of manipulation. "Clear your mind, little one. There is no Dark Prince. Your mind is sound and stable. Avoid the voices. Clear your mind," he urged, his words a subtle command.

A stunning spell struck Luna in the back, and she collapsed into his arms, her weight momentarily pressing him down. Two guards swiftly moved to restrain her, dragging her away from the chaos of the cafeteria.

Nurse Anne hurried to his side, her trembling hand reaching out to touch his face, but he flinched away, unable to conceal the disgust that twisted his features.

"I apologize, Cedric," she stammered, her voice quivering with remorse. "It's just that you're bleeding."

He wiped the back of his hand across his cheek and noted the spatter of blood, his expression darkening with annoyance. Without a word, he pushed past Nurse Anne and strode forward, putting distance between them.

Nurse Amanda intercepted him near a vacant table, her apologies tumbling out profusely as he seated himself and crossed his arms, his demeanor cold and distant.

"Don't touch me," he urged sharply as Amanda moved to retrieve her wand, likely intending to address the scratches and markings marring his face, neck, and arms. She hesitated, taking a step back, concern etched into her features. "We can't leave you like this, Cedric," she insisted, her voice tinged with urgency.

His eyes flashed with anger and he made a conscious effort to keep them from going red, a simmering rage bubbling beneath the surface. "Please, ask Ms. Granger to come see me," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "I'd like her to be the one to heal me. I'll take my breakfast first."

Incompetent twats, he seethed inwardly, his frustration mounting at the thought of the hospital staff's negligence. Allowing that lunatic near him in the first place was an unforgivable oversight.

It was fortunate however that he had found her, Tom reflected, his mind swirling with calculations. With her now healed, her seer magic could prove invaluable to his plans. Yet, a gnawing worry lingered in the depths of his consciousness.

He couldn't afford for her miraculous recovery to draw any unwanted attention, especially not to him.

Scanning the dining hall, his gaze settled on a couple near the back, their stares piercing and unnerving. Suppressing an eye roll, he pondered the effectiveness of Bellatrix's handiwork. Had they not been muted imbeciles, they might have been able to identify him easily as well. What was it about these lunatics that always seemed to see past his enchantments?

The Longbottoms had been offered the opportunity to join him by his side many years ago, yet they had stubbornly refused, their pureblood heritage and noble lineage failing to sway their allegiance. As he surveyed their current state, their decline seemed like nothing short of a tragic waste.

He glanced at the table adjacent to his own and noticed a man muttering to himself, seated beside an older lady. The woman shot him a dark look, her eyes piercing and defiant. Despite her frail appearance, she displayed no hint of fear as she continued to fixate on him. Frowning, he returned her gaze, finding himself unnerved by her unwavering stare.

With a dismissive shake of his head, he refocused his attention as a tray of food was placed before him. His irritation flared as he noticed his eggs were touching his biscuit and bacon, a minor inconvenience that grated on his nerves. Suppressing the urge to lash out, he meticulously separated his food and began to eat, each bite slow and deliberate, his frustration simmering beneath the surface.

He dabbed at his face with a napkin, wiping away the remnants of the unsatisfying breakfast before pushing the tray aside with a sigh of disdain. Leaning back in his chair, he surveyed the dining hall with a detached curiosity, his gaze lingering on the other residents.

Most kept to themselves, lost in their own thoughts or aimlessly staring at the ground or ceiling. Some engaged in disjointed conversations with unseen companions, while others idly toyed with their meals. Amidst the sea of faces, a few appeared outwardly normal, but a subtle air of despondency hung over them like a heavy shroud.

Curiosity piqued, he delved into the mind of a young witch nearby, peering into her thoughts. Depression emanated from her in palpable waves, a grim reminder of the struggles that plagued many within these walls. Three suicide attempts, he noted with a sense of disdain.

"What a waste of magical blood," he muttered to himself, the words dripping with contempt.

If he were inclined to entertain emotions or pay heed to the plight of others, he might have speculated that simply existing in such an environment could breed despair. Yet, he found himself more preoccupied with the enigmatic choices of a certain brilliant mudblood witch who had willingly chosen to dedicate her career to serving these broken souls.

Why, he wondered, would someone of her intellect and capabilities opt to spend her days surrounded by such detestable misery? It was a puzzle he couldn't quite unravel, a perplexing conundrum that left him momentarily bemused.

And to think, he mused, he considered himself to have problems.

At last, a voice shattered his introspection. He had sensed her approaching but had opted to maintain the façade of a normal, unassuming young man, observing the residents with detached interest.

"Cedric, are you alright?" Hermione Granger's voice cut through the din of the dining hall as she neared him, clad in medical scrubs with her hair pulled back tightly into a bun. He noticed her features—the fullness of her lips, the depth of her chocolate brown eyes, and the elegant arch of her brows atop high cheekbones.

As she drew nearer, a nagging thought tugged at the back of his mind. He would need to uncover more about her background. A mudblood, he reminded himself with a hint of disdain. It was still difficult for him to reconcile her seemingly incongruous status with her intellect and abilities. Perhaps she had been adopted?

"Better now," he replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil churning within him.

He observed a faint flush of color grace her cheeks as she nodded and settled beside him. Inhaling her delicate floral scent, he fought the urge to physically shake himself at the unexpected attraction he felt towards her. She was merely a means to an end, nothing more, he reminded himself sternly. Yet, he couldn't deny the allure of her presence, nor the fleeting thought of the potential advantages if she were to succumb to his advances.

She was a pawn in his grand scheme, a stepping stone towards his ultimate goal of reclaiming his former power. And if she were to grant him access to her body, well, that would be an added bonus. He needed to get close to her, to gain her trust and unravel the secrets she held, particularly those concerning Harry Potter's defeat of him.

He needed to ascend back to his rightful place of dominance, and that meant removing Potter and his allies from the equation. Even if it meant eliminating his mudblood healer.

Hermione cautiously retrieved her wand, her gaze lingering on him tentatively as she aimed it towards the cuts on his face. "May I?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

He nodded politely as she drew closer, the proximity allowing him to catch the faint scent of her skin.

Entranced, he found himself studying the graceful curve of her bare neck, mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath.

Muttering a series of healing spells, Hermione worked her magic, her wand dancing with practiced precision as she tended to the cuts on his face, neck, and arms. With a final diagnostic spell, she nodded to herself in satisfaction before rising to address him once more.

"I do apologize about Luna," she began, her tone laced with sympathy. "She has these outbursts, and sometimes she just cannot help it. Seeing you again, it must have triggered something. We, well, everyone believed you were..."

"Dead," he finished for her, his voice devoid of emotion.

She nodded solemnly. "Yes."

"I'd like to leave this place," he stated simply, his gaze sweeping around the room. "I don't believe I belong here. We can continue our sessions without my being admitted, is that not the case?"

Hermione swallowed, her brow furrowing in contemplation before she replied. "Well, yes, that's true. However, it is a bit too soon to say you are good to go."

"I'm fine, Ms. Granger," he insisted, his resolve unwavering.

Hermione eyed him warily, her expression tinged with doubt. "Let's give it until the weekend. How does that sound?"

Arching an eyebrow, he considered her proposal. "And then where will I go?"

She bit her lip, pondering his question before responding. "I think we can figure something out for you temporarily. Somewhere safe."

He nodded in agreement, a flicker of anticipation igniting within him.

HERMIONE POV

Filling out the report for Luna's outburst was a somber task, requiring signatures from two witnesses. Hermione convened Anne and Amanda in her office later that afternoon to discuss the unsettling event, a heavy silence enveloping the room as they exchanged worried glances.

"We should have prepared Luna for this," Hermione muttered aloud, her voice filled with regret as she traced her finger along the edge of the report.

Anne shook her head in dismay. "I don't think anything could have stopped her outburst. I've never seen her like that. She gets bad, but she looked at Cedric like she hated him. Like she wanted to kill him, not just hurt him."

Amanda's expression mirrored Anne's concern as she nodded in agreement. "She called him the Dark Prince. She's never accused anyone of being that before."

No, she hadn't, but then again, Luna didn't seem to make much sense anymore, did she? Hermione felt a pang of sympathy for Cedric. It had been months since Luna's last outburst, and of course, he had to be the unfortunate target this time.

With a heavy heart, Hermione finished filling out the report and had them sign it, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of Cedric's precarious situation.

Where would he go temporarily? It was a question that lingered in her thoughts, one she knew she would need to address soon.

But for now, she pushed the matter aside, opting to focus on the immediate task at hand. Once the nurses left her office, Hermione sighed heavily, her gaze lingering on Cedric's file. With a sense of determination, she resolved to pay Luna a visit, hoping to gain some insight into the events that had unfolded.

Entering Luna's room, Hermione's gaze immediately fell upon the coloring book resting beside her bed, accompanied by only two crayons: one blue and one purple.

She approached Luna's sleeping form with a heavy heart, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet room. Gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind Luna's ear, Hermione settled into an empty chair beside the bed, her eyes fixed on her once vibrant friend.

As she sat in the dim light, thoughts of Luna, the other residents, and even herself weighed heavily on Hermione's mind.

A deep sense of sorrow washed over her, and she felt a single tear slip down her cheek.

How had things come to this? Hermione wondered, her heart aching with the burden of uncertainty.

Would Luna ever be alright again? 

Would she?

After completing her rounds and checking on her other patients, Hermione had her scheduled session with Cedric, which surprisingly went smoothly, despite his lingering irritation from the breakfast incident. He appeared composed and collected, leaving Hermione to ponder how he managed to maintain his composure after enduring such turmoil. 

Was he truly as put together as he seemed, or was he merely masking his emotions, much like she and Harry often did?

Lost in thought, Hermione retreated to her office, the weight of her concerns pressing heavily upon her. 

She reached for parchment and quill (only reserved for ministry related documentation), opting to enchant them for privacy before composing a letter to Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt at the Ministry.

Once she finished writing, she rolled up the letter, stamped it with the St. Mungos' seal, and made her way to the owlery on the 18th floor.

Selecting a grey and white owl, she attached the letter and watched as it soared into the sky, disappearing into the distance. 

A sense of apprehension washed over her as she silently prayed that her actions were not a mistake.

It was her duty to help and heal others, Hermione reminded herself.

This decision felt right, at least for now. 

After all, it was only temporary. Surely Ron would understand her intentions?

With a heavy heart, Hermione lingered in the owlery, contemplating the uncertainties that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

RON POV

Ron stood hesitating by the fireplace in Grimmauld Place, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding in the kitchen across the way where his sister Ginny and Harry seemed to be caught in a dance of their own.

He let out a weary sigh, unsure if Hermione would even want to see him tonight. Lately, she had been distant, and the weight of their unspoken conversation hung heavily between them, a conversation they had yet to fully have since they finally crossed that threshold just a few days ago.

Thank Merlin it was finally Friday, granting him a reprieve from the demands of work. He hoped this weekend would afford them the opportunity to connect, to bridge the gap that seemed to be widening. However, Hermione had mentioned she'd be at the hospital all weekend, buried in work despite not necessarily needing to be. It was typical of her to throw herself into her duties.

But what about Harry? Despite his commitments, he still managed to prioritize Ginny.

Shaking off the bitterness that threatened to consume him, Ron resolved to make the effort. He spoke Hermione's address aloud and threw a handful of floo powder into the flames, stepping into the magical fire.

He stepped out of the fireplace into an empty loft, the dimly lit room casting shadows across the worn furniture. It was well past nine, and Hermione still wasn't home.

Letting out a deep breath, Ron made his way towards the kitchen, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the space. As he passed Hermione's small office, he paused, a flicker of curiosity pulling him back. With a hesitant step, he entered the office, his eyes scanning the room.

What in the bloody hell?

TOM POV

Twas the sixth day in this hospital hellhole, and Tom's patience wore thin as he languished within its sterile confines. It had been a year since he last tasted freedom (although he did not remember the last few nights he'd had as Lord Voldemort), locked away in a different prison, and now he faced the stifling prospect of convincing Hermione Granger, the lead healer, that he was fit to be released. The very thought made his skin crawl with frustration.

The idea of enduring another two or three days in this hospital-turned-prison was unbearable. He could afford to wait, but he simply didn't want to. The prospect of manipulating someone to grant him an early release seemed increasingly appealing. A subtle suggestion planted in the right mind could pave the way to his escape.

Thankfully, the absence of the lunatic named Luna worked in his favor. She hadn't shown up for breakfast, lunch, or dinner since her attempt to attack him. Undoubtedly, she was now under strict supervision, minimizing any potential interference with his plans. 

He knew that by now her mind would have cleared, the voices silenced, her erratic behavior subdued. The healers and nurses would soon notice the change, but he couldn't afford to linger until then. 

He needed to be gone, far away from this place before her recovery raised suspicion.

                               ***

The mudblood… 

He felt her presence like a subtle shift in the air, a disturbance in the otherwise stagnant atmosphere of his room.

With practiced ease, Tom adjusted his t-shirt and ran his fingers through his hair, adopting an air of casual composure as he settled onto his bed, waiting patiently.

A light knock on his door echoed through the room, followed by a pregnant pause. He sensed her hesitation, almost as if she were on the verge of retreating.

For a fleeting moment, the temptation to delve into her mind, to unravel her thoughts and intentions, flickered in his consciousness. But he knew better. Hermione Granger was no ordinary witch; she was astute, perceptive. Any attempt to breach her mind would be met with formidable resistance. He could practically feel the fortress of her mental defenses, erected since the moment they first crossed paths.

Resisting the urge to probe further, Tom remained seated, poised and composed, as the door creaked open, revealing Hermione's silhouette against the muted light filtering through the corridor.

She approached him cautiously, her steps measured and deliberate. Tom arched an eyebrow as she crossed her arms in front of her, her gaze piercing as ever. It was a look he had grown accustomed to, one that spoke volumes of her endless curiosity and analytical mind.

He despised the empathetic expression that often graced her features when she regarded him, as if he were some wounded creature in need of salvation. It ignited a simmering resentment within him, a reminder of his vulnerabilities. Yet, despite his disdain, he couldn't deny the stirrings of something else—the undeniable allure of her intellect, her unwavering resolve.

Mixing his essence with Cedric Diggory's had changed him. In the quiet moments of the past few days, he had pondered this unsettling realization, grappling with the notion that fragments of the young man's essence had merged with his own. He'd almost had a rage meltdown the night before when Anne, driven by her own reckless desires, had stealthily slipped into his room. Fueled by a potent mix of frustration and fury, he had seized her with an intensity that bordered on violence, his grip bruising her delicate skin, his magic silencing her voice and implanting thoughts. In that moment, she was nothing more than a vessel for his pent-up anger, a means to release the pressure that threatened to consume him and spare the hospital from the full force of his wrath.

Hermione coughed, the sound jolting him out of his reverie, and she held up a parchment, her expression a blend of concern and determination.

Hermione was a paradox he couldn't quite unravel. He loathed her, yet he admired her. Her ability to challenge him, to match his wit with her own, was both infuriating and intoxicating. There were moments when her mere presence ignited a flicker of something primal within him, a desire he couldn't suppress.

He hated her for making him feel anything at all.

But beneath the layers of animosity lay a cunning recognition—a realization that her perceived pity could serve as his conduit, his ticket into her inner circle. If she saw him as some lost soul in need of rescue, then so be it. He would use it to his advantage, to infiltrate her world, to get closer to her and, ultimately, to Harry Potter.

In the days they'd spent together, Tom had meticulously observed Hermione, mirroring her attempts to dissect his character and motives. He had scrutinized her every gesture, her every word, searching for any chink in her armor, any vulnerability to exploit. It was a game of cat and mouse, a dance of deception and intrigue.

Their interactions were a delicate balance of tension and fascination, each vying for dominance in this intricate game of psychological warfare. And as he continued to study her, to unravel the complexities of her character, Tom couldn't help but wonder if, in the end, they were not so different after all.

"I didn't want to spring this on you in the morning and figured I'd discuss this with you before I left for the night." Hermione's voice was measured, her gaze steady as she held up the parchment. "I wrote to the Ministry a few days ago and suggested I be your temporary sponsor until we found you a more," she hesitated, her eyes flickering downward briefly before she continued, "permanent situation."

Perfect, he thought. This could not have worked out better. 

She chewed on her lip nervously, the weight of her words hanging in the air. "I have a small flat—it's not much, to be honest. But I've converted my office into a small bedroom, and we can continue your sessions at home so you don't have to visit the hospital, at least for the the time you're staying with me."

There was a pause in her speech, a moment where she seemed to collect her thoughts before pressing on. "You don't have to stay with me. We can figure something else out. But if you decide it's okay with you, the Ministry has approved it, and we can leave tomorrow morning. We don't need to deal with the media or the Ministry until Monday." Her words hung in the air, the gravity of the decision weighing heavily on both of them.

Tom pretended to carefully consider her words, studying her with feigned interest as she held the parchment nervously.

As their gazes locked, he flashed her a crooked smile, his eyes gleaming with a calculated charm.

"I'd very much like for you to be my sponsor, Ms. Granger," he replied smoothly, his voice dripping with sincerity, even as his mind whirled with ulterior motives.

Hermione nodded, visibly relieved, and took a step back, her expression softening with gratitude. She turned as if to leave, then paused, as if on the verge of saying something more. Instead, she simply bid him goodnight, her words laced with a hint of formality. "Have a goodnight, Cedric. I'll be back after breakfast to assist with the discharge and help you fill out all the paperwork and escort you to my flat."

Before she could retreat completely, Tom called out to her, his voice catching her attention.

"Ms. Granger."

Hermione turned back, a gentle smile gracing her features as she met his gaze.

"Yes?" she inquired, her tone warm and inviting.

Tom rose from his seat, a gesture of respect and gratitude.

"Thank you," he murmured, the words laden with layers of meaning that only he truly understood.

HERMIONE POV

Hermione's heart pounded in her chest as she hurried out of the main building of St. Mungo's Hospital, her mind racing with a whirlwind of emotions and doubts.

What have you done, Hermione?

She quickened her pace as she made her way towards the smaller building, the weight of her decision pressing down on her shoulders like a heavy burden. As she approached the Apparition point just outside the wards, she paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts before Disapparating.

What in the world am I going to say to Ron?

The thought gnawed at her, a knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. She hadn't discussed this decision with him, or with Harry, or anyone else for that matter—except the Ministry.

Would Ron be alright? What would Harry think?

She couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty that clung to her like a shadow, but deep down, she knew she had made the right choice. It wasn't out of guilt or obligation; it was a conviction born of a sense of duty and compassion.

If it wasn't her, she was certain it would have been Harry volunteering next.

But she had done it because... it was the right thing to do.

And wasn't that what she always did? The right thing.

It was as if she was born to do it.

Hermione's heart skipped a beat as she apparated into her room, the familiar surroundings providing a momentary respite from the tumult of her thoughts. However, her tranquility was short-lived as her cat, Crookshanks, greeted her with a hiss of disapproval, causing her to jump in surprise.

"Crookshanks, where have you been hiding?" she asked, reaching out to pet him, but he merely cast her a disdainful glance before slinking away, his tail held high in indignation.

"The real question is where have you been?" Ron's voice broke the silence, firm and accusatory, as he appeared in her doorway, leaning against the frame with a scrutinizing gaze fixed upon her. 

She removed her medical robe and hung it by the door, her movements deliberate as she approached Ron, a bemused expression on her face. "The hospital, where else would I be?"

Ron rolled his eyes, his tone tinged with exasperation. "Then why has your office turned into a guest bedroom? Who's staying here?"

Hermione bit her lip, weighing her response carefully as she considered his probing question. His narrowed gaze spurred her to action.

"Well?" he pressed, his impatience palpable.

Turning away from him, Hermione reached for her work bag, which she had dropped near the door by her nightstand. With a heavy sigh, she gathered her thoughts before speaking.

"Well, you see, nobody has been staying here... but someone will be," she finally admitted, her voice tinged with a hint of reluctance.

Before Ron could ask her any more questions, Hermione reached into her pocket, retrieved the Ministry scroll, and passed it to him. She observed him closely as he unrolled it and began to read, his brow furrowing in concentration.

As Ron read through the parchment, Hermione watched the emotions play across his face, from confusion to surprise and finally settling on a mixture of both. When he looked up at her, his expression was incredulous.

"You're going to babysit Cedric Diggory, here, in your flat?"

Hermione slapped his arm in irritation. "I am not babysitting him. He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

Ron crossed his arms, skepticism evident in his posture. "Is he now? Then why is he staying with you?"

Growing increasingly irritated with Ron's line of questioning, Hermione huffed and explained, "He needed somewhere to go until the Ministry figures out a more permanent situation. His father left him without an inheritance, and he doesn't have anyone to contact or reach out to. The Ministry wants to ensure his safety, so they asked for a sponsor."

Ron scratched his head, a puzzled expression on his face. "So then, uh, you, his mind healer, just what—volunteered?"

Hermione nodded, her tone firm. "Yes."

"Why?" Ron pressed, his curiosity evident.

Giving him a narrow look, Hermione replied, "It's the right thing to do."

Ron fell silent for a moment, processing Hermione's explanation. After a beat, he nodded. "That's nice of you, Mione. But what about us?"

As Hermione slipped off her shoes in the closet and settled onto her bed, she met Ron's gaze steadily.

He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping as he continued, "We just... finally, you know?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of passion emanating from the neighboring apartment above. Ron shifted to sit beside her, his expression troubled as he turned to look at her.

"We'll be fine, Ron," Hermione reassured him, her voice gentle but firm.

He glanced away, a crease forming between his brows as he continued, "We need to be able to talk more. And do more of... that, you know?" He gestured vaguely, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. "How are we going to be intimate together and spend more quality time together with a new flatmate?"

Hermione's heart twisted with guilt at Ron's concerns. She reached out to take his hand in hers, squeezing it reassuringly. "We'll find a way, Ron," she promised, her tone earnest. "We'll make it work, just like we always do."

It shouldn't be work, Hermione thought to herself, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. This should come naturally. She brushed those thoughts aside as Ron nodded in agreement.

"I won't stay here while he's here, but you can come stay at Grimmauld Place with me," Ron offered.

"Yes," Hermione agreed, relieved to have a solution.

As her ceiling began to shake and she heard the unmistakable cry of "Duke! Duke!" coming from upstairs, Ron chuckled and made his way towards the kitchen. "I'm going to grab a snack. Want anything?"

Shaking her head, Hermione stood and headed towards her bathroom, calling back to him, "I'm alright. I'm going to shower."

Ron poked his head back into the room, curiosity evident in his expression. "When's he being discharged here anyway?"

Hesitating for a moment, Hermione finally answered as she opened the bathroom door and ducked inside, her voice muffled. "Tomorrow morning!"

***

That night, he'd urged her to let him please her. Despite her exhaustion from the day, Hermione found herself unable to resist the allure of his touch, especially with the passionate cries echoing from the neighboring apartments, a reminder of what she craved.

Ron's efforts to pleasure her with his mouth were earnest, but despite his best intentions, Hermione found herself unable to reach climax. Frustration mingled with desire as she yearned for release that remained elusive.

When he finally entered her, Hermione's nails dug into his back, a mixture of pleasure and urgency coursing through her veins.

Ron's cries of pleasure were short-lived, leaving her unsatisfied.

He couldn't last.

As he rolled off her, Ron glanced up at the cracked ceiling and remarked, "You should fix that."

Hermione remained silent; her mind consumed by a whirlwind of emotions.

As Ron drifted into sleep, Hermione swallowed hard, her unease growing with each passing moment, a sense of dissatisfaction mingling with an underlying anxiety that she couldn't shake.

How would the rest of the weekend unfold?

Had she made a mistake by volunteering to sponsor Cedric Diggory, even if only temporarily?

He was... intriguing, to say the least. And she hoped to assist him in transitioning better into the world and also to gain insight into his true mental state. Because hers was not great, and he'd gone through worse.

***

Rays of sunlight illuminated her face as she stirred awake to find herself alone in bed, with Crookshanks fixating on her with an intense stare that seemed to demand immediate attention.

She felt a pang of guilt as she remembered how neglected Crookshanks must have felt lately, with her buried in work and rarely home.

Offering an apologetic smile, she addressed the disgruntled feline, "I'm sorry I haven't been around much, Crooks. I bet Ron doesn't spoil you with those sardine muggle snacks you love, does he?"

Crookshanks let out a plaintive meow in response as she made her way to check on his needs. Ensuring that the magical feeder and water bowl were adequately stocked, she then inspected the windows to ensure they were open for his freedom.

Observing Crookshanks's agitated demeanor, Hermione inquired, "What's wrong?"

The cat dashed into the office, fixating on the empty twin bed she had prepared beside her desk, along with the dresser she had emptied and stocked with Cedric's essentials. The Ministry had provided her with a small allowance to purchase clothes for their new temporary flatmate.

Realizing Crookshanks's discontent, Hermione attempted to reassure him, "It's only temporary, Crooks."

Yet, the cat shot her an accusatory glare before promptly exiting the room, leaving Hermione to ponder the challenges of accommodating their unexpected guest. 
    
                                                                                                                                                       ***

Cedric stood in his room, exuding an air of effortless charm as he sported a set of robes and clothes provided by the nurses. Despite the modest attire, he appeared impeccably dressed, his aura radiating an undeniable allure.

His sleek, dark hair fell in perfect waves, framing his flawless face. His features were chiseled, with deep, penetrating eyes that seemed to hold secrets untold, accentuated by long, luxurious lashes that fluttered with every blink.

It seemed almost sinful to be that stunning, Hermione mused as she observed him, feeling a pang of admiration mixed with envy at his effortless attractiveness.

One of the guards, whose name Hermione had forgotten, passed Cedric a pack of muggle cigarettes and a book of matches, exchanging a high five as they finally left the front of his room, making their way towards the elevator.

Before Hermione could summon the elevator, Nurse Anne intercepted them, her gaze fixed on Cedric as she handed him a parchment. "This is my address, in case you ever need to floo me," she said, her cheeks flushing pink as Hermione watched, her mouth agape, before Anne hurriedly retreated.

Cedric glanced at the parchment in his hand before slipping it into his pocket, his expression unreadable as he avoided meeting Hermione's gaze.

"Did you and Nurse Anne become close during your stay here?" Hermione asked, attempting to mask her surprise.

"Close enough," Cedric replied curtly, his tone devoid of emotion.

What did "close enough" mean, she wondered?

Did Cedric realize how good-looking he was?

Well, he must have, considering the way the nurses couldn't seem to stop staring, even as they passed the main reception area. Hermione thanked Merlin for the strict non-disclosure agreements all the nurses were under, ensuring that no information regarding any patients in the hospital could be revealed to the press.

Once they reached the apparition point, Hermione turned towards Cedric, intending to reach for his hand. Before she could make a move, he pulled her close to his body. She found herself enveloped in his embrace, inhaling a heady mix of scents that stirred memories of Hogwarts and adventures past.

His scent was a blend of old books, reminiscent of the library at Hogwarts, mingled with the refreshing aroma of peppermint. There was also a hint of something woody, like aftershave, adding a touch of masculinity to the mix, along with a subtle trace of smoke that lingered in the air.

Swallowing nervously, Hermione ignored the tension in Cedric's rigid body as she focused on her wand, determined to apparate them back to her flat. With a flick of her wand and a muttered incantation, they vanished with a crack.

Chapter Text

TOM POV

Tom surveyed the quaint loft with an appreciative smile, his gaze sweeping over the mudblood witch's living room adorned with rows of books. The ambiance exuded a nostalgic charm, reminiscent of a bygone era. Amidst the literary treasures, a muggle television box held a central position, accompanied by an inviting L-shaped sectional couch adorned with an assortment of blue and red pillows. The apartment bore the dignified signs of age, likely constructed around the time of his initial existence, with dark, weathered mahogany floors adding to its character.

A pleasant aroma drifted through the space, originating from incense sticks in the compact vintage kitchen. The walls, painted a rich burgundy hue, complemented Hermione Granger's persona perfectly.

Tom found solace in the loft's cleanliness and meticulous organization, reflecting the meticulous nature of its owner.

"It's not much," she stated with a hint of pride in her voice, her eyes sweeping over the modest surroundings. "However, it is my home. And I am proud to say it's all mine."

Tom nodded thoughtfully as he meandered through the living room, his fingers tracing the spines of the books lining the shelves. He plucked a tome on magical creatures from one of the bookcases before turning to face her. "Do you have an elf?" he inquired, curiosity lacing his words.

Hermione's expression soured slightly as she shook her head. "No, I don't believe in elves being owned and enslaved to serve anyone."

His interest piqued by her response; Tom merely nodded in acknowledgment. Empathy for such matters seemed foreign to him. Who cared about elf rights, anyway?

"I do all the cooking and cleaning here myself," she continued, her tone carrying a sense of independence. "Did you own an elf?"

"A few," he admitted simply, his voice filled with a hint of pride. 

The noble House of Diggory had wealth and an estate to maintain that much he knew. 

During his time as Voldemort, his godson and the Malfoys, along with the Blacks, had provided him with shelter and support. Refusing to revert to the poverty of his orphanage days, he had availed himself of the services of house-elves. After all, as the heir of Slytherin, such luxuries were expected.

"I have no issues with cleaning and cooking for myself," he stated simply, his demeanor betraying a sense of self-sufficiency. He had, after all, managed such tasks before, his meticulous nature ensuring that cleanliness was maintained to his exacting standards. Even some of the elves had struggled to comprehend the level of precision and tidiness he demanded, a fact they had learned at their peril during his previous encounters with them.

Nevertheless, he resolved to adapt to the circumstances. Establishing a rapport with the mudblood was paramount to his plans.

Following her lead, he trailed behind Hermione as she gestured towards a door, indicating he should follow. As they entered the small bedroom, his eyes swept over the modest furnishings—a twin bed, a desk with a chair, and a bookcase.

Suddenly, a cacophony disrupted the tranquility of the room—a hissing sound followed by the appearance of a large, orange creature, its presence unexpected.

Suppressing the snarl that threatened to curl his lips, he masked his disgust with a hint of humor as he addressed Hermione, "And who is this?"

Hermione swiftly moved to intercept the source of the commotion, scooping up the unattractive, chubby orange cat with practiced ease. 

"This is Crookshanks, my familiar," Hermione explained, her voice carrying a note of fondness despite the feline's evident displeasure. She held the cat out to Tom, the animal squirming slightly in her arms, clearly unimpressed by the company. "I apologize for his rudeness. He's quite the crank and doesn't take kindly to strangers." Crookshanks glared at Tom with a mixture of anger and disdain, his eyes filled with an unmistakable hostility that seemed to pierce through the air.

Tom felt Hermione's expectant gaze upon him, silently urging him to extend a hand towards the irritable feline. Reluctantly, he complied, suppressing the instinctive recoil he felt bubbling within him. Tentatively, he attempted to stroke Crookshanks, only to be met with a renewed onslaught of hisses and squirms from the uncooperative cat.

Before he could react further, Hermione abruptly released Crookshanks, her patience evidently wearing thin. "Stop being so bloody rude, Crooks!" she scolded, her voice tinged with frustration. "He's our new flatmate, and you must be nice to him!"

She shook her head disapprovingly, her concern evident as she addressed "Cedric".

"I honestly don't know what's gotten into him lately," she apologized, directing her attention back to Tom.

"It's alright, Ms. Granger," Tom replied smoothly, a hint of assurance in his tone. "He will get used to me," he added, though inwardly acknowledging the necessity of winning over the obstinate feline's favor, whether it liked it or not. 

The cat's behavior could raise suspicions that he couldn't afford.

Hermione's lips tightened slightly, her brows furrowing in worry. "It's Hermione, Cedric. You don't have to call me Ms. Granger. In fact, since we'll be flatmates on a temporary basis, let's skip the formalities."

Tom acquiesced with a subtle nod, a polite smile gracing his features. "Very well, Hermione," he drawled her name, noting the flicker of discomfort that flashed across her expression before she looked away.

"Well, I'll let you get settled," she continued, her tone shifting back to practicality. "Bathroom is down the hall past the kitchen. I have my own, so we won't need to share. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I know you don't have a wand yet, but if you need anything, you can use mine. I'll leave it in the kitchen while I am here. We can go get you one on Monday after we visit the Ministry. I do apologize, but until then, we won't be able to leave the loft." She paused, realizing her rambling and took a deep breath.

Tom fought back a chuckle, maintaining his stoic demeanor as he observed her.

She's a peculiar one, isn't she? he mused, momentarily repulsed by the notion of fondness creeping into his thoughts. Quickly suppressing such sentiments, he bit the inside of his cheek as Hermione continued.

"Anyway, I'll be heading to the hospital to do more work. Make yourself at home. I'll be back in a few hours."

Tom settled onto the twin bed, testing its comfort with a few hops. Surprisingly, it proved to be rather comfortable, a welcome relief from the sterile confines of the hospital bed he'd become accustomed to. Observing his surroundings, he noted the simplicity of the room's design—a deliberate choice, it seemed. The walls were painted a crisp white, providing a sense of brightness and cleanliness. A black bookshelf stood against one wall, its contents meticulously arranged. The twin bed was made with precision, adorned with a black and blue comforter and pillows arranged with care. A black desk sat nearby, adorned with a lamp, quills, and neatly stacked papers.

It occurred to him that Hermione had likely considered his preferences when putting the room together—a realization that left him slightly unsettled.

Standing up, he approached the dresser and opened it, revealing a selection of clothing in shades of grey, black, and white, all neatly folded and organized, including men's underwear and socks, all in his size.

Hermione was observant, he noted with a touch of apprehension. Her keen attention to detail meant he would need to exercise greater caution in his actions and words. Despite the facade of Cedric Diggory, he was far from the saintly image portrayed by the "Golden Boy."

However, he took solace in the knowledge that his charm remained one of his greatest assets.

As the sound of Hermione's Disapparition echoed through the loft, Tom's muscles tensed, and he swiftly made his way to the living area, a sigh escaping his lips.

"I won't kill you," he muttered under his breath, his words laden with a simmering intensity. "Although I very much would like to."

Crookshanks emerged from behind the door, his amber eyes fixed on Tom with a mixture of defiance and suspicion.

"You and I are to get along in front of your witch, or things will get messy for you both," Tom declared firmly, his tone brooking no argument, as he strode towards the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, his eyes fell upon a can of sardines, a small glimmer of satisfaction crossing his features.

"Ah," he remarked quietly as he retrieved the can, his movements swift and practiced. Without the need for verbal commands, he deftly opened the can magically and placed it on the counter before walking away, leaving the offering for the feline without further acknowledgment.

Fucking cat...

***

HERMIONE POV

Back at the hospital, Hermione drew in a deep breath, trying to dispel the lingering thoughts of the enigmatic wizard now occupying her loft. Shaking off the distraction, she focused her attention on her duties, making her rounds and ensuring everything ran smoothly. She checked in with her nurses, exchanging pleasantries and offering guidance where needed, while also keeping an eye on Drew, who was diligently attending to his own patients.

However, as the day wore on and she found herself seated in her office, her mind inevitably drifted towards Ron. A pang of concern gnawed at her as she contemplated their relationship. His reaction to her volunteering for this assignment hadn't been positive, and she couldn't shake the feeling of unease about their future together.

Everyone around them held the expectation of their eventual marriage as an unspoken truth, a natural progression of their relationship. However, lately, the strain had become palpable. The weight of their respective responsibilities, coupled with the relentless demands of their careers, had cast a shadow over their once-solid foundation. 

Pushing aside her tumultuous thoughts about Ron, Hermione battled the urge to succumb to tears. In the aftermath of the war, one would expect things to be easier. The Dark Lord was defeated, the world was rebuilding, yet the weight on her shoulders felt heavier than ever.

Why did everything seem so hard?

With a determined breath, Hermione rose from her desk, brushing away the tears that threatened to fall. She refused to let herself unravel. Instead, she redirected her focus towards a more immediate concern—Luna.

Luna had been confined to lockdown for the past few days, her outbursts necessitating strict supervision. Only nurses were permitted to visit her, ensuring she was escorted to and from the bathroom and provided with meals. Hermione wondered if now might be the opportunity to finally speak with Luna about what had happened. 

As Hermione entered her room, she found Luna staring out the window. No smile adorned Luna's face; she looked tired and defeated.

She gulped as she approached Luna and sat in an empty chair.

"Luna?" Hermione's voice broke the silence.

Luna turned towards her, a glimmer of light returning to her eyes. She didn't seem far away; she seemed present.

Hermione raised her brows as Luna spoke, "Hello, Hermione. It's nice to see you."

Hermione crossed her hands on her lap and nodded. "Yes, it's nice to see you too, Luna. Are you alright?"

She nodded and looked back out the window. "Yes. A bit of a headache, but the voices are gone."

A fearful sensation spread through Hermione as she responded. "W-wait, what do you mean gone?"

"There are no voices anymore," Luna stated simply, her gaze fixed on Hermione. "I feel. I feel again. Just feel. Normal."

Hermione felt a rush of emotions flood her senses, and a single tear escaped her eye. "Luna?"

Turning to face her friend, Luna tilted her head slightly and offered a sweet smile. "Yes?"

Hermione's voice trembled with emotion as she asked, "Is it you?"

With a gentle nod, Luna reassured her, "I'm here, Hermione."

Feeling a surge of relief mingled with hope, Hermione pressed forward, her voice soft yet determined. "Why did you attack Cedric?"

Luna's smile faded, replaced by a solemn expression. "He's supposed to be dead," she replied simply.

Hermione nodded in understanding. "Well, he's not. He was... captured."

"Captured?" Luna echoed, her voice tinged with wistfulness, before shaking her head. "That's not Cedric. It's impossible."

Sensing Luna's distress, Hermione changed the subject gently. "Let's not discuss him right now. About the voices. There aren't any right now?"

Luna looked down, her demeanor somber. "Not for days now."

Hermione pondered this revelation for a moment before pressing further. "What was the last thing they said?"

Avoiding Hermione's gaze, Luna's voice was barely a whisper. "That's not Cedric. Cedric died."

So maybe she was still only slightly unhinged.

Not wanting to disturb Luna or disrupt her thoughts any further, Hermione simply nodded in acknowledgment. Standing from her chair, she assured Luna that she would return to visit her tomorrow, expressing her relief that the voices had ceased.

Luna remained silent as Hermione made her way to the door and left the room.

As Hermione left Luna's room, a glimmer of hope ignited within her.

Could Luna be on the path to healing?

Determined to ensure Luna's well-being, Hermione sought out Drew, intent on discussing the need for closer monitoring of Luna's behavior in the coming days. 

***

TOM POV

"Duke! Duke!"

The revolting sounds of the upstairs neighbors pierced through the tranquility of the mud blood's flat, eliciting a snarl of disgust and envy from Tom as he paced restlessly in the living room, his boredom palpable. It'd been at least an hour of their incessant cries. It was bloody ridiculous. 

Especially because with this new body, he felt his own needs and knew there was nothing he could bloody do about it.

This was a fucking weakness. And he hated it.

Loathed his need for base desires now. 

Seeking distraction, he decided to snoop around Hermione's room. Stepping inside, he observed her Queen bed, meticulously made with a grey and white comforter. The room itself was painted in a dark navy blue hue, lending it a sense of coziness. Bookshelves adorned one wall, filled with volumes of knowledge, while a reading bench, dresser with a mirror, and two doors, presumably leading to the bathroom and closet, occupied the rest of the space. A photograph of the golden trio on the nightstand caught his eye, igniting a surge of resentment within him. Fighting back the impulse to destroy it, he set it down, his eyes blazing with anger.

The soothing scent of lavender permeated the room, a stark contrast to the cacophony of noise emanating from the neighboring apartment. Frustrated by the disturbance, Tom's gaze flicked upward, noticing a crack in the ceiling. He wondered why Hermione hadn't addressed it yet.

With a scowl, he exited Hermione's bedroom and made his way out of her front door, finding himself in the hallway, his irritation lingering like an unwelcome guest.

Tom quickly located the stairs and ascended them with purpose, taking each step two at a time. The disturbing sounds from the upstairs neighbors grated on his nerves, and he wondered if this was a muggle dwelling. Did they not possess the basic knowledge of casting a simple Muffliato spell to muffle their noise?

"For Salazar's sake," he muttered under his breath in frustration.

Arriving at the door of the offending apartment, he pressed his knuckles against it politely, hoping for a swift resolution. When no one answered, impatience gnawed at him, and he knocked louder, his irritation mounting with each passing second.

Music began to play from within the apartment, drowning out Tom's knocking and further exacerbating his frustration. He strained to identify the tune, but its unfamiliarity only served to fuel his growing anger.

With no response forthcoming and the sounds within growing increasingly unbearable, he decided enough was enough. With a flick of his hand, he blasted the door open, the hinges creaking in protest as their passionate cries reached a crescendo.

Stepping into the larger loft, Tom's gaze swept across the spacious area until he found the closed door of the bedroom. With a purposeful stride, he approached and pushed the door open, revealing a scene that made his blood boil.

Inside, a brunette male was pounding into a redheaded woman, their fervent cries echoing throughout the room.

"Duke, you feel so good," the woman's voice pierced the air, mingling with the sound of their heated encounter.

Leaning casually against the door frame, Tom crossed his arms, his expression one of disdain. "The whole bloody building hears you two. You both realize that?" he remarked sharply.

The woman's scream of surprise filled the room as the naked Duke hastily grabbed a pillow to cover himself. "Who the fuck are you? Get the bloody hell out of our flat!" he demanded, his tone laced with indignation.

"Calm down," Tom said to both of them in a deceptively casual tone, his demeanor exuding an air of authority.

Instantly, they obeyed, their previous fervor dampened by his presence.

As he paced the bedroom, Tom glanced at the couple before settling into a chair with a resigned sigh. "I was getting quite bored downstairs, and you're both irritating me."

The male swallowed hard, his nerves evident. "You're our neighbor?"

The redhead, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, covered herself more fully as she met Tom's gaze. "You must be dating the Hermione girl."

Tom shook his head. "I'm not. We're simply flatmates. It's a temporary situation."

"Are you going to get out now?" the male interjected, his discomfort palpable.

Standing tall, Tom fixed the couple with a penetrating gaze, his expression unreadable. "I'm guessing you both have some sort of twisted fetish where you enjoy knowing the rest of the building can hear your passionate screams and cries."

His words hung heavy in the air, but before they could respond, Tom continued, his voice taking on a chilling tone. "I have something of a fetish myself."

As he circled the room with a predatory air, the atmosphere grew tense. The male instinctively drew closer to his female partner, seeking solace in her presence.

Tom paused, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze unwavering as he uttered a single word, laden with ominous implications. "Violence."

Chapter Text

HARRY POV

Standing before the imposing structure, Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Just days ago, a breach had occurred at Azkaban, prompting the most senior aurors, including Dawlish, to thoroughly scour the edifice, only to find nothing of immediate concern.

Now, they turned to him.

Harry Potter, the famed solver of all mysteries, the hero of the wizarding world, stood at the threshold once more. Exhaustion weighed heavily upon him, despite having fulfilled what he once deemed his destiny by vanquishing the Dark Lord.

However, remnants of darkness still lingered. Rogue Death Eaters skulked in the shadows, and dark artifacts that had belonged to the Dark Lord whispered of untold dangers. Had he truly defeated the darkness, or merely scratched the surface of a deeper, more insidious threat?

Exhaustion gripped Harry completely as he stood facing the formidable structure. His mind buzzed with a cacophony of thoughts, chief among them the persistent memory of Cedric, whom he had been avoiding. Alongside this, there lingered the undeniable truth that he required assistance from a mind healer.

The nightmares, once held at bay, had resurged with alarming intensity, leaving Harry with no choice but to confront the reality of his deteriorating mental state.

Harry meticulously navigated around the protective wards encircling the structure, scrutinizing them with a practiced eye. Hours passed as he methodically cast diagnostic charms, determined to pinpoint the exact location of the breach. Though he could have enlisted the expertise of the senior aurors, Harry was resolute in conducting his own investigation from start to finish, unwilling to leave any stone unturned.

In the days since Cedric's discovery, they had established a perimeter around the vicinity where he had been found and delved into the depths of the underground prison, yet yielded no substantial leads as to the purpose behind Cedric's captivity. Notably absent was any trace of the aged elf who had purportedly served as Cedric's guardian or keeper during his confinement.

With a weary sigh, Harry sheathed his wand, running a hand through his disheveled hair in frustration. Resolving to delve deeper, he pressed his palm against the point of breach in the ward, seeking any lingering traces of magic or clues that might elucidate the mystery before him.

Seized by a sudden, searing pain, Harry staggered backward, a sharp cry escaping his lips as a piercing headache pierced through him. His hand instinctively flew to his scar, fingers trembling slightly as he battled to suppress the wave of fear and memories threatening to engulf him. Consciously pushing aside the unsettling sensation, he attributed the sensation to the formidable strength of the ward.

With a resigned shake of his head, Harry redirected his focus toward the imposing structure looming before him. Despite the lingering discomfort, he resolved to press forward, determined to fulfill his duty by venturing inside to assess the condition of the prisoners. Stealing himself against the uncertainty that lay ahead, he strode purposefully towards the entrance.

***

After meticulously interviewing the guards and employing Legilimency to ensure their honesty, Harry proceeded to interrogate the prisoners, beginning with the Death Eaters.

Approaching Dolohov's cell, his heart clenched at the memory of his dear friend Remus Lupin, whose life had been ruthlessly taken by this very inmate. Fighting to maintain a semblance of composure, Harry peered into the cell, the weight of his emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

In the fleeting moments of silence, his mind drifted to the image of his godson, now nearing the age of two, being raised under the care of his grandmother and aunt, with occasional assistance from himself and even Draco.

Dolohov's dark gaze met Harry's with a sneer curling his lips. "Potter," he spat, disdain dripping from every syllable.

Harry dispensed with pleasantries, his resolve firm as he withdrew his wand, eschewing subtlety. With a forceful command, he unleashed the Legilimens spell, borrowing a tactic from Snape's playbook, ensuring its agonizing effect.

As Dolohov's screams pierced the air, Harry delved unapologetically into the depths of his mind, scouring for any semblance of information or clues that might aid in their investigation.

Though he was well aware of the ethical and legal ramifications of such an intrusion, Harry's dedication to the greater good outweighed his adherence to rules. He had long ago accepted that, as long as his actions didn't jeopardize his job or tarnish his reputation irreparably, he would not hesitate to bend the rules to achieve his goals.

Harry's brow furrowed in frustration as he unearthed nothing of significance within Dolohov's mind regarding the breach. However, his disdain deepened as he stumbled upon Dolohov's inappropriate and intrusive thoughts about one of the female guards, a revelation that left a bitter taste in Harry's mouth.

Shaking his head to dispel the discomfort, he proceeded to interrogate the remaining prisoners.

Yaxley remained tight-lipped, offering no insights. Fenrir Greyback emitted a pungent odor reminiscent of a damp, decaying canine but yielded no valuable information. Even Rodulphus Lestrange's chuckles held no clues.

Moving down the line, Harry encountered Alecto Carrow and then Amycus, both claiming ignorance of any breach.

Frustration mounting, Harry pondered the possible causes of the breach. Could it have been an animal? Or perhaps a guard's lapse in casting the proper spell upon duty?

His questioning continued with McNair, Rookwood, Crabbe Sr., and Goyle Sr., yet the outcome remained unchanged—no leads, no answers.

Anger simmered beneath the surface as Harry grumbled, his thoughts darkening at the realization that Nott Sr., Rabastan Lestrange, Jugson, Mulciber II, and others still eluded capture, presumably lurking in the shadows, plotting their next move. 

Dolores Umbridge sat at a desk in her cell, her singsong voice filling the confined space as Harry approached. As he swung open the door, she glanced up with a saccharine smile. "Mr. Potter, what a delightful surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Harry rolled his eyes at the sight of her, knowing full well that Lucius Malfoy's wealth had secured them both notably better accommodations than the other inmates. He briefly pondered why Malfoy hadn't extended the same courtesy to his ex-sister-in-law's husband, but quickly dismissed the thought, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Aware of Umbridge's skill as an Occlumens, Harry knew he couldn't rely on reading her mind for answers. Maintaining a facade of casual indifference, he inquired, "How are things?"

"This is the second time this week an Auror has graced me with their presence," Umbridge remarked casually, her gaze drifting over Harry's uniform. "Is there perhaps some trouble brewing out there?"

Harry remained silent as she continued, jotting something down with a quill. "If there is, I only wish I had a hand in it."

He rolled his eyes again, this time at her audacity. "No troubles, Umbridge, just routine checks on the inmates."

Umbridge's lips curled into a smirk. "Seems like you're focusing solely on the Death Eaters," she observed. "We do converse amongst ourselves, you know. With the new minister's leniency, we even get thirty minutes of outdoor time. Of course, our conversations are monitored. So, if there were any disturbances, you Aurors would be the first to know, wouldn't you?"

Harry feigned disinterest, exiting her cell as she called after him, "Have a splendid day, Harry Potter!" The venom in her voice was palpable, leaving a bitter taste in Harry's mouth as he made his departure.

Saving the most complex encounter for last, Harry approached Lucius Malfoy's cell with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Unlike the others, Lucius had exhibited a surprising degree of remorse during his court proceedings, a demeanor that had left many puzzled, including Harry himself. Despite this apparent contrition, Draco, Lucius's own son, had not forgiven him—a fact that Harry knew all too well. Draco often confided in Harry, sharing his innermost thoughts and struggles.

Yet, amidst the turmoil of familial discord, Harry recognized the intricacies of the father-son relationship. Despite Draco's inability to forgive, there remained a deep-seated love for his father, a sentiment that Harry couldn't ignore.

Approaching what was undoubtedly the most well-appointed cell in Azkaban, Harry contemplated his newfound connection with Draco. No longer adversaries, but rather colleagues and allies, their relationship had evolved in unexpected ways, fostering a sense of camaraderie and mutual understanding.

"Potter," Lucius greeted, his voice laced with an air of detachment as he observed Harry's entrance, assuming a composed posture in his chair by the desk, hands neatly folded in his lap.

"Lucius," Harry replied with a nod, maintaining a respectful demeanor.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Lucius inquired, his tone betraying a hint of boredom. It was evident that Draco had inherited much of his father's stoicism.

Aware that Legilimency wouldn't yield any insights with another skilled Occlumens like Lucius, Harry opted for a more diplomatic approach. With a polite smile, he remarked, "I heard Draco came to visit you recently."

Lucius inclined his head in confirmation. "Indeed. He paid me a visit a few days ago, prompted by a letter I had sent him."

"I was aware," Harry responded, pacing the confines of Lucius's prison room, scanning for any potential clues or indicators.

As Harry's gaze swept over the room, Lucius coughed lightly, drawing attention to his actions. "Looking for something, Potter?" he inquired, his demeanor poised and inscrutable.

Harry's movements halted as his gaze fell upon the copy of that day's Daily Prophet resting on Lucius's desk. He couldn't help but shake his head, fully aware that Lucius likely wielded more influence within the prison than most, courtesy of the considerable Malfoy wealth. Money had a way of opening doors, even within the confines of Azkaban.

As he contemplated the approaching anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and the imminent revelation about Cedric Diggory's survival, a wave of unease washed over Harry. The notion of Cedric being alive still seemed unfathomable, a reality he struggled to come to terms with.

His attention returned to the photograph of Tom Riddle adorning the front page of the Daily Prophet, a peculiar sensation prickling at the edges of his consciousness. There was something unsettling about the image, though Harry couldn't quite pinpoint what it was.

Pushing aside his disquiet, he refocused on Lucius.

"We're ensuring the security of Azkaban," Harry asserted, his tone firm.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, his attention briefly diverted to the newspaper. "It would indeed be unfortunate if its security were compromised," he remarked casually, as though discussing the weather.

Harry noted Lucius's deliberate emphasis on the word "security," recognizing the man's penchant for drama and theatrics—a trait he shared with his son, Draco.

Realizing that extracting any useful information from Lucius was futile, Harry offered a polite farewell before swiftly exiting the cell. With a practiced motion, he ensured the door was securely locked behind him, sealing off any further interaction with the Malfoy patriarch.

Frustration gnawed at him as he made his way out of the prison. There would be no answers about what had happened at Azkaban today or anytime soon it seemed.

His thoughts became consumed with the Cedric situation. Despite lacking an appointment, Harry resolved to visit Cedric at the hospital at least and he was also determined to seek solace and guidance from a mind healer.

As he traversed the corridors, names of potential healers flitted through his mind—Drew, Rosenberg, or even any of the other trainees not affiliated with Hermione's team. The last thing he wanted was to burden Hermione further with his own emotional burdens.

With resolute determination, Harry embarked on his journey, intent on finding the support and clarity he so desperately sought outside the confines of Azkaban's walls.

***

TOM POV

"What's that?" Tom inquired, leaning in to listen intently to the screams emanating from Duke, who hung suspended in the air, blood tracing a crimson path down his bare back.

A dramatic flourish accompanied Tom's next words. "Oh, did you enjoy that?" he mused, a smirk gracing his lips as he wielded a knife, carving an S into the man's flesh.

S for Slytherin, Tom mused silently. S for snake. S for signs of distress. The letter seemed almost too easy to etch into the skin.

Meanwhile, Lucy remained bound to a chair, her voice stolen from her, forced to witness the gruesome scene unfolding before her.

Tom's tone remained dispassionate as he addressed Duke, casually setting the knife aside before employing magic to mend the wound he had inflicted.

"This wouldn't be happening if either of you weren't so insufferably impolite," Tom remarked, his words filled with a hint of disdain. "Did you honestly believe the entire building wanted to hear you screaming?"

Duke looked at Tom, his bright brown eyes wide and fearful as he dangled like a fish and muttered through a painful voice, "Please were sorry. We wont do it again."

Tom shook his head tersely, emitting a disapproving tsk as he regarded Duke. "No, you will do it again. Because we will be doing this again," he stated coldly, his voice laced with menace. "I will continue to punish you for your insufferable display of physical affection and impoliteness. I find myself stuck here for some time, and I require mere entertainment."

With a swift motion, he plunged the knife through the man's abdomen, eliciting a gut-wrenching cry of agony. Meanwhile, Lucy—whose name Tom had learned earlier during the torture—strained against her restraints, her desperation palpable as she attempted to come to her partner's aid.

Tom turned the knife, leaving it embedded in Duke's flesh, before rising to his feet, his hands now stained with blood.

Retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket, he extracted one and lit it wandlessly. All the while, the cigarette dangled from his lips as he approached Lucy, her tear-streaked face a portrait of anguish as she watched Duke hang magically upside down from the ceiling, blood pooling beneath him.

With a bloodied hand and the cigarette dangling from his lips, Tom forcibly turned Lucy's face to meet his gaze, her attempts to look away futile as he smeared Duke's blood across her chin. Her silent whimpers fell on deaf ears as he delivered his cruel words.

"You're a filthy Mudblood," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Your life is worthless." He pictured her being Hermione. 

Tears continued to stream down Lucy's face as Tom walked away, his attention now fixed on Duke, who had ceased his cries and was slowly bleeding out. Tom retrieved the knife from Duke's abdomen before turning back to Lucy, who had closed her eyes in silent resignation.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice cold.

Reluctantly, Lucy obeyed, fear evident in her eyes, fueling a surge of power within Tom.

A raw emotion, akin to hunger and need, surged through his mind as he recalled his Mudblood healer and pictured her bent over her sectional couch naked, a simmering rage overtaking him.

In a violent outburst, he plunged the knife into Lucy's shoulder, her piercing screams echoing in the chamber as he cruelly restored her voice.

There was a deep-seated loathing within Tom for this new aspect of himself, a revulsion stemming from his inability to suppress his base desires. Where once violence had been his primary outlet, now there was an insatiable craving—a primal, raw desire for sex.

It disgusted him, this newfound yearning for intimacy with what he considered a repulsive Mudblood. Hermione Fucking Granger, he was so angry with himself. Even taking Anne hadn't quenched this thirst, leaving him feeling utterly repulsed by his own desires.

Why did he crave such a vile specimen? The question gnawed at him, but he found no answers.

Channeling his anger and frustration, he redirected his focus to inflicting pain upon others, relishing in the control and power it afforded him. It was a means of asserting dominance, of showcasing his superiority over those he deemed inferior.

For now, it was the only way he knew to suppress his desires, to maintain a semblance of control over this new aspect of himself.

His followers and Death Eaters reveled in the act of rape, imposing their will upon unsuspecting victims. However, in his formative years when he had sought intimacy, Tom had never stooped to such depravity.

He craved desire, not coercion.

He thrived on the power of being wanted, of manipulating those who lusted after him. Violence and torture held allure, but rape had never been part of his own agenda.

Despite the allure of the naked body before him, Tom recoiled from the idea of taking Lucy. She feared him, her disgust palpable—a sentiment he mirrored. She was a mere Muggle, devoid of any magical blood—a quality he deemed undesirable.

Tom reveled in sadistic delight as he tortured the couple for over an hour, the melody of a Muggle radio playing in the background.

Sipping on cheap whiskey procured from their kitchen and puffing on cigarettes, he savored every moment of their suffering. The blood, the pain, the gore, and the screams were like a symphony to his ears.

Only when he was certain that bleeding them further would result in their demise did he cease his torment. With a flick of his hand, he healed their wounds, meticulously tidied the room, and erased their memories with a simple magical command. Yet, a lingering warning echoed in the recesses of their minds—a reminder that he could return to reignite their terror at any moment.

It was a twisted game, one he relished playing with his newfound "toys" conveniently located upstairs. And once he grew tired of them, he would dispose of yet another pair of useless Muggles before they could propagate their kind.

***

After washing his hands and retrieving his jacket, which he had left by the door before entering the Mudblood couple's room, Tom glanced back at the sleeping pair. "Sleep well," he murmured with a twisted smirk before leaving the room looking untouched.

He washed the knife in their sink and put it away, then returned the nearly empty bottle of cheap whiskey to the cabinet where he had found it.

Exiting their apartment, he scanned the building as an elderly muggle man passed him, considering potential future victims. "So many possibilities," he whispered to himself with a chilling grin.

Returning to Hermione's apartment, he headed for the kitchen. "Where are you little beast?" he muttered, searching for the cat. Finding the empty sardine can, he tossed it aside with disdain.

He sought out the designated bathroom, methodically shedding his clothes before stepping into the scalding hot shower.

Ensuring the water temperature was high enough to blister, he reveled in the sensation as it cascaded over his skin.

As he immersed himself in the steam, his mind initially conjured images of blood and screams, eliciting a wicked smile to grace his lips. Yet, to his surprise, these gruesome visions gradually morphed into something else entirely—images of Hermione in her medical attire, her hair neatly arranged in a bun.

He thought about pulling the bun out of her hair and leaving those unruly giant curls down, as he'd seen them the first day she'd introduced herself to him in the hospital. He thought about her chocolate eyes. Her plump disgustingly vile yet deliciously plump pink lips. He thought of her mind, her brilliance and then of her dirty fucking blood and sighed angrily as he started pumping his cock in the shower, hating himself and her.

Tom reflected on his past, recalling moments when he had descended into the depths of depravity by rolling in mud as they called it, wallowing in filth and self-loathing.

However, those days seemed like a distant memory, buried beneath the weight of his current actions.

"Fuck," he muttered bitterly, grappling with the turmoil within him. What had possessed him to sink to such depths?

With a mixture of frustration and desperation, he continued to pump himself ferociously, consumed by a primal urge until he finally found release.

Standing amidst the hot water cascading in the shower, he let out a roar of frustration.

Chapter Text

DRACO POV

Dear Draco, I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits.

There are words that have been weighing heavily on my mind for some time now, and I feel it is finally time to put them to paper. First and foremost, I want to express my deepest apologies to you, my son. I realize now, perhaps too late, the extent of the pain and suffering my actions have caused you throughout your teenage years.

I see now how my own ambitions and desires have plagued your life, casting a shadow over what should have been a time of growth and discovery for you.

It pains me to think of the terror I may have instilled in you, the way my choices have led to heartbreak and anguish. You deserved better, Draco, far better than what I provided for you. And for that, I am truly sorry. I know I have never been one to openly express affection or admit to my faults, but please know that you are my son, and I love you deeply.

Though I may not have said it or written it, my actions were always driven by a desire to give you everything I thought you needed, to provide you with the best possible future. I understand if you harbor resentment towards me, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I long for us to have a relationship, one built on honesty, trust, and love.

It is never too late for us to start anew, to bridge the gap that has formed between us.

Please, Draco, consider visiting me. I yearn for the opportunity to see you, to talk to you, to begin the journey of rebuilding our relationship. And if there is anything I can do to support you in your new position as an Auror, please do not hesitate to ask. I am willing to do whatever it takes to make amends and to help you in any way I can.

With all my love,

Lucius

Pondering over the letter, Draco sat at his favorite pub, the dim light casting shadows across his features as he read and re-read his father's words. He couldn't shake the unease that gripped him, despite Lucius' seemingly changed demeanor during their recent visit. The memory of their short interaction lingered in his mind, a reminder of the complexities of their relationship.

Draco knew deep down who his father was and perhaps always would be – a snake. Even with what appeared to be docility and affection, he couldn't forget the venom that lurked beneath the surface. Like any serpent, Lucius had the capacity to strike or constrict at any moment, leaving Draco wary of letting his guard down completely.

It was a truth he'd never admit aloud, except perhaps to Potter now, or in moments of vulnerability to close friends like Theo or Blaise, especially if he found himself thoroughly inebriated. Despite everything, there was a part of Draco that yearned for a genuine connection with his father. He still harbored a desire for Lucius to be proud of him, to acknowledge him as his son and heir with unwavering pride.

But Draco couldn't ignore the harsh reality – seeking his father's approval was a weakness, a relentless pursuit of validation from a man who carried too many faults of his own. The weight of that realization settled heavily upon him as he stared down at the letter in his hands, grappling with his conflicted emotions and the complexities of their familial bond.

"What brings you here, mate?" A sloshed red-headed annoyance sidled up beside Draco, gesturing for a butterbeer as Draco slid his father's letter into his pocket.

"You reek, Weasel."

Ron shot Draco a glare as he grabbed the butterbeer and carelessly tossed a few coins towards the bartender. "Barhopping with George since noon. What brings you to brood in this here pub? Isn't this Harry's pub?"

Draco rolled his eyes and took a sip of his firewhiskey, neat, just as his father had taught him to drink it. "This pub, Weasel, has been a snake's den for years. I'm the one who brings Potter here." He leaned back against the bar, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on his face as he spoke.

The Weasel's face seemed to take on a slightly greenish hue as he peered down into his butterbeer, mumbling, "You and Harry hang out a lot outside of work now too, eh?"

Draco raised a single brow and regarded the disheveled Weasley with a hint of resignation. Despite their longstanding animosity, they were still colleagues, and Harry's "other" best friend. Though Draco hadn't admitted it aloud to anyone else, he considered Potter one of his closest mates now – a fact that would surely raise eyebrows among his own circle of friends.

"Jealous, Weasley?" Draco teased lightly. But before Ron could respond and escalate the tension, Draco changed tack, his expression softening. "What's going on with you? You alright?" he inquired, genuine concern lacing his tone.

Ron took a sip of his beer, his expression momentarily clouded with the weight of his thoughts. Draco braced himself for the usual retort, but instead, Ron's demeanor softened, and he shook his head with a hint of sadness.

"Not really, Ferret," Ron replied, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "Hermione's been distant lately. And I won't see her all weekend."

Draco stifled a sigh. Women problems. He wasn't exactly adept at dealing with them. Aside from occasional dalliances with DesiAnn to satisfy his urges, he tended to steer clear of emotional entanglements. He certainly didn't want to burden anyone with his own issues. He still grappled with nightmares, sought solace in frequent sessions with a mind healer, and grudgingly acknowledged his unresolved parental issues.

Commitment was a foreign concept to him, especially considering he'd only recently managed to extricate himself from a marriage contract his father had arranged when he was barely five years old. He’d been adamant about producing an heir, being a father was the last thing on his mind. The mere thought of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Not knowing what else to say, Draco probed gently, "Why won't you be seeing her this weekend?"

Ron let out a chuckle that bordered on the edge of mania, catching Draco off guard. "You'll laugh," he muttered cryptically.

Draco crossed his arms, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I do like a good laugh, Weasel."

Ron's chuckle faded into a self-deprecating smile. "Laugh at me," he stated, a touch of resignation in his voice.

Draco made a dismissive hand gesture, signaling for Ron to continue. "I'll try not to be an arse."

Ron shook his head at himself, almost incredulous, before finally confessing, "You can laugh at me about this. It's incredibly absurd."

Draco's gaze remained fixed on Ron, his typically impatient demeanor replaced with an unusual sense of patience as he waited for Ron to elaborate. It was a trait he seldom exhibited, but one that seemed fitting in this moment of unexpected vulnerability.

"Hermione is sponsoring Cedric Diggory. He is living with her now. She picked him up this morning. Not sure for how long but," Ron ran a hand through his hair, his expression grave despite his evident inebriation, "have you seen that guy and what he looks like?"

Draco couldn't contain the burst of laughter that erupted from him, echoing through the pub. Ron's gaze darkened, and he turned away, facing forward with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration.

"See, I told you you'd laugh at me," Ron muttered, his tone resigned.

***

Two hours later, Ron was slumped over the bar, fast asleep, and Draco had sent an urgent owl for his sister Ginny to come collect him. As he waited for her arrival, Draco drummed his fingers impatiently on the bar, his gaze wandering idly around the dimly lit pub.

A brunette slid onto the barstool beside him, crossing her legs with a deliberate grace. She flipped her dark waves of hair, catching the attention of the bartender with a subtle tilt of her head. Draco glanced at her briefly, noting the striking contrast of her large auburn eyes against her brunette locks.

His eyes trailed down to her long, slender legs, accentuated by the tight black dress she wore, and he couldn't help but notice the subtle signs of wealth in her attire.

Caught in his scrutiny, the witch narrowed her eyes at him. "Can I help you?" she demanded, her tone sharp and challenging.

Draco flashed her his trademark smile, expecting the usual reaction of flustered embarrassment or at least a hint of blushing on her cheeks. But when she remained composed and unyielding, his smile faltered, frustration flickering in his eyes.

Her brow raised in evident amusement as she remarked, "Are you a mute?"

Confusion furrowed Draco's brow. "A what?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

"A mute," she clarified, setting her wand down and taking a sip from the cup of wine the bartender had served her. "Since you've finally spoken after staring for a good three minutes, I see now that you're not."

Draco nervously glanced down at his glass of firewhiskey, a hint of discomfort creeping into his demeanor. Women typically threw themselves at him, drawn to his wealth, his Malfoy name, and his undeniable charm and good looks. But this witch's indifference was a perplexing departure from the norm.

Was she blind? he thought about asking her, but before he could gather his thoughts, he noticed she had already shifted her attention away from him. Another wizard had sidled up beside her, offering to buy her a drink, and she seemed far more interested in his company than Draco's.

That didn't sit well with Draco. Not at all. His pride stung at the dismissal, and he felt a surge of determination to salvage the situation somehow.

"You alright, ferret boy?" Ginny's voice broke through his reverie, and he turned to see her standing beside her snoring brother, Ron, whose head rested heavily on the bar table.

Draco glanced at Ginny, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "Just fine, Weasley," he replied, his tone laced with a hint of defiance.

Curious, Ginny followed his gaze, scanning the pub before returning her attention to Draco with a skeptical expression. "You have no chance," she stated bluntly, her lips pursed in disapproval.

Draco's smile widened, his mind already formulating a plan. "I'll cover all of Harry's On-Call shifts for the next month if you assist me with this venture, She-Weasel," he proposed, his eyes gleaming with determination.

Ginny's eyebrows shot up in surprise as she considered his offer, her gaze flickering briefly to her slumbering brother. "What about him?" she inquired, gesturing towards Ron.

"Have George come get him," Draco suggested dismissively, his attention already refocused on the brunette beside him who was laughing at something the other wizard was saying.

Ginny crossed her arms, considering Draco's proposal carefully before finally relenting. "Fine," she acquiesced, her tone firm. "But for his bachelor party. You'll go play Quidditch and head to one bar. No lollygagging or dance clubs."

Draco narrowed his eyes at her, but he nodded in agreement nonetheless, his mind already calculating his next move.

***

HERMIONE POV

Staying late at the hospital hadn't been on her agenda for the day, but then again, it never seemed to be. Hopefully, Cedric had managed well without her all day, Hermione thought as she finally apparated near her building and made her way towards the door.

As she arrived and paused, unconsciously smoothing down her attire and brushing her hair out of her face, Hermione unlocked the door and stepped inside, immediately greeted by an enchanting aroma.

"There you are," Cedric greeted, his voice warm and inviting, as he stood at the counter grating fresh Parmesan cheese onto a pasta dish. Hermione's gaze shifted between him and the bowl of pasta, a mixture of surprise and awe evident on her face.

"Y-you made this?" she stammered, disbelief coloring her tone.

He chuckled lightly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Do you think me inept? I've known how to cook my entire life. Elves are merely a perk."

Hermione bit her lip, taking in the pristine kitchen. Cedric had even cleaned up after himself, a rare sight in her experience. Ron and Harry were notoriously messy, and while Draco was organized, he often left things out when she visited the Auror office. It was a pleasant change to see someone take such care in both cooking and cleaning.

"Thank you, Cedric. You didn't have to cook. I was fully prepared to make the meals for us both," Hermione said gratefully, her voice tinged with appreciation.

Cedric shook his head, a playful glint in his eyes as if ready to scold her. "Wash your hands, I'll set the table," he instructed, stepping away from the kitchen.

"The table" consisted of a small, intimate setup next to the kitchen, with only two seats.

Agreeing with a nod, Hermione made her way to her bedroom. Setting her bag down, she let her hair cascade down her back, peeled off her medi-robes, and then washed her hands in her bathroom.

Exiting her bedroom, she found that Cedric had already set the table, a flickering candle casting a warm glow between both dishes. He sat poised and regal, a fork beside his dish, patiently awaiting her arrival.

As their eyes met, Cedric flashed her a crooked smile, causing Hermione's heart to momentarily skip a beat.

What was it about Cedric Diggory that had such a profound effect on her? Was it his undeniable charm? His striking good looks? Or perhaps something deeper, something she couldn't quite pinpoint?

Her thoughts raced, her pulse quickening with a surge of adrenaline. It was a sensation reminiscent of the days she spent on the run with Harry and Ron, a mixture of excitement and apprehension that left her breathless.

Sitting down at the table, Hermione observed Cedric as he ate with precision, each movement deliberate and meticulous, akin to that of an aristocrat. She attempted to mirror his demeanor, striving to maintain a polite facade. While she had never attended etiquette classes, her upbringing among other purebloods had provided her with a keen understanding of their customs – how they conversed, ate, danced, and socialized.

And Cedric Diggory embodied pureblood refinement to its core.

Despite his lineage, Cedric's reputation had always been that of someone fair, just, and brave. Yet, as she watched him, Hermione couldn't shake the nagging question of how he would fare reintegrating into society on Monday, thrust back into the complexities of the wizarding world.

Externally, he appeared flawless, every aspect of his demeanor meticulously put together.

But was he truly alright? Hermione couldn't help but wonder if there was more lurking beneath his facade of civility.

"How was work?" Cedric inquired, his lips moving as if casting a spell of enchantment.

Hermione coughed, momentarily caught off guard by the mesmerizing sight, before clearing her throat and replying, "It was fine."

Cedric arched a brow, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. "Just fine?" he pressed, his tone gentle but insistent. "There must have been more to your day than just it being fine. It's nearly seven. Tell me about it from start to finish – every nuance and detail. I am genuinely curious to know. You don't have to mention patient names if you're afraid of violating privacy."

Hermione pondered for a moment, unused to having someone to converse with about her work. But without second-guessing herself, she launched into a detailed account of her day. Cedric listened intently, asking thoughtful questions that demonstrated a genuine curiosity about her work.

As they discussed one particular patient who was sensitive to voices, Cedric's interest seemed to deepen. Without prompting, he asked, "Is she alright? I hope I didn't cause her distress."

Taking a bite of her food and chewing thoughtfully, Hermione shook her head. Swallowing, she dabbed her mouth clean with a napkin before responding, "Don't worry about that. She will be fine. I am truly sorry about the scratches."

Cedric shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the concern in his eyes. "They're healed. Has she said anything about me?" he inquired.

Hermione chuckled lightly, the sound echoing softly in the intimate space. "Nothing that really makes sense," she admitted with a playful smile.

For a moment, Cedric's gaze seemed to darken, his expression inscrutable as he looked down and then back up again. But just as quickly, the intensity faded, replaced by a familiar lightness in his eyes.

Feeling a sudden surge of unease at the intensity of his gaze, Hermione abruptly stood, her movement causing Cedric to follow suit, mirroring her actions.

As they both reached for Hermione's plate simultaneously, their hands accidentally made contact, eliciting a surprised yelp from Hermione as a spark seemed to pass between them. She recoiled slightly, her eyes widening in astonishment.

Looking up, she noticed Cedric's brows furrowed in curiosity, his gaze focused intently on the spot where their hands had touched, as if trying to decipher what had just occurred. Hermione's heart raced, her mind swirling with questions, but before she could dwell on it further, she swiftly grabbed both plates and hurried towards the kitchen.

"I got you a copy of today's Daily Prophet," she called out over her shoulder as she dashed to the sink to begin washing the dishes. "It's in my bag in my room, if you don't mind going in and grabbing it."

She heard Cedric's footsteps retreat towards her room, the sound echoing softly in the quiet of the evening.

***

TOM POV

As Tom swiftly entered Hermione's bedroom, a surge of conflicting emotions churned within him. Magic is might, he reminded himself, attempting to suppress the inexplicable pull he felt towards the Mudblood healer. And it wasn't just his body reacting; it was as if his magic itself was yearning to touch her, to intertwine with hers in ways he couldn't comprehend.

That spark meant he was losing control.

Adjusting his trousers, Tom frowned, feeling a strange dissonance within himself. It wasn't just physical attraction stirring within him; it was something deeper, something inexplicable that he couldn't quite put into words.

Salazar, what was happening to him?

Cedric's essence seemed to stir strange things within him – emotions, perhaps? He scoffed at the notion, dismissing it as absurd. But as he located Hermione's hospital work bag and retrieved the newspaper from within, his thoughts were momentarily distracted.

Inspecting the cover of the Daily Prophet, he chuckled darkly. The real Cedric Diggory's face stared back at him instead of his own. The spell he had cast was powerful, indeed. Tom couldn't help but feel a swell of pride at his own ingenuity. He had truly outdone himself this time.

Suppressing the anger that churned within him at the sight of Harry Potter's face on the cover and the disdain he felt towards the visage of his former self, Tom turned the page to read the article that had been written about him: "The Life of Tom Riddle Before He Became The Dark Lord."

As he scanned the article, a bitter taste filled his mouth. They depicted the orphanage where he had spent his formative years, detailing the unspeakable abuse that he and the other children had endured. Cedric's jaw clenched in resentment. Despite his efforts to destroy it, the orphanage had been rebuilt and now operated under new ownership.

"That won't last," he muttered bitterly to himself, his gaze flicking back to the article.

The piece delved into Dumbledore's role in discovering his true origins and lineage, tracing his descent from the esteemed Salazar Slytherin himself. Cedric's lip curled in contempt as he read. It was in his fourth year at Hogwarts that he had learned of his connection to Salazar Slytherin, discovering the truth about his mother's magical heritage and his father's contemptible status as a Muggle. The revelation had led him to seek out his father, only to be met with scorn and threats of violence.

His curse, it seemed, was resembling the very filth he despised.

The article described him as handsome, a descriptor that only added to Tom's internal turmoil.

Hermione entered her bedroom, her expression betraying a mix of exasperation and disdain as she glanced at the article. "It's ridiculous, isn't it?" she remarked, her voice tinged with frustration.

Tom closed the paper and raised an inquisitive brow. "What is?" he inquired, his tone measured and composed.

She ran a hand through her wild curls, her movements agitated. "The way they describe him. The way they depict his life before he became The Dark Lord. It's as if they want readers to feel sympathy for him – as if it's an excuse for his subsequent actions."

A ghost of a smile danced across Tom's lips. "And you don't believe there's any excuse for who Lord Voldemort became?" he posed the question delicately, observing Hermione's reaction keenly.

She seemed to flinch at the mere mention of his name, her gaze momentarily distant before refocusing on him.

With a determined shake of her head, she spoke resolutely, her voice tinged with conviction. "No. There's no excuse. While he may have endured a troubled childhood – abandoned, deceived, mistreated – that's no justification for his hatred towards Muggles or his desire to bring about the destruction of our world."

Tom remained silent, allowing Hermione's words to hang in the air. As she turned towards him, he met her gaze steadily, taking note of the passion in her stance and the unmistakable disdain she held towards him. If only she knew the truth – that the very thing she feared was now her flatmate.

 A lion cloaked in sheep's clothing. And Hermione, unaware, stood before him like a lamb ripe for the taking...

Chapter Text

When Tom Riddle reached the age of ten, his home was in Muggle London, a far cry from the opulent estates and grand mansions of his future peers.

No, instead of magical elves and statues of pure gold, Tom resided in the modest confines of Wool's Orphanage.

The orphanage operated on a shoestring budget, with meager government funds barely covering the basic necessities of food and clothing.

Consequently, both were in short supply, yet the staff did their utmost to make ends meet and nurture the children.

In the 1930s, the concept of discipline took on a harsh reality within Wool's Orphanage.

Starvation, sleep deprivation, and an endless list of chores were commonplace, alongside physical punishment meted out with wooden spoons and rulers.

Whippings beneath the cross of Jesus were also part of the disciplinary regime at the orphanage, a ritual that held no spiritual significance for Tom. His skepticism toward religion was firm; the notion of God and Jesus appeared ludicrous to him, even in childhood.

Prayer held no place in Tom's thoughts; he dismissed it as a futile endeavor. Despite the pain inflicted upon him, he never shed a tear. Instead, he faced his punishments with a defiant grin, unnerving the nuns with his stoic demeanor.

Tom refused to display any sign of weakness. He reveled in their discomfort, determined to maintain an unyielding façade.

To him, weakness was unacceptable; If Jesus had been real, Jesus hadn't been week.

And one day, amidst the harsh confines of Wool's Orphanage, Tom harbored a secret conviction: he would ascend to a level of power and admiration akin to that of Jesus himself. Despite the uncertainty of how or when this would come to pass, he was steadfast in his belief that he was destined for greatness.

Tom nurtured a sense of his own uniqueness, a conviction that set him apart from his peers. He vowed to validate this belief when the opportunity arose, determined to carve out a path that would lead him to the heights of influence and acclaim.

Tom currently found himself seated next to Hermione Granger, observing with mild curiosity as she wielded her wand to manipulate the television set.

"We're going to watch a movie, have you ever watched a muggle movie?" Hermione asked as Tom tossed the article about himself onto the kitchen counter and settled beside her in the living room.

Of course, Tom had encountered muggle movies before. The advent of the first non-color television occurred just a year after his birth, in 1927. By the time he was nine, in 1932, Wool's Orphanage had organized a rare excursion to a local shopping center, generously funded by a benefactor. It was a Christmas treat that allowed each child to select a present for themselves. It was on this occasion that Tom first encountered the marvel of moving pictures, marveling at the science and technology behind it all.

His innate thirst for knowledge was ignited once more by this new discovery. It became yet another aspect of the world he was determined to comprehend fully.

Lying, Tom responded with a simple, "I don't believe I ever have. I have read about it though. What are we watching?" His words carried a hint of intrigue, masking his true familiarity with the subject matter.

Eradicating or enslaving an entire people is a monumental task, especially without a deep understanding of their essence. How can one harbor hatred without comprehending fully? How can one exert control without firsthand knowledge?

He had shielded his knights from his own thirst for power and his understanding of muggles. Manipulating them with their biases and prejudices, and leveraging their hatred, had made it easier to bend them to his will, to make them follow his lead.

However, he himself had lived among them for eleven years before discovering his magical heritage.

"A true classic of course! Have you ever watched Casablanca?"

He shook his head and rose from his seat, reaching into his trouser pockets for his pack of cigarettes and a match. As he made his way towards the door, she called out, "Where are you going? I just got it to work."

Turning, he flashed her his trademark smile and held up his cigarette pack, replying, "Going to smoke, I'll be right back."

"You can smoke inside here, let me just open a window. I don't mind."

He raised his eyebrows. "You do mind. You detest the smell of smoke."

She bit her lip. "How do you know that?"

"I can tell, Ms. Granger."

"Hermione."

"My apologies, Hermione."

She shrugged and went towards the window, opening it all the way. "Just stay here. The movie is about to start."

He nodded in polite acquiescence and made his way towards the window, lighting his cigarette and inhaling deeply as the movie began. Meanwhile, Hermione settled onto the couch, retrieving a blanket from underneath and wrapping it around herself.

Tom found himself stealing glances at her as he smoked, his attention divided between her and the screen.

Her eyes widened in excitement, giving the impression that she hadn't seen the movie before. Yet, Tom suspected it was more about her anticipation of uncovering missed details, a puzzle she could solve despite already knowing the outcome.

Hermione Granger wasn't one for surprises.

She was the type of witch who relished in research, solving mysteries, and wouldn't rest until she had all the answers.

This made Tom wonder what she anticipated discovering about him. Her decision to temporarily sponsor him had been surprising, and while it seemed to work in his favor, he knew he had to tread carefully around her.

"Don't you find it odd how the Muggle World and Our Wizarding World have gone through similar wars?" Hermione asked from the couch as he finished his cigarette and then tossed it out the window.

Sitting beside her, he glanced towards the screen, a wicked smile curling his lips as he asked, "How so?"

"World War 2 was from 1939 to 1945, years before the first 'big' wizarding world. Of course, we had other Dark Lords and wars before then, but the first large-scale one was in 1970."

He brushed a long dark wave of hair back and then turned to see she was looking at him, awaiting his answer.

"Do you believe the Dark Lord used tactics from World War 2?"

She used her wand to pause the movie and nodded at him.

"Yes, I believe the Dark Lord climbed the political world using his charm and intelligence, won over the right populace..."

"The wealthy purebloods," he stated, interrupting her as she continued to nod. "Yes, them. He utilized a political view that they already had, used their money, his popularity as a charming and powerful wizard—because let's face it, he was performing impossible feats of magic at a very young age. And then, when he was climbing the political ranks, he set off on his own, creating his own sort of government."

Quite intelligent for a Muggle-born, he thought as he interrupted her again, feigning ignorance about his own past. "I thought he worked at Borgin and Burkes?"

Hermione smiled, "Yes, he did, right after Hogwarts, when Dumbledore refused to give Tom Riddle the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Which I don't understand why he wanted. What would he have gained from working at Hogwarts?"

"Perhaps he felt safe at Hogwarts and saw it as his only home."

She gave him a strange look and then shrugged, "Maybe. You sound like the Daily Prophet, humanizing him."

"Wasn't he a human?"

Sighing, she took her wand and started the movie again. "Perhaps at one point."

Ten minutes later, Tom felt the desire to learn more about himself through Hermione.

He wanted to know what she knew about him, what she felt about him wholly. Besides terror and disdain, what was her analysis of Tom Riddle?

"When did he stop working at Borgin and Burkes?"

She paused the movie again and said, "You know, I've never been able to discuss the Dark Lord like this with anyone. So casually. Are you sure you're alright with talking about this? I mean, since..."

"I'm fine," he stated stoically, as she brushed a hand through her wild hair and took in her appearance-she was wearing a black t-shirt and pajama pants, he briefly wondered about her undergarments before refocusing on her.

She was staring at him. When his gaze seemed too intense, she looked away and spoke, "Well, I believe he took the job at Borgin and Burkes to start collecting rare magical objects and to also network with the sort of allies he'd needed at the time before he could start working at the Ministry. He could have done anything; he was brilliant. A true master of all, as I've read."

Tom nodded at her robotically as she looked at him, her admiration evident in her voice.

"You admired that?"

Her eyes widened. "I-w-what. No. How could I admire that?"

"I'm not judging you. You seem to be a woman of great academic pursuits," he pointed to several titles on her bookcase that were not Ministry-approved, or at least weren't in his time, and then continued, "It's alright to admire Lord Voldemort for his capabilities, his intelligence, for mastering magical feats or even political feats that should have been rendered impossible."

Hermione swallowed. "But he used his power. His intelligence wrongly. He could have done so much more."

"More?" He inquired scooting closer towards her, tilting his head as she looked at him intently and said, "Not more. That was the wrong word. He could have done better. He let his bigoted values poison his mind," she paused and then looked away, continuing, "Or maybe it was the Dark Magic. Who knows?"

Tom remained quiet, gently taking the wand from her hand and forcing the movie to play again.

He wasn't going to delve on that statement. Not verbally nor internally.

Throughout the film, he viewed Rick Blaine through the lens of his own ruthless ambition. He saw in Rick a man torn between personal desires and moral obligations, a weakness that Tom despised. Rick's acts of selflessness and sacrifice, particularly towards the end of the film, left Tom feeling a sense of disdain rather than admiration. To Tom, such acts were signs of weakness, a betrayal of one's own ambitions in favor of sentimentality.

As the credits rolled, Tom turned to Hermione, his mind buzzing with analysis. He saw in her a kindred spirit, someone with intellectual curiosity and a thirst for knowledge. Yet, he also sensed a naivety and idealism that frustrated him.

"Did you like the movie?" she asked.

He did not. At all.

Choosing to respond with another question, he inquired, "Is this one of your favorites?"

"Well, yes, one of them," she replied. "I find Rick's willingness to put aside his own desires for the greater good incredibly admirable. Despite his personal feelings for Ilsa, he ultimately prioritized the larger cause over his own happiness."

Genuinely curious, he asked, "Why would he sacrifice so much for others?"  

He also wondered what her other favorites could be and if she’d force him to watch those as well.

"I believe Rick recognized the importance of fighting against tyranny and injustice, even if it meant personal sacrifice," she explained. "He understood that sometimes, the needs of the many outweigh the desires of the few."

"Then you admire him for his selflessness then?" he inquired.

"Absolutely," she affirmed. "Rick's ability to make difficult choices and act with integrity, even in the face of danger, is something to be admired. It's a reminder that true heroism often lies in putting others before oneself."

He'd use and continue to use the world to shield himself and be immortal. In fact, he’d sacrificed anyone for this goal. He was nothing like Rick. But she was.

As he watched Hermione, a sense of curiosity and intrigue washed over him. What was it about her that allowed her to embrace such selflessness and compassion?

Why did he care to know?

Cedric Diggory's essence mixed in with his own was stirring up conflicting emotions within him, a sensation he found disconcerting.

Was he feeling?

Salazar.

Fuck.

No, he was just analyzing. This was all logical reasoning. This was a mental thing. It must have been. Yet, the nagging feeling persisted, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, challenging his carefully constructed facade of detachment and control.

Abruptly standing and eager to get away from Hermione as quickly as possible, he politely bid her goodnight and briskly walked to his room before she could respond. He found the cat sitting beside his bed, its gaze dark and intense.

The little beast eyed him back, and he felt a surge of frustration. He briefly entertained the idea of setting the cat on fire, but it remained unperturbed, observing him as if it held some secret knowledge.

Taking a deep breath, Tom pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and gestured towards the door with the other, commanding, "Get out."

The cat slowly walked out, leaving Tom alone in his room.

Closing the door gently, he leaned against it, trying to suppress the urge to growl in frustration.

His eyes flared red with confusion and anger.

He couldn't understand what was happening to him.

Why did he care about why Hermione felt or how she felt about things? She was a fucking mudblood.

A filthy, dirty plague.

And he’d made it his life, no, his immortal mission to rid the world of this plague…

Magic was might.

And magic did not belong to muggleborns or muggles.

Muggles should fear them.

Bow down to them.

Bow down to him.

Lord Voldemort.

***

"You're a spawn of Satan! You're going to hell!" Margaret screamed as she whipped his back, her words laced with venom. He lay on the ground, enduring the pain with a twisted smile.

"You sick and twisted evil child. You had no right stealing those other children's food!" she continued, her anger palpable.

As Margaret finally ceased her assault, he sat up, feeling the blood trickling down his back from the wounds inflicted by the metal pieces on the belt. Crossing his legs, he met her gaze defiantly and spoke, "You've told me I am the son of the devil since I was born. Perhaps it's you that's made me believe it to be true and why I act as such."

Her eyes widened in shock before she turned on her heel, delivering a harsh punishment. "No food for 2 days, and isolation until supper tomorrow," she declared, her voice cold and final.

With that, she slammed the door shut, leaving him alone in his room.

He glanced up at the cross hanging on the wall, bitterness gnawing at him until, as if by magic, it turned, mocking him.

He hadn't even wanted the food.

He had only thought about wanting it.

He had been so hungry... And then it disappeared from their plates onto his.

He was asleep, and the memory dissolved, leaving him running through the forbidden forest, his mind clouded with determination. The distant sounds of screams echoed through the trees, drawing him deeper into the darkness.

As he ran, he felt a surge of anticipation. Why was he in the forbidden forest? It mattered not. He embraced the opportunity to wield fear and control.

A young woman’s screams pierced the air, stirring a sense of excitement within him. Despite the unfamiliarity of the sound, he felt compelled to chase after it, his instincts guiding him forward with unwavering purpose.

Confusion etched his face as he looked down and saw that he was wearing his old Death Eater garbs, relics of his past conquests. The weight of the mask on his face only added to his sense of power.

Suddenly, he spotted wild curly hair up ahead. It was Hermione. She was running, fear etched on her face as she glanced back at him.

"Stop running!" he called out with authority. "It's just me!"

"Get away from me! I hate you!" she screamed back, her voice filled with terror and defiance.

"I know, but stop running!" he commanded, his voice dripping with dominance.

"No. You'll never catch me, Tom Riddle. Not ever!" she retorted, her defiance only fueling his determination.

He dissapparated into a black shadow, seamlessly blending with the darkness of the forest as he pursued her relentlessly. His voice echoed through the trees, calling out her name with chilling determination until he abruptly woke up, his senses assaulted by the sound of screaming.

Standing from his bed, Tom noticed the cat standing in front of the dresser, its gaze fixed on him. He couldn't help but feel a surge of irritation at the creature's presence.

"You and I do not actually need to get along. We only need to pretend," he muttered, his tone clipped as the cat hesitated at the door, as if beckoning him to follow.

Narrowing his eyes at the cat, Tom considered various ways to rid himself of the nuisance, but another scream pierced the air, distracting him. Without hesitation, the cat darted forward, prompting Tom to follow.

Hermione's screams grew louder as he approached her bedroom door. The cat wasted no time in leaping onto her bed, settling beside her. Tom stood on the other side of the bed, unsure of how to proceed.

He scratched his head, pondering his next move. Walking away seemed tempting, but the cat's intense gaze held him in place. Perhaps this was an opportunity to forge a connection, albeit a reluctant one.

Drawing on his past manipulations, Tom recognized that comforting others was a way to establish rapport. He swallowed hard as Hermione screamed again, feeling an unexpected flutter in his chest.

His heart... stopped?

What the fuck?

No, he wasn't genuinely worried. This was just... a strategy, he told himself as he sat beside her, his touch gentle as he rubbed her arm and whispered, "Hermione. Wake up. Hermione, you're just having a nightmare."

He continued to soothe her with circles on her arm, noting the furrow in her brows. Despite the urge to run his fingers through her wild hair, he resisted, his focus on calming her.

Finally, her auburn eyes fluttered open, reminding him of pools of honey as he gazed into them.

"C-Cedric?" she croaked out in a whisper, a single tear streaming down her face.

Tom nodded silently, his expression unreadable as he gently rubbed the tear away from her face, almost on instinct. He hadn't even paused to consider why he had touched her face or wiped away her tear.

As he moved to stand and leave, a feeling of unease creeping over him, she surprised him by sitting up and pulling him into a tight hug. He could feel the hardness of her nipples pressing against his chest, and he inhaled her scent, feeling a stir of arousal.

She smelled like ink and lavender, with an underlying scent that he couldn't quite identify.

Salazar, he thought, pushing the unwelcome thought aside.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," she whispered softly, her voice filled with genuine remorse.

His arms hung slack at his sides as she held him, but slowly, he wrapped them around her, making soothing circles with one hand on her back. "It's fine. You did not wake me. I was up already," he lied smoothly, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

She nodded, her eyes searching his as she pulled back slightly. "Please don't tell anyone about this," she pleaded, vulnerability evident in her voice.

"Of course not," he assured her, though his hand twitched involuntarily as he cupped her face gently, momentarily captivated by the intensity of her gaze. He couldn't help but wonder how she would look at him if he were closer, if he were on top of her, lost in her.

Suddenly dropping his hand, he took a step back. "I hope you're able to sleep better the rest of the night. I'll be in my room if you need me. Goodnight, Hermione," he said, his voice slightly strained.

"Goodnight, Cedric," he heard her call softly as he made his way to his room, his nerves betraying him as he ran a hand through his hair.

Once inside his room, he paused, torn by the thought of returning to hers. But shaking his head, he pushed the idea away and lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

As the sounds of joyful cries from the neighbors drifted through the walls, he found himself strangely unaffected, his mind consumed by thoughts of her.

"Hermione Granger," he whispered aloud to the empty room, the name hanging in the air like a secret.

As the melody of "Duke" reverberated through the apartment, he realized he couldn't shake the feeling that she was slowly unraveling something.

Perhaps him? It was unsettling to admit.

Chapter Text

HARRY POV

The wizard before him was about three years older than he and his other friends.

In fact, Drew had been homeschooled. His grandfather had been too afraid to send Drew to Hogwarts or any other wizarding school, having barely made it out alive in the first wizarding war in the 70s.

Drew's mother, a muggle, had been killed, and Drew's father, a heartbroken wizard, had died in a fight against the same forces that had taken his wife, serving as an Auror.

Harry only knew this because Hermione had shared it with him, Ron, and Ginny when she first started working closely with Drew. She had expressed admiration for Drew's resilience in continuing to aid those affected by both wars and mental health struggles, despite the tragic losses his family had endured.

She'd stated she'd met Drew's grandfather once and that she'd been surprised to learn Drew's grandfather had been a Slytherin and close friends with one Abraxas Malfoy.

Harry wondered if his grandfather had accepted Drew's father's choices before or after he'd been killed?

Death does that to people, you know.

It changes them.

He was changed.

They all were, but none admitted it to the others.

Well, he and Draco had sort of talked about it with each other, but not really.

Not like how Drew expected Harry to open up to him, Harry thought as he looked at the wizard, his mind healer sitting across from him. With a floating quill and parchment in front of him, they were fortunately not in a hospital room or an interview room, but in Drew's office at St. Mungo's Hospital.

"What's been bothering you, Harry? We've all been wondering when you'd come to see one of us. We're here to help. There's no shame in this room. Nothing you say to me will ever leave this office. Please, let us help."

Harry gulped and rubbed his scar. A headache was forming, and he felt frustrated after his trip to Azkaban. What a waste of time that had been. It must have been an animal or one of the guards that triggered the wards, as there had been no indication of anything wrong.

Touching those wards must have been what triggered the headache.

A headache he hadn't felt since...

He pushed the thought away and looked at Drew. "Is Hermione here today?"

Drew smiled genuinely at him. "When isn't she here?"

Harry shook his head. "She needs sleep."

Drew nodded in agreement. "That's what we all tell her, but you know her."

Harry sighed. "Yep. No stopping her."

Drew eyed him wearily and clasped his hand. "Tell me what ails you, Mr. Potter."

"Harry," Harry corrected him politely and looked down.

"Harry, you're stalling," Drew stated kindly.

Harry let out a frustrated grunt, removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. Finally, he began to articulate everything he'd been feeling in the last few days. "I feel guilty. I didn't try to save him. I didn't even check to see if he was dead or not. I left him behind. I should have taken his body... I should have made sure he was really gone. Instead, he was left in isolation. Torture, possibly? A prison for four years. Merlin, you should have seen the room he'd been kept in, it was vile. And I just feel so horrible and..." He paused as Drew gestured for him to continue, then spoke quietly, "I wish he never came back. I don't want to carry this guilt, this weight, this burden. I'm tired of bearing the weight of everything on my shoulders. I hate feeling like I'm the only one who can fix everything. That I need to help and save the world. And I don't even know if I trust him or who he is anymore. I barely knew him. What if he's not who or what I thought he was?"

Drew nodded and gently inquired, "Who was he to you?"

Harry widened his eyes, pondering the question before closing them tightly. "I - uh... I'm not sure. He was... someone I looked up to. Someone I admired. I wanted to be just like him." Harry swallowed and opened his eyes, admitting, "In fact, I'd been jealous of him. His life, his friends, his reputation. He seemed perfect and unburdened. Girls just threw themselves at him. He could just be famous for being him... not because he had a bloody scar on his face, or because his family had been murdered, and he'd been the boy who lived. You know?"

Drew looked at Harry with stoic understanding, kindness evident in his gaze. "You had every right to feel that way about Cedric. You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened to him. You need to remember, Harry Potter, you were a child. Despite that, you still saved the world. Be proud of what you accomplished. The world is grateful to you, but you don't need to save the world anymore. The Dark Lord is gone. It's time you lived your life. Be happy."

Harry shook his head. "It's not over yet."

"Isn't it?"

Looking down, Harry anxiously rubbed at his Auror uniform pants. "There are still parts of him out there."

Drew maintained his calm demeanor. "There are other Aurors in your department tasked with tracking down the rogue Death Eaters and any lingering dark artifacts. And it's just a job, Harry Potter. It won't make or break the world if you don't get them all."

Shaking his head wildly, Harry disagreed, "Won't it? What happens if one of these rogue Death Eaters rises into power the same way Voldemort did? What if these dark objects can aid in that? What if somehow a new Dark Lord arises?"

Drew nodded in understanding as the quill behind him wrote quickly on its own. "Ah, those are the key words, aren't they: What If? What If you weren't Harry Potter and I wasn't Drew Shafiq? What if I had been a skilled Quidditch player, perhaps I'd be a famous seeker on our International team. We can't sit and dwell on What Ifs. Life's not about What Ifs. You can't live life based on those. Can you?"

Sighing, Harry nodded. "I know you're right, Drew. It's just so hard not to be on edge all the time. Always wondering when everything is going to go back to how it was. I've been fighting since I was eleven years old. Well, since I was born, technically. I've never known peace."

Drew gave him an empathetic smile. "Learning to know it and accepting it, that's the challenge, isn't it?"

Harry bit his lip and glanced past Drew's desk, spotting a photo of him with a nurse he recognized from visiting Hermione. "Amanda, right?" he questioned.

Drew turned to see the photograph, then back to Harry with a smile. "Yes, it's been only a few months now, but I plan on proposing soon."

Harry returned the smile warmly. "Ginny and I are getting married in 8 weeks."

Drew nodded. "I'll be there."

"Bring Amanda," Harry insisted.

Drew nodded again before redirecting the conversation. "You're changing the subject again. If you can't get through these sessions with me, perhaps a certain curly-headed mind healer can assist," Drew teased, pretending to stand up.

Harry put his hands up in protest, shaking his head. "No!"

Thirty minutes later, they ended his first session, and Harry felt somewhat relieved. He had really gotten a lot off his chest, with no judgments, and his headache had subsided somewhat.

Before he rose from his chair to leave Drew's office, Harry asked, "Is it alright if I visit Cedric?"

Drew gave Harry an incredulous look before collecting himself. "Cedric was discharged this morning. He is no longer in the hospital."

Taken aback by this revelation, Harry sank back into his chair and queried, "Discharged? How? Where? So soon?"

The mind healer regarded Harry stoically. "I am not at liberty to reveal that information. If you're not privy to it, it's considered confidential. Mr. Diggory's safety is of utmost concern, and regardless of the fact that you're an Auror and Harry Potter, if it was kept from you, it must be for a good reason."

Now standing, Harry locked eyes with Drew. "I'd never put him in danger. Is he safe? When will I be able to speak with him? I think I should."

Drew rose as well, gesturing for Harry to remain calm. "Relax, Harry. He's safe. More than safe. His sponsor is a force to be reckoned with, and I doubt they will let anything happen to Mr. Diggory that would jeopardize his safety. You'll see Mr. Diggory on Monday. I take it you will be at the press release meeting at the Ministry?"

Harry nodded, rolling his eyes. "It's going to be a bloody circus."

Drew nodded sympathetically.

Leaving Drew's office, Harry spotted a nurse hurrying towards him down the hall. She smiled warmly at him.

"Oh my. Merlin. It's Harry Potter," she swooned.

Harry was used to attention like this from... well everyone.

Ginny was not fond of it, at all.

Especially when it came from other women.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Harry replied, "Yes. Have a good day now!"

He knew better than to stick around witches like this one.

She placed her hand on his chest. "My name's Anne. Some people call me Annie though. Well, most people. I take it you're very good friends with..." She lowered her voice and leaned closer. "Mr. Diggory."

Maintaining a stoic expression, Harry nodded and stepped back picturing Ginny's reaction and almost flinching at the thought. Sure she was inquiring about the elusive and famously handsome Cedric Diggory, but she'd also touched him.

Anne flashed him a wider smile. "Can you tell him that I said hello and to please give me a Floo call when you see him?"

Monday was going to be a complete shit-show. Cedric would most likely become the number one eligible bachelor soon enough.

Hopefully that meant he, Ron, and Draco were saved from that spot for at least a few weeks or months.

"Sure thing," Harry said tersely, bidding her goodbye before walking toward the nearest Apparition point.

Cedric Diggory, alive and well.

And well, he’d make sure of that fact.

He had been after all a “friend” at some point… even if they’d barely known each other then.

However, one thing still bothered him. The fact that the Ministry had tasked him with the seemingly impossible mission to find out why Cedric Diggory was kept alive in the first place... It didn't fit with Voldemort's M.O.

He didn't keep prisoners.

Not ever.

At least not that Harry knew of.

DRACO POV

Draco flashed Ginny an appreciative smile as she settled her tab and made her way out of the pub. Across from him sat a bewitching beauty, and he found himself oddly entranced by her.

"Your accent is quite lovely. Where are you from originally?" he inquired, his tone refined and curious.

The witch before him flashed a sly smile that he found dazzling. "My father is from Portugal, and my mother is actually from here," she replied.

"Here? Did your mother attend Hogwarts?" Draco asked, his interest piqued.

She responded with a polite half-nod.

Draco tilted his head, studying her features once more. She didn't resemble any of the witches or wizards he'd known. He tried to discern any familial resemblance but found none.

Sofia remained a mystery, one he intended to unravel and perhaps get closer to, intimately.

"And were you homeschooled?" he inquired further.

Sofia shook her head coyly as she sipped from her firewhiskey, neat, just as he drank it.

Draco watched intently as her lips touched the brim of the glass, finding himself swallowing reflexively as he observed her swallow the liquid.

Brushing her hair behind her shoulder, she stated, "I attended Beauxbatons Academy of Magic."

Taking in this new information, Draco nodded, licking his lips as he replied in French, "Je ne me souviens pas de t'avoir jamais rencontrée. Avez-vous assisté au tournoi des trois sorciers ?"

(I don't remember ever meeting you. Did you attend the Triwizard Tournament?)

"Je n'ai assisté qu'à l'événement final. J'étais trop studieux pour manquer les cours pour les autres événements," Sofia replied, her tone carrying a hint of pride in her dedication to her studies.

(I only attended for the final event. I was too studious to miss classes for any of the other events.)

Draco recalled the sea of faces at the crowded final event, realizing he hadn't had the opportunity to meet or notice Sofia among the hundreds and thousands of attendees. Although he wished he had, he expressed as much, saying, "J'aurais aimé avoir le plaisir de vous rencontrer à ce moment-là."

Sofia rolled her eyes at him, indicating that his usual charms were falling flat. If it hadn't been for Ginny befriending her and persuading her to join their table, Draco doubted he would have had the chance to speak to her alone at all.

Switching back to English, he asked, somewhat awkwardly, "How did you like it?"

Her answer was vague.

"The world changed that day. For myself and many others," Sofia replied cryptically, her words carrying a weight of significance.

Draco nodded stoically, his gaze lingering on her figure as she rose from her seat.

Following suit, he stood beside her. He didn’t want her to leave.

How could he make her stay?

But she didn’t seem to want to be away from him either,  "Walk me to my flat?" she requested.

Eyes wide with surprise, Draco nodded eagerly, inwardly chanting her name, Sofia, as they made their way through the streets.

Sofia.

Sofiaaaaa.

Salazar, beautiful Sofia.

Her flat was conveniently located just a few blocks away from his favorite pub—a fortuitous coincidence that did not escape his notice.

As they walked, Sofia engaged Draco in conversation about their respective magical schools, comparing their experiences and discussing similarities and differences.

He found her to be not just beautiful, but witty, eloquent, classy, and intelligent.

Despite the admiration and desire simmering within him, Draco couldn't ignore the uncomfortable sensation in his groin. His balls hurt—painful and achingly blue.

For the first time though, Draco found himself drawn to Sofia in a way that surpassed mere physical attraction. He didn't just want to bed her; he wanted to get to know her. Perhaps take her out to dinner?

The thought lingered in his mind as he pondered whether Sofia would accept his invitation.

When she asked about his Hogwarts house, Draco responded proudly with a sly smile, "Slytherin."

The best house to ever exist of course.

Minus the whole bigoted mass murderer’s thing. (That wasn’t too cool)

Arriving at her door, Draco stood tall, his hands in his trouser pockets, while Sofia stood before him, their gazes locked.

She tilted her head up, smiling at him with a feline-like allure that matched her eyes.

He imagined diving into them.

No he imagined devouring them.

Salazar, what was happening to him.

Pressing herself closer to him, Draco found himself losing the ability to breathe.

She’d seemed so uninterested before.

Too good for him.

And now,

With her full lips parting open, Sofia confessed, "I'd have probably been a Slytherin too if I'd gone to Hogwarts."

His heart did a summersault.

There was something swimming in his stomach.

Were those butterflies?

That was some idiotic crap Potter had told him about.

Butterflies!

He’d scoffed at the thought then.

Now, he wanted to smile widely.

Before Draco could react, the dazzling witch took hold of his collar, pulling him closer, and pressed her lips to his, they felt full and inviting and she smelled like firewhiskey, sin, and raspberries.

He loved all of those things.

Surprised at first, Draco soon yielded to her kiss, eagerly deepening it as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

Was this love?

No, it was too soon of course, but as he surrendered to the passion, Draco realized he had never felt such intense desire before—not with anyone, ever.

Snogging her in front of her flat for at least five minutes, they finally parted. Sofia stepped away from him, biting her lip and raising her brow. Her smile had his legs feeling wobbly as she said, “Send me an owl. You have my address now.”

With that, she sauntered inside and disappeared into her flat, closing the door behind her.

Draco watched her closed door for too long before he brushed a stray blonde lock from in front of his face and muttered, "Shit. I'm fucked."

HERMIONE POV

The smell of something sweet roused her from sleep.

It was a scent she hadn't encountered in years...

Sure, Molly Weasley was renowned for her culinary skills among the wizarding community. But that didn't mean she knew how to make all muggle dishes.

Cauldron Cakes were a delightful wizarding treat, but they were a far cry from pancakes.

And then there were waffles.

As she stretched on her bed, she yawned and breathed in the familiar scent.

Undoubtedly, waffles.

Muggle-style.

It was a distinctive aroma.

One she never expected to encounter if not for her own efforts.

Her parents remained in Australia, living under new aliases until the Ministry could allocate enough resources to study her oblivation spell.

It wasn't irreversible.

No, but it was perilous and required careful execution. If done improperly, she risked leaving them like Frank and Alice Longbottom.

Wincing at the thought and suppressing the emotions that surged whenever she considered her parents, she rose from her bed. Quickly making the bed, she headed to brush her teeth.

Afterward, she glanced at herself in the mirror, washed her face, and spent an unusually long time trying to tame the curls atop her head before heading into the kitchen.

She had never given much thought to her appearance before, but recently she found herself... caring.

Why?

Swallowing hard, she noticed a figure before her—a half-grin on his face, clad in dark pajama pants and a white v-neck tee, flipping Belgian waffles onto a plate.

"There you are," he stated.

"Here, I am," she replied, adding a courteous "Good Morning, Cedric."

"Good Morning, Hermione. Were you able to get some sleep?" Cedric inquired.

Nodding, she helped herself to a plate, grabbing the tray of butter and bottle of syrup that he had left out. Then, she prepared a plate for Cedric and walked over to the table, setting them both down as he followed and took a seat across from her.

"Thank you for, uh... last night," she said, feeling a bit awkward.

Stoic and composed, Cedric Diggory stood regally, exuding an aura of refinement. He nodded politely, arranging his fork and knife with precision. With deliberate movements, he spread the butter on his waffle evenly, ensuring perfection before carefully pouring syrup into each pocket.

Hermione observed his actions with a mixture of awe and bewilderment.

Perfectionist.

Meticulous.

Organized.

Charming, she thought? Cedric could probably commit some heinous atrocity and still manage to make it look charming.

That thought made her stare at his methodical way of eating even more.

"It's impolite to stare, Ms. Granger," Cedric remarked as he began to cut into his waffle with his fork and knife.

Looking somewhat grim, she flashed him a coy smile and corrected, "It's Hermione."

Cedric rolled his eyes in response as he took a bite of his waffle, chewed it thoughtfully, swallowed, and then wiped his mouth. Mimicking his actions, Hermione did the same before he spoke again, "My apologies, Hermione."

Raising a brow, she crossed her legs under the table and replied, "It's I who should apologize for staring, Cedric."

He raised an eyebrow and smoothly changed the subject. "Are you enjoying the waffles?"

Taking another bite, Hermione nodded. After swallowing, she added, "They're delicious. Thank you so much for making breakfast."

"I feel the need to remain useful," Cedric remarked.

"You don't have to cook and clean to be useful. We can share the burden of chores," Hermione insisted.

Cedric shrugged nonchalantly and joked, "You're the one working. What kind of flatmate would I be if I didn't contribute in the only way I could?"

***

After breakfast, Hermione assisted Cedric in the kitchen with cleaning up, expressing her gratitude once more for his culinary efforts. She noted with satisfaction that they worked well together as a team. Cedric meticulously washed the dishes and pots, while Hermione efficiently put away the ingredients. Standing beside him, she received each plate or pot he handed her as if it were a delicate artifact, their movements synchronized in a silent rhythm.

As they navigated the cleanup after breakfast, they tidied up the living room as well. Cedric wiped countertops and opened windows to let in the fresh air, while Hermione swept the floor and ensured that the pillows breathed freshness. Cedric's precise movements with the mop complemented Hermione's thorough sweeping, creating an almost choreographed routine.

It was akin to a dance—a seamless coordination of actions.

And they danced well together.

After completing their chores, they each retired to their respective bedrooms to shower and dress. Hermione emerged from her room and found Cedric standing in front of her door, while she knew that Crookshanks had likely sought refuge in his room.

For some reason, her familiar who disliked everyone but she, seemed to have taken a liking to Cedric.

Ron would be furious if he knew.

Luckily, she would not need to tell him and he refused to visit her flat while Cedric stayed with her so he'd be none the wiser to Crooks strange behavior.

Nor hers, she thought brushing away the guilty thought.

Crossing her arms, Hermione smiled mischievously at Cedric, who returned her look with a questioning expression.

"What's on the agenda for today, Hermione? Are you planning to torture me again with another romance movie?" Cedric quipped, raising an eyebrow.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione gestured for Cedric to follow her as she settled onto the couch, feeling giddy with excitement about the film she was about to show him. Cedric eyed her apprehensively, as she took in her casual attire of blue jeans and a t-shirt, contrasting with his own more formal attire of dark black trousers, a blue button-up shirt, and loafers.

She briefly considered changing into something more formal but dismissed the thought—after all, this was a lazy Sunday meant for staying indoors.

As Hermione set up the TV, she couldn't help but notice Cedric's contentment with his attire. He seemed perfectly at ease in his clothes, effortlessly handsome in a way that made her heart skip a beat.

Quickly brushing aside the thought, she settled onto the couch, positioning herself slightly closer to Cedric than she normally would.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione stole glances at Cedric, feeling a subtle tension building between them.

He eyed her back. 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she silently thanked Merlin that her hair was down, hoping to conceal any signs of her blush.

Hastily looking away, she tried to hide her embarrassment.

Cedric gracefully scooted closer to Hermione, a movement so subtle yet deliberate that it sent a rush of anticipation through her.

With practiced ease, he reached for the blanket she kept under the couch, draping it generously over them both. Hermione felt a flutter in her chest as she realized they were now sharing the same blanket, mere inches apart.

Suppressing her nervousness, Hermione reached for her wand and used it to manipulate the TV, setting it to play the DVD she had prepared.

As the familiar tune of music from the film filled the room, she stole a glance at Cedric, who was watching the screen intently.

Unexpectedly, Cedric turned towards her with a straight face, his demeanor giving the impression that he might be slightly disturbed by the prospect of watching the film.

His tone, though sophisticated, carried a hint of playful disdain as he quipped, "Are you forcing me to watch Star Wars with you?"

Chapter Text

HERMIONE POV

Star Wars: A New Hope, released in 1977, held a special place in the hearts of Hermione and Harry. They were captivated by its adventurous spirit, iconic characters, and epic battles between the forces of good and evil.

For them, it represented a timeless tale of heroism and hope in the face of darkness.

However, Ron, on the other hand, didn't share their enthusiasm. He couldn't quite grasp the appeal of the sci-fi genre and found the idea of entire galaxies and space battles to be utterly preposterous. Ron's scepticism often led to lively debates with Hermione and Harry, who tried their best to convince him of the movie's merits.

Despite Ron's disinterest, "Star Wars" remained a cherished part of Hermione and Harry's shared experiences, a source of inspiration and imagination that fueled their own adventures at Hogwarts. And while Ron may not have appreciated the galaxy far, far away, he nonetheless respected his friends' passion for it, even if he couldn't quite understand it himself.

As Hermione watched "Star Wars: A New Hope," Cedric's snarky comment about a "galactic Harry Potter" elicited a smirk from her.

The comparison Cedric drew between Harry and Luke Skywalker amused Hermione. Both were courageous protagonists thrust into epic battles against dark forces, and she couldn't deny the parallels.

Lost in thought, Hermione pondered her own role in this hypothetical scenario. If Harry were Luke, then was she Princess Leia, the strong-willed and resourceful leader of the Rebel Alliance?

Glancing at the TV as the movie played, Hermione considered the absence of Ron. Would he be akin to Han Solo, the charming and daring smuggler?

While Han Solo was known for his roguish charm and swashbuckling bravado, Ron's personality leaned more towards loyalty and humor rather than the smooth-talking confidence of Solo.

Ron was fiercely loyal to his friends and often displayed a down-to-earth pragmatism that contrasted with Solo's more impulsive nature. Unlike Han, Ron wasn't motivated by personal gain or adventure; instead, his actions were driven by a sense of duty and a desire to do what was right, especially when it came to supporting Harry in their fight against Voldemort.

Glancing sideways at Cedric, Hermione noticed the rapt expression on his face as he absorbed every moment of the film.

When the credits rolled and the lights came back on, she turned towards him, catching his eye as he slowly turned his head towards her.

Before Hermione could ask Cedric if he had enjoyed the movie, he beat her to it with a question of his own. "Do you have the next one?" His eagerness mirrored her own anticipation, and she nodded in response. "I do."

As Cedric rose from his seat and made his way towards the window, Hermione followed his movements curiously. She watched as he retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket, deftly extracting one and balancing it between his lips.

Her awe deepened as Cedric lit the cigarette wandlessly, a display of magic that left her momentarily speechless. "I see your magic is getting stronger?" she remarked, a hint of admiration in her voice.

Cedric chuckled, revealing his bare wrists as he gestured towards them. "It helps that the magical cuff was removed," he explained, a sense of liberation evident in his words.

Her face contorted in sympathy. "It was just policy. You can use my wand if you want until we get you your own."

Observing him use it before, like when he had to unmute the TV, Hermione wondered how it felt for him. Did her wand fight him? Wands were temperamental and tended to be loyal to their owners.

The sharing of wands was also considered intimate in pureblood society, and she wondered if he considered that. She, herself didn't dwell too much on it. During the war, using different wands had been necessary.

For a while, she'd used Bellatrix Lestrange's wand, which was hidden in Harry's private vault at Grimmauld Place, until Draco had returned her own wand shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts.

Passing her wand to him, Hermione watched in awe as Cedric deftly flipped and twirled it in his free hand, his movements fluid and graceful. With his other hand, he inhaled a puff of his cigarette, the tendrils of smoke swirling around him, casting an almost ethereal glow. His lips dragged onto the bud of the cigarette in a gesture that seemed almost sensual, causing Hermione to swallow nervously as she observed.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, Cedric performed a charm spell, and to Hermione's astonishment, moths began to flutter around her. She watched, wide-eyed, as the moths transformed before her eyes, their dull wings shimmering into vibrant hues of gold. And then, as if by magic - which it was, Hermione reminded herself incredulously - the moths underwent another transformation, morphing into beautiful butterflies of various colors.

One of the butterflies gently alighted on Hermione's outstretched hand, its delicate wings pulsating with intricate patterns. She marveled at the lifelike detail of the creature, feeling a sense of wonder and disbelief wash over her. It was incredibly realistic, so much so that Hermione found herself questioning the boundaries of magic itself. After all, creating insects from thin air wasn't supposed to be possible, was it?

Eager to examine the enchanting butterfly more closely, Hermione reached out to touch it. But before her fingers could make contact, Cedric withdrew the spell, and the butterflies vanished into thin air, leaving Hermione momentarily stunned by the fleeting magic that had unfolded before her.

"That was... beautiful," Hermione breathed, her eyes lingering on Cedric as he gave her a crooked smile that sent her heart aflutter.

As Cedric handed her wand back to her, she seized the opportunity to inquire, "How does it feel using a wand again? Is mine cooperating with you?"

For a moment, Cedric appeared lost in thought, his gaze fixated on the wand in his hand as if pondering something profound.

Then, with a slight shake of his head, he seemed to refocus on Hermione, handing her the wand with a grateful nod. "It works well. Thank you," he replied evenly.

Standing up, Hermione made her way to the DVD player to insert the next disc, "Star Wars: Attack of the Clones." Cedric remained on the couch, but this time he positioned himself much closer to where she was sitting, causing Hermione to gulp nervously.

Setting the DVD to play, Hermione realized she needed to find her remote so she could stop using her wand as a substitute. Despite the proximity to Cedric, she settled back into her spot, wrapping herself in a blanket. To her surprise, Cedric, in the most refined and polite manner, covered his lap with the remainder of the blanket.

"Isn't it utterly incredible what humanity's mind can create? Muggle or magical," Hermione mused aloud as the movie began to play. Cedric nodded beside her, though he avoided meeting her gaze.

Feeling a surge of boldness and just musing aloud, Hermione continued, "Imagine what the world would be like if muggles and wizards combined their knowledge. Had the Dark Lord thought to do that, then that would be something to fear indeed."

Why did she feel so comfortable around Cedric to be able to speak so freely?

Cedric's head snapped towards her, his eyes flashing with intensity before a mischievous smile spread across his features. "Indeed," he agreed, his tone laced with a hint of intrigue.

***

Forty minutes into the movie, the cries from Hermione's upstairs neighbors broke through the air, their excitement seeping into the room.

Feeling a flush of embarrassment, Hermione sank deeper into the couch, stealing a sideways glance at Cedric.

His gaze met hers, and before she could even consider protesting - unsure if she even wanted to - he casually draped his arm along the back of the couch, almost encircling her.

He didn’t seem to mind her neighbors’ passionate cries.

And she suddenly felt heat all over her body.

Hermione's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat. She found herself momentarily lost in uncertainty, unable to decipher her own feelings.

Merlin, she thought, it shouldn't be possible for someone this good-looking to exist, let alone be right beside her, stirring strange sensations within her.

Desire, perhaps?

But she couldn't dwell on it, not when she was in a relationship.

A relationship with one of her best friends. Ron would surely have some choice words about this situation.

Yet, hadn't sponsoring Cedric been the right thing to do?

After all, they were just temporary flat mates enjoying a movie together, weren't they?

Somewhere along the line, as the tension between them simmered beneath the surface and the movie almost met it's climax, Hermione let out a gasp.

Glancing up, she found herself locking eyes with Cedric, his face mere inches from hers. His dark gaze bore into hers, and she intimately noticed the way his long lashes framed his intense stare.

Her heart seemed to stall as he leaned in closer, his lips hovering mere centimeters from hers.

Just as the air crackled with anticipation, a sudden knock on Hermione's door shattered the moment.

What in Merlin's sake was that?

Startled and grateful for the distraction, she quickly turned away, hastily removing the blanket draped around her as she stood.

Brushing her hair back nervously, she hurried towards the door, Cedric rising to his feet beside her, his presence somehow protective and reassuring.

Opening the door, Hermione noted Cedric stiffen beside her, but she couldn't contain her grin as she spotted round-rimmed glasses, an electric bolt scar, and familiar green eyes.

"Harry!" she greeted him cheerfully.

"Hey Mione!" Harry replied with equal enthusiasm. His gaze shifted past her, and Hermione saw a flicker of disappointment cross his face, though he made an effort to maintain his cheerful demeanor. He took note of Cedric standing beside her, his height making him tower over Hermione.

"I'd almost thought Ron was delirious this morning," Harry informed Hermione as she stepped back, allowing him to enter. Cedric remained standing stoically, giving Harry a once-over as if they were strangers.

Harry nodded politely to Cedric. "Hey, Mate, how are you?"

Cedric replied with a half nod before stepping aside to join Hermione. "Doing well."

As Harry moved towards the table and took a seat, Hermione shut the door behind them. She couldn't help but notice Cedric's reluctance to approach Harry, finding it odd that he remained standing until she had gestured for him to join them.

There seemed to be a palpable tension in the air, or perhaps Hermione was simply imagining it? Harry made an attempt to lighten the mood, though his smile appeared forced as he turned to Cedric.

"How are you adjusting?" Harry inquired.

Cedric's response was curt but polite. "Well."

Harry continued, his tone casual. "Hermione being a good hostess?"

Cedric's lips quirked in a faint smile. "The best."

"And has the cat tried to scratch you yet?" Harry pressed, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Cedric's reply was met with a chuckle. "He seems to be quite fond of me."

Hermione intervened with a cough, drawing their attention. She turned to Harry, her expression curious. "What brings you here, Harry? You mentioned Ron let you know about this?"

Harry glanced at her and nodded. "Yes, although I'm unsure why you weren't the one to tell me?"

Hermione clasped and folded her hands on the table, meeting Harry's gaze directly. "It was last minute," she explained calmly, her demeanor poised despite the underlying tension in the room.

"I still think I'd had a right to know sooner," Harry stated with a hint of annoyance, his brows furrowing in concern.

Hermione sighed, feeling the weight of Harry's disapproval. She turned to Cedric with a regretful expression. "Cedric, can you excuse us for a moment?"

With a nod, Cedric rose from his seat, his gaze avoiding Harry's as he made his way to his room. Hermione paused the movie with her wand, the room falling into a temporary silence as Cedric retreated and Crookshanks emerged from his hiding spot in Cedric's room, trotting into the kitchen area.

Harry's incredulous stare followed the cat's movements before returning to Hermione. "Crookshanks hasn't tried to scratch or bite him?"

Hermione shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I think they've reached some sort of understanding."

Harry scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Ron's a right mess about this. I mean, I get why you did it. I was about to volunteer myself, but I would have had to talk to Ginny and Ron about it first. Why didn't you discuss this with me? This is a lot of responsibility, Hermione."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione drummed her right hand on the table, frustration evident in her voice. "I know, I just needed to do it. You know it's what was right. He didn't, well, doesn't have anyone. It's just us. His father is gone. He has no other family."

Harry nodded in understanding. "Yes, us. As in all of us. You don't need to do this alone. Do you need help paying for anything?"

Hermione shook her head, her resolve firm. "No, no. The Ministry gave me a bit of money to buy him clothes, for food, and to take him shopping for whatever he needs after the press release on Monday. We are fine here. I promise."

Harry scratched his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his features as he leaned back in his chair. "I want to speak with him alone. Is that alright?"

Hermione studied Harry for a moment, assessing his intentions, before nodding. "He's not a child, Harry. He's a grown man and can make his own decisions. Let me ask him if he wants to speak with you. Is that alright?"

Harry agreed with a nod as Hermione rose from her seat and made her way to Cedric's room. She knocked on the door twice before Cedric opened it, allowing her to step inside. As she closed the bedroom door behind her, she regarded Cedric with empathy.

"Harry would like to speak to you in private. Do you think you'd be alright with that?" she asked gently.

Cedric responded with an impatient look, crossing his arms and raising a brow. "I think I can manage. I have no qualms against the Boy Who Lived," he said, his tone a little terse.

Hermione brushed off his tone...and thought sadly, Because you'd been the boy who hadn't, apparently, at least to the world.

At least now he'd probably be labeled "The boy who'd survived."

Although he was no longer a boy.

He was a very real, very mysterious, charming, intelligent, and handsome man.

***

TOM POV

Controlled rage filled Tom as he briskly walked to the table in the kitchen, while Hermione headed off into her bedroom. Pulling out a chair for himself, he sat down and, without bothering to check if the window was open, took out a cigarette and lit it in front of Harry fucking Potter, wandlessly.

This was the boy who'd made his life the equivalent of a muggle living hell for years.

This was the boy who'd been born just to destroy him.

This was the boy he'd vowed to kill.

And yet, he couldn't.

Not yet.

Harry seemed to be grappling with his own inner turmoil as Tom inhaled a drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling lazily around him. Impatiently, he stated, "Out with it, Potter."

Running a hand through his wild hair, Tom's memory flashed before his eyes as he remembered another Potter with similar hair.

Unruly black locks, though not the same eyes. No, those eyes had belonged to his mother.

In that moment, faces of his past victims flickered through his mind like unsettling apparitions, stirring a disquieting unease within him.

A man's desperate cries, urging his wife to flee with their baby.

A woman's anguished pleas, calling out for her husband.

The heart-wrenching sobs of an innocent child.

For fucks sake?

What was this?

Tom's free hand trembled involuntarily, a subtle tremor that betrayed the turbulence within him.

Swiftly, he concealed it under the table, his facade of composure intact as Harry finally spoke.

"I-um. I am here to apologize to you, Cedric."

Tom took another drag of his cigarette, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at Harry's perpetual sense of martyrdom.

This entire situation was ridiculous.

"For what exactly?" he asked, his tone tinged with thinly veiled annoyance.

Nervously, Harry tapped on the table, his expression etched with pain as he struggled to find the right words. "For not saving you. For leaving you behind. It's my fault tha-"

Tom raised his hand, still holding his cigarette, halting the sympathetic spew of bullshit that Harry was about to unleash. "None of it was your fault. Lord Voldemort would have done what he wanted regardless. If you require forgiveness from me, then you're forgiven, Potter."

Harry's throat bobbed as he nodded, his eyes reflecting gratitude. "You call him Lord Voldemort?"

That was my name, wasn’t it?

That whole "He who must not be named" motto had been ridiculous. Well, up until he placed a curse on his name, just feeding into the fears of the populace. They'd presented the opportunity by tabooing his name before he'd even done it magically.

For a moment, Tom's composure wavered, and he rolled his eyes. "That's what the wretched elf called him. And it's what I'll continue to call my captor."

Nodding in understanding, Harry gave him a meek smile before posing another question. "Any idea why you're still alive?"

Tom shrugged nonchalantly, taking another drag of his cigarette. "None," he lied.

Cedric is dead, Potter, and soon you'll be too.

Is your scar burning again yet?

Having any headaches?

***

To his utter and complete dismay, Hermione extended an invitation to Potter to finish the rest of the movie with them. And to Tom's disbelief, Potter had agreed without hesitation. He even settled himself in the middle of them, disrupting Tom's carefully planned seating arrangement.

Tom crossed his legs and hugged the end of the couch tightly, ensuring there was no chance of accidental contact with the boy. As the movie played, he began reminiscing about earlier when he had sat beside Hermione, observing her closely—her breathing, the way her eyes lit up, the subtle shifts in her expressions.

Now, he forced himself to focus solely on the movie.

And not killing Harry Potter.

Or Hermione for being his friend.

And her beast of a cat, even if it did seem to suddenly take a liking to him.

In that order.

He'd never admit it to anyone, but he... was somewhat fond of the films.

Darth Vader, in particular, intrigued him with his complex character arc.

Finally, when the movie concluded, Harry bid them a polite goodbye and thankfully left, relieving Tom of the discomfort of his presence.

They played wizarding chess, a game Tom had assumed he was taking easy on her. However, as they played on, he began to notice Hermione's strategic prowess.

It dawned on him that perhaps she had been going easy on them too. When they both acknowledged their lack of effort and began to strategize in earnest, Tom felt a surge of frustration. He nearly stood in rage, tempted to overturn the chessboard when Hermione nearly had him in checkmate.

Of course, he ultimately emerged victorious. Even without delving into her mind to read her thoughts, he had been studying her face, learning her tells.

Salazar, the witch was brilliant.

He hated it.

He hated her, he repeated to himself like a mantra, though deep down, a begrudging admiration lingered.

They sat together, engrossed in their copies of "Hogwarts: A History," Cedric noting the differences between their editions. With a small exchange, they continued their reading in companionable silence, the pages of the ancient tome whispering tales of wizarding lore.

As Hermione rose to prepare lunch, Cedric looked up from his book, a playful glint in his eye. "Don't get up and follow me," she instructed, her tone firm yet laced with a hint of amusement. "I am going to make us lunch. Don't attempt to help me, please."

With a teasing smile, Cedric lowered his book slightly, acknowledging her request with a nod before returning to his reading.

He watched her sway and move and admired her behind and inwardly growled.

Thirty minutes later, they gathered at the kitchen table, their appetites whetted by the tantalizing aromas wafting from the stove.

With a flourish, Hermione presented a delectable spread of paninis and pumpkin juice, each dish crafted with care.

Cedric's eyes widened in surprise as he discovered a delightful raspberry glaze adorning his panini—a delicious twist he hadn't anticipated. Savoring the unexpected burst of flavor, he indulged in his meal with relish, expressing his gratitude to Hermione between bites.

Observing her culinary prowess, Cedric marveled at Hermione's versatility. Cooking, magic, knowledge—truly, was there anything she couldn't do?

The mudblood was doing something to him and he did not like it.

Not in the slightest.

This charade needed to end soon.

Or…

Well, he wasn’t too sure what would happen.

That was a foreign feeling to him.

Being unsure.

Feeling unsure?

They watched the final movie together on the couch.

As Hermione drifted into slumber, her head found an unintended resting place upon Cedric's lap.

Her breathing was even, and she looked…

Beautiful.

A jolt of unexpected arousal surged through him at the intimacy of the gesture, igniting a cascade of conflicting emotions within him.

Swallowing hard, Cedric fought to steady his racing thoughts, his gaze fixated on Hermione's peaceful visage.

With a gentle touch, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her soft skin.

In that moment, he found himself captivated by her vulnerability, her delicate features illuminated by the soft glow of the TV screen.

But beneath the surface of his admiration lurked a darker impulse—a primal desire to claim her as his own.

He wrestled with the unfamiliar sensation, his mind grappling with the implications of his newfound craving.

It defied everything he had once believed, challenging the very essence of his identity.

Yet, as he gazed upon Hermione, a relentless determination began to stir within him.

He would possess her, he vowed, his resolve unyielding.

For Lord Voldemort, acquisition was second nature—a conquest to be pursued at any cost. And Hermione Granger would be no exception.

In his mind, she became another artifact, another treasure to be coveted and claimed.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine, mingling with the arousal that pulsed through him.

The details of how remained uncertain, shrouded in the shadows of his burgeoning obsession.

But one thing was made clear just right then and there—his pursuit of Hermione would stop at nothing until she was his, body and soul.

***

Tom Riddle stood before the mirror in Hermione's loft, his reflection revealing a man exuding an aura of refinement and confidence. Despite his impeccable appearance, a slight furrow creased his brow as he struggled with the alignment of his tie.

Frustration simmered beneath his calm exterior as he attempted to rectify the imperfection.

Two failed attempts later, he contemplated resorting to magic, but quickly dismissed the notion. Adjusting a tie should not require such measures, even for a wizard of his caliber.

As he prepared to make yet another futile attempt, a soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

Turning, Tom's gaze fell upon Hermione, her figure adorned in a form-fitting blue chiffon dress that accentuated her curves.

"Do you need some assistance with that?" she inquired, her tone gentle yet laced with a hint of amusement.

He tilted his head slightly, considering her offer. "Assistance would be appreciated," he conceded, his voice smooth and composed.

Hermione stepped into the bathroom, her movements graceful as she approached him. With practiced ease, she reached out to adjust his tie, her fingers deftly arranging the fabric until it lay perfectly against his crisp white shirt.

"There," she murmured, her breath warm against his neck as she stepped back to admire her handiwork. "Perfection."

Tom's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his dark eyes. "Thank you," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Salazar, she was perfection.

A rare collectible item.

Life seemed to unfold according to destiny, and if his return had been preordained, then surely his encounter with her held significance beyond mere chance.

He couldn't shake the feeling that she was meant to be his, a possession to be coveted and claimed.

And there lay the complexity: she had no inkling that he was the very monster she had fled and fought against for nearly her entire life. He likely still haunted her nightmares, a specter of darkness lurking in the recesses of her mind.

But such trivialities mattered little in the grand scheme of his ambitions.

Despite her lineage and the tainted blood that flowed through her veins, Hermione Granger he had decided was destined to be his.

Extending his arm towards hers in a manner reminiscent of escorting her to a ball, he awaited patiently as she regarded him with a curious look, uncertain of his gesture's intent. However, she seemed to decide that appearing on his arm at the Minister's was acceptable, as she looped her arm through his, and they made their way towards her fireplace. What did she have to worry about? Perhaps the scrutiny of the press.

Good, let them see.

Let the world see that she belonged to him.

She might not realize it yet, but he certainly did.

He had decreed it, and so it would be.

As she tossed the floo powder into the fireplace, Hermione looked up at Cedric and inquired, "Are you sure you're ready? We can postpone it."

"I'm fine, Ms. Granger. I'm fully prepared for this."

"Hermione," she reminded him, rolling her eyes. She had already learned that he only referred to her by her surname to provoke her. He smiled slyly as she called into the fireplace, "Minister Shacklebot's Private Office at the Ministry of Magic," before they both stepped in and disappeared.

Stepping out of the fireplace with Hermione in his arm, Tom looked around the Minister's large office and perked a brow.

It had changed.

The decor was... different.

Newer.

It had been years since he'd set foot in the Minister of Magic's private office and it had undergone a drastic change.

A drastic one indeed, he thought as Hermione and he approached the large oak desk where Kingsley Shacklebolt sat.

A traitor to his own kind, Tom thought as he flashed the minister a crooked yet friendly smile.

He was going to take great pleasure in removing Shaklebot as Minister of Magic.

There were no reporters present, indicating that this plan had likely been orchestrated well in advance. Hermione's loft probably held the private Floo connection to the Minister's office specifically only for this occasion.

The Minister approached Tom and shook his hand. "Cedric Diggory. A pleasure to see you. You look well."

Tom nodded politely in acquiescence before turning his attention to the indication that someone else had entered the office.

Behind them stood John Dawlish and he was holding the door open for other aurors to enter.

Remaining stoic, Tom watched in silent amusement as Harry Potter, His Godson's son Draco Malfoy entered, a redhead that seemed familiar, a darker skinned wizard, and then a short dark haired female. Tom acknowledged their presence, though internally he felt nothing but disdain for their insignificance compared to his own power.

Hermione greeted them all by their first names, and Tom quickly learned that the darker-skinned wizard was named Martin and the female was named DesiAnn.

As he observed the group, his eyes narrowed imperceptibly behind his mask of calm.

The sight of the redhead approaching Hermione, his mudblood, ignited a surge of dark rage within him. His not-so-dead heart, a mere vessel for his consuming anger and possessiveness, seemed to pulse with a twisted intensity.

Tom's thoughts were consumed by the image of Hermione being touched by another, a feeling foreign to him yet overpowering in its intensity. He couldn't comprehend the complexities of emotions like love or affection, but the primal instincts of jealousy and fury surged through him unchecked.

Hermione pushed the redhead toward Tom, her voice carrying a sharp edge as she whispered, "Ron, say hello to Cedric."

Ron?

Weasley.

Ronald Weasley, the other third of their ridiculous "Golden Trio." Potter's hapless friend from the infamous blood-traitor house of Weasley.

Of fucking course.

This was the wizard she was dating?

His perfect treasure, dating a Weasley?

But why...

The freckle-faced redhead extended his hand out to Tom politely and said, "How's it going, mate?"

Tom stared at his outstretched hand, feeling an unwelcome surge of annoyance at the casualness of the gesture. Hermione shot him a pointed look, silently urging him to comply with the social niceties.

Reluctantly, he obliged, though internally seething at the unexpected breach of his carefully crafted demeanor. Maintaining his facade of indifference, he begrudgingly reached out and shook the Weasley's hand fighting the urge to singe or break it.

“Doing well,” was the only response he could manage.

As soon as the handshake was over, he discreetly wiped his hand on his trousers and muttered a cleansing spell, eager to rid himself of any lingering contamination.

No one noticed, as Dawlish was deep into briefing them all on the security measures instated for the remainder of the morning, both before and after the press release.

Apparently, Lucius' son and the darker-skinned wizard, Martin, were assigned to escort him to any public places throughout the week.

The notion irked him to no end. He didn't require babysitters, for fucks sake.

In fact, they needed babysitting.

They needed to be guarded from him!

And the following week, it would be DesiAnn and the Weasley.

Which meant he'd have to endure an entire week of watching Hermione and her less-than-worthy boyfriend engage in romantic gestures that he found utterly revolting. He'd have to resist the urge to murder him,

Slowly and painfully.

Oh, how he'd take great pleasure in killing the vile specimen that had touched his treasure. He'd be rid of him soon somehow, he mused. 

The week after that, it would be Potter alone.

Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had vanquished Lord Voldemort. Why would he need a partner to accompany the seemingly docile and harmless Cedric Diggory?

Tom Riddle suppressed the urge to cackle loudly at the absurdity of the situation as all the aurors, except Dawlish, politely bid their farewells, leaving only him, the minister, Dawlish, and Hermione in the minister's office.

Sitting across from the minister at his desk, Hermione sat beside him, smiling encouragingly as Dawlish stood beside Shacklebolt, staring at Tom suspiciously.

He seemed to be the only one competent enough to suspect anything, Tom mused, half-amused, as Shacklebolt took out a parchment and pushed it towards Tom, stating gravely, "When your father passed, he asked for his estate and all his fortune to be donated to assist those who may one day survive the war. Your vault is empty, Mr. Diggory. The only legacy your family has left is," he paused and looked at Hermione, who nodded as if telling the minister it was fine for him to continue, "A noble house seat on the Wizengamot. The Diggory seat."

Tom pretended to be surprised, and then an expression of remorse crossed his handsome features as he looked at Hermione, who predictably reached out her hand and took his in hers, squeezing it gently.

Ignoring the reaction his body solicited from her touch, he focused on the task at hand.

He then turned towards the minister and asked, "What does that mean exactly?"

He knew exactly what it meant, but this was, after all, a part he needed to play.

And he'd play it well.

The brave and hapless Hufflepuff Cedric Diggory, back from the dead, penniless but still as sharp, intelligent, and charming...would have power and influence.

"Well, as you may be aware, the Wizengamot holds sway over all legal affairs, legislative matters, and court proceedings within Wizarding Britain," Shacklbot began, elucidating the significance of this esteemed institution. "As a member of a noble house seat, you would join a select group of wizards and witches entrusted with the weighty responsibility of adjudicating various magical legal cases, including those of grave importance."

Shacklbot paused, acknowledging the gravity of the role. "It's worth noting that navigating the intricacies of law requires some training, as it's a complex and nuanced field. However, the position is yours for the taking, should you deem it fitting. We can arrange for your induction to commence in as soon as two to three weeks," Shacklbot added, casting a glance towards Hermione. "That is, of course, if your mindhealer approves of such a course of action."

Hermione affirmed with a nod, her confidence evident in her demeanor. "I've already consulted with my team, and based on my observations as well as those of others, Cedric's mental state appears stable, and he seems fully equipped to embrace this opportunity," she asserted, her smile directed warmly at Tom. "The choice, Cedric, is entirely yours to make."

Tom feigned contemplation, relishing the tension that hung in the air as all eyes turned expectantly towards him.

After a moment of theatrical silence, he nonchalantly moistened his lips before reclining back in his seat, crossing his legs, and intertwining his fingers in front of him.

"I would be deeply honored," he declared with measured solemnity, "to accept the esteemed position of the Noble house seat of Diggory."

A feathered quill was presented to Tom, its tip poised over the parchment laid out before him. With a sense of purpose, he leaned in to peruse the document, recognizing it as a contract outlining the terms of his acceptance. Among the clauses were the customary provisions: hereditary rights, a testament to the entrenched tradition of passing noble house seats down through pureblood lines; a stipulated salary, accompanying benefits, and stringent security protocols.

As Tom scanned the contents, his mind effortlessly navigated through the legal jargon, each clause confirming his meticulous preparation for this momentous occasion. Here lay the fruition of his strategic foresight, an opportunity he had long foreseen and meticulously planned for.

With the terms duly noted and deemed satisfactory, all that remained for Tom to formalize his ascent was to affix his signature upon the parchment.

Tom's hand moved with deliberate grace, signing the name "Cedric Diggory" onto the parchment before him.

With a decisive motion, he set the quill aside, his gaze lifting to meet Hermione's wide smile. "Think of all the good you can do now," she encouraged, her optimism palpable.

Suppressing a smirk, Tom responded with a calculated charm, flashing Hermione a sly, crooked smile before nodding in agreement.

If she only knew...

As they rose from their seats, the minister extended his hand in welcome, a gesture mirrored by Dawlish. "Welcome to the ministry, Mr. Diggory," Dawlish intoned, though a subtle weariness tinged his voice.

The notion of delving into Dawlish's mind flickered briefly in Tom's thoughts, but he dismissed it; there were more pressing matters at hand.

With a graceful pivot, he allowed Shacklbot to lead the way, escorting him and Hermione from the minister's office, Dawlish trailing a few paces behind.

Stopping in a smaller office adjacent to the main chamber, Shacklebolt pivoted to face Tom and Hermione, his tone serious yet composed. "Wait here," he instructed, his gaze lingering on Hermione, "I'm about to make the announcement. You'll hear it. When I do," he gestured towards the opposite door, "Escort Cedric out to the podium. I'll be waiting, and Dawlish will be right behind you. Malfoy is stationed at the podium, with Potter nearby, and twenty other Aurors are strategically positioned throughout. While we anticipate no trouble, the public's reaction to such a sensitive matter is unpredictable," he explained, his gaze shifting to Tom, seeking understanding. "We don't expect you to speak, just greet the crowd. Don't entertain any questions, and we'll ensure a safe escort out. Does that sound agreeable?" Shacklebolt concluded.

Both Tom and Hermione nodded in assent.

As they waited, Tom took a moment to meticulously adjust his attire, ensuring his robes hung impeccably over the tailored suit and tie he wore underneath. With a final flick to brush away imaginary lint from his shoulders, he stood ready, composed and prepared for the imminent public appearance.

Moments later, Kingsley Shacklebolt's commanding voice reverberated throughout the entirety of the Ministry. Tom stood poised, aware that beyond the door awaited a crowd of reporters, Ministry officials, and local witches and wizards who had secured reservations for the press release announced in the paper.

As Shacklebolt's voice faded into the background, Tom's attention shifted to Hermione, who nervously massaged her own arm. Sensing her apprehension, he instinctively wrapped his arm around hers, gently soothing the tension with comforting circles. "Don't be nervous," he reassured her softly.

Hermione chuckled nervously, her eyes meeting his. "Isn't it my job to tell you not to be nervous and comfort you?" she quipped.

Tom shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Is it?" he replied, his gaze lingering on her.

She shook her head, her expression softening as she looked up at him. Tom found himself drawn into her gaze, a sudden surge of desire flickering within him. Just as he entertained the thought of leaning in to seize the opportunity to explore her lips, Dawlish's gruff voice interrupted from behind them. "It's time, Mr. Diggory."

Startled from his reverie, Tom realized he had been momentarily lost in Hermione's presence. With a quick shake of his head to refocus, he allowed Hermione to take the lead, his curiosity piqued about what awaited him beyond the door.

Amidst the clamor of cheers, screams, and the blinding flashes of cameras, Tom Riddle navigated through the throng, a stoic mask firmly in place.

Whispers rippled through the crowd, questioning the impossible resurrection of a figure long believed dead. "Is that really Cedric Diggory? Wasn't he dead? How is this possible?" voices murmured, punctuated by calls for his attention. "Cedric, look this way!"

Maintaining his composed facade, Tom made his way to the podium, Hermione at his side. The crowd's attention flickered between them, some clamoring for photos, others bombarding Hermione with inquiries about her involvement and relationship with “Cedric”. She brushed off the inquiries with practiced indifference.

As Tom approached the podium, the Minister gestured for silence, and Tom acknowledged him with a polite nod of gratitude before turning his attention to the expectant crowd. With a subtle exchange, Hermione passed him her wand, and Tom uttered an incantation, causing his voice to resonate with authority throughout the chamber.

Though his preferred method of communication often involved delving into the minds of others and speaking to them directly in their minds, he recognized the necessity of traditional speech in this setting. Besides, the spell served its purpose well enough.

With the incantation complete, Tom cast a winning smile upon the sea of onlookers, a smile that had once charmed millions in a bygone era.

It was a smile that had been instrumental in his political machinations of the past, aiding his best mate at the time, Abraxas Malfoy in ousting the first Muggle Minister, Nobby Leach, from office during the tumultuous 1960s.

HERMIONE POV

Commanding a room wasn't an easy task; even the great Harry Potter, with all his praise and fame, couldn't hold the attention of a room the way she watched Cedric Diggory do it.

His aura, his handsome face, and that smile had everyone staring in rapt attention.

Her hands had almost gone clammy with nerves; she had been afraid of how Cedric would react to the world after being held in captivity for so long. Afraid for his safety, or how he would be able to blend back into society had been a fear for her patient, now flatmate.

Those had all been foolish fears, she realized.

Cedric was...

Wow.

What she hadn't been prepared for was how the world would react to him.

Not he to the world, because Cedric stood on that podium as if he belonged in front of all of them.

As if his word was bond.

As if he were made to be a leader.

Swallowing, she listened intently as he spoke. Shacklebolt had made it clear that no speech was necessary and not to answer questions should they be asked, but it seemed Cedric planned to follow only the second instruction.

"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed members of the press, I stand before you today, humbled by the outpouring of support and goodwill I have received upon my return. The past four years have been a time of profound reflection and growth for me, and I am grateful for the opportunity to address you all once more."

Hermione held back a wince at the reminder of his captivity, finding his description of it unsettling.

He was so brave.

Golden boy, indeed, she thought as his voice continued to fill the Ministry, and she noticed how entranced the crowd was with him already.

They loved him. Who wouldn’t?

How couldn’t you be entranced by his magnetism.

Merlin, He was enthralling…

Magical.

"First and foremost, I wish to express my heartfelt gratitude to those who tirelessly worked to secure my freedom. The efforts of the Ministry of Magic and all involved did not go unnoticed, and for that, I am deeply thankful."

Cedric looked at each of the junior Aurors within eye reach, and Hermione's heart swelled in appreciation. They had stumbled upon him by accident, yet he was publicly thanking them nonetheless, as if they had meant to find him.

"I am also indebted to my friends and all those who stood by me during this challenging period. Your unwavering support has been a beacon of light in the darkness, and I am profoundly grateful for each and every one of you."

Cedric turned and looked at Hermione pointedly, winking at her, before turning back to continue his speech as butterflies filled her stomach.

Friends.

They were friends, she thought proudly.

"As I stand here today, I am reminded of the resilience of the human spirit, of our capacity to overcome adversity and emerge stronger than ever before. It is a testament to the indomitable will of the wizarding community, and I am honored to be a part of it.

Moving forward, I am committed to using my voice and my platform to advocate for positive change within our society. We face many challenges ahead, but I am confident that together, we can overcome them. Let us work tirelessly to build a future that is based on principles of equality, justice, and compassion for all."

Whatever butterflies she'd had weren't merely flying around in her stomach now; they'd learned to dance, summersault, and were floating through her entire body.

Merlin, she needed to squash them because she couldn't think of him this way.

Desire him.

Want him.

That wasn't the right thing to do.

The crowd in front of them cheered and applauded as he nodded in a polite goodbye.

He didn't stick around for questions, instead, he grabbed Hermione's hand. She felt a surge of some sort of magic at his touch but didn’t dwell on it as they rushed off and hightailed out of there back to the smaller room, escorted by Dawlish.

Chapter Text

 I can't remember anything

Can't tell if this is true or a dream

Deep down inside I feel to scream

This terrible silence stops me

Now that the war is through with me I'm waking up,

I cannot see

That there's not much left of me

Nothing is real but pain now

Hold my breath as I wish for death

Oh please, God, wake me

- One, Metallica

***

Coldness enveloped him, a biting sensation that seemed to penetrate to his bones.

A shiver raced through his body, causing him to tremble uncontrollably until the trembling itself gave way to numbness.

The room he found himself in was a cavernous expanse of darkness, devoid of any hint of light or warmth.

Not a single window offered even a glimmer of the outside world, and the air hung heavy and oppressive, as if it had been trapped within the confines of the underground space for an eternity.

Yes, underground.

That much was clear to him.

He was being held captive in some subterranean prison, the details of which remained a mystery to him.

The only visitor to grace his desolate cell was a peculiar figure—a regal-looking elf, whose presence offered little solace amidst the bleakness. This elf, with an air of authority, would appear sporadically, only to deliver meager sustenance and attend to his basic needs with an almost mechanical efficiency.

Bound by heavy shackles and stripped of his ability to wield magic, he was reduced to a state of helpless captivity.

His thoughts drifted to his father, a flicker of concern mingling with the fog of confusion that clouded his mind.

He recalled the moment of triumph, the coveted cup within his grasp alongside Potter, and then... darkness. What transpired afterward remained a haunting enigma, each attempt to grasp the memory slipping through his fingers like sand.

Where was he?

What had befallen him?

The oppressive silence that hung in the air offered no answers, his ears straining in vain for any semblance of sound, only to be met with an eerie void of nothingness.

Days melted into nights, each passing moment stretching into what felt like an eternity in the oppressive confines of his underground prison. The rhythmic passage of time was marked only by the monotonous ticking of his own thoughts, a relentless countdown to an uncertain fate.

Then, a disruption in the suffocating stillness—a voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the heavy silence from beyond the confines of his cell.

"Show me the prisoner."

The words hung in the air like a sinister omen, sending a shiver of dread coursing through him. With a creak of protest, the door to his captivity swung open, a sudden flood of blinding light piercing the darkness that had become his only companion. Squinting against the harsh glare, he struggled to adjust his vision, feeling disoriented by the sudden assault of brightness after so long in the gloom.

As his eyes gradually adapted, he beheld the figure that had invaded his sanctuary—a being of malevolent presence, clad in dark robes that seemed to drink in the feeble light, their features obscured by shadows. But there was no mistaking the haunting glow of monstrous red eyes, set within a face twisted by malice and framed by a serpent-like bald head.

The man—no, the monstrous entity—advanced with deliberate steps into the chamber, each footfall echoing with ominous weight upon the cold stone floor. His gaze locked onto his own with chilling intensity, a smirk of cruel amusement playing across his lips as he uttered the name with cold familiarity.

"Hello, Cedric Diggory."

Swallowing hard against the rising tide of fear, Cedric met the creature's gaze with a steely resolve, his voice edged with defiance as he dared to question the identity of his tormentor.

"And who are you?"

A low, menacing chuckle echoed through the chamber, sending a shiver down Cedric's spine as the figure's lips curled into a twisted grin of pure malevolence.

"I am Lord Voldemort."

***

TOM POV

Draco Malfoy had grown up in the lap of luxury, ensconced in the privileges of his prestigious lineage. Yet, with such privilege came an array of expectations, traditions, and responsibilities that Tom knew he was keenly aware of from a young age. Draco had diligently endeavored to fulfill these obligations, adhering to the rigid standards set forth by his family's lineage, up until the very precipice of his allegiance it seemed, as now he was an auror.

Tom had yet to fully uncover how he’d met his demise, his memories becoming vaguer as the days progressed regarding his final days and even his final years recently.  (This worried him only slightly, because he’d always know who he was and meant to be regardless)

However, he’d asked the nurses at St. Mungo's what they’d read or heard, and he had an inkling that the younger Malfoy or possibly the Malfoys themselves were a part of his defeat.

Lucius remained loyal, of that he was certain, and he’d begged the Dark Lord to spare his family and especially his son.

He would, of course; he had special plans for the young Malfoy.

The ties between his family and he, Lord Voldemort ran deep, stretching back generations to a time when he, known as Tom Riddle, and Draco's grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy, were inseparable allies at Hogwarts.

Abraxas, dubbed a "knight" of Riddle's clandestine circle and serving as his trusted lieutenant, forged an unbreakable bond with the burgeoning dark wizard. So close were their ties that Tom even took up residence in the opulent confines of Malfoy Manor during school breaks, a testament to the intimacy of their relationship.

The tranquility of these arrangements was attempted to be shattered when Dumbledore, ever vigilant in his opposition to the burgeoning dark forces, intervened. He compelled Tom Riddle to return to the austere walls of the orphanage where he had spent his formative years. It was only through the intervention of Abraxas and his father, Septimus Malfoy, that Tom was spared such a fate. The Malfoys would not countenance the heir of Salazar Slytherin languishing in a Muggle orphanage, a notion utterly abhorrent to their esteemed lineage.

Unbeknownst to many, including the most ardent followers of the dark lord, Tom Riddle had harbored a secret that would have shattered the carefully constructed facade of his pureblood ideology: he was a half-blood. While his mother was indeed a witch of considerable prowess, his father hailed from the ranks of mere mortals—a Muggle, in the parlance of the wizarding world. This revelation, had it become widely known then, would have undoubtedly undermined Voldemort's claims to superiority, exposing the inherent contradictions within his radical ideology. Yet, such knowledge remained closely guarded within the sanctum of the Malfoy family, a testament to their unwavering loyalty and their pragmatic approach to maintaining their standing within the dark lord's inner circle.

Now, it seemed that everyone had unraveled the tapestry of Tom Riddle's background. Or so it appeared. Despite the exhaustive scrutiny from both the press and the famed "Golden Trio," there were still enigmatic corners of Tom's past that remained shrouded in secrecy, veiled from prying eyes and probing questions.

Tom observed the young Malfoy as he strode ahead of them, flanked by the brunette DesiAnn, as they made their way through Diagon Alley. Martin, called away on some sort of emergency, had been replaced by DesiAnn for the day, tasked with safeguarding “Cedric Diggory”.

Beside Tom, Hermione exuded an air of serenity, her gaze sweeping over the vibrant tableau of witches and wizards bustling about their daily business. The cacophony of cheerful voices and the kaleidoscope of colorful storefronts lent an aura of enchantment to the bustling street.

Though reporters maintained a discreet distance, their intrusive lenses were a constant reminder of the scrutiny under which they operated.

Every movement, every word was fodder for their insatiable appetite for sensationalism.

Suppressing the urge to unleash his frustrations with a well-aimed hex, Tom maintained a facade of amiability, his smile unwaveringly affable, masking the seething resentment that simmered beneath the surface.

Luckily, walking beside Hermione provided a welcome distraction. Focusing on her and her excitement grounded him.

He pushed away the thought as he realized how much he hated that fact, but it seemed to be working nonetheless.

***

DRACO POV

As DesiAnn walked closely beside Draco, he noticed her proximity to him as they navigated through the bustling streets. It was clear to him that she desired to be near him... He shook his head at her blatant attempt to encroach upon his personal space.

Glancing around, he ensured that onlookers kept a respectful distance from them and their charge trailing behind:

Cedric Diggory.

It was still unfathomable, but then again, he'd seen some stranger things in his day.

Draco as he walked, realized he'd been avoiding a necessary conversation, one he should have had with DesiAnn ages ago. Their fling had been casual, but lately, he'd sensed a shift.

Maybe she was catching feelings.

And well, Draco Malfoy didn’t do "feelings."

At least he'd thought he could never do "feelings"....

Draco's mind drifted to the enchanting dinner he had shared with Sofia the previous evening, the warmth of her smile lingering in his memory.

Their time together had been nothing short of magical, filling him with a sense of euphoria that he hadn't experienced... ever.

Besides, Draco couldn't shake off the unsettling truth: DesiAnn was a Muggle-born. The realization sent a pang of uncertainty coursing through him, casting a shadow over their relationship.

He wasn't a bigot, he reasoned. At least not anymore. Yet, the ingrained prejudices of his pureblood upbringing lingered, making it difficult to fully overcome his upbringing.

As for Sofia, Draco hesitated to delve into her background, fearful of what the answer might reveal.

As Hermione and Cedric strode ahead into the Magical Menagerie, Draco emitted a low groan, his reluctance evident as he reluctantly trailed after them into the shop.

Hermione gravitated towards the feline creatures, her curiosity seemingly piqued, while DesiAnn dutifully stationed herself by the door, a vigilant guardian.

Left with little choice, Draco found himself falling into step behind Cedric, observing the Hufflepuff with a mixture of apprehension and intrigue. Cedric's purposeful stride exuded a quiet confidence, a sense of authority that commanded attention.

As they traversed the aisles of the shop, Draco couldn't shake the sense of déjà vu that washed over him. Cedric's gait seemed oddly familiar, reminiscent of someone from his past, though Draco struggled to place the exact individual who shared such a distinctive mannerism.

As Cedric strolled past the owl enclosure, his attention seemingly elsewhere, Draco's gaze was drawn to an eagle owl that bore a striking resemblance to his own avian companion. Intrigued, Draco approached the majestic bird, only to be met with a less-than-friendly reception as it fixed him with a glare.

Undeterred by the owl's hostility, Draco admired its beauty, despite its less-than-amicable demeanor.

However, when Draco glanced up from the owl, he found himself momentarily disoriented, realizing that Cedric had slipped out of view amidst the bustling menagerie of magical creatures.

A sense of urgency propelled Draco forward as he scanned the crowded shop, eventually spotting Cedric near the reptile enclosure.

Keeping his distance, Draco observed with fascination as Cedric leaned in close to the snake cage, whispering softly to the serpentine inhabitants within.

To his astonishment, the largest snake in the enclosure responded to Cedric's presence, its massive form twisting sinuously as it slithered towards him, as if drawn by an unseen force.

Could Cedric possibly be a Parselmouth? Draco's mind raced with incredulity at the thought. Such a gift was exceedingly rare, reserved only for individuals like Potter and... Draco shuddered, pushing the unsettling comparison aside.

As Cedric extended his arm into the snake cage, Draco felt a surge of panic grip him, compelling him to approach him cautiously, unsure of what might transpire next.

During his first shift watching the not-so-dead Diggory, the unsettling thought crossed his mind: Cedric could very well be eaten by a snake. He'd seen it happen before; it wasn't an impossibility. Harry would be furious if something happened.

Of course, the prospect of Cedric being injured or worse, dead, wasn't ideal either.

Taking his mind away from his not so cool inner musings, Draco watched in a mixture of horror and awe as the bloody snake slithered up Cedric's arm, entwining itself around him in a sinuous embrace.

Memories of Nagini flooded Draco's mind, the terrifying serpent that had haunted his home for a year. He remembered the constant fear, the sense of impending danger lurking in the shadows, always fearing that the snake would emerge to attack him at any moment.

Though the snake currently before him was much smaller and of a different hue, its presence still sent shivers down Draco's spine. Its yellow scales seemed to glisten in the dim light of the shop, a stark reminder of the malevolent force that Nagini had embodied.

Cedric smirked at Draco as he turned towards him, the snake still coiled around his arm but showing no signs of aggression. Draco observed in fascination as Cedric regarded the snake with an affectionate gaze, seemingly engaged in a silent exchange with the reptile.

As the snake's tongue flicked out, Draco felt another shiver run down his spine. Cedric's attention then shifted back to Draco, a small smile playing on his lips as he remarked, "Magnificent creature, isn't it?"

Draco shook his head adamantly. "Terrifying, you mean."

Cedric merely shrugged, his expression maintaining its friendly facade, though there was a peculiar undercurrent to his tone, almost suggestive of a command. "You should purchase him and bring him back to your manor."

A strange sensation swept through Draco, like a whisper of influence tugging at the edges of his mind. A sudden desire ignited within him, fueled by Cedric's words, compelling him to entertain the notion. Before he knew it, Draco found himself nodding in reluctant agreement. "I should," he muttered.

Cedric nodded and walked towards the till area, with Draco following closely behind. The wizard behind the till eyed the creature wearily, a faint scar twisting around his forearm, marring the skin with a network of crimson lines. He gingerly rolled up his sleeve, revealing a gruesome wound—deep, ragged punctures oozing with viscous, dark fluid. The flesh around the bite was swollen and discolored, a stark testament to the potency of the venom.

"This one has a bit of a mean streak. Tends to bite the hand that feeds him," he informed them both, his voice tinged with a mixture of caution and resignation, as if he had encountered such incidents before.

Draco's eyes widened at the sight of the wound, a surge of unease creeping into his gut. The wizard winced as he touched the tender skin, a silent reminder of the pain inflicted by the creature's venomous fangs.

As Draco observed the injury, his stomach flipped. It was a brutal assault, the marks of teeth sinking deep into flesh, tearing through muscle and sinew with relentless force.

Cedric glanced at Draco, a knowing look passing between them. "It appears this creature possesses quite the temperament, Draco," he remarked with a sly grin, his tone carrying an air of calculated curiosity.

Draco nodded in response, his gaze flickering from the bite to the creature before them, its slitted eyes gleaming with malevolence. Despite the absence of overt aggression, there was an unmistakable aura of danger emanating from the creature. It was clear that it possessed a formidable capacity for harm, its bite leaving behind a trail of devastation and agony.

He eyed the snake and curled his lip, wondering why he even wanted the thing. Even as a Slytherin, after Nagini, he'd developed a deep-seated hatred for real snakes.

Cedric's lip formed a crooked smile, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes as he replied, "His name shall be Necroth, isn't that right, Draco?" He turned towards him, his expression expectant, waiting for Draco's confirmation.

Draco found himself nodding, a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity swirling within him.

Then, with practiced ease, the snake was carefully transported into a sturdy transport crate. Draco reached into his pocket, pulling out a few galleons to pay for the creature. As he handed over the coins, he couldn't shake the feeling of anticipation tingling in his fingertips.

Suddenly, he found himself holding the small wooden crate containing his new pet snake: Necroth.

"Necro" meant death.

Strange name to give a snake, Draco thought, shrugging as Hermione walked up to them and eyed Draco's crate in his hand.

"What'd you buy?" she asked, smiling.

"A pet snake," he replied.

She rolled her eyes. "Typical."

Cedric patted Draco on the shoulder and replied to Hermione, "Slytherins and their snakes."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione walked ahead, and they both followed.

DesiAnn eyed the crate in Draco's hand as they walked past her, and she followed in step.

"You're working, this shopping excursion wasn't meant for the Malfoy prince to go and buy himself a pet. What'd you get anyways?"

Still unsure why he'd purchased the damn thing, he replied tersely, "A bloody snake."

DesiAnn laughed as they followed Cedric and Hermione to Olivander's wand shop.

Feeling oddly disoriented and protective over his new pet snake, Draco observed the close stance Cedric had with Hermione, and his brows rose in concern.

Maybe Ron had been right about being upset by Cedric Diggory living with his girlfriend?

Draco had never been in love nor claimed a woman.

Not yet, at least, but he'd seen how his father acted around his mother. He knew how the Malfoy men could be when they wanted to possess something. The way they leaned into the woman's orbit. Their demeanor protective.

Claiming.

Everything about the way Cedric walked beside Hermione Granger screamed: Mine.

The Weasel was in for a rude awakening, and there would be drama, that was certain, Draco deduced.

There was a love triangle forming, and he was an unfortunate spectator, with a pet snake that he suddenly seemed to care a lot for.

Once inside Olivanders shop, the reptilian monster in the crate started hissing and writhing, its movements causing the crate to jerk and sway in Draco's grip. Determined not to drop his precious pet, Draco tightened his hold, his Auror uniform sleeve on his left forearm beginning to ride up.

Frustrated, Draco contemplated dropping the crate as Cedric lingered behind, moving closer to inspect the edge of the Dark Mark on Draco's forearm. With a deft touch, Cedric then cracked open the crate's lid slightly, whispering something to the agitated snake, which promptly ceased its fussing.

Meeting Draco's gaze, Cedric pointed subtly to his own forearm, remarking cryptically, "Marked always."

In his earlier days, Draco had held Cedric in high regard. The older student had excelled in Quidditch, possessed intelligence, and was renowned for bravery, attracting admiration from many, particularly the female population.

Even now, Draco begrudgingly acknowledged a lingering sense of admiration. There had been a time when he even envied Cedric's accomplishments.

However, those feelings had long faded, especially considering Cedric's years-long imprisonment. It was a dismal turn of events.

Draco narrowed his eyes at Cedric's back unsure if he found him to be friend or foe yet as he strode ahead towards Hermione, engrossed in conversation with the old shopkeeper.

***

HERMIONE POV

Garrick Ollivander engaged in idle chitchat with Hermione, his aged and wrinkled face adorned with a warm smile that held a genuine admiration for her. The Golden Trio had, after all, rescued him from the dungeons of the young man who now stood several feet away, near the door.

As Draco entered the shop, Ollivander's demeanor shifted, casting him a cold glance before returning his attention to Hermione. He inquired about Harry, her job, and Ron, mentioning how it had been a slow year for him, lamenting the dwindling number of magical students. Cedric finally approached them, his presence commanding attention.

With a face that could have graced magazine covers or led his own feature film franchise, Cedric flashed Ollivander a Hollywood smile.

The shopkeeper's countenance shifted unexpectedly, his eyes moistening with a profound adoration as Cedric neared them. "My dear boy Cedric!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with emotion, abandoning the barrier of the counter to embrace Cedric warmly.

Hermione observed Cedric's initial surprise, swiftly followed by a softening of his demeanor, transforming his perplexed expression into one suffused with affection for the elder shopkeeper.

"Garrick, it's a pleasure," Cedric responded, his tone retaining its characteristic charm.

Ollivander, now wiping a tear, turned towards Hermione, offering further insight into his emotional response. "Eldric Diggory, Amos's father, was my closest friend in my youth. Amos was like a son to me, though our paths diverged in recent years. Nonetheless, I've watched Cedric grow up practically from infancy."

Beside him, Cedric nodded, a hint of wistful sadness clouding his features.

Touched by the shared sentiment, Hermione reached out, grasping Ollivander's hand gently. "I'm grateful to know Cedric has someone like you to offer him support through this."

It was reassuring to see Cedric find solace in Ollivander's companionship; having an ally like him could undoubtedly prove invaluable. As she observed Cedric surveying the shop, Hermione wondered about the trajectory of his life. It was widely known that Amos had been a devoted and affectionate father, and his grief upon losing Cedric had been palpable. Harry had recounted how Amos had confided in him, expressing a profound sense of emptiness, claiming he had nothing left to live for.

If only fate had been kinder, allowing Cedric's father to survive the final battle. Then, perhaps, Cedric would be here now, alongside his own flesh and blood. Instead, he found himself thrust into the care of a virtual stranger, albeit a skilled mind healer.

This realization prompted Hermione to rein in her emotions, reminding herself of the need for professionalism.

Yes, she and Cedric could forge a friendship and had forged one, but she must not lose sight of her primary objective: aiding his recovery.

She admonished herself silently, recognizing the importance of not becoming a crutch for Cedric.

He needed to regain his autonomy, to navigate the world independently, without undue reliance on her or anyone else. And while she harbored no doubts about his resilience, she understood the delicate balance between offering support and fostering self-sufficiency.

With her own personal life demanding attention, Hermione recognized the growing distance between herself and Ron, a consequence of the relentless demands of their respective occupations. Determined to prioritize her relationship, she made a concerted effort to carve out time for Ron in the week ahead. Thus, she discreetly withdrew from Cedric's presence, granting him the space he seemed to require, while she observed from a careful distance as he engaged in conversation with Ollivander.

The concerned shopkeeper probed into Cedric's imprisonment and well-being, voicing worries about his mental state, but Cedric deflected the inquiries with practiced ease. Skillfully redirecting the conversation, he shifted their focus to an antique clock that adorned the wall, its intricate craftsmanship drawing his attention.

"Willow wood," Cedric remarked appreciatively as he examined the timepiece.

Merlin, why did just his knowing that make him so captivating?

Hermione chastised herself internally. Stop!

Adjusting his spectacles, Ollivander peered at the clock with renewed interest. "Yes, my boy, it is," he affirmed, his eyes gleaming with a familiar spark of fascination.

As Cedric continued to study the clock, his gaze lingering on its delicate details, he turned back to the aged shopkeeper. "From the forest of Ardennes," he stated with reverence, acknowledging both the craftsmanship and the origins of the exquisite piece.

"Well done, my boy. You recognize its origin. Then you must know who owned it."

Cedric's heel turned even more as he walked towards the ancient clock, nodding, studying it more closely. He reached out to touch the lighter wood ingrained in the middle area. "Of course I do, and this is ash wood from the Boreal Forest."

"Indeed. I'd never known you to be a collector of rare items. This is a historical piece for sure," Ollivander remarked, then eyed the clock sadly. "Unfortunately, legends do not seem to be true, or perhaps I am not skilled enough to invoke such ancient magic."

Curiously, Draco coughed from the door, still holding his snake crate, having been eavesdropping. "My apologies, Sir, but what is the clock supposed to do?"

Ollivander shot Draco a disdainful glance, his silence speaking volumes, but Cedric, ever the charismatic one, turned to the group with his trademark "Golden Boy" smile, ready to enlighten them.

"This clock," Cedric began, gesturing towards the meticulously scripted initials at the bottom, "was crafted by none other than Archmage Talamus Evergreen."

Hermione's eyes widened in awe as she processed the significance. "The creator of port keys," she breathed, a gasp escaping her lips as she covered her mouth in astonishment. To possess an artifact linked to such a legendary figure was an extraordinary privilege indeed.

Draco, showing a rare moment of appreciation, nodded in acknowledgment before posing his own inquiry. "And what exactly is its purpose?"

Ollivander, with a shake of his head and a muttered comment under his breath, retreated behind the counter, leaving Cedric to field Draco's questions.

"According to legend," Cedric explained, his voice tinged with a hint of excitement, "this clock is said to possess the ability to open a portal."

Intrigued by the prospect, Hermione couldn't resist delving deeper. "A portal to where?" she inquired; her curiosity piqued.

"The Afterlife," Cedric revealed, his expression shifting to one of longing as he gazed upon the clock with a mixture of reverence and desire, his hands clasped behind his back in a gesture of contemplation.

That made Hermione a bit wary, if it worked could they go past the veil and possibly bring someone back from the afterlife?

Ollivander dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, his impatience evident as he clasped his hands together and turned his attention to Cedric. "What can I do for you today, my dear boy?" he inquired, his tone brimming with a businesslike efficiency. "The ash wood in that clock bears a striking resemblance to the material of your former wand. If you're in need of a replacement, I can certainly check to see if I have any other ash wood wands with a similar origin available."

Cedric tore his gaze away from the captivating clock, focusing instead on the shopkeeper as he nodded in acknowledgment. "Unfortunately, I will indeed be needing a new wand," he confirmed, his voice tinged with resignation.

Ollivander responded with a brisk nod before disappearing into the depths of his shop. Moments later, he reemerged, bearing several boxes in his arms. "These are all ash wood," he announced, setting the boxes down on the counter. "However, I've included a variety of options, just in case."

Intrigued by the prospect of witnessing Cedric's wand selection process firsthand, Hermione observed with keen interest as Cedric reached for the first wand—a slender 13" piece of ash wood. With a flick of his wrist, he attempted to summon forth magic, but all that emerged was a feeble sputter of yellow sparks.

Disappointment shadowed Cedric's features, but he refused to yield to defeat. Passing the wand back to the shopkeeper, he moved on to the next box, and then the next, each containing a different ash wood wand.

However, despite his efforts, none of the ash wood wands seemed to respond to Cedric's touch, leaving him without a suitable replacement for his lost wand.

Over an hour later, Draco impatiently tapped his foot by the door, and DesiAnn had walked in and out three times to check on them. Still, there had been no suitable wand found for Cedric. Although he could have forced any of them to yield to him, none showed that initial spark of magic indicating it was "the one."

Hermione vividly remembered what it felt and looked like, but unfortunately, Cedric had not had any luck.

"Curious," Ollivander mused vaguely as yet another wand failed to resonate with Cedric. His furrowed brows betrayed a deep pondering, and then his gaze shifted towards the antique clock that had captured their fascination earlier. Returning his attention to Cedric, he continued, "This clock, along with a wand, were mailed here anonymously to me a year ago, and I wonder..."

Turning, he disappeared momentarily, only to return with an old black wooden box clasped tightly shut. Carefully, he unclasped the lid, revealing a wand nestled within. Intrigued, Hermione moved closer to inspect it.

"Thirteen and a half inches in length, crafted from yew wood, with a core of dragon heartstring, adorned with obsidian crystals," Ollivander detailed, his tone reverent. "A very rare sort of wand. I'd even say, priceless."

Cedric's eyes widened in awe as he beheld the wand, and Ollivander continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "I would not want to part with it, but if it yields to you, I won't charge you a galleon for it. My gift to you."

Eagerly, Cedric reached into the wooden box, retrieving the wand. With a flick of his wrist, a bright white light emanated from its tip, causing Draco to shuffle back from the sheer force of its power, and Hermione to steady herself on the counter.

This was it.

That was the one.

Ollivander's smile hinted at satisfaction as he declared, "I've named it the Wand of Ascendance."

"It's perfect," Cedric exclaimed animatedly. With a flick of his wrist, he cast a charm spell that transformed the entire store into a magical forest. Butterflies fluttered, trees sprouted, and the air filled with the scent of blossoms. In an instant, it felt as though they had been transported to a different, fairy-like dimension. The effects lasted a few minutes and then everything was back to normal.

Incredible magic.

He's an incredible wizard, Hermione thought to herself, utterly captivated by Cedric.

Suddenly, Draco's loud cough near her ear broke her reverie.

Chapter Text

Disarm you with a smile
And cut you like you want me to
Cut that little child
Inside of me and such a part of you

Oh, the years burn
Oh, years burn

I used to be a little boy
So old in my shoes
And what I choose is my choice
What's a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me is the killer in you, my love
I send this smile over to you

Disarm you with a smile
And leave you like they left me here
To wither in denial
The bitterness of one who's left alone

 

Disarm, The Smashing Pumpkins

Chapter Text

 

The lights go out and I can't be saved
Tides that I tried to swim against
Have brought me down upon my knees
Oh, I beg, I beg and plead
Singin' come out of things un said
Shoot an apple off my head
And a trouble that can't be named
A tiger's waiting to be tamed, singin'

Clocks, Coldplay

Chapter Text

Did I drive you away?

I know what you'll say

You say, "Oh, sing one we know"

But I promise you this

I'll always look out for you

Yeah, that's what I'll do

Sparks, Coldplay

Chapter Text

The who's who of "Who's that?" is poised for the attack
But my bare hands paved their paths
You don't get to tell me about "sad"
If you wanted me dead, you should've just said
Nothing makes me feel more alive
So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street
Crash the party like a record scratch as I scream
"Who's afraid of little old me?"
You should be

Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?, Taylor Swift

DPOV

Dinner went spectacularly.

His mother adored Sofia and was in awe that he'd failed to mention her surname, but he'd wanted it to be a surprise. Having spent his entire life seemingly disappointing his parents with every single one of his choices, he was finally proud to say he'd done one thing right.

He'd fallen for the right person.

The right last name.

The right background.

And luckily for him, someone who understood him and shared his values.

No, he wasn't open about the fact that he no longer gave a damn about pureblood society's values. He didn't voice it, but it was written in his actions.

Sure, there were some things he couldn't fully shake, like wanting to fall for someone with the same background as him, but even if Sofia hadn't been from his background, he'd have chosen her ten times over.

It was just a perk, another positive that she actually was.

Cedric had seemed to like her, and even though he hated to admit it to himself, he for some reason valued Cedric Diggory's opinion. They'd even become friends of some sort, and well, now they lived together.

He'd always wanted a brother, someone to share this enormous estate with, someone with a similar background, someone who understood his life. And now he sort of kind of had an older one?

Daphne, of course, was absolutely green, jealousy written all over her face. Draco imagined that when she left the manor, if she didn't stay over for Cedric, she'd go running her mouth to Astoria, which was all very well.

Everyone should know about Sofia. Sofia was the one. His one.

And even though it had only been exactly one week, he knew he'd marry her.

They chatted some more and had tea in the drawing room before his mother stood, bid them all a goodnight, and grabbed Sofia's hand in hers, whispering something Draco couldn't hear. Once Narcissa had left the drawing room, Cedric stood as well, bidding them all goodnight except for Daphne, who followed behind him. She waved at them politely as they disappeared out of the drawing room and up the stairs.

Cedric's room was down the hall from Draco's, and he silently thanked his mother for not giving him the empty bedroom next to his. Draco walked over towards Sofia and hugged her tightly, inhaling her perfume. He pulled back, looked into her auburn eyes, and asked, "Did you have a good time?"

Her smile set his heart aflutter as she responded, "The best time. Your mother and friend Cedric are so lovely, and Daphne is..."

He laughed musically, and she joined in, then she added, "She seems to dislike me, doesn't she?"

Draco shook his head. "No, I told you about Astoria; she's probably just still upset I am not marrying her sister."

Sofia nodded at him and gave him a gentle smile, cupping his cheek and whispering, "Thank you for inviting me over for dinner."

Draco swallowed, wanting to drown himself in her touch, and nodded.

He then escorted her to the foyer fireplace, about to grab some floo powder. But before his hand reached up towards the mantle, Sofia grabbed his hand and stepped closer towards him. She looked up into his grey-blue eyes and asked, "Can I stay the night?"

His pants tightened, he gulped nervously, and then he nodded. Quietly, he escorted her up the stairs towards his bedroom.

***

Sofia was an enchantress, he'd decided, a witch whose beauty was magnetic, unreal, and he was entranced. He watched as she slipped off her dark black dress, and it fell past her knees onto the floor. He watched as she stepped out of her heels and swung her hair.

Then she was in just lace in front of him, and he could no longer just stand there looking like a blithering idiot.

He rushed towards her and asked, "Are you sure? You said you wanted to wait until marriage?"

She confessed she was a virgin on their second meeting, and he accepted it. Looking up at him, she nodded, then put her lips on his, and he kissed her back, at first gently, and then passionately.

He slipped her bra off, and then she slipped out of her knickers as they continued kissing. He unbuttoned his shirt as she pulled on his belt loop.

***

Draco made love to Sofia gently, with tenderness and ease, unlike he'd ever done it before. He was careful not to hurt her, provided her with ample foreplay before entering her.

When he finally filled her, he felt his chest expand, his body shudder, and he wondered why he'd never felt like this before with anyone.

But he didn't question it.

For once in his life, he truly believed in the art of magic.

Sure, he was a magical being, but he'd never believed in magic the way he did now.

Because, Salazar, she was magic. She was his soulmate.

His destiny.

He wasn't sure what had driven him to finally have her, to find her. But whatever it was, whatever power had brought them together, to whatever god had made this happen, he was eternally grateful.

When they were done, naked and wrapped up in each other's arms, he kissed her, and she kissed him back. He didn't care how soon it was, or how utterly insane it sounded, He told her, "I love you."

***

They made love again that morning. Draco made sure she had dittany for the pain between her legs and wanded away the blood that soiled his sheets. Sofia had given herself to him, her chastity, and now he lay naked beside her, looking up at the ceiling as she slept soundly on his chest.

He knew there would be nobody on this planet that could ever come between them. He understood the Malfoy men now, he understood what possession and need meant when it came to a woman they loved.

She was his.

Stroking her hair, he whispered, "Mine."

When she awoke again, he took her once more in his bathroom, and she giggled as he knelt at her feet, savoring the taste of her in the shower.

Salazar, for her, for Sofia, he'd bow at the Dark Lord's feet again if he needed to.

He'd burn the whole damn world.

***

TPOV

Tied to his bedpost, she glared at Tom, her brown curls falling messily around her face as she asked, "Are you going to untie me now?" Her brown eyes were wide and impatient as Tom approached her, his gaze assessing her, savoring her beauty.

The wild brown curls framed her face, her lips full and inviting, her brows perfectly sculpted.

Salazar, he hadn't had enough.

He'd finally found release, his cum filling her, but he craved more.

He needed more. This was not enough.

"We're not done yet," he told her. Rushing towards her naked form, he spread her legs open, grabbing them fiercely, perhaps bruising, and thrust inside her forcefully.

As he moved, his mind whispered, "Hermione."

***

(Earlier)

The Greengrass family had not always been at the top of pureblood society. In fact, Damian Greengrass had been a strange child—unsocial, quiet, small.

Tom Riddle, Abraxas, The Blacks (Orion, Walburga, Cygnus, Druella) had taunted and picked on Damian all through their years at Hogwarts. He'd been a year younger than Tom, and he'd been sorted into the house of Slytherin just like his ancestors, but his family had stayed to themselves. They never knew whether the Greengrass's followed in their house heir's values. Until Tom Riddle enlisted young Damian to become his errand boy.

The boy had been intelligent, not quite at Tom Riddle's level, but smarter than the others, and so Damian was invited to the knights' table and assisted Tom with most of his research, creation of spells, finding artifacts, and figuring out how they worked and what they did.

His mild respect and his need for Damian to rejoin his circle was one of the reasons Tom made it a point to tolerate Daphne Greengrass. He was also, of course, using her for other things—her body, for one. And she wasn't a dull thing, per se; she was also quite intelligent and cunning. Attributes he admired. If he pressed her enough, he could create another Bellatrix. A loyal wild thing, willing to bite and scratch and inflict damage on anything if it was to please him.

Tom saw potential in Daphne, just as he had seen in Bellatrix. He could mold her into a powerful ally, someone who would stop at nothing to serve him.

Her surname could also come in handy.

Pondering these things, Tom sat across from Daphne at the large Malfoy dining table while Narcissa took one side of the head of the table and Draco took the other. Daphne had arrived early, and they were all still waiting for the guest of honor for the evening:

Sophia.

Tom smiled wickedly to himself, knowing he harbored a secret.

Flotsy, the small elf that Draco seemed to treat kindly and say thank you to, popped into the kitchen just then and twirled while announcing, "Ms. Sofia has arrived in the foyer."

Draco shot up from his chair, his nerves evident, and gave his mother a gentle smile before nodding at Daphne and Tom.

He quickly exited the dining room.

Meanwhile, Daphne wore a grave and dark expression on her face, and Tom merely rolled his eyes at her attitude. He whispered to her, "Your sister could never earn his attention."

Biting her lip, Daphne shot daggers at Tom and whispered back harshly, "Astoria was perfect for him. His loss. I doubt this new witch will be much better."

Narcissa coughed loudly, forcing both Tom and Daphne to look in the direction of the entrance of the dining room as Draco walked in with a young witch with long, dark wavy hair and auburn cat-like eyes on his arm. Tom stood, holding back the devilish smile that threatened to gleam. Instead, he attempted his best to put on a friendly, yet charming grin and half-bowed in greeting.

Daphne turned ghost white as she took in the new witch's appearance. She stood as Draco introduced them all, "Good Evening everyone, Mother, Cedric, Daphne. This is Sofia Quality-Burke."

Narcissa's eyes almost popped out of her face as she put a hand to her heart and said, "Oh my! A Burke in my home. What an honor!"

She rushed away from her chair and kissed Sofia on both cheeks, warmly saying, "Thank you so much for joining us. I am very excited to meet you and get to know you."

Daphne reluctantly went towards Sofia, extending a manicured slender hand that Sofia took gently and shook in greeting.

Then Tom followed behind and took her hand gently in his.

When Draco, Daphne, and Narcissa were distracted by Flotsy's appearance once more in the dining room, Tom, through his plastered smile, whispered, "Well done."

Sofia gave him a polite half nod and refocused her attention on Draco, who was escorting her now to her seat. As she passed by Tom, he caught a whiff of her perfume—a subtle blend of floral and spice—and noted the way her eyes sparkled with intelligence and curiosity. She was different from the typical pureblood debutante, and Tom felt a sense of satisfaction. Everything was unraveling exactly as he and Lucius had planned. Draco never stood a chance.

Daphne was the first one to make conversation, "It's a shame we have never met Sofia, although I have heard many things about you and your family. I thought you'd all left Britain. I wonder why Draco failed to mention your last name to us all. How is your older brother, Edward, isn’t it?"

Tom grabbed a glass of champagne and tossed it back as he watched Sofia's eyes darken towards Daphne and then become light and charming as she responded coyly, "My brother Edward is the eccentric sort. We see him every now and then when he's not traveling the world."

"The Muggle world, no? Did he not enroll in a Muggle university?" Daphne pressed, sipping on her glass of champagne.

Narcissa tapped on her own champagne glass, interrupting the conversation, and summoned an elf whose name Tom didn't bother remembering. He watched, amused, as Sophia smiled at Daphne, a smile that promised violence.

He was quite enjoying this.

He knew; however, Daphne would not be able to survive a duel against Sofia. Sofia was the granddaughter of a Dark Wizard named Caractacus Burke, who had children of his own very late in his life. The same wizard had given Tom his first job at Borgin and Burkes all those years ago. The Dark Wizard had disappeared, and nobody quite knew where he'd gone, except for random tabloid posts and speculations. Lord Voldemort had traced the family down before his demise and forced them into submission. All except that Muggle-loving hippie older brother, of course.

Edward had evaded him, and his family had supposedly disowned him.

Sofia's family had pledged their allegiance to the Dark Lord, and now, like the Malfoys, he owned the Burkes.

He thought back to his conversation with Lucius:

"My son, he is no longer driven by power, nor does he truly care for his title, and he is far from greedy. I am losing control of him. If I have not already. He has not come to see me. He won't answer my letters."

Tom had leaned back against the cell wall, crossed his arms, and asked, "Is there a woman perhaps that he lusts after?"

Lucius laughed bitterly. "A woman. Try several. He doesn't wish to settle down. He doesn't want to be a father, and he cares not to produce an heir of his own anytime soon. He was supposed to marry, but he made sure once I ended up in this cell, he petitioned for the marriage contract to be terminated and paid the hefty fines. My son will not be manipulated by a woman."

Tom pondered on Lucius' information as they spoke more about Draco, his resurrection, and what needed to happen, and then he formulated a plan. A plan that would not fail.

"I know of a girl. I met her long ago. You will write to the family and heed a command; it will come from me. Keep the letter vague. Once the eldest member touches it, they'll hear my voice," Tom told him as he summoned a blade, cut his hand, summoned a vial, and poured his blood into it.

Returning from his reverie, Tom ate in silence as they all chatted, steering the conversation away from blood traitors and other Muggle lovers. He could tell that Narcissa was simply enamored by her possible future daughter-in-law. However, what Tom did not expect was to see the way Sofia's eyes sparkled whenever Draco spoke or the way she seemed to hang on to his every word.

As their meal concluded and they retired to the drawing room, Tom offered to give Sofia a tour of the portraits. She looked up at him reluctantly but put on a false polite facade for the others' benefit and agreed. Draco, distracted by his mother's praises and questioning, did not interject. They promised to meet them in the drawing room in just a few minutes.

Daphne looked back bitterly but followed after Narcissa and Draco, leaving Tom and Sofia alone.

"You were an appealing young girl, Sofia. I'd expected you'd grow into a lovely creature, and I'd been right," he told her, forcing her arm through his as he escorted her through the foyer and down the hall towards the other portraits.

They stopped in front of Abraxas', and he remained quiet and observant as they spoke. Tom did not trust the other portraits not to gossip, so he cast a quick Muffliato and flashed her an evil grin.

"Thank you, My Lord," Sofia replied calmly.

Tom watched her. She didn't squirm at his glare or fidget; she didn't blush around him. She met his gaze steadily, so he spoke again, "You are much like your grandfather in some ways I can see, but you seem to be growing fond of the boy."

"Am I not to be fond of the man the Dark Lord has asked me to seduce and eventually marry?" Sofia countered.

Tom glared at her. "Do you love him?"

"Love is a weakness, My Lord," Sofia replied.

An image of a young woman with wild brown curls went through his mind briefly.

Tom knew she was only telling him what he wanted to hear at that point, so he stated simply, "Don't let him become your weakness, you are merely his handler."

Then he released the spell, and they walked back towards the drawing room together, fake smiles on their faces.

***

Eyeing the vial suspiciously, Daphne asked Tom, "What is this?" The potion was a swirling mixture of purple and green, glowing ominously.

To be honest, Tom wouldn't have taken the potion either. Daphne was right to be suspicious, but she was wrong to question him. He could not teach her that just yet.

He gave her a stern look and said, "Just take it."

Daphne pouted, wrinkling her nose. "I'm not taking some strange potion I've never seen. It smells vile."

Sighing impatiently, he lied, "It's a monthly contraceptive potion. I brewed it this morning."

Well, technically, it was a monthly contraceptive potion, but it was also a type of a Disillusionment Potion. Tom hadn't had time to brew Polyjuice, but this potion served another purpose. It would prevent Daphne from getting pregnant and would distort her appearance only while they were in the middle of a sexual act. He'd already enchanted the mirrors in his bedroom so she wouldn't notice.

If he desired to take her, with a simple flick of his hand, her appearance would change.

Tom was a monster, or at least that's what people used to always tell him. The nuns at the orphanage would whisper that he was the devil or the spawn of the devil, depending on how much they disliked him that day. Then he went to Hogwarts, and everyone liked him.

In fact, they adored him, praised him; he was just oh so wonderful. Except Dumbledore.

The old headmaster had been able to see past Tom's charming and intelligent mask.

A serial killer in the making, Tom had told himself when Tom had accidentally murdered Myrtle Warren. And it had been an accident. He was just "rolling in the mud," as he'd put it, and he'd taken it too far. But he couldn't let her death go to waste.

He had read about horcruxes, had the ingredients, and then he hadn't been sure he'd want to pursue making one. He hadn't been sure he'd be able to.

But then, she died.

And well, you can't waste a perfectly good death or murder. Even if it had been an accident.

So, the first piece of his soul was taken. And the darkness grew.

He watched as Daphne took the potion, smiling at him, trusting him and he wondered why people trusted him, he even wondered what would have happened to him if Myrtle never did.  Would Lord Voldemort have existed?

Why was he musing on these matters?

He flicked his wrist releasing the magic to enact his spell and refocused his attention towards Daphne and watched as she transformed, her features distorting into someone else's.

Daphne's black hair lightened drastically, curling slightly at the ends, and her eyes transformed into a warm brown hue. The contours of her face changed subtly, molding differently. The once straight hair now formed into wild curls, framing a face with a determined expression, her eyes now reflecting the deep brown of chestnuts.

Hermione.

Tom's cock twitched in anticipation as he watched Daphne transform into what appeared to be Hermione Granger. He knew it wasn't really her, but he could fool himself into believing it, if only to partially satiate his desire and hunger for her.

Forcibly, he grabbed hold of Daphne's waist, pulling her close to him, and sucked on her neck. She moaned in response to his touch, but he despised how much she did not sound like Hermione. With a harsh whisper, he commanded, "Be quiet."

Inside, a twisted satisfaction stirred within him as he indulged in this illusion, using Daphne's transformed appearance to fulfill his desires, all the while suppressing the nagging voice that reminded him it was a lie.

***

Draco pounded on his door the next morning around seven, and Tom looked over to see Daphne lying beside him, now transformed back to her original appearance.

Snarling, he stood, hastily put his trousers back on, and headed towards the door, his mind already churning with plans for the day. He swung the door open to find Draco impeccably dressed in dress robes and a suit, his expression a mix of annoyance and amusement.

"We're late," Draco stated, giving Tom a wry look before turning his attention to the task at hand.

Tom had been informed about the memorial a few days ago.

At first, he had considered every possible excuse to avoid attending, but then he weighed the political benefits and reluctantly agreed to go. After all, the world was a stage, and he was its master conductor.

He had a show to run and a part to play.

***

There was no need to look for her; he felt her presence there. He turned his head and spotted her a few feet ahead. The real Hermione stood beside Harry Potter, with the ginger-haired girl nearby, the stone walls bearing the names of those who had fallen serving as a solemn backdrop.

Tom did not immediately walk towards her, nor did he make it a point to.

Instead, he allowed Draco to lead him towards a stone and point to a name.

Tom followed where Draco was pointing and looked up, giving him a dry look of disdain.

"Cedric Diggory, not so dead, are you?" he asked, amused by the irony.

"There's an extra chip in your step this morning, Draco. Have yourself a good shag?" Tom asked with a smirk.

Draco gave him a dirty look and replied rather proudly, "A few, actually."

"A Burke, seems you're not out to disappoint your father after all," Tom remarked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Draco rolled his eyes and responded with a sarcastic tone, "Hardy har har, you're hilarious, Cedric."

Then a wider grin spread across Draco's face as he looked past Tom and said, "Oh look, I spy a weasel up ahead, all over someone's favorite mind healer."

Tom took the bait and turned to follow Draco's gaze. He saw Ronald Weasley approaching Hermione, wrapping his arms around her waist and whispering words of affection in her ear. Anger surged within Tom like a tidal wave, his blood boiling as jealousy and frustration consumed him. His fist clenched tightly around his wand in his pocket, knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.

Unintentionally, the raw power of Tom's emotions unleashed a torrent of magic. With a sudden surge, he caused a small monumental wall nearby to explode into shards of stone and dust. The sound was deafening, echoing through the corridor, drawing startled gasps from nearby students and attendees.

Tom's eyes blazed with fury as he struggled to contain the volatile energy coursing through him. His vision tunneled, focusing solely on Hermione and Ronald, his mind swirling with dark thoughts of possession and jealousy. He couldn't bear to see her with someone else, couldn't stand the thought of her affection being directed anywhere but towards him.

Draco's smirk grew wider as he watched the chaos unfold, relishing in Tom's loss of control. The tension in the air crackled with magic, and for a moment, it seemed as though the very foundations of Hogwarts trembled beneath the weight of Tom Riddle's wrath. Then, just like that, he regained control, his features smoothing into a perfectly stoic demeanor.

But nobody knew where the disarray had come from. Startled, Hermione turned, along with others nearby, to see where the disturbance had come from. Ron shot him an angry glare, unaware of Tom's involvement in the sudden explosion.

Tom's chest heaved with the effort of suppressing his emotions, his mind still a tempest of dark thoughts. He knew he had to maintain his facade, to appear as though nothing had happened, but inside, he seethed with a mixture of frustration and self-loathing. He couldn't let anyone see the depths of his obsession with Hermione, couldn't risk exposing the darkness that simmered beneath his carefully crafted exterior.

Hermione's eyes locked with his, and for a moment, it seemed the chaos in him subsided, and time felt like it had frozen. Her eyes widened in apprehension, and at that moment, Tom knew, she knew that he'd been the one that caused the temporary chaos.

Harry Potter rushed past her, all auror and daring hero-like, and Ron followed behind as they went to inspect the damage and figure out what had caused it. Draco, meanwhile, whistled to himself, pretending he didn't know and crept slowly away from Tom as Hermione began to approach him.

As Hermione drew closer, Tom could feel the weight of her gaze, the unspoken questions hanging in the air between them. He tried to maintain his composure, to hide the turmoil churning inside him, but the intensity of her stare was unnerving.

Hermione's eyes widened in confusion as she approached Tom, her brow furrowing with concern. "Cedric, what happened?" she asked, her voice slightly trembling.

Tom shrugged carelessly and ran a hand through his hair, attempting to appear nonchalant despite the turmoil inside him. He looked around sheepishly and said, "Must have been some sort of earthquake or something."

Hermione's eyes narrowed at him, suspicion evident in her gaze as she repeated the word, "earthquake." She then turned her gaze to him accusingly and added, "At Hogwarts?"

Tom shifted uncomfortably under Hermione's penetrating stare. "Well, you know, strange things happen here all the time," he replied, trying to deflect her scrutiny.

"You can't lose control like that," Hermione reprimanded, her tone firm. "I know you having your magic back is recent, but you can't be losing control as if you were a first-year."

A little boy in an orphanage accidentally burning things and stealing food came to the forefront of his thoughts. He shook away the haunting memory, focusing on Hermione's gaze intently, his trousers tightening as he pictured everything, he'd done to a frame that looked just like her just the evening before.

Shifting uncomfortably under his intense gaze, Hermione coughed and looked around. Sensing her discomfort, she asked, "Are you alright being here?"

Tom quickly composed himself, wearing a casual smile despite the tumult of desire within him. "Of course, Hermione," he replied smoothly. "It's disheartening to see the loss of so many lives," he lied.

But was he really lying?

Magical blood lost was a waste.

Muggles had the numbers, and theirs were only dwindling as the years flew by. Years ago, the muggles had discovered magical beings, and before the Statute of Secrecy had been enacted and magicals had banded together to build a safe world of their own, the muggles hunted, killed, and tortured magical beings. Back then, they hadn't had a chance to grow, understand their powers, their capabilities. Tom remembered his childhood, the muggle wars, his muggle life, how they'd treated him, treated his mother, and he'd resented that world and their kind ever since.

And now, now he was looking into the eyes of a muggleborn witch as if she were the rarest treasure in the world. However, his anger was dissipating when it came to his obsession; he was starting to just accept it.

Feeling her gaze linger on him, Tom found himself lost in conflicting emotions. His resentment toward muggles warred with his growing fascination and desire for a mudblood, for Salazars sake.

The lines between his past and present blurred, and for a moment, he felt a sense of acceptance wash over him.

Draco strode towards him, the Weasel, and Harry Potter at his side. Harry exhaled deeply and looked around anxiously.

Finally, he just shrugged and glanced at them, saying, "Must have been some sort of earthquake or something."

Tom suppressed a chuckle as Hermione shot the Boy Who Lived and Died and Lived Again a disdainful look. She then glanced up at Tom, shaking her head in disbelief, and whispered under her breath, "Unbelievable."

The Weasel greeted Tom politely but with an evident distance, "How are you, Cedric?"

Tom flashed the Weasel a wicked grin, relishing the discomfort his presence caused. "Quite well. I had a splendid week with Hermione, and it's been an eventful weekend so far at the manor."

Amused, he watched as Hermione stiffened and Ron's gaze darkened at his emphasis on the word "splendid." Tom took a small measure of satisfaction in their reactions, knowing he had successfully ruffled their feathers.

Then, McGonagall's voice rang out loudly through the courtyard, calling them to take their seats. With a graceful flick of his robes, Tom followed the others, his mind still lingering on the brief exchange.

Sitting there beside Draco and other wizards and witches he did not recognize, not bothering to listen to the stories of the fallen, Tom marveled at the irony of his situation—once a despised orphan, Lord Voldemort, now mingling among wizards and witches as if he belonged.

Apparently, The Weasleys had lost a brother. His duplicate stood at the podium cracking jokes, making the crowd of onlookers laugh despite the somber mood of the event.

His name was George. Tom decided he did not like George.

Clown.

Finally, the savior of the whole world (or so they thought) stood at the podium, and the crowd stood and clapped as he approached. Tom reluctantly did the same. Then, he asked them all to take their seats, a charming smile on his face.

No wonder people always compared Harry to his younger self, he had a way about him he supposed.

As Harry began his speech, Tom's mind wandered. He found it difficult to muster any genuine interest in the proceedings. He felt detached, as if he were merely observing the events from a distance. The camaraderie, the sense of loss—they were all foreign to him.

Then, his name was called, and Tom stood, adjusting his robes with a smooth motion. He waved to the crowd, flashing his polished political smile, and winked at the ladies as he approached the podium. Setting his wand down in front of him, he amplified his voice and cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Tom began, his voice carrying with authority. "Today, we gather to honor the brave souls who fought and sacrificed for the greater good. Their courage will be remembered, and their legacy will live on in our hearts and in our actions."

Until he crushed their idiotic legacy and created a new one.

He paused, letting the solemnity of the moment sink in before continuing. "As we stand here, commemorating the fallen, I am reminded of the sacrifices made by Harry Potter and his friends. Their bravery saved us all from the darkness that threatened our world. For that, we owe them a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid."

And soon Potter will be dead.

Tom's gaze shifted to the Weasley twin, George standing solemnly at the podium. "I also want to extend my condolences to the Weasley family for their loss," he said, his tone sincere. "George, though your brother may no longer be with us, his spirit lives on in the hearts of all who knew him."

Even though he hadn't been really listening, he'd picked up enough to tug on the heartstrings of his audience, and Hermione’s.

He took a moment to acknowledge Lucius and Draco Malfoy. "To the Malfoy family, I am grateful for your unwavering support and guidance during these trying times. Your loyalty, charity, and sponsorship are appreciated."

He ignored the faces the crowd made at the mention of Lucius and watched as several heads turned to watch Draco's reaction. Draco simply smirked at Cedric (Tom) and looked unfazed by the negative attention.

A walking pariah, he was used to it by now. That would change soon. They'd fear them all again soon enough. Not that Draco wanted that, but it was inevitable.

"And as we move forward," Tom continued, his voice growing stronger, "I am pleased to announce that I will be joining the Wizengamot, I start my training tomorrow. It is my hope that I can contribute to the betterment of our society and uphold justice for all."

Justice in Tom's eyes.

Tom's expression softened, a note of humility in his voice as he concluded, "Though my name may still be etched on the memorial stone, and I should have been among the fallen remembered today, I am grateful for the opportunity at a second chance. Let us honor their memory by striving for a better future, together."

With a final nod to the crowd, Tom raised his wand in a gesture of unity. "Let us feast in the Great Hall and remember the fallen with love and merriment," he added, his voice carrying with authority. "Their sacrifice will not be forgotten but let us celebrate their lives and the hope they fought for."

Everyone stood, applauding, whistling, and chanting his name (Well Cedric).

He could get used to this, he thought, relishing the adulation of the crowd and soon, the world would be at his feet.

Chapter Text

You should see me in a crown
I'm gonna run this nothing town
Watch me make 'em bow
One by one by one
One by one by
You should see me in a crown
Your silence is my favorite sound
Watch me make 'em bow
One by one by one

One by one by one

Count my cards, watch them fall
Blood on a marble wall
I like the way they all
Scream
Tell me which one is worse
Living or dying first
Sleeping inside a hearse
I don't dream

You should see me in a crown, Billie Eilish

***

HPOV

The Hogwarts Great Hall was decorated with a touch of solemnity and respect for the lunch held in memory of the Battle of Hogwarts.

Long, elegant tables were draped with black velvet tablecloths, embroidered with subtle silver thread depicting symbols of courage and resilience. Silver candelabras stood tall along the length of the tables, their flames dancing in the soft light that filled the hall.

In the center of the hall, a simple yet dignified memorial display stood on a raised platform, featuring photographs of the fallen heroes surrounded by wreaths of white lilies and dark roses. The photographs were enchanted to softly glow, casting a gentle radiance over the room.

Above, the enchanted ceiling displayed a peaceful sky with drifting clouds, creating a serene backdrop for the solemn occasion. Occasional bursts of golden light would shimmer across the ceiling, reminiscent of spells cast in battle.

Each place setting was meticulously arranged with silverware and dark napkins folded neatly on white porcelain plates. Delicate crystal glasses sparkled in the light, awaiting the guests' choice of beverage.

At the head of the room, the teachers' table was adorned with a larger memorial centerpiece, displaying the Hogwarts crest and symbols of bravery. Tall vases filled with white lilies and black calla lilies flanked the centerpiece, their fragrance mingling with the scent of the meal.

Soft instrumental music played in the background, adding to the ambiance as guests and staff gathered to honor the memory of those who had fought and sacrificed during the battle. The sound of quiet conversations and the occasional laughter of fond memories filled the hall, mingling with the aroma of the carefully prepared dishes.

Harry sat beside Ginny, whispering in her ear as George sat across from them. Molly and Arthur occupied seats beside Ron, and Hermione found herself seated right beside Ron at the end of the long Gryffindor table. She rolled her eyes, knowing that on a day like today, the division among houses was unnecessary.

But still, three tables ahead, all the way across the Great Hall, she looked to see Draco Malfoy sitting beside Cedric Diggory at the Slytherin table. How strange it was to see the older Hufflepuff there. Cedric had been seventeen when "he'd not really died" but been abducted, and she, Ron, and Harry had only been fourteen at the time. Cedric had a bright future then, and judging by the attention he was currently receiving, he had a brighter one still.

Hermione felt a pang of bittersweet nostalgia at the sight of Cedric. He had been one of the casualties of the Triwizard Tournament, a reminder of the dangers that lurked within the wizarding world. But here he was, alive and well, and yet somehow different. It was as though he belonged to another time, another reality.

As she watched him converse with Draco, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Cedric seemed distant, his eyes carrying a weight that Hermione couldn't quite place. Was it the trauma of what he had endured, or was there something more? She found herself lost in thought, wondering about the secrets that Cedric might be hiding behind his charming facade.

As George cracked a joke, making the entire table laugh, Hermione refocused her attention back to her clan, her family.

Her friends, her boyfriend.

This was where she belonged, and she was no longer Cedric's mind healer. She would advocate for him and hope for his betterment, and hopefully, they still remained friends. But he had gone and left, and now she had the distance she'd wanted.

And that was a good thing, right?

Harry stood and gently kissed Ginny on the forehead before announcing, "I'm going to go chat with Draco for a bit."

Ron rolled his eyes and picked at the food that had appeared on his plate. Hermione hugged his arm gently and whispered, "He's still your best friend, Ron. Don't be jealous of Draco."

Taking a tentative sip of the butterbeer that suddenly appeared in front of him (the castle always seemed to know what one wanted), Ron looked at Hermione and sighed, "They go to pubs together and don't invite me."

Hermione shook her head sympathetically. "I'm sure it's not intentional. They're probably working and then just head out. And it's not like you and Draco have ever gotten along."

Ginny scooted closer and interrupted, saying, "Actually, I think Ron and Draco are sort of friends now, ain't that right, Ron?"

Hermione gave Ron an inquisitive look as he looked at her sheepishly and admitted, "He and I got drunk together last weekend."

Laughing, Hermione turned to see Harry conversing with Draco and his own friends up ahead—Blaise, Theo, and Pansy. It was a peculiar sight, seeing Harry and Draco chatting amicably, but she felt a sense of pride that they had all moved beyond their school rivalries. It was a testament to how much they had all grown since their Hogwarts days.

She was proud of Draco, and she looked up at Ron, realizing she was proud of him as well.

He was a good Auror, a hard worker, a good son, friend, and brother.

But then a question intruded upon her thoughts: was he a good boyfriend, though?

The question came to mind unbidden, and Hermione brushed it away, focusing on the warmth of Ron's hand under the table instead.

Being back at Hogwarts was nostalgic. Everything felt familiar, yet different.

The scent of the castle was the same, that unique mix of old books and magic, but life had changed, and so had her memories of the place. Despite the fact that she had often found herself fighting for her life or the lives of her friends within these walls, Hogwarts had always been a sanctuary where she felt safe and understood.

It had been home. Seven years, and now she was no longer inside these castle walls, studying, reading, learning, seeing her best friends every day. It made her sad. That, and the fact that it was May, and just the year before, so many had died there.

Remus. She shuddered, thinking of her professor, how much she'd admired him. Even crushed on him at one point. Tonks, his lovely wife, a good friend, an Auror. A mother. Their son, now raised by their grandmother, who'd secretly rekindled a relationship with her sister, and who Harry and Draco were actually a part of little Teddy's (Edward Remus) life.

Did people know Narcissa was seeing her sister again? A "blood traitor," she wondered.

Looking at George, Hermione winced, knowing half of him would always be missing. Fred had been... well, his twin, his best friend, his brother.

Looking forward, she saw Professor McGonagall at the table, looking at the chair that now sat another Potions teacher. Hermione wondered if she was thinking of Professor Snape.

Hagrid stood by the door, looking at the headmaster's chair, and Hermione wondered if he missed Dumbledore, the only man that'd advocated for and shielded the half-giant.

Everything, Hermione suddenly realized seemed tinged with sorrow, reminders of the losses they had all suffered, both within these walls and beyond. Hogwarts, once a place of safety and wonder, now held echoes of pain and longing for those who were no longer there.

They ate lunch and chatted, and then they were all allowed to tour the castle from top to bottom. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione looked up ahead to see Harry, Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Pansy seemingly deciding to head towards the Quidditch pitch, probably to play a game for old times' sake.

George rushed behind them, and so did many others, while others scattered around the castle.

Wondering where Cedric had run off to, she walked down the crowded corridors until Hermione decided she'd head towards where she'd spent most of her free time:

The library.

As she walked through the familiar corridors, memories flooded back. The laughter, the arguments, the late-night study sessions—it all seemed like a lifetime ago. The library, with its towering shelves of books and cozy reading nooks, had been her sanctuary during her time at Hogwarts. It was where she had continuously discovered the magic of knowledge and where she had found solace in the pages of countless volumes.

Walking through the library, she let her fingers glide over the spines of the books, relishing the familiar scent of aged parchment and ink. For a moment, she allowed herself to drift back to a time when Voldemort's shadow hadn't loomed over every corner of Hogwarts.

Would they still have been the trio - Harry, Ron, and herself - if Voldemort hadn't been a constant threat? Would their friendship have blossomed as strongly?

And what about Ginny and Harry?

Would they have found each other without the backdrop of the Dark Lord's reign of terror?

She shook her head, realizing the futility of such musings. The truth was, Voldemort had shaped their lives in profound ways, for better or for worse.

Their very identities were intertwined with his existence. But was it a matter of being shaped by him or in defiance of him?

Selecting a book at random, she retreated to her favorite secluded spot in the back of the library, away from prying eyes. It was her sanctuary, where she could lose herself in the pages without interruption.

A book on Arithmancy, lovely.

"The Art of Arithmancy: Unraveling the Patterns of the Universe" by Professor Elara Nightingale is a comprehensive guide to the ancient and mystical discipline of Arithmancy. From the origins of numerology to modern applications in wizarding societies, Professor Nightingale explores the secrets of magical mathematics, teaching readers how to decipher the numerical codes that govern the universe and predict the future with clarity and purpose. Through engaging explanations and practical exercises, this book is an indispensable resource for anyone curious about the hidden mathematics of magic.”

Destiny was written in the stars, truly.

Wizards called it Arithmancy and Muggles called it birth charts and horoscopes.

Turning the page, Hermione began to read until a velvety voice startled her. She jumped up and looked to see a familiar figure standing there, his dark eyes, long lashes, and a set of gleaming white perfect teeth catching her off guard.

By gods, did he get better looking or was she just imagining it?

Cedric, tall and imposing, his presence commanding attention. Hermione couldn't deny the twinge of something in her stomach as she took in his refined features. Had he really become more attractive, or was it just her mind playing tricks on her?

He was leaning against a nearby shelf, his gaze lingering on the book Hermione held in her hands. "Arithmancy," he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. "A subject after my own heart. I always found the hidden patterns of the universe quite fascinating." His eyes twinkled with a hint of intrigue as he regarded Hermione, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Closing the book, Hermione watched as he trailed his long, slender fingers on the wooden desk and approached her slowly, his dark eyes fixed intensely on her. He sat right beside her, folding one foot over the other, and then looked down at the wooden table, tracing a carved outline on it.

"This had been my favorite table when I attended Hogwarts," he said, his voice soft but carrying an air of nostalgia. "This quiet corner, away from all the others."

Hermione traced her fingers nervously over the cover of the leather book she'd grabbed and nodded. "Mine as well." She felt a sense of enchantment as she found it hard to tear her eyes away from him.

He continued tracing whatever was carved on the table, and Hermione felt a strange pull, as if she were under some sort of spell. Then he looked up, giving her yet another gleaming and charming smile, before standing. "I'm off to explore the castle a bit more. It has been quiet a while since I've been able to. This was very much a home to me at some point. I have to say I did miss it."

"Yes, I miss it as well," Hermione replied, her voice a little breathless.

He looked down at her, as if attempting to read her thoughts, and then added, "You didn't write me."

How could she have replied to his letter when she had not been able to even leave her bed?

Looking down, Hermione swallowed before meeting his gaze. "Thank you for the flowers, Cedric. I am saddened to see you go, but I am very happy for you and your new situation."

He put his hands behind his back, the picture of aristocratic poise, as she took in his noble attire and then he asked dryly, "Are you?"

Hermione found herself nodding. "Of course, Cedric."

He nodded as if to himself, then turned and bid her adieu. "Goodbye, Ms. Granger."

Her silly little heart, traitor to Ron, beat un-rhythmically at the sound of him calling her that as she watched him leave.

Letting out a breath she had not realized she'd been holding; she opened her book again and began to read.

It was a relief to immerse herself in the familiar pages, to let the words sweep her away from the tumult of emotions Cedric's presence stirred within her. But try as she might, she couldn't shake the memory of his dark eyes and charming smile, lingering in the quiet corners of her mind as she delved back into the world of Arithmancy.

Twenty minutes later, deciding she'd purchase a copy of that book for herself, she stood and went to go place the book back on the shelf where she'd found it. But she stopped short, looked down at what Cedric had been tracing on the table, and nearly dropped the book from her hand as she stared at the engraved initials.

All of the tables had engravings from magical blades or knives—children being, well, children—rude, reckless, and bored. But how had she not noticed those initials before, the initials carved into her favorite table?

T.M.R.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

They should have burned this table!

Her mind raced with the implications of the discovery. How could she have been sitting at a table carved with the initials of the most notorious dark wizard in history without realizing it? The realization sent shivers down her spine. It was a chilling reminder of how deeply Riddle's presence had permeated every corner of Hogwarts, even long after his demise.

Hermione's thoughts whirled with questions. How many times had she unknowingly sat at this table, mere inches away from the mark of the very person they had fought so hard to defeat?

***

TPOV

Tom left the girls' bathroom near Ravenclaw Tower, enraged. His chamber had been tarnished, his basilisk destroyed, and they'd just left the creature there, no proper burial. At least the fangs remained; he'd have to come back for one, but for now, he was too irate to figure out where to bloody put it and sneak it out of the castle. Rushing out of the bathroom, he smacked into someone and held back the reaction to Avada whoever dared get into his way as he looked into the eyes of a tall, lanky male brunette.

"Nott," he stated tersely.

"Diggory. What brings you to the women's bathroom?" Nott asked, looking past him. "Looking for a romp with a moaning ghost?"

Cedric Diggory's womanizer reputation was starting to irk him as he shook his head and said, "No," giving no further explanation.

Theodore Nott chuckled and then grabbed him, pulling him inside. "Do you think ghosts can give blow jobs?"

Tom's anger was momentarily forgotten as he blinked in surprise at Nott's question. The absurdity of it struck him, and despite himself, he found a smirk forming on his lips.

From experience, Tom knew this particular ghost’s mouth had not been very skilled when she'd been alive.

And right on cue, out of the toilet, Myrtle floated out screaming, "Handsome boys in my bathroom! How lovely. I cannot give you a blow job, but you know who I did blow once?"

Tom rolled his eyes at Myrtle's antics, resisting the urge to hex her back into her toilet. He glanced at Nott, who seemed highly amused by the whole situation.

Chuckling, Nott asked, "Who?"

Myrtle floated around them then landed on the sinks and crossed her legs, attempting to look seductive, which made Tom realize he must have been extremely intoxicated to roll in the mud with this one. She batted her eyelashes and told them, "The evil one."

Tom had had enough of this. Knowing it was going to wind her up, he said dryly, "Tom Riddle."

Myrtle's eyes widened as she floated up to the ceiling, looked down at them, and screamed, "Do not say his name! Do not say his name in my bathroom! Do not ever say his name!"

Nott shook his head as Myrtle started whizzing around the women's bathroom, destroying it, and causing the sinks to rush water at the top and the toilets to flood. He grabbed Tom and dragged him out of there.

Nott was laughing hysterically as they reached the hallway and were far away from the bathroom and Myrtle's wrath. He leaned back against the wall, clutching his stomach, and looked up at Tom, still chuckling.

"Diggory, can you believe the Dark Lord shagged that!?" he asked between fits of laughter.

If Tom had been a normal human man. A human man with normal emotions. True empathy and perhaps the capability of understanding "feelings," he may have been embarrassed despite Nott not knowing he, of course, was The Dark Lord. But he wasn't a normal human man, so he just shook his head and fought back the very real urge to gut him and watch him bleed.

This whole charade, this play at being “Cedric Diggory”, being the friendly, brave, handsome Hufflepuff was so... dull. It was actually just irritating him.

Tom leaned against the wall, watching Nott laugh, and felt a sense of frustration. He was tired of pretending to be someone he wasn't, tired of the facade he had to maintain. Soon, though, soon enough at least the sons of his followers and his followers would know of his true identity, and Theodore Nott would not dare act this way around him.

But for now, he had to continue playing the part, biding his time until the moment was right to reveal his true self. Until then, he would have to endure these tedious interactions, all the while seething with impatience beneath his charming facade.

***

Out on the Quidditch field, Harry Fucking Potter approached Tom Riddle, passing him a broom. "Play for Slytherin, we're one short," Potter said.

Salazar, he loathed this boy.

Fuck, Tom thought. He'd forgotten Cedric Diggory was a Quidditch player. Team captain and seeker. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of the persona he had to maintain.

Using his wand, he transformed his robes and summoned an old Slytherin uniform from the lockers. It felt odd, wearing the green and silver again, a reminder of a time he was eager to leave behind. But the necessity of the moment pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind. He grabbed the broom and looked at Potter. "I'll play seeker then," he announced with a hint of arrogance, as if he had been born for the role.

Harry turned to Draco, who stood beside him holding his broom, and gave him a questioning look. Draco narrowed his eyes at Tom, clearly not pleased with the idea. Tom returned the look with a challenging smile. Draco acquiesced, albeit reluctantly, and said, "Fine, I'll play keeper."

A flash came from nearby as Tom looked up into the stands to see a reporter taking pictures, and he rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was to have his face plastered across the wizarding world's newspapers again. But perhaps, he mused, this could work to his advantage. It would bolster his image, remind people of his prowess, and serve as a subtle political ploy.

Gryffindor vs. Slytherin it was. The rivalry that never seemed to die.

Adults, out of Hogwarts, playing the reminisce game. It was almost laughable. But Tom almost felt a flicker of excitement. There was a thrill in the competition, even if it was just a game.

Why not?

Back in his day, he had not played. He'd been too busy planning to rule the world and all. But that didn't mean he didn't know how and didn't occasionally join his knights at practice.

Ginny, Harry, Ron, George, someone named Katie, a girl named Angelina, and a boy named Dean played as "Gryffindor."

Meanwhile, Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Cedric (Tom), Millicent Bulstrode (Big Girl, just like her father), Theodore, and a boy named Enzo played for Slytherin. It was a strange mix of nostalgia and reality, the past merging with the present in a way that Tom found both amusing and disconcerting.

Soaring up onto the field on his broomstick, Tom felt the summer air hit him, a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. He had forgotten the last time he'd used a broom; after all, he'd had the capability to fly without one. But now, in this new body, he felt the rush of excitement that came with the wind in his face.

Could this body fly without assistance, he wondered, making a mental note to try once this silly game was over. The thought amused him, a brief respite from the intensity of the match ahead.

But as the game commenced, Tom felt the familiar surge of competitiveness course through him. He fought back the urge to have his eyes flash red, his head filled with adrenaline and the burning desire to win.

Win.

Win.

Win.

That's what he'd been born to do.

No matter the game.

The Quidditch match thundered on as Tom scanned the field, his eyes sharp for any sign of the golden snitch. He noticed Potter watching him from across the field, a nervous energy emanating from him.

Hadn't Cedric been a better player than him? Tom smirked at the thought, relishing the challenge.

Was Potter out to prove something?

Tom chuckled darkly as he zoomed through the air, his laughter echoing in the summer sky. He could sense Harry's focus shifting, his determination growing.

He clenched his jaw, feeling the fire of competition burning in his chest. He wouldn't let Potter best him, not in this game or any other. With each turn, each dive, Tom's resolve only grew stronger. Victory was his, and he would claim it, no matter the cost.

As the game reached its climax, tension hung thick in the air.

Both teams fought fiercely, but it was Tom, flying with a speed and precision that seemed almost supernatural, who ultimately claimed victory for Slytherin. With a swift maneuver, he spotted the snitch darting near the Slytherin goalposts and dove towards it with a determination that left Harry Potter trailing behind.

They shook hands, the lingering tension of the game still palpable in the air. Potter's expression shifted from disappointment to a begrudging smile as Draco clasped him on the back. Tom noticed Hermione watching from the stands, her eyes filled with admiration, a warmth that ignited a sense of pride within him. He flashed her a crooked smile, relishing the fleeting connection before she looked away, a blush staining her cheeks.

Returning his attention to Potter, Tom met the Gryffindor's gaze as he spoke, "You've still got it, Diggory."

Tom shrugged nonchalantly, though inwardly, he reveled in the acknowledgment. Theodore Nott forced him into a high-five, and Tom felt oddly off-kilter suddenly. This level of camaraderie was foreign to him, a reminder of the friendships he had never truly experienced.

This was all idiotic, truly. He played along, masking his discomfort behind a facade of indifference, but beneath it all, he couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place.

Feeling?

Fuck.

He needed to get the fuck out of there.

As both teams continued to chat and laugh, Tom gradually stepped back, feeling the weight of his solitude amidst the jovial atmosphere. He retreated to where the brooms belonged, seeking solace in the familiar feel of the wood beneath his fingers. But even in the aftermath of victory, he couldn't escape the watchful eyes of the reporter up ahead, capturing his image for the world to see.

***

Walking back towards the castle, the air crackled with tension, the scent of damp earth mingling with the distant echoes of laughter from the Quidditch pitch. Draco strode beside him, a silent accomplice as the day grew later. The shadows lengthened, casting eerie shapes across the grounds.

Suddenly, an older wizard materialized before them, his face twisted in anger as he pointed his wand directly at Tom. The atmosphere thickened with hostility as he spat, "You should be dead like all the others. You're probably not even really him!"

Tom's expression remained cool and calculated, his eyes narrowing with disdain as he assessed the threat before him. His hand moved instinctively to his wand, the familiar weight of it reassuring in his grip.

Beside him, Draco tensed, ready for action, but Tom remained unperturbed. The accusation hung in the air like a challenge, but Tom felt no fear, only a rising sense of irritation at the interruption.

With a swift and decisive motion, Tom brandished his wand, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife as he demanded, "Who are you?" There was no hint of apprehensiveness in his tone, only the unmistakable aura of power and authority.

Draco stepped in front of Tom as the Wizard eyed Tom angrily and said, "He killed my entire family. I'm the only one that's left but he left you alive. Why you?"

Woe is me, He killed too many to remember this man and towards the end he hadn’t done any of the killing himself.

In a dull drone Tom replied, "Why not me?"

"Cedric," Draco called back to him as if asking him to stop speaking.

Tom guessed he was probably regretting leaving DesiAnn behind at the manor to guard the gates when they weren't even there now that this had occurred and fought back being on the verge of maniacal laughter.

What a way to end the day! A reason for violence.

Finally.

Tom ignored Draco's plea and stepped ahead, beside Draco once more, still pointing his wand at the wizard and asked, "Well?"

The wizard hadn't answered and was shaking with rage as his wand was pointed to him and staring at him murderously before finally seething out, "You're just another pureblood fanatic like him," He nodded towards Draco, "you don't deserve another second chance at life."

Pathetic. A blood traitor or a mudblood of course.

How sad.

Draco stiffened beside him as he himself slowly reached for his wand in his pocket, but Tom commanded coldly, "No need for that, Draco. I can handle this."

The hex, eager to be unleashed, danced on the tip of his tongue, Salazar, he was looking forward to this—elated with the idea of a duel, torture, and death—until it was ruined.

A loud, commanding female voice echoed behind them, "Stupefy!"

With the precision of a dart on a dartboard, the spell shot through the air, flying right between where Tom and Draco were standing. The air crackled with the electric energy of the spell, and Tom felt the rush of power as it narrowly missed him, hitting the man's forehead with a sharp crack. He fell back with a resounding thud, the ground trembling beneath him.

Tom turned, his senses ablaze with a mix of frustration and adrenaline. He could taste the metallic tang of his own fury, feel the heat of his rage coursing through his veins. His body yearned for the release of violence, but then his attention shifted as he caught sight of Hermione Granger stomping towards them, she'd unleashed her spell from a distance that would have been deemed impossible from any other wizard except probably himself.

Her long, wild hair flowed behind her like a cascade of power and magic, each strand seeming to dance with its own energy as she moved. Tom couldn't help but be mesmerized by the way it shimmered with every step, a tangible display of her strength and determination.

As she drew closer, Tom felt a palpable sense of might emanating from her, like a wave crashing against the shore. It wasn't just her appearance or her words, but a tangible aura that seemed to surround her, enveloping everything in its path.

"Salazar, fucking hell," the expletive slipped from his lips before he could stop it, a testament to the sheer force of her presence. It wasn't just her physicality or her magic; it was the sheer determination in her eyes, the unwavering resolve that seemed to challenge even the darkest corners of his own psyche.

Draco chuckled beside him, his voice barely audible over the rush of adrenaline. He placed a hand to the back of his head and in a low tone said to Tom, "Oh, you haven't seen Granger mad before, have you? It's quite scary, to say the least."

Scary?

No, she was magnificent. Tom couldn't deny the thrill that ran through him at the thought of facing her head-on, her power matched only by her unwavering determination.

Inhaling her aura, her magnitude, Tom relished in what this beautiful creature was.

Hermione Granger was power, magic, and... Might.

***

Pacing his room that night, Tom was unable to tear his mind away from Hermione. "The brightest witch of our era they call her", Draco had said. "I can understand why you may be smitten by her, but she is a dangerous little thing, isn't she?"

Only if she wanted to be.

All that power, all that rage and she had it hidden inside of her, unreleased.

What magic could they discover together?

What feats could they accomplish?

Still pacing, Tom waited until it was well past midnight, disillusioned himself into a dark shadow, and quietly apparated into Hermione's flat.

Crookshanks looked up at him from the living room couch and gave him an expectant look.

Tom stared at the cat stoically, pondering the enigmatic creature's role in Hermione's life.

It only stared back.

Weird fucking cat.

He heard Hermione stirring and made his way quietly to her room.

Standing in the corner, he watched her sleep, his mind swirling with thoughts of what could be.

Chapter Text

 

Who's to know if your soul will fade at all?
The one you sold to fool the world
You lost your self-esteem along the way, yeah

Good God, you're coming up with reasons
Good God, you're dragging it out
And good God, it's the changing of the seasons
I feel so raped, so follow me down and just

Fake it if you're out of direction
Fake it if you don't belong here
Fake it if you feel like infection
Whoa, you're such a fucking hypocrite

You should know that the lies won't hide your flaws
No sense in hiding all of yours
You gave up on your dreams along the way, yeah

Good God, you're coming up with reasons
Good God, you're dragging it out
Good God, it's the changing of the seasons
I feel so raped, so follow me down and just

Fake it if you're out of direction
Fake it if you don't belong here
Fake it if you feel like infection
Whoa, you're such a fucking hypocrite

Fake It, Seether

***

HPOV

Days passed, and her monotonous routine returned like a slap to the face.

Having Cedric live with her had been exciting, a spark that ignited a fire in her she hadn't known was extinguished. And now, she felt... alone.

They'd arrested the man who had attacked him, and Hermione was grateful she had intervened. It seemed both Cedric and Draco had not taken kindly to something the man had said, and a fight was most likely destined to ensue.

Boys will be boys, she guessed.

The last thing either of those damned boys needed was a duel making the papers at the Battle of Hogwarts Memorial. Hermione had thought the Ministry was exaggerating with the precautions they'd set for Cedric's miraculous return, but perhaps not.

Clearly, there were disgruntled witches and wizards who were not very happy that he was alive while their lost friends and family were not.

How had that been his fault?

He hadn’t asked to be spared, to be locked away and imprisoned, he hadn’t asked for this!

Ron, along with Martin, had been holed up at the Ministry or Malfoy Manor, or wherever it was Cedric went since Monday morning.

Hermione, though she wished she didn't feel this way exactly, was envious of them both— yes, envious of her own boyfriend for being “stuck” with Cedric Diggory for seventeen hours a day. It was preposterous, the thought, but nevertheless, it was there. Uninvited and nagging.

And since those long shifts, Ron had not come to stay the night, nor had she gone to Grimmauld Place. So, her days at the hospital were longer, and when she came home, she and Crooks would cuddle on her couch for a while. She'd eat a sandwich or some equally quick meal, and then she'd stare up at her ceiling, ignoring her neighbors' cries and moans of pleasure, and willed herself not to dream before she slept. The nightmares, no matter how much she willed them not to plague her, always did. But in recent days, they'd been different.

They occurred, but it was as if there was some magical detachment to them. Like as if she were observing them from a distance, unable to feel anything at all. It was a strange phenomenon, and it did terrify her, but not quite in the way feeling the full force of the nightmares would have.

It didn't make sense, but she didn't question the small relief it brought. Perhaps it was her mind's way of protecting itself from the trauma, or perhaps it was something else entirely.

Then on Thursday, after another extraordinarily monotonous day, Cedric made an appearance.

Hermione sat in her office, writing. Luna had been doing much better, although she remained distant. She seemed oddly like her old, odd self. No more voices, whisperings, no more accusations, and she had not mentioned Cedric Diggory at all. Yet, another strange phenomenon, but after all the violence, the trauma, she thanked the stars for this miracle. Luna deserved better.

Luna, her friend, may be coming back.

Their friend. She thought of Neville, Ron, Harry, and all the others.

"Ms. Granger." The voice was velvet and musical, reminiscent of evenings with gourmet star meals, watching movies on the couch, laughing, books, and playing Chess. She knew who it was instantly, but that didn't stop her from jumping up startled as she looked up into dark (so, so dark, had they always been that dark?), penetrating eyes and a calculated grin.

"C-Cedric, lovely to see you."

Feeling inadequate was the only way she could describe how she felt just then as she looked at this godlike being in front of her. Godlike? Wasn’t that what the nurses said about him? She set her ballpoint pen down, patted her hair, and sat up straighter as he walked further into her office and sat in front of her.

Cedric grabbed the pen she'd been holding and examined it as she watched him, reminding herself to steady her heartbeat. It took more than a beat, but he finally looked up and asked, now wearing a mischievous (still looking godlike) smile, "Can I keep this one? I'm finding a quill rather dull. And enchanting one doesn't quite garner the same stimulating effect on the mind while studying."

Appreciating his desire for using a muggle object other wizards would deem beneath them, especially a “noble house” pureblood wizard, Hermione nodded in agreement. "Of course you may. How is it going, learning everything there is to know about serving on the Wizengamot?"

The Wizengamot, she mused. She would have been in front of them at least once per week had she pursued her original career plans, her original five-year plan. But now she was on a new path.

A better path, she lied to herself.

Placing the pen on his ear, Cedric gave Hermione a sight she'd never thought to behold, and she suddenly felt warmth between her legs (Merlin, What the fuck?). Her eyes widened in further appreciation of him and his beauty. He looked like some sort of university professor, dapper and astute, knowledgeable.

"Very well. The program is supposed to take three weeks to complete, however, I've been told I should be finished by mid-next week," Cedric explained.

Hermione focused on the way his mouth moved, the slight quirk of his lips, and the way his words flowed effortlessly. The sound of his voice was smooth, like molten honey, wrapping around her senses. Each syllable was a gentle caress, soothing and captivating at the same time.

Realizing she needed to respond, she said, "I don't doubt you already know most of what it is they are teaching you. This is just a refresher?"

He stood and tilted his head towards her, observing her for a few seconds. It made her heart stop beating, and then he said, "Perhaps."

Swallowing, Hermione looked away, the scent of Cedric's cologne lingering in the air, it made her dizzy. Before she could say anything, he said, "It was nice to see you, Ms. Granger. I've come to complete my required session with Mr. Everhart, always a pleasure. I am grateful for the writing instrument." It made her look up at him, and she smiled feebly and nodded before whispering, "It's Hermione." He was out the door before she'd finished her sentence.

Merlin, when did she become a gulping, blithering moron around him? This was Cedric for God's sake; she had just lived with him for a week!

Shaking herself, she stood and went to her drawer to retrieve a new pen and sat back down, trying to focus on whatever it was she had been doing before he'd walked in.

What had she been doing?

Ignoring the fire that suddenly flew through her veins and the excitement his mere presence caused, she focused on her work.

And then she realized, if Cedric was there, then so was Ron.

Why hadn't Ron stopped by her office to see her?

***

RPOV

Ron had begged, quite literally, got on his knees—Harry to replace him after his first shift "guarding" Cedric Diggory.

For one, strange things kept happening to him. It was as if some invisible force had decided to make his life a living nightmare. He was slipping on puddles that weren't there at the Ministry. He kept spilling drinks or food on himself, even when he was being extra cautious.

And whenever he needed to use the bathroom, suddenly Cedric would have somewhere important to go and would be dashing through the halls, leaving Ron to hold it in for hours. Once, he made the mistake of going to the bathroom, thinking he could finally relieve himself in peace. But when he came out, both Cedric and Martin had disappeared. He searched for an hour, frantically checking every corner of the building, only to find them exactly where he'd left them. He had checked there multiple times!

He thought he was going mad! At the manor, the bloody snake would trail him, slithering menacingly and staring at him as if he were its next meal. Only when Draco was there at the same time would the snake leave him be. Cedric merely shrugged and told him it was Draco's pet; he had no control over it.

Necroth.

Didn’t that mean death?

But the most terrifying thing that had happened was the day before. Once they'd returned from the Ministry, Ron had a right scare while Cedric was strolling around with that pureblood princess, Daphne Greengrass, through the gardens.

He was attacked—bloody attacked!

And no, it had not been by the snake or any menacing creature per se.

Hundreds of white peacocks had suddenly charged after him, and he'd been running around the manor grounds for his life until Martin returned from a break. Suddenly, they'd stopped, but the terror, the fear... He’d screamed like a girl.

The sight of those white peacocks, their feathers flared and beaks pecking fiercely, was a sight to behold. Ron had never seen anything so beautiful and yet so terrifying. They moved like a wave, their feathers shimmering in the sunlight, their eyes fixed on him with an eerie intensity. Ron stumbled backward, his heart racing as he tried to fend them off, but they were relentless. It was only when Martin arrived, shouting and waving his arms, that they finally scattered, disappearing into the foliage as quickly as they had appeared.

And secondly, well, Cedric may not have been the cause of all these ill-fated occurrences, but Ron had the faintest suspicion he was fucking with him!

He did not have proof, so when he'd voiced these concerns for a second time that morning to Harry before he'd gone to his shift, Harry had merely rolled his eyes and luckily pressured by Ginny, made a deal with Ron.

"Go to the office today and just do some filing with DesiAnn; Martin can handle Cedric today."

Ron couldn't shake the feeling that Cedric was enjoying watching him suffer. But hey, at least he got a break from the manor's zoo of terror for the day.

Yes, it was absurd that an auror of his caliber, someone who'd trained with the best of the best and was on Harry Potter's team, had been traumatized by freaking peacocks.

But honestly, he did not have the energy to tail after Cedric that day, have weird shit happen to him at the Ministry, or encounter some other strange occurrence in that god-awful manor.

It also didn't help that he thought the place was haunted.

How could anyone live there?

Those portraits with their beady, hate-filled gray-blue eyes following them in the foyer and down the hall. Ron was surprised they hadnt hurled any insults at him him yet. Blood traitor or some bigoted shit, it was after all Malfoy Bloody Manor.

Ron shuddered as DesiAnn flicked him on the head and said, "What are you doing!" Focusing on what DesiAnn was complaining about, Ron noticed the glass ball on his desk was lighting up red.

Shit!

Harry and Draco were on patrol today and were summoning him and DesiAnn.

What could they have found?

Hopefully not peacocks…

Ron's mind raced with possibilities as he quickly stood up, DesiAnn following suit. The red glow of the glass ball intensified, signaling urgency. It could be anything from a Dark artifact to a sighting of Death Eaters.

"Let's go," he said to DesiAnn, his heart pounding with a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline. They hurried out of the office, heading towards the location where Harry and Draco were calling them.

Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

***

Ron fought back the bile and the urge to vomit.

The bodies, burned and disfigured, seemed to emanate an aura of dread, their contorted forms a testament to the horror they had endured. As DesiAnn fought back tears, her heart heavy with the weight of the tragedy, Ron could see the anguish etched on her face. He did his best to shield himself from the acrid smell with his Auror uniform, the fabric providing scant protection against the noxious fumes.

The scene was like something out of a nightmare. The bodies, arranged in a macabre line, appeared to be deliberately placed, sending a message. It was clear that whatever monster had done this to them was truly of the evilest, cruelest kind. The eerie silence of the forest — no birds, animals, or chirpings of any kind — only heightened the sense of dread that hung heavy in the air.

Seven bodies.

Seven letters.

Each corpse bore a letter atop it, and an exclamation point was the final one, meticulously scrolled, spelling out the ominous word "DANGER!"

The monster cared for proper grammar it seemed. 

Danger! from what? Ron wondered what vile creature had done this as a chill had gone down Ron's spine, adding an eerie dimension to the already grim tableau. Things could only get worse because this wasn't why Harry and Draco had summoned them, because they weren’t there.

Their enchanted orbs that they utilized to contact each other glowed ominously towards deeper into the forest.

Nervously but prepared for anything, they walked further into the forest towards where their orbs blinked more rapidly, and walked up through the forest, both DesiAnn and Ron remained quiet, wands up at the ready until Ron spotted a white, blond head up ahead.

He noted both Draco and Harry were just standing there, perfectly still, wands not drawn, staring up at the sky.

Dread was the best way to describe the atmosphere, pure dread.

Ron came up to them and lowered his wand, about to ask, "What happened? Why have you sum-" but his sentence was swallowed in his throat as an ominous sound caused him to look up at the sky.

It hadn't been noticeable before.

In fact, near the bodies, the sky had been perfectly clear.

But here... here he looked up, and he realized, marring, no, damning the sky was a colossal skull. It was comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the (now, at least there in that spot) black sky like a new constellation.

Harry slowly turned towards Ron, his eyes wide, real fear on his face, and then looked to Draco and DesiAnn, announcing, "They're back."

Twisting, Draco turned to them, pulled his left sleeve up, and showed them his Dark Mark. The snake was coiling, riveting, almost as if it were alive on his arm.

"How?" Ron's voice trembled with disbelief.

Neither of them knew it seemed, so neither of them answered.

Silence.

DesiAnn cried silently behind him while Ron looked back up at the sky and mumbled, "Morsmordre."

And he'd thought the peacocks were terrifying.

***

TPOV

"Mr. Diggory, it is so nice to see you again," Drew greeted him as he entered his office, a genuine smile on his face. The room smelled faintly of lavender, a scent Tom found strangely comforting yet out of place in the sterile atmosphere of the hospital.

A young woman with wild curls, delicious looking lips, and chocolate-colored eyes smelled like lavender.

Tom returned the smile, feigning politeness. There was absolutely no point in these sessions, a complete and utter waste of time.

Alas, the Ministry had deemed them a necessary precaution or rather assistance in his transition back into the world. Tom could think of better things (illegal and cruel things) to be doing with his free time, better mind healers to chat with, and better-looking too.

Pretending he had the patience of a saint — he didn't, and he was far from being one — he sat across from his new mind healer and greeted him coolly. "Thank you. It is nice to see you as well, Mr. Everhart."

Drew asked him the same questions Hermione did in the beginning, and he answered them skillfully. The line of questioning went like this:

How are you?

How have you been feeling?

What happened?

Did they, he, it, who feed you?

Did he, who, anyone come to see you?

Newer questions were:

How was it living with Hermione?

How is the Ministry?

How are you enjoying living at Malfoy Manor now?

Tom's fingers tapped rhythmically on the armrest of his chair, his patience wearing thin as Drew's questions continued. He could hear the soft hum of the air conditioning, feel the uncomfortable stiffness of the chair against his back, and see the flickering of the fluorescent lights overhead. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the framed certificates adorning the walls, the neatly arranged rows of books on the shelves, and the sunlight streaming in through the window.

The faint scent of Drew's cologne lingered in the air, mixing with the sterile aroma of the office. Tom found himself growing more and more irritated as Drew probed into his personal life. He longed to be anywhere else but here, subjected to this pointless interrogation.

But then, amidst his frustration, something caught his attention. A photograph behind Drew's desk, tucked behind a stack of papers. It was a picture of Drew and a woman, smiling, arms around each other. Tom's eyes narrowed as he recognized the nurse, Amanda. He had tried to charm/use her, during his stay at St. Mungo's, but she had remained strictly professional, so he had not taken it past that himself. Yet here she was, looking entirely different outside the hospital setting.

Perusing his office further, he spotted another photograph, and his eyes scrunched in perplexity.  Tom was never, well rarely caught off guard.

Knowledge was power and there was clearly something he did not know. So, he blurted out, "Isn't that Amir Shafiq there in that photograph?"

Startled, Drew looked to see the photograph Tom was gesturing towards and then turned towards him and nodded, smiling again in that wistful, almost Muggle psychiatrist-type of smile, he found detestable and said, "Yes, it is. Your father must have been acquainted; I'm assuming."

Amir Shafiq was a prominent pureblood, a distinguished figure, and a former follower of his.

Until...

His train of thought was derailed as Drew revealed, "He’s my grandfather."

Tom narrowed his gaze, puzzled. He didn't appreciate being puzzled. He loathed being uninformed. Being caught off guard was not his preference. The taste of bitterness lingered on his tongue as he grappled with the revelation.

Selecting his words with precision, Tom replied, "Everhart is your mother's maiden name, I presume?"

He refrained from using "was" because he couldn't have known that the woman was deceased—murdered by his own Death Eaters. As for his father, Tom had taken care of him himself. He had never been informed that they had a child.

Frazzled, it seemed, Drew coughed and nodded, steering the conversation back to "Cedric".

"Yes, well, it's a long story. How do you feel about your new position? Do you feel prepared to handle the responsibilities of the Wizengamot?"

Plotting, Tom flashed him a wicked smile, his voice dripping with confidence and arrogance. "I am more than prepared to enact change upon the world, Mr. Everhart," he said, his tone oozing with superiority.

***

Walking down the corridor towards room 826, it was inevitable he'd run into her again.

Her name was momentarily lost on him.

He blanked on it being as it’d been irrelevant.

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree as she spotted him, her smile radiant against the backdrop of the hospital corridor. She primmed her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ears, and smoothed down her medical robes before sprinting down the hall towards him. He had no way of turning around now.

Salazar.

The name. Her name.

Who cares?

Anna?

Annie?

Anne. Yes Anne.

The nurse was in front of him now and was looking at him as if she wanted to swallow him whole. Which was all very well, he thought shrugging. Tom had lost Martin as he'd walked into the hospital by the nurses' station over an hour ago before he’d even gone to see Hermione, before seeing Drew, and he was in no rush to head back to the Ministry to "relearn" things he already knew. Tom suspected he knew more than most of the Wizengamot members there as it was.

Pathetic lot.

Anne put her hands on his chest, her palms warm against the fabric of his robes, looked up at him, fluttered her eyelashes, and pouted as she asked, "Why haven't you tried to Floo or write me?" Her voice was soft, with a hint of longing, and Tom could feel the warmth of her breath against his skin.

Life, this new life could be so simple if he just found women like her to be enough. Or if he were a bald-headed creature again that did not need a woman at all because his body was a walking corpse and not a living, breathing twenty-three-year-old man.

Tom, however, did not find her attractive. Her advances felt more like a nuisance than anything else. Her hair, though neatly primmed, appeared too stiff with product, and her robes seemed a size too big, swamping her slender frame. Her smile, though genuine, lacked the charm that might have captivated others.

He'd used her while hospitalized because she'd been easy to use, simple as that. However, now as he pondered on the situation a bit further and noticed her clear adoration towards him, he figured having a spy in the hospital to keep an eye on Hermione, Drew, and even the psycho blonde could come in handy.

No, it would suffice. He desired to know everything.

With forceful grip, he pulled her into an empty room he had meticulously scoped out both magically and mentally, closing the door behind them and pinning her to the wall.

Predator.

Prey.

It was a simple equation. Although, small undesirable prey.

Tom Riddle was more than just a monster. He transcended his past. A newly resurrected figure, some would deem him evil.

Since childhood, he had unknowingly taken what he desired, summoning and beckoning it without ever truly having to force it.

He desired Hermione.

Inherently.

He had brewed a potion and concocted a spell that made Daphne resemble her whenever he indulged in his desires, and she remained none the wiser. But that did not quench his obsession, his ever-growing longing.

His need.

Base desires, yes. Desires he needed satiated, nonetheless. Apparently, the Diggory boy had an appetite for sexual escapades. Couple that with a Dark Lord with a hunger and thirst for power, well, you can imagine how badly Tom Riddle wanted to claim Hermione as his own.

Mind, body, soul, mouth, cunt. Fuck.

But he couldn't, he wouldn't just take. He could perhaps try to seduce her, but he wasn't sure she wanted him to just yet. Unlike other women, Hermione's mind was a closed, impenetrable fortress, and he couldn't read her.

Sure, he could interpret her expressions to some extent, but that didn't reveal her true desires, her emotions, how far he could go.

And oh, the chase, the chase was the sweetest, a mighty catch for a mighty predator.

After seeing her earlier, he'd suppressed a rage and a need like no other. Anne was no Hermione, but he needed her, he could manipulate her into being his little spy. Two birds, one stone.

Tom took her, right there against the wall. Anne didn't fight it because she wanted it.

Wanted him. In any capacity.

He muffled her mouth with his hand, pulled down his pants and trousers, and she hiked up her skirt, moving her knickers to the side as he closed his eyes, pretending it was Hermione Granger, and fucked her roughly.

The hallway outside the room was silent except for the sound of their harsh breaths mingling with the distant hum of the hospital machinery. Anytime she was on the verge of screaming or moaning too loudly, he'd tighten his grip on her mouth, his fingers digging into her skin.

Charmingly, when he was finished and pulled out, forcing her to kneel down and swallow, she stood, her breaths ragged, her eyes glazed with a mix of desire and submission. Tom cupped her chin as if affectionately, a gesture that felt more like dominance than affection, and told her he needed a favor. She obliged, with wide brimming eyes filled with attraction and admiration.

Humans, regular humans, were just such simple creatures.

Simple to manipulate. Simple to suggest to. Simple to command. Control.

There was rarely anyone who didn't fall to his feet, and when there was... he typically declared that person his mortal enemy (Harry Potter), or there was the new path he'd carved out for Hermione Granger to eventually claim.

A path at his side.

***

He found the psycho blonde staring out the window into the gardens.

Just as he walked in and before he could sit beside her, she said without looking up, “Hello, Cedric, glad to know you are well and alive.”

Her voice was soft, melodic, mermaid-like in fact. This girl was no mere seer; she had some other sort of magical blood in her, he could only presume.

Strange creature.

Sitting beside her, he crossed his legs and watched her, studied her, until she turned to face him and gave him a wistful, far, far-away smile.

“You have questions?”

Tom thought of entering her mind again, but Luna seemed relatively at peace with his presence. Although he suspected that she suspected there was something off about him, he also knew no one would believe her. Making that last assessment and satisfied enough with it, he asked his question, "Can you tell me about the Dark Prince?"

Luna smiled, swaying her head back and forth as she giggled, like some fairy sprite at him. Then, as if going somewhere else, perhaps in the future, she said, "The Dark Prince is a new threat to our world. He's neither man nor beast just yet. He has choices to make. Choices that will be his ruin or his happiness."

Seers were rather vague, weren't they?

"Will the Dark Prince succeed?" Tom inquired further.

Luna's brow rose as she studied him, her dreamy gaze meeting his.

Then, she responded vaguely again, "It depends on what he chooses his definition of success to be. One should fear the Dark Prince as he's not yet in control, but one day... he may be."

And what in the world did that mean?

Control.

Control.

Lord Voldemort was always in bloody control!

Rage, the type that filled him randomly whenever things did not seem to be going his way or something unexpected filled his veins. It churned in his gut like a storm, thundering through his body, drowning out reason and sense.

Saving this seer now felt like a waste of time. Tom stood and looked down at the crazed girl then through gritted teeth, he said, "He is in control."

I am in control. I always am.

Not bothering to gauge her reaction, he stood, turned on his heel, and left her hospital room.

Anger simmered beneath his skin as he stormed down the hall to the men's room. The sterile scent of the hospital was suffocating. He slammed the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating off the tiled walls. He twirled his wand in his hand, the smooth wood offering little comfort against his clenched fist and began to pace.

Each step echoed in the small room, a rhythm of frustration and fury.

It was time.

No more stalling, no more waiting.

Rolling his sleeve up, he looked at his unmarked forearm, the skin pale and unblemished. He'd never marked himself, for he was no dog, no animal at a circus to be branded.

He was the ringleader, the master.

A Dark Lord.

Lord Fucking Voldemort.

Dark Prince? DARK LORD! A God.

On nights when nobody was around or paying him any mind, he was Disapparating, plotting, having his fill of violence (it had not been enough). The thirst for power gnawed at him incessantly, driving him to seek out more opportunities to assert his dominance. He'd wished to do it closer to where he was staying, but with two bodyguards and a powerful witch always around, it had been almost impossible to indulge his darker impulses.

The bodies, he'd lined up, beautifully he'd say. Preserved them only somewhat, just enough to convey part of his warning, one would say. Part of it, of course, was also in the smell—the acrid stench of decay that lingered in the air.

Tapping his wand to his left forearm, he watched his skin burn with an image—a writhing serpent emerging from a skull, the Dark Mark, his mark, a symbol of fear and power. It seared into his flesh, igniting a fiery pain that spread through his veins like wildfire, and then it disappeared-he'd never actually mark himself; it was just a sort of summoning spell. Activating what he’d left behind to be found.

Pure power filled him as he closed his eyes and every single image of where every single one of his Death Eaters were located flew through his mind.

Their forearms would burn and sear, the serpent would slither on their skin, a reminder of who they were and that Morsmordre had been used. A powerful beam of magic would be emanating now right by where he'd left the bodies, and his mark would be marring the sky until discovered by the Ministry.

Magic that powerful on muggle public lands, illegal.

For now.

Tom smiled evilly, his eyes flashing red as he felt the spell activate, a surge of dark power coursing, icing, beckoning, whispering through his veins.

Seven Murders.

The first in this new body with this new mixture of a whole soul.

He needed to taunt them:

Danger!

Danger to you, Harry Potter, and anyone who stands beside you when I am ready to come for you, he thought, the words dripping with malice.

"We are back," he whispered, the sinister promise hanging heavy in the air, a harbinger of the darkness to come.

“I am back, Lord Voldemort will rise once more,” he said wickedly to himself.

And he is in control.

Chapter Text

Every time I close my eyes

It's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side

Every time I close my eyes

It's like a dark paradise

No one compares to you

But there's no you, except in my dreams tonight

Dark Paradise, Lana Del Rey

HPOV

Startled, Hermione jumped and placed a hand over her heart as she noticed Ron in her living room that evening. The sight before her was a mix of surprise and familiarity: there he was, slouched on her couch, with an opened pizza box and a bottle of butterbeer beside him, snoring soundly.

Oh Ron… Now that he knew Cedric was gone things could possibly go back to normal. Back to like everything had been before.

Why was he there so early? Shouldn’t he have been guarding Cedric still. Maybe he had been reassigned? It would explain why she had not seen him at the hospital.

Releasing her wild hair from its tight bun, she ran her fingers through it, her mind racing.

Boyfriend.  Best Friend. Eventual marriage?

She stood in front of him, observing his sleeping form.

This was the man she loved, right? The one she had always imagined spending her life with, the one she was going to marry one day. Yet, as she looked at him, a sense of unease crept over her.

Doubt.

Call it what it is Hermione.

Doubts, plural. Not singular. You’re having doubts.

She had always envisioned their future together, but now, in this moment, something felt off. Was this truly what she wanted? Was Ron the one she wanted to spend forever with? As she grappled with these questions, uncertainty clouded her thoughts, casting a shadow on the future she had imagined.

Everyone would be disappointed if you changed your mind, if you changed your path again.

There were expectations.

Expectations she'd always planned to meet and exceed because Hermione did not like letting others down, especially her friends, her family. Because that's what Harry and the Weasleys were to Hermione: family. Her parents, bless their souls, were safely living a different life in Australia, a life that did not include the daughter they had no memories of.

Hermione couldn't bear the thought of disturbing their peaceful existence, not yet anyway. Secretly, she feared that if they somehow regained their memories, they might never forgive her for taking them away again. Despite this, she still kept tabs on them from afar, unable to fully let them go.

Had she not been keeping track of them, she might have mourned them as if they were truly gone for good and forced herself to move on. But she couldn't and thankfully she still had Harry and the Weasleys—her clan, her rock in a world of uncertainty.

Looking around her loft, Hermione searched for Crooks and her eyes fell upon the opened door of what used to be Cedric's room. Reminding herself that it was okay, that Cedric had found a permanent home somewhere else, she walked towards the threshold of his former room and inhaled deeply (why was this affecting her so much?) before stepping inside.

Crooks stood in the room, his luminous eyes fixed on the twin bed with a hint of longing, as if memories lingered within it’s folds. Could cats truly gaze longingly? Weren't they supposed to be more aloof, more detached?

The thought occurred to Hermione that perhaps Crooks had become infatuated with Cedric Diggory, was it because he was her familiar? She quickly brushed off that notion, but it left a faint trace of unease lingering in her mind.

Looking around the empty room, Hermione sighed softly, realizing that it would probably be best to return it to its original purpose as a simple home office.

Kneeling beside Crooks, Hermione gently stroked his fur, her fingers moving in soothing motions. She felt a pang of sadness as she stared at the empty twin bed. She wanted to whisper, "I miss him too," but the words caught in her throat, held back by uncertainty. Choosing not to voice her feelings felt like denying a part of herself. But somehow, the unspoken sentiment hung in the air between her and Crooks, a silent understanding that spoke volumes.

How could she miss a boy, no, a young man she'd barely known for a week? Yes, they had lived together, but it had not been long, just a week, and of course, during that time, he had been attentive, a pretty decent flatmate.

And... he was oh so charming, oozing with charisma, full of intelligence, and those eyes. Those dark, dark, wonderful, penetrating eyes, framed with long lashes that seemed to hold secrets untold. Hermione shook her head, trying to dispel the thoughts that threatened to consume her. "Shut up," she chastised herself, feeling foolish for allowing her mind to wander into such sentimental territory over someone she had only known briefly.

God, she sounded like a bad romance movie protagonist. For fuck's sake, Hermione, just admit to yourself you find Cedric Diggory extremely attractive, and that's OKAY, just as long as you never ever act on that attraction. Push that guilt away; you're just bloody human!

Back in the living room, Hermione ate a slice of cold pizza, the cheesy goodness a small comfort amidst her swirling thoughts. As always, she cleaned up the mess Ron had left and then walked over to Ron, who was still snoring softly on the couch.

Cleaning up after Ron and Harry was familiar, she’d been doing it since she was eleven, she’d enjoyed it, they needed her. And Hermione liked feeling needed. Needed and praised. And that had always been enough.

Was it still? A voice whispered.

Grabbing a blanket, she carefully draped it over him, brushing a strand of his red hair off his face. She couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight of drool pooling from the side of his mouth, fighting off the urge to laugh.

Angelic, innocent, hilarious Ron. Pure-souled and a good person.

A very very good person.

Unlike you Hermione, thinking other men are attractive.

Merlin.

Not wanting to disturb his slumber, Hermione tiptoed back to her room, the quiet padding of her feet barely audible. She took a quick shower, the warm water soothing her tense muscles, before finally slipping into bed. As she settled under the covers, her mind still filled with questions, accusations, guilt, irritation towards herself, she hoped for clarity to come in the morning.

Distance… The attraction, the thoughts they would all pass.

Praying that nightmares wouldn't plague her, despite the weird detachment she'd been feeling towards them as of late, Hermione closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

***

Detached, Unfeeling, Hermione found herself back in the dark forest, the gnarled trees casting long, twisting shadows around her. But instead of fear or terror, she was engulfed by a complete emptiness, a void that should have terrified her in its own right. She took in her surroundings with all her senses, noting the stillness of the shadows. Normally they would chase her, or was it because she always just ran?

This time, she remained motionless, observing. She looked into the darkness, meeting its gaze, and waited. Hermione wasn't sure what she was waiting for; it was eerie—the silence, the sight of the forest and its imposing trees, the absence of any sounds—no birds, no animals, not even a whisper.

It was deadly quiet.

Why wasn't she afraid? This was a nightmare, one of the nightmares that always plagued her. “You should be afraid”, she said aloud to herself in the dream as she stared into the shadows.

The darkness seemed to press in around her, enveloping her in its oppressive silence. She could feel the cool breeze brushing against her skin, carrying with it the earthy scent of damp leaves and moss.

The shadows danced, twisting and turning, but they remained eerily still,… as if waiting for something.

Hermione's heart raced, but not from fear—from anticipation.

There was something different about this nightmare, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She felt strangely calm, as if she were on the cusp of a revelation.

And then, in the distance, she heard a faint sound—a rustling, like someone—or something—approaching. Her pulse quickened as she strained to see through the darkness, her senses heightened, every nerve on edge.

The shadows parted as a figure stepped through them, and Hermione's pulse quickened. Suddenly, all her senses, all her feelings were back, and the detachment she had felt was gone. Her heart threatened to leap out of her chest as she watched him approach her.

He wore dark, flowing robes—ominous looking, vintage, nothing she had seen him wear before—and that sly, familiar, crooked smile was plastered on his exquisite face.

Run, she told herself.

Why? Another voice said in her head. This isn't a nightmare, Hermione. It's just a dream, and in this dream, you can feel, you can be yourself, you can do whatever it is you please. You can act on impulse, you don't need to feel guilty, you don't need to worry about expectations.

It's just a dream.

"Just a dream," she whispered as he stepped closer towards her, his presence enveloping her like a soft, silken cloak. She looked up into his dark, dark eyes—an abyss of black she could fall into and be content with never emerging from.

"Darling girl," his voice was a symphony of velvet and honey, each word a note that danced in the air, casting a spell upon her senses. "Can I ask you a question?"

The word "darling" dripped from his lips like nectar from a forbidden fruit, sending delicate shivers down her spine. It was a word that held promises and secrets, whispered from the lips of a celestial being. And yet, she knew deep down that this was just a dream. Hermione found herself nodding, her heart fluttering like a caged bird yearning for freedom, as she gazed into his godlike face, every feature sculpted with divine precision.

And as if reading her mind, or perhaps, since this was a dream, she was reading her own, he spoke.

"Muggle Christians have this story they feed the masses about an entity tempting a woman with something," his voice was a rich tapestry of seduction and intrigue, each word woven with a hint of mystery. "Tell me, Hermione, do you know what it was she was tempted with?"

A strange way to describe that story though, isn’t it?

His breath was close to hers, so close she could inhale the scent of leather-bound books, the lingering aroma of ancient tomes, and a faint hint of vanilla that danced in the air. He looked down at her expectantly, his eyes like deep pools of darkness, holding her captive.

Tall, he was so tall. Magnetic, entrancing.

Blinking, she watched as he extended his hand, a swirl of magic, and a green apple appeared, holding it out to her.

She whispered, "An apple."

He quirked a brow expectantly, he was waiting for her to elaborate further, and she found herself suddenly grinning at him, a playful spark igniting within her. "Knowledge," she added, her voice carrying a hint of mischief. "The apple represented knowledge."

Flashing her a gleam of white teeth, he almost looked predatory, yet still undeniably beautiful.

"And why would Eve not want the gift of knowledge?" His tone was both curious and challenging.

Feeling as if they were suddenly back in her living room, on her couch, discussing some intricate movie plot, she crossed her arms, mirroring his intensity.

"Because with knowledge came the loss of innocence," she explained, her words flowing with certainty. "To be naive means you won't seek answers, and if one does not go looking for answers, one will not find troubles."

Her words hung in the air, a silent invitation for him to unravel the layers of their conversation.

"And what did they name the entity that gave Eve the gift of knowledge?" His voice was like a whispering breeze, carrying with it a sense of ancient knowledge and hidden truths.

Hermione watched him, her mind racing like a whirlwind, as he eyed her expectantly, his gaze penetrating. She countered with a question of her own, her words dancing on the edge of curiosity and apprehension. "Was knowledge a gift or a curse?"

He responded with another question, his gaze unwavering, like a hawk fixing its sight on its prey. "Had you been offered the ability to learn, to seek, to know, would you have turned it down?"

Pausing, Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on her like heavy chains. When she felt his touch on her skin, she opened her eyes to find him rubbing her cheek tenderly with the hand not holding the green apple, his touch gentle yet laden with unspoken desires.

"No," she whispered simply, her voice a soft melody in the quiet darkness.

"Why?" His voice was low, commanding, enveloping her in its warmth like a comforting embrace.

He tilted her chin up, his lips hovering over hers like a promise of forbidden knowledge. "Because knowledge is power," she told him, her words resonating with a deep understanding.

An expression of pride crossed his features as he chuckled lightly, the sound echoing through the space between them like distant thunder, continuing to massage her cheek with a tenderness that belied his enigmatic aura. When he was done, he asked, "How was this entity thanked for the gift he gave Eve? What was he named?"

Hermione chose to remain silent, her silence heavy with the weight of history and the echoes of forgotten myths. There was one could say undeniable power in a name, and she refused to speak it. For some reason, she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of victory; this was a game she found herself enjoying. Moreover, she realized he was trying to make a point about the importance of names. And even though this was just a dream, the whole situation felt sinful, despite her not being a Muggle nor a Christian herself.

He chuckled darkly, seeming to understand her hesitation, his laughter a siren's call luring her deeper into the labyrinth of his mind. "We will come back to this. For now, I want to ask you one more thing."

Looking down, Hermione tilted her head, her curiosity mingling with uncertainty like the shifting tides of the ocean. He removed his hand from her chin, and she waited patiently for his question, her heart pounding in anticipation.

"Are you tempted, Hermione? Do you want to take this apple from me?" His words hung in the air, tempting her with promises of forbidden knowledge and unseen consequences, a subtle irony not lost on her, considering they stood in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

Feeling cheeky, because she knew this was just some insane dream, Hermione responded once again with a question, "What does the apple really represent? What will I get if I take it from you?"

Trouble, she'd made that point earlier.

Knowledge, most likely, but of what?

And what else?

His gaze darkened, not with rage, but with something else, as if he would devour her whole. Desire. It was clear as day. The air around her seemed to crackle with tension, and Hermione felt a rush of heat spreading through her body like wildfire. A subtle tremor ran down her spine, and her breaths came in shallow gasps as his intense gaze held her captive.

With a slight quirk of his lips, he responded, his voice a seductive melody, "Take the apple, Hermione, and you can have whatever it is you want. The world will be at your feet."

Biting her lip, she pretended to think, though her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting desires. Ignoring the way her heart raced and her skin tingled with anticipation, Hermione looked up at him boldly. With a deliberate motion, she extended her hand toward the apple, letting her fingers hover just above it, suspended in mid-air.

But instead of grasping the fruit, she hesitated, her gaze locking with his, searching for any hint of deceit. The dim light cast flickering shadows across his features, emphasizing the sharp lines of his face and the intensity of his dark, swirling eyes. Every nerve in her body hummed with anticipation, and she could feel the tension between them like a taut string ready to snap.

In that moment, the air seemed to crackle with an electric energy, charged with the weight of her decision. Hermione's heart pounded in her chest, echoing in the silence that enveloped them. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her next move.

With a sudden surge of courage, Hermione made her decision. "I'll take the apple, but I also want the serpent holding it," she declared, plucking the fruit from his hand, her voice steady despite the thundering of her heart. The words hung in the air, echoing in the stillness of the dream.

He inhaled her scent, his nostrils flaring as if intoxicated by her presence. Her hair stood on end as if terrified, and her stomach threatened to flip—fear coursing through her veins like a chilling wind. Had she miscalculated this weird dream interaction?

Suddenly, her eyes widened as she watched him slowly lower himself and kneel before her.

With his head up, he watched her, his eyes the color of a midnight sky, filled with a depth that seemed to draw her in. And then she noticed she was wearing her nightgown in this strange dream, the soft fabric flowing around her like moonlight, casting an ethereal glow.

Truly, it felt too realistic to be a dream, but of course, it could not have been anything else!

His hands trailed up her gown from her ankles slowly to her knees, each touch like a whisper of silk against her skin, sending shivers down her spine. As he spoke, his voice was a velvet caress, resonating with a power that echoed through her soul. "I told you you'd have the world at your feet, Hermione." He continued to trace up her legs until he reached her knickers, his touch sending a fire through her that made her legs wobble.

Devil.

Closing her eyes, she whispered to him, "You're truly a Devil, Cedric Diggory." He chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to dance in the moonlight. "There it is. Remember this lesson, Hermione, there's power in a name. And for not being a stubborn little witch and allowing me to get to my point, I am going to reward you."

What's in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet. Hermione did not wholly agree, but accepted his praise nonetheless and was curious to know how she’d be rewarded for finally answering him.

Merlin, he was still rubbing circles on her knickers as he spoke, and she almost fell back, until suddenly, she was against a tree in the forest, with his support. He had scrunched her nightgown up with his teeth, pulled her knickers to the side, and was licking tantalizingly around her folds, sending waves of pleasure through her body.

"M-more, p-please," she begged, her voice trembling with desire.

"Darling girl, be patient," he whispered against her skin (he said Darling again and she almost came undone), his warm breath sending shivers down her spine as he continued to tease and tantalize her. Hermione's hands found his hair, pulling on it as he pressed her against the tree, his ministrations driving her to the brink of ecstasy.

Finally, he began to suck, and she gasped, her legs tightening around his head as he explored her with a hunger that matched her own, sending her soaring into the heights of pleasure, when his tongue entered her, she was on the verge of whimpering.

Dreams like this she would accept willingly, every single night, lost in the intoxicating embrace of Cedric Diggory's forbidden allure.

***

Screaming in pleasure rather than in agony or fear, Hermione awoke, her chest heaving with the remnants of ecstasy. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, and a pool of wetness lingered between her legs, evidence of the vivid dream that had just engulfed her.

Her room was cloaked in darkness, the only illumination filtering in from the dim glow of the streetlamp outside. Ron was conspicuously absent from her bed, which meant he was still asleep in her living room. She let out a relieved sigh, grateful that her sudden outburst hadn't disturbed his slumber.

Rolling onto her back, Hermione stared up at the ceiling, her mind still reeling from the intensity of the dream. It had been so vivid, so achingly real, that she could almost feel the ghost of Cedric's touch lingering on her skin.

"What in the bloody hell was that dream!?" she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper as she tried to make sense of the whirlwind of sensations that had swept her away.

***

TPOV

Adjusting his trousers with silent precision, Tom stood in the shadowy corner of Hermione's room, a silent observer to the spectacle he had orchestrated. The delicate rise and fall of her chest betrayed the aftermath of the pleasure he had bestowed upon her.

He had sworn to himself not to delve into her mind, recognizing the formidable barriers she had erected even in her slumber. Night after night, he had watched her, unable to penetrate the fortress of her thoughts, only able to alleviate the nightmares that plagued her by banishing the fear. He had not dared to peer into her dreams or decipher her thoughts.

What did she fear?

He yearned to know but could only guess.

Tonight had been different.

Upon his arrival, he found the insufferable, dim-witted Weasel sprawled on her couch, oblivious to the world. Suppressing every urge to unleash his wrath upon the fool, Tom passed him by, his attention solely fixed on Hermione's room. There, she lay in peaceful repose, a vision of innocence amidst the darkness.

Driven by a possessive impulse he could scarcely control, Tom dared to breach the boundary he had set for himself. His fingers ghosted over her hair, tracing the delicate strands, before grazing her forehead. In that fleeting moment of contact, he felt a connection, a thread of her subconscious still entwined with thoughts of him.

With newfound determination, he seized upon that connection, using it as a conduit to enter her dream, to become a phantom in the realm of her subconscious.

One day, not too far off, he vowed to himself, he would turn these dreams into reality. The boundary between fantasy and truth would blur, and their desires would become tangible, their union an undeniable reality.

Hermione was now awake, her murmurs filling the room like the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. He could sense her, the heady scent of her desire swirling around him, tempting him to emerge from the shadows and claim her right then and there. But the thought of the Weasel boy just a room away stayed his hand. He'd end up having to murder him and she'd be quite upset.

A cruel smile played on his lips as he entertained the notion. Oh, the scandal it would cause.

With a decision to retreat to the safety of the manor, he began to turn, ready to glide silently out of her room. But a sound caught his attention, the gentle rustling of her covers. Intrigued, he glanced back, only to find Hermione pulling her nightgown up, her hand trailing down her abdomen in a sensual caress.

His eyes widened with fascination as she exposed herself to him, her wetness glistening in the dim light. His trousers tightened almost painfully as he watched her fingers disappear inside her, her movements captivating him in a trance-like state.

His heart raced in his chest, the blood pounding in his ears as he struggled to maintain control. Just when he thought he couldn't endure any more, she whispered a plea to herself that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Please."

With a stifled curse, he Disapparated from the room, his departure as silent as his approach, lest he lose himself to the intoxicating allure of her desires.

Remain in control.

You are in control.

***

The use of Daphne as a distraction was proving futile, a feeble attempt at satiating a hunger that could never be satisfied. Saturday morning found Tom alone in the drawing room, a book in hand, though his mind was far from its pages. He rifled through the text, the words blurring together as his thoughts were consumed by Hermione.

She haunted him like a specter, an insatiable thirst that gnawed at his very core. He felt akin to a vampire, craving an elixir that could only be found in her presence.

Tom yearned to know every detail of her existence, to possess her every moment, every thought. He wrestled with himself, battling the urge to Apparate to her side, to seize her and keep her within the confines of the manor forever. Hermione—the mere thought of her was like a potent drug coursing through his veins.

He had tasted the euphoria of her in his dreams, and now he was hopelessly addicted.

Addicted to the very essence of her being.

He craved more, an insatiable hunger driving him to seek out her every nuance, her every breath. He desired an endless, boundless Hermione, a consuming force that would consume him entirely.

The potent obsession that consumed him, one he had acknowledged and yet could not shake, still smoldered within him like an unquenchable flame. It infuriated him, this distraction that seemed to hold him captive, robbing him of the focus he once wielded with ease. Despite his efforts, he found himself unable to redirect his rage towards another witch or towards violence, at least for the time being.

Setting down the book he had been perusing—a tome on magical clocks, a title that belied its true complexity—he rose from his seat with a sense of restlessness. The drawing room felt confining, suffocating him with its stagnant air. He paced its length, his mind churning with thoughts of Hermione.

Approaching the window, he gazed out into the sprawling gardens, watching as Martin, one of Potter's aurors, made his way towards the kitchens. Tom noted with a hint of amusement that the man seemed to have a voracious appetite, a fact that would surely put a strain on the Malfoy's pantry. He couldn't entirely blame Martin; the house-elves, for all their idiocy, were exceptional cooks.

Ron appeared a moment later, where Martin had stood, his presence palpable with nervous energy as he glanced around the gardens. His eyes darted anxiously, as if searching for something unseen.

Quirking a brow, Tom observed the redhead's behavior with mild interest. Ron squinted into the distance, his expression tense, before seemingly relaxing and crossing his arms in a display of false confidence.

Tom waited; his patience unwavering as he observed Ron's every move. He bided his time until Ron visibly relaxed, lulled into a false sense of security by the quiet serenity of the garden.

And then, with a subtle command whispered into the stillness of the air, Tom set his plan into motion. The tranquil scene shattered as hundreds of white peacocks, their feathers shimmering in the sunlight, emerged from the foliage, their graceful movements masking their true intent.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the birds closed in on Ron, their beady eyes fixated on their unsuspecting prey. Ron's eyes widened in alarm as he realized his predicament too late.

The attack came suddenly, a flurry of feathers and squawks as the peacocks descended upon him, their beaks and talons striking with startling precision. Ron stumbled backward, attempting to fend off the onslaught, but he was quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of assailants.

Tom watched with a twisted sense of satisfaction as Ron's cries echoed through the garden, drowned out by the cacophony of the peacocks' cries.

A cough shattered the entertaining scene Tom had orchestrated, and he turned to find Draco at the entrance of the drawing room, his stance casual as he leaned against the wall. "If you seriously hurt or injure the Weasel, I promise you will only drive them closer together. Granger's a martyr; she can't help herself. She'll be all over him," Draco warned with a hint of cynicism in his voice.

Tom narrowed his gaze, his mind already calculating the implications of Draco's words. He quickly replaced his darkened expression with one of confusion, charm, and politeness. Flashing Draco a winning smile, he replied, "Not sure what it is you mean."

The peacocks, sensing the shift in Tom's demeanor, stopped their attack on Ron and gracefully flew away.

Draco walked towards him; his steps deliberate. "You mean you have no idea what I'm referring to?" he pressed.

Tom shrugged nonchalantly, turning to sit down and grabbing his book again. "None," he replied, his tone succinct.

Draco settled across from him, crossing his legs and idly polishing his nails. Tom felt a pang of nostalgia at the sight—Abraxas. It had been years since he had felt that sense of longing.

His throat felt dry as the realization hit him. He missed Abraxas.

How vile. He missed his bloody friend.

Having a whole soul again, well… It was agitating!

Feelings. Such an unnecessary thing.

Draco sighed dramatically; a classic Malfoy move that Tom recognized all too well. Rolling his eyes, Tom waited for Draco to reveal what was bothering him.

Finally, after a moment of silence, Tom indulged Draco's theatrics. "Does something plague you, Draco?"

Flashing Tom a smile, Draco leaned in, "You sometimes speak like you were born in the '30s, you know that, Cedric. I've said it before, and I'll say it again—you're strange."

Tom flipped a page in his book, crossing his legs and waiting for Draco to continue.

"Sofia's grandfather has invited us to dinner. Tonight," Draco announced, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Raising the book slightly higher to hide his satisfied grin, Tom inquired, "The infamous Mr. Burke?"

Draco made a strange sound with his tongue before responding, "Yep. That's the one. You think he's, uh, you know, like the rest of them from that time?"

For someone as intelligent as Draco Malfoy, he could also be a complete and utter imbecile. Tom lowered his book and closed it, fixing Draco with a serious look to gauge his sincerity.

"Caractacus Burke was a Dark Lord. He trained Grindelwald," Tom informed him matter-of-factly.

"Is that why they call him infamous?" Draco asked dryly, his tone laced with skepticism.

Tom stared at him, his expression unreadable.

Draco put his face in his hands and groaned, "I can't do this again, Cedric. I really hope that's not the case."

Tom stood, turning towards the window, where Ron was tending to his own wounds. With a triumphant smirk, he addressed Draco, his back turned to him. "Everything will go as it should, no need to worry, Draco."

As Tom spoke, his eyes flashed a crimson red, a harbinger of the power that simmered within him.

And so it unravels.

Or rather it repeats.

History, that is.

Chapter Text

Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry
You don't know how lovely you are
I had to find you, tell you I need you
Tell you I set you apart

Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions
Oh, let's go back to the start
Running in circles, coming up tails
Heads on a science apart

Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh, take me back to the start

The Scientist, Coldplay

TPOV

Tom loathed the name given to him, a moniker inherited from his muggle father, a man who had never claimed him as his own. It was a name that echoed his lineage, tying him to a man who had denied him existence, refused to acknowledge him as his son, and cast him aside like a discarded relic.

In the harsh world of muggles, Tom Riddle's existence was a bleak tapestry of poverty, desperation, and unkindness. He wandered through life feeling like a ghost, unseen and unacknowledged, a stranger in his own skin.

When Albus Dumbledore graced the orphanage with his presence, the atmosphere shifted as if the very air held its breath in anticipation. For Tom, it was a moment of revelation, a brief respite from the shadows that had engulfed his existence. As Dumbledore extended the acceptance letter to Hogwarts, Tom felt as though he stood upon the precipice of a new world, one where he might finally belong.

In that fleeting moment, Tom sensed an opportunity to unburden himself, to confess the truths that had been festering within him like poison. He could admit, without fear of punishment or condemnation, the extent of his abilities. He could manipulate minds, bend wills to his command, and wield power beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals. The thought of it filled him with a heady sense of exhilaration.

Yet, as Dumbledore's expression faltered ever so slightly, Tom's keen intuition sharpened. He understood, with a clarity that belied his young age, the weight of his own potential. He was not merely special; he was extraordinary, a force of nature waiting to be unleashed upon the world.

In the depths of his soul, Tom knew that he was destined for greatness. He possessed a power that surpassed the confines of ordinary magic, a power that could reshape reality itself. He was more than what he had been told, more than the sum of his troubled past. He was power incarnate, a natural leader born to rule, to mold the world according to his will.

But with that realization came a sobering awareness of the dangers that lay ahead. Tom understood that he must tread lightly in this foreign, magical realm, for he was greater than even the beings he truly belonged with. He was a master of his own destiny, and he would wield his power with caution and cunning, carving his path through the shifting sands of fate.

As Tom Marvolo Riddle ascended the steps to Hogwarts, a sense of anticipation coursed through his veins, mingling with the whispered promises of greatness that echoed in his mind. The towering spires of the ancient castle seemed to beckon him forth, promising a destiny unlike any other.

Upon his arrival, Tom found himself sorted into the most esteemed and formidable house in all of Hogwarts: Slytherin. It was a moment of triumph, a validation of his ambitions and his unwavering resolve. With a stolen book clutched tightly in his hands—Hogwarts: A History, his cherished tome—he had delved into the secrets of the wizarding world, thirsting for knowledge that would set him apart from his peers.

As the Sorting Hat descended upon his head, whispering cryptic words into his ear, Tom felt a shiver of anticipation ripple through him.

"Indeed, quite intriguing. We are already well aware of your rightful place, Tom Marvolo Riddle," the hat whispered softly into his ear, its voice reverberating like a haunting echo within the expanses of his consciousness. "However, the name does not quite suit your essence, does it? You are cognizant of where your true path lies." There was a knowingness in the Hat's voice, a recognition of his true nature that stirred something primal within him. And then, with a single word echoing through the Great Hall, his fate was sealed: "Slytherin!"

Stepping down from the platform, Tom's gaze swept over the sea of faces, each one regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Unlike the jubilant cheers that greeted students from other houses, the Slytherins regarded him with a steely reserve, their eyes assessing him with a calculating gaze.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, one figure stood out—a boy even smaller and frailer than Tom himself, with an air of quiet intensity that belied his delicate appearance. With a smile that seemed to hold both secrets and shadows, the boy extended a hand in greeting, his pale features illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight.

"You'll discover that certain wizarding families hold more prestige than others, Riddle," the boy murmured, his voice a whispered echo in the hushed hall. "It's important not to associate with the wrong crowd. I can guide you in that regard."

As Tom clasped the offered hand, he felt a sense of kinship with this enigmatic figure, a silent acknowledgment of the path that lay ahead. In the depths of his soul, he knew that his journey at Hogwarts had only just begun, and that the choices he made in the days to come would shape the course of his destiny. And with the guidance of this unlikely ally, he was ready to embrace the challenges that lay ahead, forging his own path amidst the shadows of greatness.

"There are no half-bloods or mudbloods ever sorted into the house of Slytherin," a young Orion Black had once told him, his voice dripping with the arrogance of pureblood superiority. "But you may be an exception, Tom Riddle, who grew up in a muggle orphanage."

Tom had felt the weight of those words like a chain around his neck, binding him to the shame of his uncertain parentage. Cast aside by his pureblood housemates, he endured their disdain as if it were a cruel penance for his lack of pedigree. To them, he was an outsider, an interloper in a world of ancient bloodlines and whispered secrets.

Except for Abraxas Malfoy—a solitary figure amidst the sea of sneers and whispered insults. With his quiet demeanor and piercing intellect, Abraxas stood apart from his peers, a beacon of understanding in the darkened corridors of Slytherin House. While the noble House of Black boasted of their greatness, it was the Malfoy line that held true power, rooted in their muggle ties and their influence over centuries of wizarding history.

As Tom delved into his research, he uncovered the tangled web of alliances and betrayals that had shaped the wizarding world. The Malfoys, with their royal muggle ties, had been instrumental in the creation of the statute of limitations, their influence stretching far beyond the confines of their manor walls.

With each passing year, Tom proved himself to be a wizard of exceptional talent, his power undeniable even in the eyes of his skeptical peers. Slowly, begrudgingly, they began to acknowledge his worth, though they still questioned the origins of his bloodline.

And then he made a discovery that changed everything. He was not just another student in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts; he was the Heir of Slytherin, a legacy of power and greatness that surpassed the petty prejudices of his peers. Though he also discovered the unwelcome truth of his half-blood status, the blood of the Slytherin heirs flowed through his veins, a lineage more illustrious and potent than any other.

With each revelation, Tom embraced his destiny with a fervor that bordered on obsession. He was not defined by the circumstances of his birth, but by the legacy he carried within him—the legacy of a true Slytherin, destined to reign supreme over all who dared to challenge his supremacy.

He wove a web of persuasion, a tapestry of manipulation, drawing them in with promises of power and control. Tom Riddle, with his silver tongue and cunning mind, seduced his fellow students with his knowledge, tempting them with the dark desires that lurked within their hearts. And thus, he formed a group—a cabal of warriors known as The Knights of Walpurgis.

The name, Tom explained to his followers, held significance beyond its mere sound. Saint Walpurga, a figure shrouded in myth and legend, had been a powerful witch in her own right. Through meticulous research, Tom uncovered the twisted truth behind the tales of her saintly deeds. Hailing from a Christian orphanage, he embarked on a quest to peel back the layers of history, to uncover the roots of fear and hatred that had poisoned the minds of muggles for centuries.

It was a revelation that struck deep into Tom's soul. Saint Walpurga, he learned, had manipulated the fears of the ignorant, sacrificing her own kind to attain power and influence. In a dark ceremony cloaked in secrecy, she had played upon the prejudices of muggles, promising them protection from the very darkness she herself embodied.

For Tom, the lesson was clear: fear and hatred could be wielded as weapons, tools to bend the will of the masses to one's own ends. And so, he spun a narrative for his Knights, painting them as protectors of evil, guardians of darkness, and champions of their own kind—the magical kind.

Under the banner of the Knights of Walpurgis, they vowed to protect the purity of magical blood, to ensure that the wizarding world remained untainted by the influence of non-magical folk. They would cloak themselves in secrecy, biding their time until the world belonged to them as it rightfully should.

For Tom Riddle, the world was theirs for the taking, a prize to be claimed by those bold enough to seize it. And with each passing day, his resolve only grew stronger, his vision of a future ruled by magic burning bright in his heart.

Naming his cause proved to be a far greater challenge than simply adopting a new name for himself. Reflecting on his given name and recalling the Sorting Hat's whispered words from years past, he came to the realization that his true name had been concealed in plain sight all along.

As they meticulously planned and schemed, he continued to present himself as Tom Riddle, the destitute orphan from the muggle orphanage. Yet, behind the facade, his inner circle knew who truly wielded power, understanding his true nature. And for those who remained unaware, his true name circulated discreetly, attracting a following of individuals who shared his beliefs, regardless of age. Voldemort.

Tom Riddle delicately tapped his finger against the crystal champagne glass, it's clear surface reflecting the dim candlelight that flickered around the opulent dining room. Across the table, he locked eyes with the wizard who had joined his cause many years ago, their gazes a silent exchange of understanding and loyalty.

In the rich aroma of the room, mingling scents of fine wine and exotic spices wafted through the air, teasing the senses with their intoxicating allure. The soft murmur of conversation filled the space, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain and the gentle rustle of silk robes.

As Tom recounted the days of his ascent to power, memories flooded his mind, each one a vivid tableau playing out before him. He remembered the days spent working alongside Clive Borgin in the shadowy depths of the shop, the faint scent of old parchment and musty books lingering in the air. Clive, always a shady character, had never concerned himself with politics, content to pursue his own selfish ambitions.

Caractacus Burke, on the other hand, had been a different breed—a dark wizard with a penchant for greed and manipulation. Yet even he had succumbed to the allure of love, a feeling carefully orchestrated by Tom himself, disappearing to forge a new path and leaving Tom to seize control of the shop and its clandestine dealings in Diagon Alley.

The clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation faded into the background as Tom's thoughts turned to the present, his gaze steady and unwavering.

Narcissa settled into her seat beside Carolina Burke, the Portuguese witch who exuded an air of youthful vitality despite her age. Her brown locks cascaded around her shoulders, framing bright eyes that sparkled with intelligence and warmth. Across from them sat Caractacus Burke, the patriarch of the family, his features weathered by centuries of life, yet still exuding an aura of power and authority. "Would you like to join me in my more philanthropic ventures Mrs. Burke?" she asked.

Narcissa was the very proud founder, chairwoman, president of several prominent charities, fundraisers, and social clubs. 

For now.

Carolina glanced at Narcissa with a gracious smile, her lips parting to reveal a row of perfectly aligned teeth as she inclined her head in agreement. "Yes, my son and his wife have remained in Portugal to attend to our family responsibilities there," she explained. "So I find myself with a great deal of free time now that we," she motioned toward her husband and granddaughter, "have decided to come to live in Britain."

Caractacus, the seasoned Dark Wizard of two centuries or more, reached for his glass, his gaze fixed darkly on Draco as he took a deep gulp. His response was dry, almost sardonic. "Indeed."

Tom observed the exchange with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction as he watched the show he had orchestrated unfold before him. Caractacus played the role of the overprotective grandfather with finesse, yet Tom knew that beneath the facade lay a man who reveled in the knowledge that Lord Voldemort himself had engineered this union.

Draco squirmed in his seat as the older wizard smiled toothily at him. The aroma of the lavish meal filled the air, a symphony of rich flavors mingling with the subtle scent of freshly cut flowers adorning the table.

An elf moved gracefully around the room, serving their meal with silent efficiency, adding to the sensory tapestry of the scene. Through the window, the last rays of sunlight cast a warm glow over the estate's garden, while the distant sound of birdsong added a tranquil backdrop.

Martin stood outside the estate, not privy to the conversation, luckily Tom thought. Despite not being invited, Martin unfortunately remained dedicated to his duty, guarding Cedric Diggory with unwavering resolve.

As the conversation between Draco and his soon-to-be bride's grandfather unfolded, Tom observed with a cold detachment.

"Sofia tells me you are an auror?" Caractacus asked, his brow quirking with mild interest.

Draco hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yes, sir. I have been a part of the Auror Office for a year."

Tom observed with keen interest as Draco brushed a hand along his left forearm, covered by his regal robes, involuntarily in response to the older wizard's probing question. His grandfather would have been proud of that mark. 

The man, with an air of feigned contemplation, finally spoke. "The Malfoy heir, working. Interesting. I'd like to know why."

Sofia, Draco's future fiancée, remained perfectly quiet beside him, sitting upright and avoiding eye contact with anyone at the table.

Tom began to wonder if she was second guessing her role in this drama, he'd have to find a way to question her at a more appropriate time. 

There was a brief pause, then Draco flashed a cocky grin, reminiscent of his own grandfather's demeanor, and responded, "Why not, sir? Did you not work for a time being as you are the founder of Borgin and Burkes?"

Sofia's grandfather leaned back in his seat, swirling his champagne glass, his piercing blue eyes scanning Draco intently. "I heard you were a frequent visitor of one of my shops..." he began, letting the sentence hang in the air. The atmosphere grew tense as the older wizard's words lingered, casting a shadow over the conversation. Draco had taken his Dark Mark at his shop and purchased many dark artifacts, including the vanishing cabinet that had allowed Death Eaters into Hogwarts. The implication hung heavily in the air, unspoken yet palpable. Then he added, "the shops I co-founded with my daughter-in-law, Quality Quidditch Supplies. You played seeker, didn't you?"

Tom watched in bemusement as he saw Draco's posture visibly relax, a subtle shift in his demeanor as the conversation shifted to Quidditch. The dinner carried along splendidly, with the clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation filling the room. Tom engaged in polite conversation when asked, his attention drifting between the various discussions around the table.

Meanwhile, Narcissa seemed to bond effortlessly with the two Burke women, their laughter mingling with the gentle strains of music in the background.

Once the meal was finished, the Burke patriarch stood and gestured for both Draco and "Cedric" to join him for a cigar in his office.

Tom and Draco sat across from the older wizard as he puffed on a magical cigar, the air heavy with the scent of the rich tobacco. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows that danced across the walls as the flickering flames of enchanted candles illuminated the scene.

The older wizard leaned back in his chair, the soft leather creaking under his weight, and turned his attention to Tom. "Tell me about the Wizengamot position you now hold," he asked, his voice a low rumble that filled the room.

Tom responded politely, his expression a mask of composure, though a flicker of impatience flashed in his red eyes. Burke nodded, concealing his fear well, before turning his gaze back to Draco. "As an auror, Draco, you are currently responsible for which unit?"

Uncomfortably, Draco shifted in his seat, taking a puff on the cigar before passing it to Tom. "I am under the unit that is run by Dawlish and Potter," he answered. "We are responsible for hunting down dark and magical artifacts that have been used or created by the Dark Lord. We are also responsible for finding rogue Death Eaters or followers that have evaded capture."

Draco's gaze remained fixed on the older wizard as Tom leaned back in his seat, puffing on the cigar. The old man remained perfectly stoic before smiling, though it was clear to Tom that it was a fake friendly smile. "That's very interesting, Draco," he said. "May I ask what happens to the objects once they're found?"

Draco, seemingly knowing where the conversation was headed, responded, "Do you still collect dark objects, Mr. Burke?"

Burke clasped his hands together, tilting his head slightly as he nodded. "I do. Is that a problem?"

Draco glanced at Tom, assessing the situation, then coughed before turning back to Mr. Burke and shaking his head. "No, of course not, sir. I just, uh, well, they're destroyed, deactivated, and kept at the Ministry in the artifacts department."

"Are you selling the objects?"

"They're of no use. They no longer work and would not be allowed to be activated or fixed."

"Pity," Burke stated as he took the cigar from Tom and stood, pacing his office. He turned to them both and asked, "What happens to your department once you have completed your objective? Rounded up all the dark objects and rogue followers of Lord Voldemort?"

Tom looked at Draco to read his expression, but it remained blank. "We will continue to uphold the laws of the Ministry, of course, sir."

"All of the laws?" The elder Burke asked as Draco nodded and looked towards "Cedric" for assistance.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Tom redirected the conversation. "What law should we not be upholding at the Ministry?" he asked the older Burke.

Caractacus did not answer Tom's question directly. Instead, he stood, crossed the room to the bar area of his office, came back and set a bottle of fire whiskey down. With a flick of his wand, he summoned three glasses and poured generous measures for each of them.

They each drank from their glasses before Caractacus posed a question of his own, "Have you been keeping up with the way technology has been expanding in the Muggle world?"

Draco seemed to choke on his drink before he swallowed and asked, "Pardon?"

"Muggle technology," Caractacus repeated, his gaze shifting between Tom and Draco.

Pretending to contemplate, Tom nodded. "I did read recently about something called the internet."

Flashing a sly smile, Caractacus looked at Draco again as he spoke, clearly uncomfortable or perhaps surprised. "Forgive me for asking this, but you're a Burke, a pureblood wizard. Why are you aware or reading up on Muggle technology?"

Waving his hand dismissively, Caractacus responded, "Is it not good to know what is happening all over the world, not just in ours?"

Know thy enemy.

Tom leaned back, swirling his drink as he waited for Caractacus to reach his point. Draco nodded, "Yes, well, I guess so."

Caractacus went to grab a book from a nearby shelf, sat back down across from them, and passed Draco the book. "What do you know of war, Draco?"

Draco looked at the book he'd been handed, then up at Caractacus. "I was in one, sir. I know of its effects and the aftermath."

"Do you believe the war to be over?" Caractacus asked, his gaze shifting between Draco and Tom.

After a moment of silence, a painstakingly awkward silence radiating from Draco, Tom spoke up. "Sir, can you tell me more about Muggle technology?"

Draco seemed grateful for Tom's steering of the conversation as Caractacus nodded, leaned back, passed Draco the cigar, and said, "The Muggles are heading towards a trajectory, a path of instantaneous communication, knowledge, and general understanding of all things. With the internet, they are able to research, spread news, and learn and know information very quickly."

"That's quite interesting," Tom responded, waiting for the hook.

Hook.

"Yes, it is. However," Caractacus continued, "I ask you two gentlemen, Ministry of Magic employees—one of you upholds the law, the other creates and votes on laws—what will happen when we are no longer able to remain living in secret? When information about us and our existence spreads like wildfire. How will our world be protected? There are more of them than there are of us."

Reel.

They were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, and Sofia stepped in, smiling brightly. She avoided Tom’s gaze but caught Draco’s warmly before addressing her grandfather. “Grandmother has asked the elves to set out tea and dessert in the drawing room.”

The three gentlemen stood, and just as they were heading out the door, Burke handed Draco the book he’d given him earlier. "Keep this. Read it."

Catch.

Nodding politely, Draco accepted it willingly. As they walked towards the drawing room together, he handed Tom the book and shook his head in disbelief. Tom could see Draco’s mind spinning; the seed had been set.

As Tom held the book, tracing the title with his finger, a smile played on his lips. He realized that he had lost sight of his vision in his eventual madness. Splitting his soul so many times had eliminated parts of himself that he should have kept. Feelings were pesky little things, but caution, patience, and the ability to use those feelings or emotions had come in handy when he’d had them.

You see, Tom had realized madness breeds creativity, but he’d lost his creativity when all that had been left of the madness was rage and a thirst for violence and world domination. This time, he’d start this path relatively the same, but he’d do it patiently, slowly, being the face of it, as Cedric Diggory, of course.

Behind the scenes, Lord Voldemort would be the one really pulling the puppeteer's strings.

Tom held the book, tracing the title with his finger, and smiled to himself. He was in control.

The Art of War by Sun Tzu.

***

Standing outside the mysterious but extremely large Burke Estate, which was still not as large as the sprawling estate of Malfoy Manor, Tom smoked a cigarette and looked up at the night sky. The stars were bright, but he imagined how much better they could look if his Death Eater mark painted it.

“I’ll have one of those,” Draco said, approaching him and holding an expectant hand out, his other hand tucked in his fine robes pocket.

Tom complied, taking his pack out and passing it to him. The young Malfoy took the cigarette in his mouth, lit it wordlessly, and looked up at the night sky. Then, he quietly made a confession. “The Death Eaters are back, they’re coming out of hiding. We’ve been investigating a series of murders since Thursday.”

Pretending to be surprised by this revelation, Tom made a face of horror. He turned and inhaled on his cigarette, letting out a puff of smoke, and asked, “Have you found anything? What do you mean by a series of murders?”

Draco chuckled as if in disbelief. “Seven murders. Seven bodies spelling out the word 'Danger,' and of course, an exclamation mark was what had been written in perfect script on the last body. Apparently, this monster we're chasing after cares about the use of proper grammar.”

Grammar was important!

Monster, Tom mused to himself. That’s not very flattering, he looked rather handsome nowadays to be referred to as a monster. Aloud, he said, "That sounds horrifying. Any leads? Do you know who it could be?"

Draco's eyes widened as he nodded as if he truly did know who it was exactly. "I reached out to Theo as soon as we left the scene. The only Death Eater I can think of that's on the run, alive, and is capable of the magic we witnessed there is his father."

Tom was quiet as he continued to smoke his cigarette and then asked, even though he already knew, "What sort of magic was there?"

Draco flicked the cigarette, seemingly having enough of it, rolled his sleeve up, and showed him his mark. Looking quite disturbed and with fear in his voice, he said, "My mark, it came alive, and Morsmordre had been cast nearby in the sky as if waiting to be activated for when the bodies had been found."

He brushed a nervous hand through his hair, looked back at the estate, and then at Tom seriously. "I think he's right. The war, it's not over. That's what he was trying to tell us, right? And yeah, I know where else he wanted to steer the conversation, and I can understand his fears, but what matters now isn't something that's far into the future. What is important right now is that Nott most likely has been rallying, growing, and they've come back. It was a warning or a message." Sighing, he shook his head and looked at Tom. "Don't tell anyone I'm telling you this. The Ministry wants it quiet."

"I won't tell a soul," Tom's tone promised as he flicked his own cigarette and thought about Nott Senior.

He now knew where they all were, but it was too soon to rally.

Soon, very soon.

***

Having Necroth stalk Ronald Weasley or commanding wild birds to attack him had not been the only thing that had kept Tom entertained since Ron had started his assignment that week as his guard. He also spelled his shoes so he'd randomly trip over himself. When he didn't want Ron to know it was his own shoes causing the slipping or falling, he'd make random puddles appear. Tom even caused him to spill food or drinks on himself and whispered suggestions that said he had ketchup or something on his face to make him feel self-conscious. But what was really important was that he'd Imperiused him.

Ronald Weasley was under Tom Riddle's influence for whatever and whenever needed. The first command had been simple:

"You will not have sexual relations with Hermione Granger."

And so, although Tom was jealous to know Ron could and would most likely still be around her, he would not take her, even if she attempted to seduce him. Ronald Weasley would deny his own girlfriend any and all sexual advances.

Kissing? Tom shuddered in rage knowing they could probably still do that, but with seventeen-hour shifts, tripping, spilling things on himself, being stalked by a snake, and chased by wild birds, he probably would be scant of energy to even do that.

That evening, when Daphne, whom Draco had labeled as Cedric Diggory's "almost" girlfriend, showed up, he did not take her. Instead, they spoke quietly in the library about Damian, her grandfather. He confided in her about their meeting with Sofia's family, which in turn forced her hand to invite him to meet hers. When she attempted to seduce him, he feigned tiredness, escorted her back to the Floo, and sent her on her way home.

Tom paced his room until well after midnight, his mind consumed with anticipation. He waited, and waited, and waited until...

It was time.

Quietly, he apparated into Hermione's living room and was pleased to note that Ronald Weasley was not there—neither on her couch nor in her bed.

Crooks, her hideous cat, stood by the door and looked up at him, emitting a soft meow.

Perhaps it was the successful day, or the tantalizing taste of almost having Hermione the night before, or maybe it was the wholeness of his soul, but he found himself looking at the cat without malice or threat and smiled at him. Crooks tilted his head, his eyes widening in surprise, and then, something horribly unimaginable happened. The cat pattered over to Tom's disillusioned body, which made him appear as a mere shadow, and rubbed his head against Tom's leg, fucking purring contentedly. Purring!

Salazar, he shook the cat off of him and slowly crept his way into Hermione's room, settling in the corner.

He watched her, his gaze unwavering, as she tossed and turned in her sleep.

Her hair, a cascade of chestnut waves, spilled over her pillow like a silken waterfall, framing her face in a halo of lustrous strands. Each tendril seemed to dance with a life of its own, caressing her skin with a tender touch. When she began to stir, he approached her slowly, gently rubbing her cheek in a circular motion. As he closed his eyes, he focused on her mind and entered her dream.

***

The Forbidden Forest was bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the ancient trees. Tom looked up and caught a glimpse of the Hogwarts castle in the distance, its towering spires silhouetted against the fading light.

"Interesting place to have stuck in your subconscious," he mused to himself as he navigated through the dense foliage. He tried to recall the spot where he had found Hermione the night before. Turning right, he walked forward, the crunch of leaves beneath his boots echoing in the tranquil forest.

As he approached, he spotted her sitting on a moss-covered log, bathed in the golden glow of the fading daylight. She sat with an air of patience, her gaze fixed on the ever-changing canvas of the evening sky, as if she were waiting for something—or someone.

He watched her as the sun descended, casting a warm glow over her delicate features. The golden light danced across her skin, accentuating the curves of her face. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and for a moment, she seemed like a living embodiment of tranquility.

Tom studied her intently, his gaze tracing the contours of her face as if she were a masterpiece, meticulously crafted by his own hand or perhaps by Picasso himself. He had always admired the artist's ability to capture the essence of his subjects.

Know thy enemy.

As the moon rose, its silvery light bathed the forest in an ethereal glow. Hermione's nervous glances around the clearing did not escape Tom's notice. He absorbed every detail of her, from the way she nervously tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear to the subtle tension in her shoulders.

Tom stepped forward, emerging from the shadows and into the soft light of the moon. Hermione turned her head slightly, her expression blossoming into a wide, expectant grin. "There you are."

"Here I am," he replied, his voice a smooth, comforting presence as he approached her. He knew she thought she was merely dreaming, but he couldn't resist the opportunity to be near her, even if it was in her subconscious realm.

"I did not think you'd show," Hermione said, her voice tinged with surprise.

Sitting beside her on the log, Tom tilted his head back to gaze up at the night sky. "Why wouldn't I?"

Hermione shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "Not sure. I don't know how my dreams work, but I did wish for you to be here."

"Did you now?" Tom asked, turning to look at her.

She met his gaze, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Yes."

"Why's that?" he inquired, intrigued by her answer.

Hermione glanced away briefly before meeting his eyes again, her gaze intense. "You're the only thing I want to dream about lately."

Tom swallowed, feeling a surge of something unfamiliar in his chest. He reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. "I don't have the ability to dream. Only nightmares plague me. But if I could dream, I'd wish to dream of you."

She giggled, shaking her head in disbelief. "Wow. I'm good."

He chuckled softly, knowing she believed this encounter was a product of her own subconscious. But in this moment, he found himself wishing it were real.

"What did you do today?" she asked, her voice soft in the moonlit forest.

He turned to face her, his expression thoughtful. "Had dinner with the Malfoy heir and some of his acquaintances."

She nodded, her gaze drifting upwards towards the starry sky. "Draco has changed, hasn't he?"

He gently massaged circles into her hand as he spoke. "For better or worse."

Hermione giggled softly. "I'm really good."

Tom shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and cupped her chin, guiding her gaze back to him. Their eyes met, and he asked, "Why the Forbidden Forest?"

She sighed, her breath mingling with the cool night air, and then inhaled deeply before speaking. "This is where he killed the last piece of his soul before Harry could kill him. Harry was the last Horcrux, the eighth. An accidental Horcrux. This was where ending him was made possible."

Tom mulled that over before he asked, "What does that have to do with you?"

Hermione stood, yanking her hand away from him angrily and yelling, "It has everything to do with me. I was the one up for years researching, studying, assisting with plotting, making sure they both stayed alive. That he stayed alive. I was the one always finding information we could use to win each and every fight. I was the one saving the savior. Me. Not sleeping. Me, the muggleborn, sacrificing my childhood for the good of the world. To stop this monster, this monster that probably wished I'd never been born."

Hermione's tears flowed freely now, her voice quivering with emotion. "I was the one who obliviated my parents so we could hunt Horcruxes, who ensured Harry could defeat him, and yet I didn't realize until the end that he was merely a sheep set up to be slaughtered. What if Harry hadn't been able to survive? What would have become of me? Of others like me? Would my sacrifices have been in vain, Cedric? Would you even be alive?"

Tom gazed into Hermione's tear-filled eyes, rendered speechless by her anguish. There were no words he could offer, no solace he, of all people, could provide. Her nightmares, her fears, all traced back to him.

He had done this to her.

He had traumatized Hermione, and these thoughts continued to torment her, to haunt her. Fear.

Fear of him.

Tom had craved the world's fear, but he had never imagined he would not want Hermione Granger to fear him. There was something broken in her, and he had broken it.

Why didn't he feel powerful now?

Why didn't he feel accomplished?

Where was his power when he needed it most?

Before he could retreat from her dream state, vowing never to return, Hermione wiped her tears and laughed, as if her anguish had never existed. She approached him where he sat on the log, standing over him, and gently lifted his chin to meet hers.

"This is just a dream, and I'm screaming at Cedric Diggory as if everything that happened had been his fault. What is wrong with me?" she asked, her fingers tracing his chin.

He remained silent, unable to tear his gaze away from hers. Then, unexpectedly, she stepped back, slowly lowering the strap of her nightgown to one side, then the other, and let it fall to the ground. Hermione stood before him, completely nude, and whispered, "I want you, Cedric Diggory. Please, take me."

Despite the torrent of desire coursing through him, Tom shook his head, a defiant act against the consuming temptation. Rising from his position, he knelt before her, his movements deliberate and controlled. With gentle hands, he pulled her nightgown back up and held her shoulders, his gaze piercing into hers. "No," he murmured softly. "Not like this. Not yet."

Hermione pushed him away with a forceful gesture, her expression a mixture of frustration and hurt. "You don't even want me in my own dreams. This must be a joke."

Craving her touch yet determined not to succumb to his desires, Tom approached her once more. He observed as she hesitated, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. With a decisive motion, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. She resisted for a moment, then melted into his embrace, tears staining his shirt as she cried against his chest.

For the first time in all the lives he had lived, Tom Riddle found himself consoling a woman. He held her tightly, rubbing his hands soothingly on her back, his heart experiencing a strange, unfamiliar sensation. It clenched within his chest as he swallowed, uncertain of how to interpret this newfound tenderness.

***

For a span of two weeks, Tom did not venture into the sanctum of Hermione's loft nor did he dare to tread upon the ethereal landscapes of her dreams. It was a deliberate hiatus, a resolute choice he made, believing it to be for the best. Regardless of his lingering obsession, he resolved to channel his energies into his plans, his ambitions. It was a conscious, calculated decision on his part, emblematic of the logical and methodical nature that defined Tom Riddle, even amidst the occasional tumult of his mind.

Draco conveyed that they had yet to unearth any clues concerning the bodies, and there had been no sightings of any Death Eaters. Potter found himself assigned to guard Cedric for a week, a duty that passed without incident. During that time, Necroth conversed with Harry Potter as if they were old comrades, while Cedric observed cautiously, mindful not to utter a word in Parseltongue as they formed a bond.

One day, in the opulent confines of the drawing room, Potter remarked casually, "You know, I've never had an issue with snakes. I've been able to communicate with them since I was a boy, and they tend to take a liking to me."

Tom, seated across from Potter, struggled against the impulse to throttle him then and there, but instead, he inquired, "How do you reconcile still harboring that part of him?"

Harry winced, averting his gaze before meeting Tom's eyes once more. With a sigh, he confessed, "He shaped me into who I am today. A part of him resided in me for seventeen years. I'll always carry that, no matter what."

Turning the page of his tome, which had just led him to uncover yet another ingredient for a spell he was developing, Tom nodded thoughtfully, pondering over Potter's response.

As the days of the following week unfurled like petals on a blooming rose, Tom found himself facing his first "criminal" trial on a somber Monday.

It was the trial of the same man who had dared to assail him at Hogwarts Castle during the memorial ceremony.

Tom had abstained from indulging in the vices of sex, killing, or torture for too long, and so, armed with the muggle pen Hermione had permitted him to keep, he settled at his bench in the courtroom. There, with closed eyes, he immersed himself in a practiced breathing technique, a method to contain the simmering cauldron of his magic, lest it engulf the entire Ministry in flames.

It was only when the delicate aroma of lavender danced into his nostrils that he dared to open his eyes. And there she was, gliding into the courtroom like a vision, adorned in elegant robes as she made her way to the stands.

Hermione's gaze locked with his instantly, and in that moment, the world seemed to pause, held in suspension by the invisible threads of fate.

What was this fucking witch doing to him?

Chapter Text

Oh, here we go again.
The voices in his head
Called the rain to end our days of wild
The sickest army doll
Purchased at the mall
Rivulets descend my plastic smile
But you should've seen him
When he first got me

My boy only breaks his favorite toys
I'm queen of sand castles he destroys
Cause it fit too right
Puzzle pieces in the dead of night
Should've known it was a matter of time
Oh, my boy only breaks his favorite toys

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys, Taylor Swift

HPOV

The Ministry of Magic was an imposing structure, its grandeur evident from the moment one laid eyes on its towering spires and intricately carved facades.

Standing before it, Hermione brushed down her robes and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air, trying to shake off the weariness that had plagued her for days. Nightmares, screams, and barely eaten meals had become her routine.

Despite being off-duty, she often found herself at the hospital, only to be sent home by concerned colleagues like Drew or Rosenberg. Ron's behavior had been troubling too. Though he stayed over, he rebuffed her attempts at intimacy, citing fatigue or other vague excuses. She suspected something was amiss at the Auror Office, as Ron had been tight-lipped about his work lately. Hermione's worry for him only deepened as she stood in the shadow of the Ministry's majestic edifice.

And then, her thoughts involuntarily drifted towards the newly declared number one bachelor of the wizarding world, as the Daily Prophet had dubbed him. Cedric Diggory, handsome, young, and a Ministry worker, with a noble house seat position and access to the Malfoy fortune without the burden of the name itself, seemed to eclipse even Draco Malfoy, who ranked second, followed by Ron and Harry.

A reporter caught Hermione's eye at the door, and she cursed under her breath, realizing she should have disguised herself before heading to the Ministry. Now, she had to play the Golden girl card, plastering on a smile and acting as if she relished the attention the media always seemed eager to bestow upon her.

"Ms. Granger," a young man with a camera and a floating quill and parchment rushed towards her.

While walking briskly to the front doors, Hermione smiled at the reporter as he followed in step beside her and asked, "Are you here for your friend Mr. Cedric Diggory? Were you a witness to his potential assault at Hogwarts? How do you feel about the bill Cedric Diggory has proposed regarding reinstating capital punishment for high-level criminals?"

This came as a surprise to Hermione. She stopped short, turned towards him, and asked, "Sorry, what bill?"

The reporter flashed her an accomplished smile as he spoke, "Capital punishment. Mr. Diggory has proposed a new bill reinstating it and bringing back the Dementors to Azkaban. Were you not aware? Is he not your friend, Ms. Granger?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes but quickly realized she was allowing herself to be baited. She fixed her face into a friendly, coy smile and said, "I best be on my way. I am to be a witness for this trial."

Did Cedric truly believe reinstating capital punishment was justice? She couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Every life was valuable, and sentencing anyone to death, especially by a Death Eater's kiss, was cruel, no matter the crime.

Her thoughts drifted back to her days at Hogwarts, where she had witnessed firsthand the consequences of prejudice and arbitrary judgment. Being a Muggle-born witch, she understood the importance of fairness and equality. How could she support a system that could wrongfully convict innocent people?

She recalled her education and moral upbringing, where she learned about empathy, forgiveness, and redemption. Even those who committed the most heinous crimes deserved a chance for rehabilitation, didn't they? She couldn't shake the belief that every individual, regardless of their past actions, had inherent dignity and worth.

The idea of giving someone or some institution the power to decide who lived and who died sent a shiver down her spine. She remembered the horrors of the Second Wizarding War, where Death Eaters imposed their twisted version of justice. They believed they were entitled to decide the fate of others based on their ideals of purity and righteousness.

Hermione's opposition to capital punishment wasn't just a matter of principle; it was a reflection of her deepest convictions. She couldn't support a system that devalued human life, that denied the possibility of redemption, and that placed absolute power in the hands of fallible beings.

Within the grand halls of the Wizengamot, Hermione strode in briskly, the echo of her footsteps resonating against the marble floors. As she ascended the stairs to the witness stand, she felt a familiar gaze upon her.

Dark, penetrating black eyes locked onto hers, stirring a flurry of emotions within her.

The scent of old parchment and ink mingled with the musty air of the courtroom, filling her senses as she found her seat. The cool touch of the wooden bench beneath her seemed to ground her, but her attention remained fixed on him.

She couldn't help but recall the vivid images of her recent dreams, where he had appeared, his presence casting a spell over her waking thoughts. She fought back the urge to blush as she remembered the intensity of those dark eyes, the way they seemed to see into her very soul.

Despite the seriousness of the courtroom proceedings, Hermione's mind wandered, captivated by the sight of him. His stoic expression only added to his allure, hinting at depths of mystery and strength that drew her in like a moth to flame.

She could almost taste the tension in the air, thick and palpable, like the metallic tang of anticipation before a thunderstorm. Hermione resisted the urge to fidget under his gaze, her nerves electrified by the intensity of the moment. The sound of her own heartbeat seemed to drown out the murmur of voices around her, its rhythm matching the rapid pace of her thoughts.

Finally, the Minister appeared ready to commence the day’s one and only criminal trial, his robes billowing as he rushed to the middle podium. His voice, rich and commanding, cut through the hushed atmosphere of the courtroom.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, his words reverberating off the walls, "Thank you for being present today. It's a solemn occasion as we convene for this trial to determine whether Mr. David Turner, one of our own Ministry workers from the Department of Magical Transportation, is guilty of attempted assault and to decide the appropriate consequences."

As the Minister's voice echoed through the chamber, the floor in the middle of the room opened with a low, ominous creak, like the groan of ancient stone shifting beneath the weight of fate. A cage emerged, rising slowly from the depths below, carrying the man of whom he spoke. It was a round jail cage, its bars gleaming in the dim light of the courtroom, casting stark shadows across the polished floor. The man inside wore a white and black striped prison uniform, his hands bound by chains that clinked with every movement.

Gulping, Hermione watched as Dawlish, the lead auror, approached the cage and asked the man to stand. He did so with a resignation that cut through the tense air, his eyes downcast, betraying his fear.

This was the same man she had stupefied before anything had escalated to a dangerous level. Had he really intended to hurt Cedric that day?

"Mr. David Turner," Shacklebot's voice rang out, authoritative yet tinged with sympathy, "are you pleading guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty, sir," came the reply, the words heavy with defiance.

Shacklebot nodded, his gaze sweeping over the courtroom before settling back on Mr. Turner. "Do you have a solicitor, Mr. Turner?"

Trembling, Mr. Turner shook his head, a look of desperation crossing his face. "No, sir. I am unable to afford one. I will represent myself."

Hermione felt her heart lurch with empathy as she watched Shacklebot's normally stoic expression soften with a flicker of concern for the man's plight. Her senses seemed to heighten, the scent of fear and uncertainty thick in the air, the distant sound of murmurs and shuffling feet echoing through the chamber.

Before she knew it, Hermione found herself standing, her heart pounding so fiercely in her chest it felt as though it might burst.

Her eyes met Cedric Diggory's first, his gaze drifting across the courtroom with a perplexed expression on his face. A pen rested casually behind his ear, his lean frame poised expectantly in his chair. He had been tapping softly in front of him, the rhythmic sound filling the air until Hermione's sudden movement caught his attention, and his tapping ceased.

As she stood, Hermione's eyes met those of the Minister, his stern countenance softened by surprise at her interruption. "Mrs. Granger," he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority, "the time for witnesses has not yet come to fruition. Please take your seat."

Ignoring the Minister's request, Hermione shook her head, her resolve unwavering. "No, Minister," she said, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest. "I do apologize for interrupting your proceedings, but I am volunteering to be Mr. Turner's solicitor."

Gasps rippled through the courtroom as Hermione glanced around, taking in the shocked faces of those present. Her heart raced as her gaze settled again on Cedric's, noting the stoic expression that masked any hint of emotion in his eyes.

The scent of ink and parchment mingled with the tension in the room, enveloping Hermione in a heady mix of anticipation and disbelief. The air felt heavy, thick with the weight of the impending trial, as if every whispered conversation and hushed murmur added to the palpable sense of unease.

Hermione's ears caught the sound of murmurs and whispers, swirling around her like a cacophony of uncertainty. Each word seemed to echo in the cavernous courtroom, underscoring the rhythmic thud of her own heartbeat, which pounded in her chest like a drumbeat of determination.

The sight of Cedric's impassive gaze sent a pang through her chest, a mixture of apprehension and resolve flooding her senses. Did he think her insane for volunteering to defend the man who had almost assaulted him at Hogwarts? Did he believe she was not on his side, but rather on the side of this man, Mr. Turner?

No, that couldn't be it. Hermione knew that wasn't why she had volunteered. She was offering her help because Mr. Turner deserved a fair trial, regardless of his ability to afford a solicitor. He was a man from the Department of Transportation, likely unfamiliar with the intricacies of legal proceedings in front of the Wizengamot. How could he be expected to defend himself in such a daunting setting?

Shacklebolt's brow rose, his expression a mixture of surprise and skepticism. "That is very kind of you, Mrs. Granger, but--"

Hermione didn't allow the Minister to finish as she cited the specific legal provision, her voice steady and resolute. "Article 12, Section 3, Paragraph B. In accordance with the Wizengamot Law Amendment No. 7321-A, individuals appearing before the Wizengamot who are unable to afford legal representation may voluntarily appoint a solicitor to represent them in court proceedings. Paragraph B of Section 3 specifies that any witch or wizard with a valid magical license may act as a volunteer solicitor for defendants who cannot afford legal counsel. The volunteer solicitor must be of legal age and possess adequate knowledge of magical law and courtroom procedures."

Shacklebolt coughed, momentarily taken aback by Hermione's assertiveness, his brow furrowing in contemplation.

Cedric's interruption added weight to the situation, his voice firm and authoritative as he cited the legal provisions. "The amendment outlines that the appointment of a volunteer solicitor must be approved by the presiding Minister for Magic or their designated representative. The appointment is subject to review to ensure that it does not compromise the integrity of the trial proceedings," Cedric stated, his words echoing in the solemn silence of the courtroom.

The gravity of Cedric's words sank in, the weight of the situation palpable as Hermione held her breath, her determination unwavering. The article she had cited was a provision that had never been used before, of that Hermione was absolutely positive. It was a moment that could change the course of history, setting a new precedent within the wizarding legal system.

She watched as Cedric and the rest of the Wizengamot turned their attention to Kingsley Shacklebolt, waiting for his decision. Would he allow her to be Mr. Turner's representative, thereby ushering in a new era of fairness and equality in magical law? Or would he decline, adhering to tradition and precedent? The fate of Mr. Turner's trial hung in the balance, and Hermione could feel the weight of responsibility settling upon her shoulders as she awaited the Minister's response.

Shacklebolt set his gravel down with a resounding thud onto his podium, the sound reverberating through the courtroom. With a commanding voice, he declared, "I will allow Ms. Hermione Granger to represent Mr. David Turner in this trial."

Elated, Hermione felt a surge of relief wash over her as she watched Mr. Turner turn towards her in his cage. His eyes brimmed with gratitude as he mouthed a heartfelt "Thank you," tears streaming down his cheeks. But as her gaze shifted, Hermione's heart sank to see Cedric sitting back down, his posture rigid, his expression dark with disapproval.

She swallowed hard as the Minister turned towards her, his gaze steady. "In light of this change of representation," he continued, "let's reconvene here at the same time tomorrow. Mr. Turner, you will be allowed one hour today to speak to your counsel to prepare for trial tomorrow."

Hermione nodded, her mind racing with the implications of her new role.

The courtroom emptied, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts. She waited until she had gathered her wits, feeling the weight of the day's events settling upon her like a heavy cloak. As she made her way towards the floor where prisoners were kept, the scent of old wood and dust mingled with the lingering tension in the air.

Just as she was about to turn down the hallway to head towards the elevators, a strong arm grabbed her, pulling her into an empty office. "Ow!" she exclaimed, rubbing her arm, her heart racing as she looked up into deep, dark magnificent black eyes.

Cedric stood before her, his gaze piercing, his expression intense as he glared daggers into her face. Hermione felt a jolt of adrenaline surge through her veins as she braced herself for what was to come. "What the fuck are you doing?" Cedric demanded, his voice low and threatening.

"The right thing?" Hermione replied, her voice steady despite the tremor of uncertainty coursing through her.

How dare he question her actions!

Who did he think he was? Why was he being so damn rude!

Perhaps it was the lack of sex, sleep, or proper nutrition, or perhaps all three, but she was in a foul mood nonetheless. She also found herself looking at him in a whole new light after what that reporter had revealed.

Cedric's dark eyes bore into hers, searching for answers. "The right thing," he repeated, his voice low and incredulous. He shook his head in disbelief. "You have no business representing this man. It's not your responsibility."

Hermione felt a surge of defiance rise within her, fueling her response. "Maybe not by tradition or expectation," she countered, meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. "But it's my responsibility as a witch, as a member of this community, to ensure that everyone receives a fair trial. Mr. Turner deserves a chance at justice, and I won't stand by and watch him suffer unfairly."

Cedric's expression softened slightly, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes. "You're putting yourself in danger," he warned, his voice softer now. "You don't know what you're getting into."

The words hung in the air, Hermione's thoughts swirling with uncertainty. Was Cedric Diggory implying a threat? No, it couldn't be, she reasoned; surely it was just her imagination running wild.

Yet the intensity of Cedric's gaze left her questioning. Was there a deeper concern behind his piercing eyes? She dismissed the notion, focusing instead on her own determination.

"I know precisely what I'm getting into," she declared, her voice steady and resolute. "And I'm prepared to face whatever consequences may arise if it means standing up for what's right."

His eyes flickered, as if on the verge of changing color. Then, he closed them, flared his nostrils, and, to her surprise, stepped closer. Pressing his nose against hers, as if inhaling her essence, it took all her willpower to focus on her breathing and not on the vivid dream she’d had of him on his knees, doing unspeakable things to her with his tongue. He whispered, "You're insufferable."

Stepping back, Hermione felt the intensity of his presence, causing her head to spin. She shook her head and confronted him, her tone accusatory. "We seem to have differed political views. Capital punishment?" she challenged.

"Yes, capital punishment. I've submitted a bill to review its reinstatement and to advocate for the return of the Dementors."

Hermione observed as he appeared to be feigning consideration on how to appease her in some manner.

"I was imprisoned for four interminable years, Hermione—a fate perhaps worse than death," Cedric began, his voice heavy with solemnity, though Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that he might be leveraging her empathy for what he had endured. Manipulative bastard, indeed.

Her name danced like music on his lips, every syllable a melody that she longed to hear him whisper again and again. Get it together, she yelled at herself internally. He may be beautiful, but tomorrow you'll find yourself facing him in a battle to ensure that the defendant you're representing isn't unfairly punished for nearly assaulting him (which he hadn’t so why is he so upset)!

He paused; his gaze distant as he collected his thoughts. "The reality is, that some crimes are so heinous, so irredeemable, that conventional means of justice simply fall short. The fear instilled by a soul-sucking creature like the Dementor can act as a powerful deterrent, not just for the individual perpetrator but for potential offenders as well. It's about restoring a sense of security and justice to our society, ensuring that those who commit unspeakable acts face consequences commensurate with their actions."

Hermione, her resolve unwavering, met Cedric's intense gaze. "Cedric, I understand your perspective, and I empathize with what you've been through. But bringing back the Dementors and reinstating capital punishment is a dangerous path to tread. It's not just about justice; it's about the soul of our society. We must strive for a system that upholds human dignity and rehabilitation, not one that perpetuates fear and vengeance. There are alternative ways to ensure justice without resorting to such extreme measures."

Cedric's expression softened as he listened to Hermione's response. "I agree with you on the importance of rehabilitation," he admitted. "In fact, I have another proposal in mind that focuses on just that. However, I see capital punishment as a necessary fallback plan if rehabilitation fails."

He paused; his expression thoughtful as he carefully chose his words. "Would you be opposed to a bill that prioritizes the rehabilitation of those currently in Azkaban, perhaps even considering their release under probationary terms? It's a delicate balance, but I believe it's worth exploring as a means to address both justice and the possibility of redemption."

Involuntarily, Hermione found herself gasping, her mind racing with disbelief. "Releasing those in Azkaban, as in Death Eaters?" she repeated, her voice filled with incredulity.

Cedric tilted his head, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he nodded. "Yes, precisely," he affirmed.

"You can't release them, they—they're unrehabilitatable! And not to mention dangerous!" Hermione protested, her voice rising with urgency.

His smile faded, and Cedric's eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms, his expression turning serious. "You sound like a hypocrite, Hermione," he said calmly but firmly.

"Think about it. You just attempted to champion the cause of second chances and redemption. But now, when it comes to the most despised and reviled, you draw a hard line. Isn't everyone deserving of the opportunity for rehabilitation, no matter their past crimes? Or is justice only selective when it suits us?"

"But, these Death Eaters are different," she insisted, her voice pleading. "They're followers of Voldemort, they revel in dark magic, in causing pain and suffering. Releasing them would only bring more chaos and destruction!"

Cedric's gaze was unreadable. "You underestimate the power of redemption," he said, his voice low and persuasive. "Everyone deserves a chance to change, to become better. Even them."

Hermione's resolve wavered, torn between her belief in redemption and the undeniable danger these individuals posed. "But," she began, her voice trembling, "what if they don't change? What if they return to their old ways?"

Cedric's smile returned, but it held a hint of something sinister. "Then we'll deal with them accordingly," he said, his tone sending a chill down Hermione's spine. "But first, they deserve the opportunity to prove themselves."

A surge of energy coursed through Hermione, fueled by a mix of anger and determination. She no longer cared that he might be right (he was not about this!) or that she sounded like a hypocrite. Crossing her arms, she squared her shoulders and pointed her chin at him.

"And if they refuse to change or rehabilitate, your plan is capital punishment?" She didn't wait for him to answer; instead, she scoffed, "A rehabilitation program for Death Eaters? You're out of your mind, and I won't let that bill pass, nor the capital punishment bill. I don't care how pretty or chivalrous you try to paint it, or how just you think it is. It's not, and you're wrong."

He laughed, almost wickedly, and Hermione fought the urge to slap him as he shook his head. "You won't let me? What are you going to do about it, mind healer?"

He uttered her title with the same disdainful pureblood accent that Draco used to employ, causing her to tremble with rage. How dare he belittle her job and act as though she hadn't been there for him when he was discovered? As if she hadn't been the one to care for him, ensure his safety, and act as if her role meant nothing!

"I am more than just a simple mind healer, Cedric Diggory. Don't underestimate me," she snapped, her voice laced with defiance.

He rolled his eyes, seemingly amused by her assertion, and started to walk away. But just before he opened the door to the secluded office where he had dragged her into, he turned back, fixing her with a glare.

"Don't get in my way, Ms. Granger," he spat out with venom.

Chapter Text

 

I'm bigger than my body

I'm colder than this home

I'm meaner than my demons

I'm bigger than these bones

And all the kids cried out

"Please, stop, you're scaring me"

I can't help this awful energy

Goddamn right, you should be scared of me

Who is in control?

Control, Halsey

SIX WEEKS LATER

TPOV

Agitated, Tom looked at the woman across from him and sighed, irritation creeping into his normally composed demeanor.

Daphne was perched gracefully in her drawing room, a delicate porcelain teacup in hand, chatting away animatedly with her sister about what he could only describe as trivial nonsense. The room was lavishly adorned with elegant drapes and a grand fireplace, its warmth doing little to ease his growing impatience. He had neither the time nor the inclination to indulge in idle gossip.

“Pansy is trying to become a designer of some sort,” Daphne said, her voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement. “She’s looking for investors. Honestly, who is going to invest in a clothing line that combines Muggle fashion with wizarding robes?”

She scoffed, taking a delicate sip of her tea. Her sister tittered in agreement, though Tom barely spared her a glance. The sheer mundanity of their conversation grated on his nerves. He had been spending far too much time in Daphne’s company as of late, and it was beginning to test his patience.

Tom shifted in his seat, resting his fingers against his temple as he suppressed the urge to cut the conversation short. He was here for a reason, but Daphne’s frivolous musings were swiftly eroding what little tolerance he had left.

“And what, pray tell, do you find so amusing about it?” he asked coolly, finally deciding to engage.

Daphne arched a perfectly sculpted brow, clearly aware of his dwindling patience but choosing to entertain herself nonetheless. “Oh, come now, Cedric. You can’t tell me you find such an idea promising. Muggle fashion and wizarding robes? It’s absurd.”

Tom leaned forward slightly, fixing her with an unreadable gaze. “Innovation is rarely welcomed by those too short-sighted to see its potential,” he murmured, his voice carrying the kind of authority that made Daphne pause.

For a fleeting moment, she looked as if she might argue, but then she simply shrugged, setting her cup down with a soft clink against the saucer. “Perhaps. But I highly doubt the wizarding elite will be lining up to purchase such a thing.”

Tom exhaled sharply, no longer interested in this tangent. He had come here for a purpose, and he would not waste another moment indulging Daphne’s musings.

“I didn’t come here to discuss Pansy Parkinson’s business endeavors,” he stated, his tone brooking no argument. “There are more pressing matters at hand.”

Daphne tilted her head, finally giving him her full attention. “Oh? And what matters would those be?”

His gaze darkened. “The future, Daphne. And whether you intend to be on the right side of it.”

Astoria giggled, amused. “You’re always so cryptic, Cedric. Grandfather is going to adore you.”

Tom had hoped for an audience with Damian Greengrass sooner, and they had agreed on supper weeks ago, but the old bastard kept canceling for some annoying reason. He’d be sorry to know whom exactly it was he had been canceling on once he finally made it to lunch. Tom checked his watch and sat back, sighing. “Where is your grandfather?”

An elf appeared before them and bowed as he announced, "Master Damian awaits your presence in the dining room. Lunch has been served."

Irritated that he had not felt the old man arrive on the estate, Tom stood and followed the Greengrass sisters out of their drawing room, down a long, elegantly decorated hallway, and into the grand dining area. The estate itself was impressive—old magic laced through the walls—but it was nothing compared to the grandeur of Malfoy Manor.

Damian Greengrass stood at the foot of the long dining table, his sharp eyes assessing Tom with a quiet curiosity. Despite his years, the man did not look a day over fifty-two, his posture strong, his presence commanding. Tom knew that Damian had never taken the Dark Mark—his illness had prevented it—but his loyalties had always been to Lord Voldemort (him), not necessarily to the cause itself. That distinction made him useful.

If Damian suspected anything was amiss, he did not show it. Tom doubted the old man kept close ties with others from the past, though if he did, it would not complicate things. Even so, he trusted Damian enough to know that their interests were still aligned.

“And I you, sir. It’s my pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” Tom extended his hand, gripping Damian’s with the perfect amount of firmness, his expression carefully measured.

Not yet, he thought.

Daphne beamed beside him as her grandfather’s gaze flickered to her, assessing her demeanor toward Tom. Astoria sat to his left, Daphne to his right, and Tom settled beside her as lunch plates appeared, accompanied by an elf who poured them each a generous serving of wine.

Damian continued to study him, his keen eyes betraying none of his thoughts as Daphne spoke up, her voice light yet deliberately leading. “Grandpapi, Cedric is in the Wizengamot. Have you read the new bill he’s been pushing for?”

The old man nodded, his attention never wavering from Tom. “Yes, I have, young lad. Capital punishment and bringing the Dementors back.” His voice was even, but there was a weight behind it. “What’s your goal for that?”

Tom swirled the wine in his glass, watching the deep crimson liquid before looking up, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Justice, Mr. Greengrass," he said smoothly. "True justice. For too long, our world has been plagued by leniency, by weakness. It’s time we restore order—real order. A society built on fear, on the certainty that those who step out of line will be made to suffer."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air, heavy with the implications.

Damian’s eyes flickered with interest, his lips curling upward in approval. "Fear, you say? A tool as ancient as it is powerful."

Tom’s smile widened, his voice steady and deliberate. "Indeed. Fear ensures compliance. It enforces respect. The weak will cower, and the strong will thrive, knowing that their position in the world is unassailable."

Damian’s gaze sharpened, a spark of admiration flashing in his eyes. "You’ve thought this through. It’s a vision of power, not just a fleeting ideal. To rule through fear, to control the very fabric of society with certainty… It’s something I can understand."

Tom continued, his voice dropping lower, each word more calculated than the last. "Those who refuse to fall in line, those who continue their treachery even when given the chance to reform— they must be eradicated. The world cannot afford weak links."

Damian set his wine glass down, nodding thoughtfully. "A necessary evil, some might say."

Tom’s smile remained chilling, his eyes cold. "No. It’s not evil. It’s survival. Let them feel the cold grip of Dementors, let them taste the fear of certain death. That is the only way to maintain control—control over the law, over society, over power itself."

The room was silent as his words settled into the thick air. Daphne remained still, her expression unreadable, while Astoria’s gaze moved between them, intrigued. Damian, however, appeared to be deep in thought, his mind clearly racing with the possibilities Tom had outlined.

Finally, Damian spoke, his voice low and rich with approval. "You’re playing a dangerous game, Cedric."

Tom’s smile stretched wider, the predatory gleam in his eyes unmistakable. "I always win. Because fear is the strongest weapon, Damian. And I know how to wield it."

Damian’s lips curled into a knowing smile, and for the first time, Tom saw genuine respect in the old man’s eyes. "I think we shall get along quite well."

The first serving was a small seasonal summer salad, with vibrant fruits and fresh greens artfully arranged on the plate. Astoria picked at her food, her gaze darting between her sister and Tom, her discomfort palpable. Tom observed her carefully, noting the way she avoided meeting his eyes directly, though she often stole glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Daphne, for her part, seemed uncharacteristically tense, her lips tight as she picked at her food, clearly aware of the topic that was about to arise.

Before Tom could wonder why, Astoria let out an exasperated sigh and said, “It’s too bad Hermione Granger’s counter-bill eliminating the option to bring back capital punishment hasn’t passed yet.”

Daphne’s fork dropped to her plate with a soft clink, her face blanching as she quickly glanced at Tom, clearly nervous. She had learned a week ago not to mention Granger’s name or her foolish justice proposals around him.

Tom’s gaze sharpened, his expression remaining outwardly neutral as he didn’t respond immediately. He let Astoria’s words linger in the air, letting the silence stretch longer than necessary, watching as Daphne fidgeted beside him, clearly anticipating his reaction. His fingers tightened subtly around his wine glass, but he kept his face impassive, focusing on the conversation as if the topic held no particular significance to him.

Granger’s bill, he thought, barely containing his irritation. She truly believes that mercy will save this world. What she doesn't understand is that mercy has its limits. Fear, however—fear is the only thing that will restore order.

Astoria, oblivious to the turmoil in his mind, looked at him, waiting for him to respond. “It’s true, though, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice curious but tinged with uncertainty. “Granger’s bill hasn’t passed yet. And neither has yours. Both are stuck at a standstill, right? You are battling it out in court?”

Tom gave a small, measured smile, his lips curling ever so slightly. "Both bills are still under review, yes," he replied smoothly, his voice calm, but there was a subtle edge to it. "But not for long."

Daphne, noticing the tension in the air, quickly interjected, her voice a bit too hurried. "I know, I know, it’s just…" She glanced nervously at her grandfather, whose sharp eyes were now fixed on the conversation. "People are talking. Some think Granger’s idea will pass, and others are betting on yours. It’s hard to say who has the upper hand."

Tom nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving his plate. "People often think too small," he said quietly, almost as if reflecting to himself. "They think grief, not power. It’s not about who has the upper hand. It’s about who controls the future. Granger’s proposal is weak, emotional. It panders to a society that’s grown soft. What we need now is strength. Discipline."

Damian Greengrass, who had been observing the exchange with increasing interest, leaned in slightly. "A future shaped by discipline," he said, his voice smooth but tinged with approval. "I like the sound of that, Cedric. You believe you will be successful in pushing for your bill to pass, even with Hermione Granger’s opposition?"

Tom met Damian’s gaze with calm confidence, allowing a slow smile to tug at the corners of his lips. "I always succeed," he said softly, his voice laced with certainty. "This world is ripe for change. Granger and her vision have no place in it."

After lunch, Tom found himself sitting across from the elder Greengrass in the man’s study, the heavy scent of cigars filling the air between them. They were both relaxed, leaning back in their chairs as the quiet tick of the clock marked the passing of time. Tom took a slow drag from his cigar, savoring the smoky flavor, his eyes scanning the room with practiced disinterest. He had done this many times before, this game of cat and mouse. What amused him most was the fact that Damian Greengrass had no idea who he was—or that he was his oldest friend. Damian had little friends.

Tom had kept his true identity concealed, not out of fear but out of curiosity. He was playing the role a charming, capable young man with just enough presence to make himself worthy of attention. The old fool wouldn’t know what hit him until the time was right. For now, Tom told himself, this was merely a test of his abilities—a challenge to see if his charm and wit could win over a man who had long been loyal to Voldemort's cause, though Tom suspected the loyalty might not run as deep as it once had. Though, he’d probably always remain loyal to the Dark Lord himself.

In time, the truth would come out. But for now, he had a game to play, and he would enjoy every moment of it.

"My granddaughter seems to have taken a liking to you quite quickly," Damian remarked, his voice tinged with approval, though his eyes were sharp, searching. "She’s been asking for us to meet for weeks."

Tom exhaled the smoke slowly, his gaze never leaving the older man. He let the words settle in the air, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Yes, well, it was due to my insistence, sir," he replied smoothly, his voice calm, with just the right touch of humility. He had been careful, so very careful, to keep his tone light, as though he had no agenda beyond the surface pleasantries of a young man eager to meet an esteemed elder.

Damian raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by Tom's response, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air, as if sizing Tom up. "And what is it that you need from me, Cedric?"

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Tom considered his answer. He was careful to keep his demeanor composed, but inside, his mind was already racing. This was the moment he had been waiting for—the moment when he would subtly steer the conversation toward his goal.

He crossed his legs slowly, leaning forward just slightly, his posture shifting to one of confidence. He passed the cigar back to the older man with a deliberate motion, his gaze intense, his eyes never wavering from Damian’s. "Support," he said simply, his voice carrying a weight of quiet assurance.

Damian studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as though weighing the words, considering the request. Tom could see the calculation behind the old man’s gaze, the subtle flicker of recognition that Tom had played his hand well.

"You remind me of someone from my past," Damian said, his voice tinged with a note of nostalgia, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else—something darker. "Someone who has been gone a very long time."

Tom’s posture didn’t change, but inside, a small thrill of recognition rippled through him. The old man was sharp, too sharp, and his words hit close to the mark. Damian wasn’t just talking about any past figure—he was referring to Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord’s shadow loomed over everything, and it was no surprise that some people still recognized the traits he had once displayed—traits Tom had intentionally preserved.

Tom didn’t react outwardly, maintaining the mask of "Cedric Diggory," but inside he smirked. It was always satisfying to know that others could still see the remnants of Voldemort in him. After all, that was the point—this was not just some charming facade; it was the beginning of a carefully constructed plan.

"Someone who has been gone a very long time," Damian repeated, his voice softer now, more reflective. But his eyes never left Tom, still calculating, still searching.

Tom nodded, letting the comment hang in the air. "I’m flattered," he said, his voice smooth, though there was a faint edge to it. "It’s not often that I remind someone of someone so... significant."

Damian gave a small, approving nod, his lips curving ever so slightly. Then, after a moment of silence, he continued, his tone becoming more serious. "In your political conquests, Mr. Diggory, you have my full support. You’ve shown a rare understanding of the game at play. There is potential in you, far more than most realize."

Tom’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. The old man’s words were exactly what he had been hoping for—an acknowledgment, a subtle endorsement, even if the full weight of it hadn’t been expressed outright.

Damian took another drag from his cigar before continuing, his voice lowering, becoming more cautious. "But in your personal conquests, I do hope you consider the future of your name, your political stance, and my granddaughter."

At the mention of Daphne, Tom’s smile tightened slightly. It was an interesting comment, revealing not just Damian’s concern for his granddaughter but also a more subtle warning—a reminder of the personal stakes involved. The Greengrass family’s name was a matter of pride, and the old man was concerned that Tom’s ambitions might disrupt the carefully crafted image of his family, especially when it came to his granddaughter.

Tom leaned back slightly in his chair, the smile never leaving his lips. "I will consider everything, Sir," he replied softly, his tone warm, but with a sharpness that suggested he was already far beyond these minor concerns. "Everything, including your granddaughter’s place in all of this."

Damian watched him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed just enough to show he was weighing every word. Then, with a soft chuckle, he nodded. "Very well, Cedric. I’ll be watching, of course. But I believe you’ll find that I’m not easily impressed. You’ll need more than charm to win the trust of old men like me."

Tom’s smile deepened, his gaze never leaving the elder Greengrass. "I’m not interested in winning trust, Sir," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "I’m interested in control."

***

Once Tom had disapparated back to the Ministry and into his office, he adjusted his robes, letting out a slow, frustrated sigh. The weight of his work settled on him the moment he crossed the threshold. He had passed his training with ease, his political career progressing smoothly, and his bill had been published—another victory in the making. He would win this battle; of that, he was sure.

His first official court case had taken place a few weeks ago, and the outcome had been… inconvenient.

Tom made a conscious effort to avoid Hermione Granger outside of the courtroom. No more late-night dream sessions, no spying from the shadows, nothing that would remind him of her existence. But that didn’t mean he didn’t think of her—he thought of her every damn day, and each thought only fueled his anger. It made him seethe. She had won the first small battle, but he knew it was only temporary.

The man who had attempted to assault him had not served time in Azkaban. After weeks of deliberation, her relentless pursuit of justice had somehow bested him, reducing his sentence to a mere house arrest and probation. And to add insult to injury, he would be attending therapy sessions with her at St. Mungo’s for the next sixteen months. The irony wasn’t lost on him—her victory was a thorn in his side, but it wasn’t a fatal blow. He would use it against her when the time was right.

For now, though, he steeled himself. Chess, not checkers, he reminded himself. This was a game of strategy and patience, and Granger was just a pawn in his larger plans. Her small victory would one day feed into his ultimate triumph. He would bide his time, watching and waiting, until every move was in place. She was a clever opponent, but he had more experience in playing the long game.

Tom settled into his chair behind his desk, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the wood as his thoughts spun with possibilities. The relief of not needing bodyguards anymore had settled into his bones; the Ministry had quickly realized that he was perfectly capable of defending himself if needed. No more interference from Weasley or the scar-faced idiot—he hadn’t had to see either of them in weeks.

That, at least, was a small blessing.

An owl swooped in and dropped the day’s paper on his desk. Tom stared at the parchment for a moment, his gaze narrowing. He unrolled it, and as he scanned the article, his expression and his cock hardened. Hermione Granger’s face—framed by her signature curls—was prominently featured. She was dressed in a business suit, a bold contrast to the frumpy attire he usually associated with her. Her red lips and pleasant demeanor seemed to mock him from the page. He remembered visiting her in her sleep and watching her play with herself and groaned.

She was attractive—there was no denying it. The thought stirred something dark and unwelcome inside him, something he despised. He hated that he found her appealing, hated the way his mind lingered on the curve of her lips, the fire in her eyes, the way she carried herself with defiant confidence. She was everything he loathed—weak, sentimental, and annoyingly righteous—but her beauty was a cruel contradiction to the hatred he harbored. It gnawed at him, unsettled him.

He’d never admit it, of course, but she had the power to unnerve him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

Feelings.

He would bury them. And her.

Apparently, while he’d been lunching with the Greengrasses, Granger had taken it upon herself to hold a press conference, informing the world that she was leaving the Mind Healer program for a full-time position as a private solicitor. A calculated move. Tom’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening around the edges of the newspaper.

She was always pushing, always making herself known, always refusing to stay in her place.

Beside him, not opposing him!

No, No. Not beside him.

No. She was nothing but a filthy dirty mudblood!

She was no fool. This wasn’t just a career change—this was strategy. She wanted influence. She was embedding herself deeper into the legal and political world, maneuvering into a position of power where she could continue to challenge him. She was attempting to be one step ahead, always making moves in the public eye, drawing attention to herself, forcing her name into conversations that he’d rather see erased entirely.

The tension in his chest coiled tighter. Not only was she an obstacle in the courtroom, but now she was making waves that would ripple through the entire political sphere. It was infuriating. This was no coincidence—she knew exactly what she was doing.

He would have to plan his next move carefully.

Granger was no longer just a problem to be handled. She was becoming something else entirely—a force that refused to be ignored. She was dangerous in ways he had never expected.

And he wanted her.

Badly. Wholly. Fully.

The realization clawed at his insides, twisting into something ugly, something raw. He loathed it. He loathed her. And yet, it only made him want to consume her even more.

His fury erupted before he could restrain it. A roar tore through his throat, reverberating through the walls of his office as the very foundations of the room trembled beneath his rage. Papers flew from his desk, books toppled from their shelves, and a crack splintered through the wood of his chair.

He despised her.

He desired her.

And he would ruin her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend, hold me
Wrap me up, enfold me
I am small and needy
Warm me up and breathe me
Be my friend, hold me
Wrap me up, enfold me
I am small and needy
Warm me up and breathe me

Breathe Me, Sia

PRESENT DAY

TPOV

It was July, and Tom Riddle had officially been alive again for just over three months. In that short time, he had accomplished more than most men could in years.

He sat across from Lucius Malfoy in the dimly lit cell, the chessboard between them illuminated by flickering torchlight. The steady clink of chess pieces echoed in the otherwise silent chamber as they played, discussing ministry affairs in hushed tones—until Lucius, growing impatient, steered the conversation toward something more pressing.

His son.

“He told you he’s proposing?” Lucius asked, his voice measured but laced with an undercurrent of urgency.

Tom rolled his eyes, an uncharacteristically human gesture. “Yes. I’m sure he intends to inform you himself when he visits later this week.”

Lucius leaned forward, his expression sharpening. “Godfather, can we trust that you are able to control this girl?”

Tom moved his knight, his gaze lifting to meet Lucius’s with thinly veiled amusement. “Lucius,” he said slowly, deliberately, “I have never had an issue controlling anyone.”

Satisfied for the moment, Lucius nodded and returned his attention to the board. He made his move before speaking again. “When do you plan on gathering the rogue Death Eaters and revealing your face, Master?”

Tom took his time with his next move, considering both the chessboard and the larger game at hand. A slow, sinister smile curled his lips as he finally answered.

“As soon as my first bill passes.”

Lucius’s fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. “And the Granger girl? Who is backing her financially, and how much influence does she truly have?”

Tom’s amusement flickered into something darker, something laced with quiet menace. He leaned back, watching Lucius with something close to indulgence.

“Lucius, your concern is becoming an irritation,” he murmured, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the board. “We have the Greengrasses, the Zabinis, the sacred twenty-eight…” He paused, then smiled, slow and calculating.

“And I have the Burkes,” he continued smoothly. “And soon… Shacklebolt.”

***

ONE WEEK LATER

Anne sighed, her breath a shallow exhalation of satisfaction and exhaustion, as she sprawled against the tangled sheets of the high-end Diagon Alley hotel bed. Her bare skin, littered with bruises from lips to neck, was evidence of his temperament—his impatience, his need to consume and dominate, to destroy. Yet she smiled at him as if she had been given a gift.

Tom sat up, the muscles in his back flexing as he reached for the cigarette case on the nightstand. The flick of his wrist to light cast brief shadows across the room. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply, and let the smoke unfurl lazily through the dim light. It curled and slithered around him like the ghosts of his past, the specters of his own making.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Women like Anne were always the same—desperate, foolish, willing. He’d used her, and she had enjoyed it, reveled in the pain, the pleasure, the undeniable weight of his presence. He, in turn, had felt nothing.

As soon as the cigarette burned to its end, he flicked it into the glass ashtray beside the bed and swung his legs over the edge, already reaching for his trousers.

"When will I see you again?" Anne's voice was syrupy, still thick with exhaustion and hope.

Tom didn’t pause as he buttoned his shirt, fastening each button with deliberate slowness.

“When I need more information,” he said evenly. Not a lie. Never a lie. He had no use for deception in matters like this. Cruelty? Perhaps. But honesty had its own unique brand of sadism.

She pouted, her fingers tracing absent patterns along her exposed thigh. “You could at least pretend—”

“I do not pretend,” he interrupted sharply, slipping into his coat. “You serve a purpose. That should be enough for you.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing. He had no patience for whatever emotions swirled behind her dark eyes. Love? Infatuation? He had seen it all before, and he would see it all again.

He had no time for it.

The cause came first. The mission. His return. The final rise of Lord Voldemort—but this time, it would be different. No more grandstanding, no more reckless moves. He would control the system from within, like a parasite burrowing so deep that, by the time the host realized, it was already too late.

He had spent years refining his approach, weaving himself into the very fabric of the wizarding world in a way that left no room for suspicion.

This was not the era of mindless worshipers falling at his feet. This was the era of political power, of silent conquest.

And yet.

Hermione Granger.

His fingers twitched slightly at the thought of her, and he forced them to still.

He had chosen to despise her. That was easier than indulging the sick fascination he held for her, the way his mind fixated on her movements, her defiance, her irritatingly sharp mind. Hatred was useful. Hatred was fuel. It kept his thoughts where they needed to be—on tearing her down, on making her feel small, on erasing any power she thought she had over him.

Watching her fury, her frustration, as he dismantled her in court had been… satisfying.

Almost as satisfying as having her.

No.

He shoved the thought aside, the way he had countless times before. There was no use entertaining it. He filled the space she occupied in his mind with simple things—simple bodies, simple women, simple distractions.

Anne was just one of many.

A body to use, a source of information, a means to an end.

Nothing more.

Without another glance, he stepped through the door and into the night, disappearing as if he had never been there at all.

***

Tom stepped through the grand entrance of Malfoy Manor, unbothered by the late hour. The dim candlelight cast flickering shadows across the pristine marble floors, the scent of aged parchment and fresh polish lingering in the air. Draco was already waiting, leaning against one of the ornate pillars, arms crossed, his expression sharp with impatience.

“It’s not like you to be late,” Draco drawled, his silver eyes narrowing as Tom merely shrugged, unhurried, unconcerned.

“My apologies,” Tom said smoothly, his voice devoid of any real remorse. “I had something important to take care of.”

Draco scoffed, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “Cedric, if the old man finds out you’re shagging someone behind his granddaughter’s back, I promise you—you’re a dead man.”

Tom stilled for a moment, then let out a deep, rich laugh that echoed through the vast corridor. It was rare for him to find genuine amusement in anything these days, but the sheer absurdity of Draco’s words struck him in a way he hadn't anticipated. The idea that he, Tom Riddle, could be bound by something as trivial as loyalty to a woman was laughable.

Draco, however, did not share in his amusement. His expression remained impassive, his gaze unreadable as he studied him.

Tom exhaled slowly, the last remnants of laughter fading as he straightened his posture. “Let’s not waste time with nonsense,” he said coolly, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before stepping past Draco. “We have far more pressing matters to discuss.”

Draco let out an exasperated sigh but said nothing as he followed.

Tom sat at the far end of the long, dark oak dining table, his fingers resting lightly on the surface, his mind elsewhere. The lavishly decorated Malfoy dining room felt suffocating, the air thick with the perfume of expensive florals and the hum of polite conversation. The sound of clinking crystal glasses and soft laughter barely registered in his mind—it all felt distant, as if he were watching the scene unfold from some faraway place, detached from the reality of the evening. He glanced briefly at his surroundings: Narcissa, always composed and graceful, her figure draped in silk and velvet, radiating an unspoken, quiet authority; Astoria and Daphne Greengrass, their laughter perfectly synchronized, practiced smiles hiding the venom beneath; their parents, Faelan and Cordelia Greengrass, who wore their wealth like armor and their age as though it were a badge of honor, both of them experts at pretending time hadn’t touched them.

At the opposite end of the table, Damian Greengrass sat with an air of quiet, unyielding authority. Despite his seventy years, the old man looked as though he could easily pass for someone in their fifties. His silver hair, streaked with white, was immaculately groomed, his posture as erect as ever. His gaze, sharp and calculating, swept across the room, observing everyone with the kind of quiet scrutiny that spoke of decades of power and experience. He was the sort of person who only grew stronger with age, his wrinkles carrying the weight of battles fought, both magical and political.

Draco, ever the dutiful son, sat at the head of the table. But Tom could see the tension in his posture—the slight rigidity in his shoulders, the way his hand occasionally clenched around his wine glass. Draco, unlike the others, was uncomfortable with what had been planned for the evening.

Tom knew it. The boy could never understand the bigger picture, the larger goal. Draco was too caught up in his own ego, too desperate to gain favor in the eyes of his father. But Tom knew better. This was about sending a message—a message that would shake the very foundation of the sacred twenty-eight.

Sofia Burke sat across from Daphne, their rivalry simmering beneath the surface, the air thick with unspoken animosity. Tom watched them both, the glances they exchanged sharp as daggers. It amused him, in a way, but he didn’t have time to entertain such trivialities. His mind was already calculating his next move, already working out the strategy he had been building for months.

Power was a game, and he had every intention of winning.

The wine flowed freely, but Tom could barely taste it. His irritation with the evening grew with each passing minute. The pretenses, the forced conversations, the little games they all played—it was all wearing on him. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass as he tried to block out the noise.

Tonight, he needed an escape.

He had been fighting something within himself for too long, something that threatened to consume him, and the last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by people who couldn’t see past their own desires.

Tomorrow would bring more work, more decisions to make, and a meeting he couldn’t afford to miss. But tonight... tonight he needed to find a way to make it through without letting his frustration spill over.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of forced pleasantries, Tom stood. The movement was deliberate, and as he rose, he could feel the eyes of everyone on him.

He clinked his glass, the sound sharp in the thick air, and plastered a smile on his face that was as fake as it was practiced.

“Thank you all for joining us this evening,” he began, his voice calm, smooth. “I know you’re all wondering why it is I’ve gathered you here tonight, and I do hope that you’re enjoying yourselves.”

The table echoed with forced cheers and nods, a chorus of approval that sounded more like polite obligation than genuine enthusiasm. Draco’s expression twisted into something resembling nausea as he stared at Tom, his eyes betraying his discomfort.

But Tom didn’t care.

This was his night, his show, and Draco had no choice but to play along.

Turning away from the table, Tom moved toward Daphne, who was seated across from him. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, her expression cool, but the tension between them was palpable.

He bent down slowly, his movement deliberate, the room falling silent as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small purple ring box. As he opened it, the large oval diamond ring caught the light, glinting in a way that seemed to demand attention from every corner of the room.

“Daphne Greengrass,” Tom said, his voice smooth but cold, “I would like to have the pleasure of making you my wife. Will you marry me?”

The words felt like acid on his tongue, but he forced himself to speak them.

The room fell silent for a moment, all eyes trained on her, waiting for her answer. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and her lips curled into a smile so practiced it could have been painted on.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice tinged with both surprise and delight. “Yes, of course. I will marry you.”

Internally, Tom recoiled. This was necessary, he reminded himself, though the words felt hollow. He had never wanted a wife. Never wanted the chains of marriage, the expectations, the image of it all. But it was the only way. She was a pawn—nothing more than a tool in the grand scheme of things. He was already tired of her, the way she clung to him, the way she tried so desperately to be everything he didn’t want her to be.

He'd already had her, used her, discarded her in his mind. She was nothing more than a shadow of what he really craved. She wasn’t Hermione. And that, above all, was what made her worthless.

It was a damn pity.

The sickening feeling only deepened as Daphne beamed at him, her delight tangible as she accepted the ring. I’m already shagging her, he thought bitterly, staring at the glinting diamond in the ring box, feeling nothing but disgust. She had no idea that this wasn’t about love—wasn’t even about her. She was a tool, a pawn to be played to perfection, molded into a replica of someone else. She was an imitation. And Hermione... she was real. She was everything Daphne could never be.

A forced smile tugged at Tom’s lips as he placed the ring on her finger, his mind already slipping back into the shadows where his true intentions lay. He glanced at Draco, who looked sickened and bewildered, his disappointment obvious.

This is just part of the plan. This has to be done. The thought was cold, methodical, and detached from the gut-wrenching reality that gnawed at him. The more he played this game, the more the distance between him and his newfound humanity grew. And it was necessary.

And that was all that mattered.

Both young men of the Malfoy estate were to be engaged to wealthy pureblood socialites by the end of the summer. Draco’s proposal would be the more elaborate of the two—he had rented out a greenhouse for the occasion, intending to propose in just two short weeks. He had only informed his father of this plan that morning, though Tom, in his role as Cedric, had already learned of it. Through this persona, Tom had become Draco’s closest friend, aside from Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, and, unfortunately, Potter. Thankfully, in recent weeks, Theo and Blaise had been the only ones Tom had been forced to interact with, though both young men had a tendency to irk him. He was counting the days until this charade could end, and he could finally reveal his true self.

In the meantime, however, there was one old man who required his immediate attention—a man who needed to be brought into line, and quickly.

Tom had momentarily paused his research on the clock and, realizing the urgency of the matter, knew that he would require assistance to complete the next crucial step. To cast a very powerful spell, an intricate incantation was necessary—one that demanded specific ingredients and knowledge beyond his current grasp.

And it was Damian Greengrass who could provide that assistance.

So now, Tom paced restlessly in the Malfoy Executive Office, awaiting the arrival of Damian. Draco, of course, believed that Cedric simply needed some quality alone time with the patriarch of the Greengrass family while he entertained the evening's guests. It suited Tom perfectly. It meant he could discuss the matter at hand with Damian in private—without the prying eyes of anyone else in the manor.

As Tom continued to wait, he could feel the tension building, his mind already moving toward the next steps.

Tonight was just another piece of the puzzle.

Damian sat across from Lucius' desk, his gaze sweeping over the familiar surroundings, taking in the polished wood, the high-backed chairs, the portraits of Malfoy ancestors watching silently from their frames. He exhaled slowly, his eyes distant as memories seemed to flicker in his mind. "Abraxas and I used to meet here back in the day," he remarked, his voice low, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Tom. "It's been a long time. Things have changed."

Tom, seated with a relaxed posture, said nothing for a moment, letting the silence hang in the air. Damian’s voice held a mixture of nostalgia and resignation, but Tom was not interested in reminiscing about the past.

His focus was entirely on the present.

Damian leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting from nostalgia to a more pragmatic register. "Son, you've pulled me back in," he continued. "I was letting the new generation handle this puppeteering, but ever since you stepped into the ministry, I've been trying to help you pull those strings. Introducing you to the right people." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Tom. "Caractus and I seem to have stepped in now, since Lucius is no longer available. You two boys really do need guidance. It is a pity you both do not have it."

Tom’s lips twitched ever so slightly, amusement flickering in his cold eyes.

He knew exactly what Damian was implying—that he, like most of the older purebloods, still saw Draco and him as inexperienced, needing the oversight of men like Damian. But that was the thing—Tom didn’t need their guidance.

He was beyond that now.

Damian’s next words came with a subtle air of doubt, as if testing the waters, unsure of how Tom would respond. "Honestly, I’m not too sure about Draco. Where does he stand with what you have planned? Daphne tells me he’s reformed?"

Tom’s eyes darkened, and the slightest of smiles curved his lips. Reformed? The idea was almost laughable. Draco Malfoy reformed, for now maybe? Sofia would make sure he saw the error of his new ways soon enough. But Tom wasn’t about to waste his time explaining Draco's shortcomings to this old man. Instead, he allowed the silence to stretch, making Damian wait for his response.

Finally, after a beat, Tom’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and deliberate. “Draco has always been... malleable,” he said, the words dripping with disdain. “He will do as he's told, just as he always has.”

And then, with a sudden shift in the air, Tom leaned forward, his face growing colder, his posture straighter. His voice dropped lower, more dangerous now. "But you misunderstand, Damian," he said, his eyes glinting with something far darker. "You think you're speaking to Cedric Diggory. But you're not."

In a flash, his eyes—once the calm brown of Cedric—flared a sickly red. The air around them seemed to hum, charged with an unnatural energy. The room grew colder, as if the shadows themselves recoiled from the power that pulsed from Tom's very being.

Damian froze. But before he could speak, before he could even react, Tom's voice rang out, colder than the night itself.

"I am Lord Voldemort," Tom announced, his words smooth, each syllable deliberate. "I never died. I was never defeated." His smile was thin, cruel. "And you, Damian, are just a small part of my plans. The final act is upon us."

The moment the words left Tom’s lips, Damian’s face shifted—his shock turning quickly into reverence. Without hesitation, he bowed deeply, his head low, his body folding in servitude to the one who had once ruled them all.

"Master," Damian said, his voice low, but filled with unwavering loyalty. "I have served you, and I will serve you again, as I always have."

Tom watched him, his eyes flashing red again for just a moment. There was no need for Damian to beg or plead. The loyalty was implicit. This was what Tom had always wanted—to command, to instill fear, to know that even in his absence, those who served him would obey without question.

Tom leaned back in his chair, satisfaction washing over him. Damian's quick submission was just the beginning of what he intended to reclaim.

“You may rise,” Tom said, his voice carrying a chilling authority. “And remember this, Damian—none of this would be possible without the loyalty of men like you. But loyalty has a price.” His eyes glinted with a dark promise. "And it will be paid, in full."

Damian stood, his head still bowed, never once meeting Tom's eyes. But he knew. They all would know very soon. The Dark Lord was back.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

An unbreakable vow was made—one that would bind Damian to silence. He would never reveal Tom's true identity to anyone, least of all to his own family. The vow was not negotiable, and there would be consequences if broken. The Dark Lord had made sure of that. Damian had sworn his loyalty once more, and this time, there would be no turning back.

Before leaving, Damian had pleaded with Tom to spare Daphne. "Please, Master," he had begged, his voice shaky, the weight of desperation clear in his tone. "Do not torment her. Do not turn her into… into something like Bellatrix. She does not deserve that."

Tom had regarded him with cold detachment, his eyes reflecting nothing but the deep abyss of his power. He gave a faint smile, though it was devoid of warmth. "I'll try my best, Damian. But remember, nothing is ever certain in this world." His tone was sharp, final. The warning was implicit—Daphne's fate would not be in his hands to control entirely, and that was as much as she could expect.

Once Damian was dismissed, with a stack of papers containing all the research Tom had painstakingly acquired for his clock and the singular mission to assist him in its completion, Tom watched the old man leave with quiet amusement. He had no true attachment to the man—Damian was useful, for now—but not a soul would stop him from achieving his goals, no matter the cost.

With a slight movement of his hand, Tom gestured for the door to be opened, signaling that Damian was free to go. When the door clicked shut behind him, Tom stood, stretching his long limbs as if he were shaking off the remnants of the previous conversation. He then turned, striding down the long hallways of Malfoy Manor, the weight of the evening pressing on him.

His thoughts drifted back to the charade he had been playing for months now. The engagement, the pretense, the smiles and laughter—it had all been a necessary evil. He’d walked through it all with calculated precision. Now, with Damian’s vow secured, he was closer to his ultimate goal. The clock, the power, the future—everything was falling into place.

As he descended the staircase, the faint murmur of his guests reached his ears. The night had dragged on long enough. He entered the dining room, bidding farewell to those who had gathered there. His expression was hard, but polite as he offered a nod to Draco, who looked like he was still trying to make sense of the events unfolding before him.

The others—all the faces of the well-connected pureblood elite—gave their polite farewells. When his gaze settled on Daphne, a slight tension coiled in his chest. She was smiling, radiant, as always. But beneath that veneer, he could see the subtle cracks of doubt beginning to form.

She approached him as he made his way toward the door, her voice soft, almost pleading. "You don't want me to spend the night?" she whispered, her words barely audible over the hum of the conversation around them.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, locking onto hers with a cold, unfeeling stare. He did not answer her right away, allowing the silence to stretch between them, thick and heavy. His gaze hardened, and Daphne visibly recoiled, realizing her mistake.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but the words died before they reached her lips. Tom didn’t wait for her to speak again. His gaze never wavered from her, his silence enough of an answer.

"No," he said finally, his voice low and final. “I don’t.”

Daphne, her face flushed with embarrassment, nodded quickly and stepped back, clearly unsettled by the coldness in his tone. She didn’t ask again. Her role in his plans was already cemented.

With that, Tom turned sharply on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving behind the laughter, the warmth, and the superficial connections of the evening.

The mansion felt emptier now, the walls echoing only the faint whisper of his footsteps as he made his way to his own private study. The night was far from over, and Tom had only one thing left that he needed to do before dawn.

Fucking feelings.

***

Tom stood in front of the door, his fingers twitching involuntarily as they brushed through his hair. He took a steadying breath, but even with all his experience in control, the action betrayed a sliver of unease he hadn’t expected. It was the first time in a long while he’d felt anything that might be described as uncertainty.

Sickening.

He was starting to feel diseased.

With resolve, he knocked three times, each tap sharp and deliberate, before stepping back, allowing a moment of silence to fill the air. He waited, his mind a blur of sharp calculations and dispassionate plans.

The door creaked softly as it swung open.

The sight before him caught him momentarily off guard.

Hermione Granger, standing there in a scene that could only be described as utter disarray, was holding a spoon submerged in a tub of ice cream with one hand, her other grasping the doorframe. Her oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts hung loosely from her frame, a stark contrast to the polished persona he was used to seeing in public. Her fuzzy slippers looked ridiculous, and her hair was in a tangled mess, completely at odds with the usually impeccable image she tried to project. Dark circles lined her eyes, the remnants of sleepless nights evident in her expression.

"Did you forget to use the Floo, Ron!?" she snapped, her voice sharp, the irritation clear in her tone. She didn’t even seem to register his presence at first, still caught up in whatever she had been doing before he knocked. But when her eyes finally met his, the shift in her expression was instantaneous. Her mouth dropped open, her confusion turning into disbelief as she finally recognized him.

The journal she had been clutching between her teeth slipped from her grasp and landed with a soft thud in his outstretched hand. He caught it with ease, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn’t move to speak immediately, though, allowing the silence to stretch between them, watching her reaction with a growing sense of amusement.

Hermione blinked, her eyes widening as understanding hit her. For a moment, she didn’t seem able to form words, her lips parting and closing without sound. She took a step back, clearly trying to process what she was seeing, her body stiff with the tension of someone not knowing what to do with an unexpected visitor.

“Cedric?” she whispered, her voice shaky, and for a brief moment, he wondered if she was going to try and back away further.

“Hermione,” he said her name, his voice quiet, but the words held weight. That simple utterance seemed to rattle her further. She didn’t expect him to say her name like that—not so casually, not with such... familiarity. He could see the change in her posture, how her breath caught for a moment before she gestured him to come inside.

Without hesitation, he stepped over the threshold, following her into the dimly lit space. She quickly set the ice cream aside, and he caught sight of the journal she had let slip from her grasp. She hurriedly placed it in a drawer, as though trying to hide something she didn’t want him to see.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, trying to restore some semblance of composure, but the effort was almost futile. He could see the way she leaned against the counter, trying to appear casual, but the tension in her shoulders gave her away. She was thrown off-balance by his sudden appearance, and that amused him more than it should have.

He closed the door behind him silently, letting the moment hang between them. He stood there, arms crossed, mirroring her posture as they both looked at each other in the dim light of the small kitchen. The low hum of the television was the only sound that filled the space between them, a mundane background noise to the real game unfolding before them.

What exactly he was doing there, he wasn’t sure. What game they were playing was still unclear to him. He didn’t have answers for any of that, but he wasn’t about to stop now.

“What are you watching?” he asked, breaking the silence. His voice was casual, but there was something more beneath it—an undercurrent of curiosity, perhaps, but mostly a testing of the waters. He wasn’t really interested in the television. Not really. But it was a way to anchor the conversation, to pull her back into the normalcy of this situation, even though it was anything but.

Still clearly shocked, Hermione glanced toward the television, then back at him, her expression still one of disbelief as if struggling to make sense of the fact that he was standing in front of her. The air between them was thick with tension, yet somehow it felt... different, softer. She swallowed before speaking, her voice a little steadier now. "It's a movie Harry and Ginny recommended. It's called 10 Things I Hate About You."

Tom let out a quiet chuckle, though the sound was hollow, a dry exhale more than genuine amusement. "How very fitting," he said, almost to himself, his voice laced with a touch of bitterness. Hate. He knew that feeling all too well. But this... this was different. She was different.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the subtle challenge in his tone, her gaze sharp and curious. Before he could respond further, she reached for the remote, her movements casual, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. "I just started it," she said, her voice lighter now, almost inviting. "You want me to rewind it and we can watch it together?"

Tom paused, the question hanging in the air. He knew he should’ve said no. He was here for a reason, and it certainly wasn’t to indulge in some silly muggle romance movie. He was supposed to be calculating, manipulating, controlling the situation. He was Lord Voldemort, after all—never one to be distracted by trivialities.

And yet, as his mind raced, he couldn’t quite explain why he’d shown up at her door in the first place. What was the point of this? Why had he come here? He didn’t need her, didn’t need to spend time with her like this. She was nothing.

Nobody. And yet…

She was… Hermione.

But then there was that other part of him—the part that hated the fact that he was sitting here, in her messy, cozy little flat, watching her in that absurdly casual state, the part of him that hated that it was all so easy to be in her presence. She was making him feel something he refused to acknowledge, something human, and that made his skin crawl.

Still, the words slipped out before he could stop them. "Sure, yes."

They sat on opposite ends of her couch, the distance between them palpable, but Tom couldn’t help but glance over at her from time to time. She was curled up in a blanket, her posture relaxed, the soft fabric pooling around her like a cocoon.

His eyes flickered to her—then away, quickly, as though ashamed of his own lingering gaze.

He hadn't realized how much he had missed these moments. The way she would share that blanket with him when they’d watch movies together, how close they’d sit, even if it was for the sake of comfort.

That was before everything had changed. Before the walls had gone up between them, before the masks they wore had become permanent. Now, there was nothing familiar about her warmth.

This was awkward.

And the Dark Lord did not do awkward.

Tom’s mind was far from the movie on the screen. The sounds of the characters’ interactions faded into a dull hum, replaced by the thudding of his own thoughts. He didn’t understand why this situation felt so strange. Everything about it screamed out of place, like something was wrong.

He had been in countless situations that demanded power, precision, and control, but none of them had ever made him feel like this—like there was something unexplainable tugging at him. Like something small, inconvenient, and human had crept into his carefully orchestrated world.

His fingers tightened briefly around the edge of the couch, and he ran a hand through his hair in an attempt to shake off the disorienting sensation. But it didn’t help. He was still here, still sitting across from her in her dimly lit living room, caught in the midst of something he couldn’t define.

And then, as if on cue, Hermione stirred from her position, her blanket rustling as she stood.

"Do you want popcorn?" she asked, her voice light, casual. So... easy. She didn’t seem to sense the weight of everything that had passed between them, everything that had changed. For her, it was just a simple offer.

Tom barely registered the words before he nodded, his answer automatic. "Yes."

His voice was flat, almost cold, as if it were beneath him to invest in something so trivial as popcorn. But there it was—another piece of the puzzle he couldn’t quite put together. Why had he agreed to this?

Why had he stayed? There were hundreds of reasons to leave—yet he didn’t.

He stood, slow and deliberate, making his way toward her as she busied herself with the microwave. Her movements were fluid, almost serene, but something about it unsettled him, the ease with which she navigated her space, the unaffected nature with which she lived her life, in contrast to everything he had become.

As he reached her, their faces were mere inches apart, and a deep, almost primal urge surged within him. He breathed in her scent—lavender and parchment, the scent that seemed to cling to her, the scent that no longer felt comforting but strangely overwhelming. It was so familiar and yet so foreign now, a reminder of a time he would never return to.

"You were writing in that journal you hid away from me?" he asked, the question almost a challenge, his eyes locked on hers, searching for something he wasn’t sure of.

Her gaze flickered, a brief hesitation before she responded, but her body didn’t move away. Instead, she stood still, staring back at him, as if she were daring him to push further. Her lips parted, but her words didn’t come.

Something inside him snapped. It wasn’t just a physical urge, it was more—an urge to bridge the distance, to claim something he never thought he'd want.

He didn’t wait for her response, didn’t wait for any words. The question had ceased to matter.

He closed the space between them slowly, deliberately. His fingers brushed the side of her arm—light, hesitant, almost as if he were testing the waters. She didn’t pull away. That small movement ignited something darker inside him. Something raw.

Something that demanded to be felt, and soon.

Tom's hand reached the back of her neck, and as his fingers tangled in her hair, the shock of the touch jolted through him. Her eyes were wide, but her lips were still parted, inviting, and for a brief moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

The moment stretched, and in it, Tom felt everything shift.

He wasn’t the Dark Lord in this moment. He was just... a man. An uncertain man, trying to make sense of a feeling that had never once crossed his mind. It was foreign—utterly foreign. But it was real.

Before he could pull away, before he could stop himself, his lips descended on hers. He didn’t force it.

No, the kiss was slow at first, tentative. He didn’t know what he was doing—how to kiss her, what to feel—but the moment she responded, he couldn’t hold back. The tentative press of his lips against hers became more insistent, more urgent.

Her lips were warm, soft, the exact opposite of the cold, controlled walls he’d built around himself for so long. He had forgotten what warmth was, or perhaps he had never truly known. His pulse quickened, something inside him that had been dormant for years began to stir. His grip on her tightened, but not in a way that demanded dominance—no, this felt... different. Almost vulnerable.

His mind raced, fighting the urge to pull away, to retain control. But something about the feel of her—the way her hands reached up to meet his chest, the way her fingers slid against the fabric of his shirt—told him that control was slipping. And for the first time in years, he didn't care. The coldness, the walls he had so carefully constructed over decades, were breaking apart.

Piece by piece.

Her lips moved with his, unsure at first but then with a sense of growing confidence, as if she had been waiting for this moment, for him to make the first move. She was responding—no, she was engaging with him, with him, in a way that made him feel... alive, and it was both terrifying and exhilarating.

His breath hitched, and his cock twitched and for a fleeting moment, he almost pulled away. But her hand slid behind his neck, pulling him back into the kiss. The motion was simple, yet it shattered the last of his restraint. He kissed her with a deeper need now, a need he didn’t fully understand but couldn’t deny.

Everything inside him screamed for control, for distance, for the coldness he had always known. But everything inside him also screamed to pull her closer, to drown himself in this feeling, to make it last.

His hands moved to her waist instinctively, pulling her closer, as though the distance between them had become unbearable. The sensation of her body against his—a stark contrast to the cold, calculated existence he had lived—sent a shock through him, a rawness that made his pulse race. He didn’t want to feel this way, didn’t want to lose control, but there was no stopping it.

She kissed him back, her fingers tangling in his shirt, matching his hunger, and for a moment, Tom felt as though he could lose himself in the kiss—lose himself in the warmth, in the vulnerability, in her.

The walls he’d built over the years had crumbled, and a part of him resented it. But another part, the part he hated, wanted to keep going, to explore this, to understand it.

But then it hit him.

What in the bloody hell was he doing?

He pulled back abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath came in shallow gasps as he stared at her, the shock on her face mirrored by the storm brewing inside him.

His hands were still on her waist, and he could feel her warmth seeping into his skin, but it made him feel... sick.

No.

He had lost control. He, Lord Voldemort, had lost control.

Anger flared in him—rage that he had allowed himself to feel anything but cold indifference. This was weakness. He couldn’t afford weakness.

The power he had worked so hard to maintain, to cultivate, was slipping through his fingers.

And it was because of her.

His eyes narrowed, a scowl darkening his features. He had to get out of there.

Now.

He stepped back from her, the space between them feeling like an abyss. Hermione was still staring at him, her face a mixture of shock and something else he couldn’t place—hurt? Disappointment?

He didn’t care.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice cold, almost venomous. The words were as much for himself as they were for her, an attempt to justify what he couldn’t make sense of.

Before she could respond, before she could even begin to process what had just unfolded between them, he turned sharply on his heel. His pulse still raced, his anger boiling under the surface as he moved toward the door.

Hermione stood frozen, her gaze following him, but he didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

Without another word, he raised his wand. In a swirl of smoke, the familiar sensation of Disapparition took over, and the room seemed to stretch before snapping back to normal as he vanished from her flat.

The silence that followed was deafening, and for a moment, he could have sworn he heard the sound of her heart breaking.

But he was already gone.

Chapter Text

I can fake a smile
I can force a laugh
I can dance and play the part
If that's what you ask
Give you all I am

I can do it
I can do it
I can do it

But I'm only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I'm only human
And I crash and I break down
Your words in my head, knives in my heart
You build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human

I can turn it on

Human, Cristina Perri

HPOV

Merlin.

Sleep had been impossible. All she had done was cry.

All night.

She had tried to rewatch the movie—tried to distract herself—but somewhere around the part where Kat Stratford realized she was falling for Patrick Verona, Hermione had snapped. She had called the man on the screen a liar, thrown her half-melted ice cream at the television, and immediately regretted it because now she had to clean sticky chocolate off her floor.

She had screamed.

Cursed.

Cried.

She cried on her couch.

In her shower.

On the floor.

In her bed.

She cried until her throat was raw, until she felt like there wasn’t a single ounce of water left in her body.

She cried louder than her moaning neighbors.

She was hysterical.

Because how could he do this to her?

How could Cedric—Cedric—just show up after all this time? After being supposedly dead (granted that had not been his fault)? Had he literally crawled out of a god damn hole just to torture her?

How could he come back and act as if no time had passed, as if they weren’t standing on opposite sides of something she didn’t even have the words for? As if they hadn’t both changed in ways neither of them fully understood?

How could he sit beside her on her couch, pretend like they were just old friends reconnecting, like he hadn’t sent her entire world spinning off its axis?

And how—how—could he kiss her like that?

It hadn’t been careful. It hadn’t been sweet. It hadn’t been Cedric.

It had been something else. Something desperate. Something she hadn’t expected.

Something that had made her heart stop.

And then—just as quickly as it happened—he had ripped himself away from her like she was something dangerous, like he had made a mistake, and before she could even form a coherent thought—

He was gone.

Vanished.

Disapparated right out of her flat, leaving her standing there, heart racing, lips still tingling from the force of something she didn’t understand.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do now.

Because no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, no matter how much she wanted to pretend she hadn’t completely lost control of herself—

She had kissed him back.

And worse?

She had wanted to.

"Geez, Hermione. You look like absolute hell," Edward observed, not unkindly, as she dragged herself into her private office.

The space was a testament to refined taste—Edward had an eye for aesthetics. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in natural light, offering a breathtaking view of the River Thames. Everything about the building was prestigious, from the polished marble floors to the enchanted security wards woven so tightly into its foundation that even the most cunning intruder wouldn’t dream of slipping past them. If you weren’t a staff member or on the pre-approved list, you might as well have been trying to break into Gringotts.

It was impressive. Overwhelmingly so, when she’d first started. Now, it was simply where she came every day to drown herself in work.

Edward leaned casually against the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning her with something between concern and amusement. "Rough night?"

Hermione sighed, dropping heavily into the leather chair behind her desk, rubbing her temples as a dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. "I didn’t sleep much," she admitted, her voice hoarse from exhaustion.

Edward hummed knowingly, stepping further inside and shutting the door behind him. "That much is obvious. What kept you up? Nightmares? Stress? Or did you finally get so fed up with our esteemed clients that you decided to hex your ceiling until dawn?"

She huffed a laugh, but it held no real amusement. If only it had been something so trivial. If only she could blame work, or stress, or even an overactive mind. But no—what had kept her up, what had unraveled her completely, had been him.

Cedric.

The kiss.

The way he’d looked at her before it happened. The way he touched her like he had no control. The way he vanished, leaving her standing there, stunned, like some love-struck idiot.

Merlin.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "It’s nothing," she said, reaching for a stack of files. "Just a long night."

Edward didn’t look convinced. "Right." He took a seat across from her, crossing one ankle over his knee. "Well, whatever it was, you should at least try to look human before our first client arrives."

Hermione groaned, pressing her palms against her eyes. This was going to be a very, very long day.

Between the bill they had passed in direct opposition to Cedric Diggory and the constant influx of high-profile cases, Hermione barely had a moment to breathe. Though she handled estate and family law, her firm would see its fair share of criminal defense cases as well—clients like Mr. Taylor, whose trial she had recently concluded. It had been a stark reminder of the complexity of wizarding law and how quickly reputations could be destroyed.

She and Edward had been interviewing for another attorney to help manage the workload, but they hadn’t had much luck. Perhaps it was the weight of her name that had garnered them so much attention—more than she’d anticipated, really. They had only just opened, yet the demand for her legal expertise had been overwhelming. She was also still working part-time at St. Mungo's, at least for another few weeks.

She did after all have to provide proper notice.

And no one knew about Edward’s involvement.

That was necessary.

He was a silent partner, officially nothing more than a consultant and CFO. If word got out that he was involved—if people connected his last name to the firm—it would change everything. His family was on the other side of the fence, and he had to remain a shadow in her professional world.

Through him and the media, she had learned that his sister, Sofia, was dating Draco Malfoy. That had been… interesting. Hermione didn’t quite know what to make of it. She supposed it made sense—Draco had changed over the year. But how much?

And where did Sofia stand in all of this? Was she truly neutral, or simply tolerating Draco’s so-called shift in values?

And then there was DesiAnn.

Hermione sighed, thinking about the girl. Had she been heartbroken to learn about Draco and Sofia? The newspapers had certainly been obsessed with them, chronicling every social event they attended together. Hermione wondered if DesiAnn regretted anything—if she had ever thought Draco might choose her instead.

The papers were equally relentless about Harry and Ginny’s wedding. Their nuptials were set for the end of the summer, and the speculation about the guest list, the ceremony, and Ginny’s dress had reached an unbearable peak. But at least the coverage had shifted—Harry was no longer being touted as an eligible bachelor, unlike Cedric, Draco, and Ron.

Cedric.

He was at the forefront of it all.

He had not been linked to anyone. No socialites, no fleeting romances. He remained the most eligible bachelor in the wizarding world, a mystery to witches who were desperate to solve him.

And to her.

Merlin, he was insufferable.

Deplorable.

The bastard had been publicly opposing her, trying to dismantle everything she stood for, and yet, after weeks of avoidance, he had the audacity to show up at her loft.

To sit on her couch.

To watch a movie with her.

And then.

Then he kissed her.

Her grip tightened around her quill, her heart pounding in frustration.

What was she supposed to do with that?

What was she supposed to do about him?

And Ron.

Did she have to tell him about this?

The thought sent an uneasy twist through her stomach. She had always been honest with Ron—or at least, she had tried to be.

But this? How could she possibly explain this?

No.

She wasn’t ready to deal with that conversation.

She had too much to do.

Too many battles to fight.

And she would not let him—whoever the hell he thought he was—derail her.

Not again.

She had spent the morning meeting with clients, meticulously taking notes and compiling her research. Her quill scratched steadily against parchment, her mind absorbed in legal intricacies—anything to distract herself from the chaos still swirling inside her.

She was flipping through a thick volume on magical property disputes when Edward strode into her office without so much as a knock.

Without looking up, she exhaled sharply. “Haven’t we heard of knocking?”

He merely shrugged, settling into the chair across from her and crossing his arms. He didn’t speak at first, just watched her with an unreadable expression. Hermione continued to scribble, determined to ignore his presence, but after a moment, his voice broke through the quiet.

“Listen, Hermione…” He paused, rolling a stress ball between his fingers, the repetitive motion almost hypnotic. “I don’t know you too well yet, and I didn’t want to pry this morning, but I saw your eyes.” His gaze sharpened. “All puffy. I know you spent the night crying.”

Her quill hesitated on the parchment, but she quickly resumed writing, unwilling to acknowledge the truth in his words.

Edward leaned forward slightly. “Look, if you’re not happy in a situation—” He cut himself off, gripping the stress ball tighter before tossing it in the air and catching it effortlessly. “Or in a relationship,” he continued, more pointedly this time. “Cut ties.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

He let out a slow breath, his expression momentarily distant. “I cut off my entire family, pretty much. Except for my sister, here and there. Though that’s a secret now, between you and me, since our grandfather has no idea. But I walked away from it all—went off on my own for a long time, lived in the Muggle world.” He rolled the stress ball between his palms, his voice even. “Don’t hold onto things just because they’re familiar.”

Hermione felt her stomach twist.

She wasn’t sure if she should be offended by his audacity or admire his blatant honesty. Edward hadn’t even met Ron. He didn’t know anything about their history. And yet, he had taken one look at her and assumed he understood something fundamental about her life.

The worst part was…

He wasn’t wrong.

Her fingers tightened around her quill. “I don’t—” she started, but then stopped herself.

Because what was she going to say?

That she wasn’t holding onto things out of familiarity? That she wasn’t tangled in a web of past and present, of expectation and duty and feelings she couldn’t quite define?

She couldn’t say that.

Because she wasn’t sure it would be the truth.

So instead, she simply lifted her chin and gave Edward a pointed look. “You’re rather bold for someone who’s only worked with me for a handful of weeks.”

He smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

Her lips twitched—almost a smile, but not quite.

Edward stood, tossing the stress ball onto her desk. “Just think about it.”

And then he walked out, leaving Hermione staring at the parchment in front of her, unable to concentrate on a single word.

***

Hours later, just as she was about to wrap up for the evening, Edward rushed into her office, the door slamming against the wall in his urgency.

Hermione barely had time to raise an eyebrow and lift her hand, about to make yet another joke about his aversion to knocking—until she saw his face.

Grief-stricken.

Pained.

Something was terribly wrong.

She immediately straightened, every nerve in her body on high alert. “What’s wrong?”

Edward shook his head vehemently, his breath uneven, as if he had run all the way from wherever he had just been. “You need to get to St. Mungo’s. Right now.”

Her heart lurched.

“Why!?” she demanded, already reaching for her wand, panic beginning to claw its way into her chest.

“Hermione, just go!” His voice was sharp, urgent—desperate.

That was all she needed.

Without another word, she grabbed her purse, her hands trembling as she threw a protective enchantment over her desk with a flick of her wand. Then she was gone, sprinting out of her office, her heels clicking against the marble floor of the lobby.

The fireplace was just ahead, its emerald flames crackling in the dimming evening light. She nearly stumbled in her haste, stepping into the Floo and calling out, “St. Mungo’s, private arrival!”

The world spun violently, green fire licking at her skin as she shot through the magical network, her stomach twisting. And then—

She landed.

Right in front of the hospital.

She barely registered the startled looks of the visitors and mediwitches nearby as she tore through the entrance, her heart slamming against her ribcage.

“Floor five, room two-three-three!” someone shouted behind her.

She didn’t stop to see who had called out.

She ran.

Her breath was ragged as she dashed through the corridors, dodging mediwitches and levitating carts, the sterile scent of antiseptics filling her lungs.

Her mind raced, a thousand possibilities striking like lightning across her thoughts.

Who?

What had happened?

And why did she already have a sinking feeling that this was about him?

She reached the lift and jabbed the button impatiently, her pulse pounding in her ears. The doors took too long to open, and when they finally did, she stepped inside and slammed her hand against the fifth-floor button.

Seconds felt like hours.

And then—

The doors slid open with a ding.

Hermione took off, sprinting down the hall toward room 233, not knowing what awaited her on the other side.

But dreading it all the same.

***

Blood.

It was everywhere.

It pooled on the tiled floor, soaked through the pristine white sheets, splattered across the walls like some grotesque painting. The air was thick with the scent of iron, warm and suffocating, clinging to Hermione’s skin, making her stomach churn.

A wet, gurgling sound came from the figure on the operating table. A ragged breath that barely made it out, like lungs drowning in their own fluid.

Hermione had seen wounds before. She had seen death before.

But never like this.

Never this much blood.

Three healers worked frantically, their hands coated in crimson, robes smeared with it. One was pressing a glowing wand to the woman’s abdomen, muttering incantations at breakneck speed, sweat dripping from his brow. Another poured a thick, shimmering potion over a gaping wound on her thigh, the liquid sizzling on contact with her torn flesh.

The third was performing compressions over her heart.

Again and again.

A desperate fight to keep it beating.

The woman convulsed suddenly, body jerking so violently that the healer had to grip her shoulders to keep her still.

Hermione gasped, taking an involuntary step back.

She didn’t recognize her.

Or—she almost did. Something about her felt familiar, like a name just on the tip of her tongue but never spoken aloud. Olive-toned skin, now sickly pale, long black hair matted with blood and sweat, her face twisted in agony.

Then she heard it—

The sound of someone weeping.

It was coming from the corner of the room.

Low, broken, like a man being shattered from the inside out.

Her gaze snapped toward the sound, and her heart stilled.

Kingsley Shacklebolt.

He was sitting against the wall, his broad shoulders shaking violently, hands gripping his head as if he were trying to keep himself from falling apart entirely.

She had never seen him like this.

Never.

Kingsley was the strongest man she knew. Unshakable. Steadfast.

But here he was, crumbling.

Ron and DesiAnn stood over him. Ron’s hands were firm on his shoulders, as if holding him upright, his face pale and grim. DesiAnn’s lips were pressed tightly together, her own eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Hermione’s breath quickened.

The realization crept up her spine like ice.

Something terrible had happened.

Something personal.

The woman—

Who was the woman?

She was seconds away from stepping forward when a hand clamped around her arm.

“Hermione,” a sharp voice whispered harshly.

Rosenberg.

She appeared out of nowhere, blocking Hermione’s path, her face unreadable but her grip unrelenting.

“What are you doing here?” Rosenberg’s voice was low, urgent.

Hermione blinked at her, still reeling from the sight before her. “I—" she swallowed, voice shaky. "Who is that?”

Rosenberg stiffened.

She hesitated.

That hesitation made Hermione's stomach drop.

“Not here.” Rosenberg’s voice was firm, her fingers digging into Hermione’s arm as she started pushing her backward, toward the door.

“But—”

“Not here,” she repeated, more forcefully.

The last thing Hermione saw before the door shut was Kingsley, still sobbing, and the blood dripping from the edge of the hospital bed, staining the floor in thick, red streaks.

The door clicked shut.

The silence in the hallway was deafening.

Hermione spun to face Rosenberg. "Tell me what’s going on," she demanded, her voice sharp, breath uneven.

Rosenberg exhaled, running a hand over her face.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“It’s Kingsley’s wife.”

Hermione felt the words before she truly heard them.

They landed like a blow to the chest, knocking the air from her lungs.

Kingsley’s wife.

The woman bleeding out in that room—she wasn’t just another victim.

She was his!

A part of him. A part of his life.

And now, she was slipping away.

Hermione’s vision blurred as she turned toward the door again, her mind racing.

Would she even make it?

Hermione’s breath hitched.

The walls of St. Mungo’s felt like they were closing in, the sterile air thick with the metallic scent of blood, the muffled cries of Kingsley mixing with the frantic shuffling of the healers inside the room.

Her heart pounded wildly against her ribs as she turned back to Rosenberg, eyes burning.

“What happened?” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper.

What kind of monster had done this?

Rosenberg held her gaze, her expression grim, unreadable. “She was attacked.”

Hermione clenched her fists. Rage flared through her like fire licking at dry parchment.

Attacked.

Someone had done this on purpose.

Someone had left Kingsley’s wife bleeding out on that hospital bed, had torn apart a family without mercy.

Her nails dug into her palms. “We must find the vile creature that did this to her!”

But Rosenberg only shook her head.

Not in disagreement.

Something worse.

A silent warning.

A knowing.

She looked away for the briefest moment, then back up at Hermione, her voice lowering to a grave whisper. “That’s the thing, Hermione. We already know who did it.”

Hermione felt her blood run cold.

She blinked at her, trying to process the words, trying to make sense of the horror unraveling before her.

“Then tell the Aurors,” she demanded, stepping closer, as if sheer proximity would force logic into the situation. “Tell Harry and his team to go find them!”

A deep sigh.

A sigh of patience.

A sigh of something Hermione couldn’t yet decipher.

“They’ve already captured him,” Rosenberg said.

Hermione stilled.

Her breath caught in her throat, her mind whirling.

Rosenberg’s gaze sharpened. “He’s here.”

Hermione’s body went rigid.

“What?”

“They captured him earlier. He’s being held in the cell area.”

The hospital felt unnaturally quiet.

The kind of silence that came before a storm.

It was deafening.

“That’s why I owled your office,” Rosenberg continued, voice steady, unwavering. “To go see him.”

Hermione shook her head, not understanding, not wanting to understand.

None of this made sense.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she asked, “Who?”

The question hung in the air like a noose waiting to tighten.

Rosenberg’s expression darkened.

A shadow of something unreadable crossed her features before she finally answered.

And when she did—

The world shifted.

The floor might as well have disappeared beneath Hermione’s feet.

Because the name that left Rosenberg’s lips was one she never could have expected.

One she never would have believed.

Not in a thousand years.

***

The room was small, dimly lit, sterile. The air was thick with the scent of stale sweat and something coppery—blood, perhaps, or the residue of past violence.

The only sound was the slow, labored breathing of the man chained to the chair in the center of the room.

He sat slumped forward, his head hanging as if it were too heavy for his neck to support. The harsh light above cast deep shadows over his gaunt face, accentuating the hollows beneath his eyes. His skin, once ruddy and full of life, was now pale and sallow, stretched too thin over sharp cheekbones. His eyes, sunken deep into his skull, were rimmed with bruised darkness, the kind born from sleepless nights and restless guilt.

Or perhaps it wasn’t guilt at all—perhaps it was something fouler.

His once neatly combed hair was a tangled mess of graying strands, slick with sweat, clinging to his forehead. His lips were cracked, dry, a stark contrast to the dried blood at the corner of his mouth. His wrists, shackled to the chair, bore deep red welts where the metal had bitten into his skin from struggling—because of course he had struggled. His robes, once fine and well-tailored, hung in tattered disarray, stained with grime and something darker, something more insidious.

Hermione could hear the slow drip of water somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of magic vibrating through the walls. The weight of the two-way mirror loomed at her back, its presence a stark reminder of all those months ago—of another prisoner who had once sat in this very room.

Her stomach twisted.

She had seen this room before. She had stood on the other side of this very glass, watching as Cedric Diggory sat there, haunted, broken, as he awaited judgment.

And now—

She took a slow, shaky step forward, her breath shallow, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

She knew this man.

A sickening feeling crawled up her spine, the kind of recognition that sent bile rising in her throat.

No.

Not him.

It couldn’t be.

The chains rattled as the man stirred, his head lifting just enough for her to catch a clearer glimpse of his face, and the floor beneath her might as well have disappeared.

Every muscle in her body locked in place, her pulse thundering against her ribs.

Her mouth went dry.

Because she knew those features, even beneath the haggard ruin of his face.

She had sat beside this man in a courtroom. She had spoken on his behalf. She had fought for his freedom.

And she had won.

The name formed in her mind before her lips could even move.

Mr. Taylor.

The very same man she had defended.

The very same man she had kept free from Azkaban.

The very same man who had tried to assault Cedric Diggory.

Her stomach turned violently.

She had fought for this man. She had saved him.

And now—

Now he was here.

Chained.

Beaten.

And somehow, despite all of it, she knew—he deserved far worse.

Ron appeared a few minutes later as she stood on the other side of the two-way mirror, watching Mr. Taylor. Her stomach churned as she studied the haggard, sunken-eyed man shackled to the chair. A shell of what he had been in her courtroom, yet somehow now monstrous.

Had she done this?

Had she condemned an innocent woman to death by keeping this man free?

The weight of her choices pressed down on her, suffocating.

"Mione."

Ron’s voice was softer than usual, careful, as though he knew she was teetering on the edge of something she couldn’t name. Hermione turned, her eyes glassy as she met his gaze. He walked into the private room, his expression twisting with revulsion when he glanced at the prisoner, but when he looked back at her, there was nothing but concern.

She didn’t think. She just moved.

A sob wrenched from her throat as she threw herself into his arms. He caught her easily, holding her tight, a steady presence against the storm raging inside her.

"Oh, Ron," she choked, gripping the back of his robes. "This is just horrible."

His hand came up to the back of her head, smoothing over her curls. "It is." A pause, then, quieter—almost like he didn't want to say it aloud. "She’s dead, Mione."

Hermione stiffened.

Her breath stilled in her lungs, her body frozen against his.

Dead.

Her arms loosened, and she pulled back just enough to look at him. “No.” The word slipped from her lips before she even thought about it. "No. She was alive when I saw her. She—she was fighting, Rosenberg and the healers were—"

Ron swallowed, his face grim. “She passed a few minutes ago.”

The world around her wobbled.

The dull hum of the hospital, the shifting of aurors outside, even the quiet rasp of Mr. Taylor’s breathing behind the glass—all of it faded into a horrible, ringing silence.

Her hands trembled as she let go of Ron completely. She turned back to the mirror, staring blankly at the man who had destroyed Kingsley Shacklebolt’s world, who had ripped a woman from her life in a way so brutal, so senseless, that Hermione couldn’t even begin to comprehend it.

Her stomach lurched.

She barely made it to the waste bin before she retched.

"Why am I here!?" Hermione gasped between ragged breaths, still hunched over the waste bin, her body trembling. The acidic taste of bile lingered in her throat, but she barely noticed it over the storm of emotions raging inside her. "I'm not his healer, Ron. Drew is. I don't understand why I am here!"

Her voice cracked, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest, suffocating her. She turned to him, her vision blurred with unshed tears, searching his face for an answer that made sense—anything that made sense.

Ron didn't meet her eyes.

Instead, he exhaled sharply, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He looked as exhausted as she felt, his expression weighed with something heavy, something he was reluctant to say. The silence stretched between them, unbearable.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

"Mione," he began, his voice quieter now, careful. "You're his solicitor."

The world seemed to stop.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she swore she misheard him.

"He—" she swallowed, trying to steady herself, "he asked for me?"

Ron nodded once, grimly. "Yeah. Specifically. Wouldn't talk to anyone else."

Hermione took a step back as if physically recoiling from the idea. Her mind reeled, piecing together what that could possibly mean. Why?

Why would he ask for her?

The same man she had fought for, argued for—convinced the Wizengamot that he was no real threat, that he could be rehabilitated instead of locked away. The man she had saved.

She turned, her gaze snapping back to the man behind the glass.

Mr. Taylor sat still, his shoulders hunched forward, his wrists bound by heavy enchanted chains. He looked... drained, hollowed out, as if something had already been taken from him. The man she'd met in her office—charming, kind, family-oriented—was gone.

Now, he was just a husk of himself.

And yet, despite the pathetic figure he cut, despite the horror he had caused, despite the blood that would never wash off his hands—he had the audacity to ask for her.

Hermione's nails dug into her palms as a wave of rage rolled through her, mingling with the sorrow, the guilt, the helplessness clawing at her insides.

Breathing in, then out, Hermione composed herself.

Think.

Think.

Stop being so emotional.

She clenched her fists, forcing the tremble out of her hands as she straightened her spine. Falling apart wouldn’t change what had already happened. Guilt wouldn’t undo the past. Right now, she had a job to do, whether she wanted it or not.

Brushing down her hair, smoothing her robes, she lifted her chin and met Ron’s gaze with hardened determination.

"Tell me the facts," she demanded, her voice level, controlled. "I know you can't provide opinions and will likely have to conduct your own investigation, but as Mr. Taylor’s solicitor, I demand to know the facts."

Ron exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he simply stared at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—shock, frustration, maybe even disappointment. But then he seemed to remember exactly who she was, and he gave a slow, resigned nod.

"Okay," he said, rubbing a hand over his face before beginning.

"Today, the hospital was hosting a charity event—something to honor women heroes, to raise donations for those displaced by the war." He paused, sighing. "Mrs. Shacklebolt was one of the guest speakers. You know how involved she was—how much she gave to these causes. Being the Minister’s wife and all, it made sense for her to be there.

Hermione swallowed, saying nothing.

"Mr. Taylor had his scheduled weekly session with Drew," Ron continued, voice tight. "But before he even made it to that session, he ran into Mrs. Shacklebolt. Three different nurses said he just—lost it. Started screaming, ranting about how it was all her husband’s fault that his family had died, that justice wasn’t being served, that there were no real reparations for the war."

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Ron’s expression darkened. "And then he just snapped—cursed her, violently. Right there, in the middle of the damn hospital."

The room felt like it was closing in on her.

"No one stopped him?" she whispered.

"He had a wand," Ron bit out. "No idea where he got it—he must've stolen it at some point, considering he was still under house arrest. The Auror assigned to him had stepped away—bathroom break. And Mrs. Shacklebolt’s Auror was stationed too far down the hall to intervene in time."

Hermione felt like she was going to be sick again.

She pressed her lips together, fighting the nausea threatening to overtake her once more.

She could see it now—the chaos, the screams, the panic. The blood. Kingsley’s pain, his world shattering as he watched the love of his life slip away.

And all because of the man sitting behind that glass.

The man she had fought to keep free.

Her knees nearly buckled, but she held firm.

This was her fault.

Looking up at Ron, Hermione steadied herself before speaking, her voice unwavering.

"Nobody is to question him without my knowledge or presence. He is to remain here under observation," she instructed, her words crisp and authoritative. "I’d like Drew to speak to him. As his mind healer, he cannot report what is discussed to anyone but him and his solicitor. I will return tomorrow to speak with them both."

Ron stared at her, wide-eyed, disbelief etched across his face.

"You’re keeping him as a client?" His voice was incredulous, almost accusing.

Hermione squared her shoulders. "This is my responsibility," she said firmly. "And he is my firm’s client—as he has requested me to represent him. I have to confirm with my business partner on our next steps, but until then, I will handle this as legally required." She arched a brow, challenging him. "I expect you to comply with legal procedure, Auror Weasley?"

His eyes darkened, lips pressing into a tight line. With a sharp, irritated wave of his hand, he dismissed her.

"Yeah, yeah, go speak with your mysterious business partner," he muttered. "The Auror Department will chat with you tomorrow, Hermione."

That tone—half exasperated, half bitter—sent something snapping inside her.

As they walked toward the door of the observation room, her temper flared. She spun around on her heel, her voice rising, her words cutting through the quiet hallway.

"Now is not the time for jealousies, Ronald Weasley!"

Her voice echoed off the walls, and the nearby Healers flinched in surprise. An Auror, stationed by the door, looked up startled. But Hermione didn’t care. The only thing she could focus on now was the tense air between her and Ron—and the choice she had to make with Mr. Taylor.

Ron’s jaw ticked as he met her fiery gaze, but instead of firing back, he simply muttered, "That’s not what this is."

Hermione was already turning, her stride purposeful as she stormed off down the corridor. The weight of the entire situation pressed heavily on her chest, and she didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. She needed to prepare for tomorrow. And the last thing she needed right now was more distractions.

***

He opened the door on the first knock. Staring into his brown eyes, Hermione hesitated for just a moment before looking down at the floor. She saw the frown tugging at the corners of his lips, the concern in his posture. Without thinking, she stepped into his arms, feeling a weight she hadn't realized she was carrying. He held her tightly, an unexpected but reassuring presence.

"We've got this, Hermione. We’ve got this," Edward said, his voice steady.

She didn’t answer at first, taking comfort in the feeling of his arms around her, something grounding in the midst of everything. She thought of Cedric then, and for a fleeting moment, wished it was him she could run to, talk to. The way his presence used to calm her, the way his confidence had seemed to balance out her worries. She imagined leaning into him, feeling safe again—feeling understood.

But he wasn’t there.

He hadn’t been since the night before. No word. No explanation. Nothing but the memory of his voice—low and taut with frustration.

"This shouldn’t have happened," he had said, anger laced through his words, as if the failure had been his alone to bear. As if he had disappointed himself in some irreparable way.

That should have been enough for her to hate him. It should have been enough to make her turn away, to close herself off and refuse to let the lingering weight of his absence settle in her chest.

And yet… she couldn’t. She just didn’t understand.

A deep breath. A quiet resolve. She forced herself to push the thoughts away, to focus on where she was—on the reality of Edward’s loft, its familiar warmth wrapping around her like a steady presence. She took a step further inside, her eyes flickering over the modest yet refined decor, the kind of effortless elegance that could only belong to someone with old money and little interest in flaunting it. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of the past few days, to the unrest beyond these walls.

She moved toward the window, her fingers grazing the edge of the sleek wooden frame. The view beyond was stunning, the Thames cutting through the city, reflecting the glow of distant lights. This wasn’t just any part of London—this was prime real estate, the kind only the obscenely wealthy could afford. She knew that. She had known it the first time she had stepped into this space, on the night they had sat side by side, writing the bill that stood in direct opposition to Cedric’s.

Capital punishment. Dementors returning. The very idea of it made her stomach churn.

Edward had found it just as vile as she had—perhaps even more so. He had stood with her then, unwavering in his belief that justice should not be twisted into something monstrous. That night, she had trusted him, believed in the cause they were fighting for. And now… now, everything felt tangled. Fractured.

She turned back to him, finally meeting his eyes again. If he noticed the ghosts lingering in her expression, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he just stood there, waiting.

"It was Mr. Taylor, and she's dead. Veronica Shacklebot is dead, and it's because of Taylor—the man I helped stay free. He murdered her." Hermione’s voice was quiet, but the words landed like lead between them. She braced herself, looking away, only then realizing that deep down, she felt as if she had somehow disappointed Edward.

Silence stretched between them. It pressed against her, thick and heavy, until she forced herself to look up. He was watching her, his gaze unreadable yet unwavering—not with pity, not with judgment, but with something else entirely. Compassion. Understanding. Maybe even admiration.

"Hermione," Edward finally said, his voice low, steady, deliberate. "You didn't kill her. Taylor did. And you fought for what you believed was right at the time. That doesn’t make you responsible for his choices."

She let out a shaky breath. "I thought... I thought if I just argued well enough, if I laid out the facts, justice would win out. That the right thing would be clear. I fought for him because I believed people deserved second chances."

Edward nodded, stepping closer. "And that belief? That conviction? It’s what makes you who you are. You’ve never been someone who acts out of cruelty or ignorance. You act because you want to make the world better. Even when it’s hard. Even when it doesn’t go the way you hope."

Her throat tightened. "But what if I was wrong? What if I gave a monster a second chance?"

He reached out, his fingers grazing hers before settling gently on her wrist. "Then you learn from it. And you keep fighting. Because that's who you are, Hermione. You don’t stop."

His words settled deep within her, quiet but powerful. And for the first time that night, she felt the smallest, fragile flicker of relief. She swallowed and told him, "He asked for me. He wants me to represent him now. What do we do?"

Edward was quiet then, his eyes searching hers for a moment longer, and when he spoke again, his voice held something weightier, something more human than just strategy.

"This murder… it’s going to fuel the fire. The opposing party—hell, the entire wizarding public—will use it as proof that our ideas are weak. That people like Taylor don’t deserve another chance. And they’ll use it to push that bill, to bring the Dementors back, to reinstate executions as justice. It’s horrifying, but it’s exactly what they’ve been waiting for."

Hermione could see it—the way his jaw tensed, the furrow in his brow. He wasn’t just thinking like a lawyer. He was angry. Not at her, but at the system. At the ugliness that had wormed its way into everything they were trying to undo.

"Things aren’t safe for you anymore, Hermione," he added, his voice softer now. "Not politically. Not personally. If you stay on this case, you’re going to be targeted. You’ll be called complicit. They’ll spin it, they always do. And the people who supported you? Some of them will vanish. But if we drop Taylor now, if we retreat because we’re afraid of what it looks like, then we’ve already lost."

She felt her heart beat faster. The implications of his words weren’t lost on her. She was already unraveling under the pressure, and now this? She had to become the face of a defense for a man she didn’t even believe in anymore—not as a person, not as someone innocent.

"So we… what? We represent a murderer to save a principle?" she asked, the bitterness in her voice not quite directed at him. She hated the question. Hated that she already knew the answer.

Edward stepped in closer, his hand now warm against the back of hers, grounding. "No. We represent due process. We represent the belief that justice isn’t a show trial. We represent a world that doesn’t answer violence with cruelty. Even when it hurts. Even when it costs us."

Hermione stared at him, her eyes stinging. She didn’t want to cry. Not again. Not over this. But gods, it was heavy.

"You're not alone in this," he said gently. "I’ll be with you every step. We’ll navigate this storm together. But I won’t let you throw away everything you’ve stood for because of fear. And I know you won’t either."

Something in her cracked open, but not in a way that made her fall apart. It was steadier than that. A reshaping. A new kind of resolve, however painful.

She nodded slowly, even though the weight of it was still pressing against her chest.

"Okay," she said. Her voice was quiet but sure. "Then we fight."

He sat at the large dining table, one hand resting against his chin as he gazed out at the river. The glow of the city lights reflected in the dark water, casting flickering patterns across the glass. There was a certain ease to the way he carried himself, even now, in the middle of all this chaos. Finally, he turned back to her, his expression unreadable—except for the slight curve at the corner of his lips.

"Move in with me?"

Hermione froze, convinced she must have misheard him. "What!?"

Edward barely reacted to her shock, only shaking his head with an amused glint in his eyes. "Things are only going to get worse, Hermione. Your safety is my concern. Move in here—just until this all dies down." His voice was even, calm, but there was something deliberate in the way he said it. "It's Muggle London. Nobody will find you here or expect you to be here. We’ll keep it a secret and…" He trailed off for a moment, as if choosing his next words carefully.

She stared at him, still processing, taking in the man before her—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the intelligence behind his dark eyes. He was attractive; there was no denying that. But even as she acknowledged it, the thought felt distant, secondary.

"And?" she prompted.

His mouth quirked slightly before he continued, "I have the place warded beyond most wizards’ comprehension. But I’d also feel more comfortable if we hired private security—for the firm, and for its most important asset."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Asset?"

Edward chuckled, standing from his chair with an easy grace. Before she could react, he was in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up slightly to meet his gaze. His fingers were warm as they cupped her chin, lifting it just so, forcing her to hold his stare.

"Yes, you, silly," he murmured, the teasing lilt in his voice making her stomach flip unexpectedly.

She inhaled sharply, caught between flustered and annoyed at how effortlessly he could disarm her. Her brain scrambled for a response, but all she could manage was a skeptical, "That’s not exactly professional, Edward."

He smirked, releasing her chin but not stepping back. "Neither is getting yourself killed. Call it a necessary risk mitigation strategy."

She huffed, shaking her head, but her pulse betrayed her, racing beneath her skin. This was ridiculous.

He was ridiculous.

And yet, for a fleeting moment, she found herself considering it.

Should she?

Chapter Text

There ain't no gold in this river

That I've been washin' my hands in forever

I know there is hope in these waters

But I can't bring myself to swim

When I am drowning in this silence

Baby, let me in

Go easy on me, baby

I was still a child

Didn't get the chance to

Feel the world around me

I had no time to choose

What I chose to do

So go easy on me

There ain't no room for things to change

When we are both so deeply stuck in our ways

You can't deny how hard I've tried

I changed who I was to put you both first

But now I give up

Easy on me, Adele

HPOV

She clicked her tongue, annoyed more at the silence between her notes than the notes themselves.

Facts. Testimonies. Everything she had gathered sprawled across her desk in meticulous order, and yet none of it added up. She scanned the last page again, then looked up at Edward, who had taken to pacing the office like a man preparing for a storm.

He ran a hand through his hair, sharp movements betraying the calm he usually wore like armor. “He still hasn’t told you how or where he got the wand from?”

Hermione let out a slow breath and dropped her head into her hands. “No,” she muttered. “He said he doesn’t remember.”

The moment the words left her mouth, they tasted wrong.

Hollow. She didn’t believe them—and she wasn’t sure if she hated him more for saying them or for making her want to believe he wasn’t lying.

Edward stopped pacing.

“He doesn’t remember?” he repeated, incredulous.

Hermione looked up, tired but not surprised. “It’s what he said.”

Edward scoffed under his breath. “The wand was found near the crime scene. It had Veronica Shacklebot’s magical signature on it and a residual Killing Curse. How can he not remember how he got it?”

She pressed her lips together, fingers threading through her curls as she leaned back in her chair. “Because either he’s lying,” she said slowly, “or something’s been done to his memory.”

“And you’re leaning toward what? The second option?” Edward asked.

Hermione hesitated. “I’m not sure. He’s not stupid. But he’s also not a killer—not the man I interviewed.”

Edward’s voice was low. “Maybe he was just better at lying back then.”

She didn’t respond to that. Not because she hadn’t thought the same thing herself—but because hearing it aloud made it feel more real, more permanent. Like the case she had fought for was crumbling, and all she could do was sweep up the sharp edges and pretend she wasn’t bleeding.

“I need to know for certain,” she said finally, her voice steady even if she didn’t feel it. “If someone altered his memory, there’s a trace. We need to get a deeper analysis on the wand. A real one, not the Ministry’s whitewashed version.”

Edward nodded slowly. “I know someone who might still have access to the old wand database. Discreet. Risky, but he owes me.”

She nodded, grateful. “We’ll owe him again.”

Edward shrugged. “Better than owing the press a retraction.”

She gave a weak smile, though her stomach twisted. Every time she looked at Mr. Taylor’s file, she felt a tangle of guilt and anger and something worse—doubt. She had helped him. Fought for him. Cleared him.

And now?

Now, a woman was dead. And he didn’t remember anything.

Or he did—and just didn’t care.

She stared down at the wand documentation one more time. The dates, the magical imprint patterns, the redacted spells.

Something was there. Something off. She could feel it.

“I’m going to figure this out,” she said under her breath, to no one in particular.

Because she had to.

Because if she didn’t, who else would?

Edward finally stopped pacing and lowered himself into the chair across from her desk. The leather creaked under his weight as he exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose like the tension had finally caught up to him. “I know it’s awful timing,” he said, voice low, “but you have two interviews today.”

Hermione blinked, surprised, dragging her mind away from wand imprints and memories she couldn’t trust. “What?”

He gave her a wry look, tired but apologetic. “I’d handle them myself, but... well. You know why I can’t be in the room.”

She nodded, understanding immediately. His involvement with the firm was still confidential—strategically so. Any new hire would need to be vetted and bound to secrecy before they could so much as breathe near a case file with his name on it.

Hermione straightened, smoothing her skirt out with one hand and closing Taylor’s file with the other. “No, of course not. I’ll take care of them both,” she said, sharper than she meant to. Then, softer, “I’ll make sure they sign NDAs before they even see the inside of the conference room.”

Edward gave a short nod and stood again. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“You already do,” she muttered, allowing the barest trace of humor to slip into her voice. A flicker. Brief, but it counted.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Then I’ll owe you double.”

He glanced at the papers spread across her desk—the familiar chaos she always made sense of—and then back at her. “I’m going to head to the Ministry, see what else I can dig up. Maybe someone’s finally willing to talk now that the press is clawing for statements.”

Hermione looked up at him, searching his face for something—maybe reassurance, maybe just a moment of certainty that everything wasn’t unraveling. He gave her that same calm smile he always wore in a storm, like he’d already planned ten moves ahead.

“Meet you there?” he asked.

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to go—but because she didn’t want to leave this room.

Still, she nodded. “Yeah. I’ll finish up here and come by.”

He lingered a moment longer, gaze warm but unreadable. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “And I trust your judgment—about Taylor. About all of it.”

Her attempt at a smile was little more than a twitch of her lips, but she appreciated the words. More than she let on.

Once Edward left, silence settled over her office like a second skin. She exhaled slowly, then reached for the stack of notes again, flipping through the pages until she found the timeline she had nearly memorized by now.

It had been four days since the murder. Four days of frantic press storms and public outcry. Four days of Ministry interference and whispered accusations that barely stayed behind closed doors. But nothing—nothing—made sense.

She had sat with Taylor for hours. First during the initial Ministry questioning, and again at the secure wing of St. Mungo’s. He hadn’t argued, hadn’t lashed out.

He had looked… confused. Haunted, even. But his answer hadn’t changed.

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember.”

She didn’t know whether to believe him.

But the facts—what few they had—painted a jarring picture. And the one detail she kept circling back to, again and again, was the wand.

Taylor wasn’t allowed one. Couldn’t have one. It was one of the strictest conditions of his release. His wand rights had been suspended indefinitely, reinforced by a Ministry-monitored magical contract. He wasn’t even permitted to touch a wand without triggering a full lockdown response.

And yet… Veronica Shacklebolt was dead. Killed by a blasting curse. A wand-activated spell. At close range. No traces of any wand were found at the scene. No known visitors had entered with one unaccounted for.

So where had the wand come from?

Hermione stared at the report. Her fingers tightened around the page.

Taylor had arrived early for his standing appointment with Drew, escorted by his assigned Auror—Steve Anders. Rookie. Barely out of training. Hermione had flagged his name the moment it appeared in the file. Taylor had passed through magical security. No red flags. No hidden magical items. His vitals had been taken, and then he was left to walk the corridor to Drew’s office alone.

That corridor.

No cameras. No monitoring charms. Only layered privacy wards around the therapy suites. A Ministry regulation for mental health cases, ironically designed to protect patient dignity.

And now?

It had created the perfect blind spot.

Veronica Shacklebolt had been in the building for the same event Taylor wasn’t scheduled to attend—a hospital-hosted women’s heroism celebration. The nursing staff, nearly all women, had organized it. Veronica had been the featured speaker.

What was she doing near the patient corridors?

Hermione’s stomach turned.

There was no documented reason for her to be there. And still, somehow, her path had intersected with Taylor’s in that short, unmonitored space of hallway.

Coincidence?

She didn’t believe in those.

Did someone guide her there? Did someone guide him?

She sat back, rubbing her temples.

If Taylor didn’t have a wand—and every Ministry record backed that up—then someone had either planted one or performed the spell themselves. But the forensics team had found no magical residue on anyone else. The curse had been fired from just feet away. No alarms.

Too clean.

Too precise.

She closed the file, pulse quickening.

Something was off.

Not just the timeline.

Not just Taylor.

The entire setup.

***

She leaned back in her chair and glanced at the time. Her first interview was in ten minutes. Enough to collect herself, but not enough to fully untangle everything pressing at her from all sides.

Alicia Spinnet.

The name had surprised her when it first landed on her desk. Hermione remembered her vividly—short, broad-shouldered, with a booming voice that often echoed off the Quidditch pitch more than necessary. Alicia had been two years ahead of them at Hogwarts, a standout Chaser and a proud member of Dumbledore’s Army. Hermione would have bet she’d end up a Quidditch trainer, or maybe even an Auror—her grit and muscle made her formidable.

A solicitor?

She hadn't seen that coming.

And yet, as Alicia stepped confidently into her office—modest robes, curls swept back in a practical bun, an old dragonhide satchel over her shoulder—Hermione realized how wrong her assumptions had been. Alicia looked every bit the kind of woman who had carved her own way in a field dominated by condescension and politics.

“Ms. Granger,” Alicia said, smiling as she extended her hand. “It’s been a while.”

Hermione stood to greet her. “It really has. Please, call me Hermione.”

“Only if you call me Alicia,” she grinned, settling into the chair opposite her.

Hermione liked her already.

Once the formalities were out of the way, Hermione pulled the case file off her desk, more out of reflex than necessity, and glanced at her parchment of interview notes. Then, she looked up. “You’ve read the recent headlines, I’m sure.”

“Who hasn’t?” Alicia’s tone was dry, but not unkind. “They’ve made Taylor out to be the new Grindelwald. Complete with grainy stills and wild theories.”

“And yet you applied here,” Hermione said, watching her carefully.

Alicia shrugged. “Because I believe in what you’re doing. The anti-capital punishment stance, the rehabilitation work. It’s real. And it’s brave. You could’ve played it safe, Hermione—you could’ve coasted into the Wizengamot with no resistance. But instead, you’re taking on the system. That’s something I want to be part of.”

Hermione let the silence stretch, considering the conviction in her words. “You know the risks. Public scrutiny, potential career damage. Working this case—working here at all—means being tethered to the Taylor situation, like it or not.”

“I don’t scare easily,” Alicia replied evenly. “And frankly, the only thing worse than defending a man the world thinks is guilty… is defending a system that is.”

That gave Hermione pause. It was something Cedric would’ve said.

She nodded slowly. “I appreciate that. Truly. I’m not asking for loyalty to me—but to the mission. If things keep escalating, the firm will be under intense pressure to reverse its stance. I need people around me who can hold the line.”

Alicia sat up straighter. “Then I think we’re on the same page. You need someone who isn’t afraid to take a hit for the truth. I’ve been doing that most of my life.”

Hermione smiled—small, but real this time. “Welcome to the shortlist.”

They both stood, and as Hermione escorted her to the door, she felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in days: momentum.

Alicia wasn’t just a strong candidate—she might be exactly what this place needed.

And for the first time since the murder, Hermione felt the scales tip, even slightly, back toward hope.

The second interview began just after Alicia Spinnet left, her handshake firm and her quiet promise to follow up still ringing in Hermione’s ears. There wasn’t much time to reflect on the interview before the next candidate arrived.

A soft knock on the door cut through the stillness.

“Mr. Dorian Blackwood,” the man introduced himself smoothly as he stepped inside. Tall, impeccably dressed in a sharp suit, Dorian exuded a quiet confidence that was impossible to ignore. His dark eyes, sharp features, and the way he carried himself immediately struck Hermione. She quickly reminded herself to focus—this was about the position, not personal distractions.

“Ms. Granger, it’s a pleasure,” he said with a polite smile, extending a hand. His gaze held hers with a steady, almost assessing look, like he was already evaluating her.

Hermione took his hand, offering a professional smile in return. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. I appreciate your interest in the position.”

He sat down, his posture straight and assured. There was something magnetic about him—his voice, calm and authoritative, drew her in. He spoke with ease, yet there was an underlying intensity to him that made her feel as though every word he said carried weight.

“I’ve been working as a legal consultant for a few years now,” Dorian continued smoothly, “and I’ve worked with some of the biggest firms in London. But what stands out to me about your work, Ms. Granger, is your passion for justice. You’re not just trying to win; you’re trying to make real change, and that’s something I admire.”

Hermione nodded, trying to stay focused. “I believe justice is about more than just punishment. It’s about creating opportunities for rehabilitation, for change.”

Dorian’s expression softened slightly, his gaze more sincere. “Exactly. And that’s why I’m interested in this case. With Mr. Taylor, it’s not just about one man. It’s about setting a precedent for the future. If we don’t take a stand on things like capital punishment and the right to rehabilitate, we’ll only end up reinforcing a flawed system.”

He leaned forward, his voice lowering with quiet intensity. “This is bigger than you or me. It’s about what kind of country we want to live in. You have a rare opportunity here, Ms. Granger. But it won’t be easy. Sometimes, you’ll have to make tough choices, even if they upset people.”

Hermione couldn’t help but be impressed. Dorian was intelligent, confident, and articulate. He was clearly someone who understood the complexities of the system and the need for reform. And yet, as much as she admired his insights, something felt off.

He continued, seamlessly moving from one topic to another, offering suggestions on how to handle the media backlash, how to frame their arguments in the court of public opinion. She could see the merit in his approach, but still, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something about him wasn’t fully aligning with her values.

And then, he mentioned Cedric.

“I know Cedric Diggory is involved in all of this,” Dorian said, his tone casual, as though he were discussing the weather. “It’s a shame, really. He’s got the right ideas, but his approach is too... idealistic. You can’t simply act on what feels morally right in a time like this. Politics is about what works. It’s about the long game.”

Hermione’s chest tightened at the mention of Cedric’s name. She felt the sudden urge to defend him, to protect him from Dorian’s dismissive tone, but she quickly stifled it. She didn’t agree with Cedric on everything—his stance on reinstating capital punishment, for one, was something she could never support. And yet, there was something about the way Dorian spoke about him, so casually dismissing Cedric’s beliefs, that made her uneasy.

“Mr. Diggory has strong convictions,” Hermione said, her voice steady despite the growing tightness in her chest. “He’s doing what he believes is right, just like the rest of us.”

Dorian shrugged, clearly unconcerned by her response. “Of course. But we both know that sometimes doing what’s right isn’t enough. In this line of work, it’s about strategy, about understanding the system and working within it. Idealism doesn’t always get the job done.”

Hermione nodded, but inside, her thoughts were racing. She wasn’t sure why she felt so protective of Cedric in that moment. She didn’t agree with his views on capital punishment, not by a long shot. But hearing Dorian speak so dismissively about him—someone she had worked with, someone who, despite their differences, still held a part of her heart—left her unsettled.

Her feelings for Cedric were complicated, no doubt. She wasn’t blind to his flaws, to his sometimes overly idealistic views. But the way Dorian spoke about him—so sure that Cedric’s approach was wrong—made her feel like she had to defend him, even if she didn’t agree with him herself.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Blackwood,” Hermione said, trying to mask the unease she felt. “I’ll certainly take your insights into consideration.”

Dorian stood, offering a confident smile and a firm handshake. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you, Ms. Granger. I think we’d make a great team.”

As he left, Hermione sat back in her chair, the words still echoing in her mind. Dorian was a strong candidate—intelligent, capable, and sharp. But his dismissal of Cedric had struck a chord with her that she hadn’t expected.

It wasn’t just political disagreement—it was something deeper, something that felt personal.

She wasn’t sure why she felt so protective of Cedric.

Maybe it was because, despite everything, she still respected him, still saw the man he could be, even if their ideologies didn’t align. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, feeling the weight of the decision ahead of her.

***

It felt like hundreds of reporters were chasing after her as she made her way toward the front steps of the Ministry. The flashes from their cameras blinded her momentarily, and their shouted questions rang in her ears, the same ones repeated over and over again.

“Ms. Granger, is it true that Mr. Taylor was involved in a political cover-up?”

“How do you feel about the accusations against him?”

“Is your stance on criminal justice shifting after these new revelations?”

Hermione clenched her purse tightly, the leather strap digging into her hand. She could feel her pulse quicken, her breath coming in short bursts. The noise was overwhelming, the swarm of reporters relentless. For a split second, she considered drawing her wand and casting a shield charm to create some distance.

“No comment,” she called out, her voice rising above the chaos, but the press didn’t let up. Their questions continued, growing louder as they tried to break through her composure.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Just as a reporter reached for her arm, ready to press even closer, a strong, reassuring presence appeared at her side. A hand, warm but firm, settled gently against her lower back, guiding her forward.

Before she could react, the crowd seemed to part for a moment, and she was swiftly escorted inside the Ministry, away from the press. The noise of the reporters faded as they entered the cool, quiet interior.

Hermione took a shaky breath, her pulse still racing from the adrenaline. She glanced up, and for the briefest moment, the world seemed to pause.

Cedric Diggory stood before her.

His dark brown eyes met hers with a cool, almost impassive intensity.

It had only been five days since she’d seen him—five days since he'd kissed her, then pulled away immediately, telling her it was a mistake. She hadn't wanted to believe him, but the look in his eyes and the cold distance he’d put between them afterward had made it impossible to ignore.

Fuck him.

Now, standing before her, the memory of that kiss—the rawness, the warmth—came flooding back, and she felt the familiar tightening in her chest. He hadn’t called, hadn’t reached out. He'd simply left, as though their moment had never happened.

Her breath hitched slightly, but she forced herself to stay composed, pushing down the emotions that always seemed to rise when he was near. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand why he had said it was a mistake—she knew why. They were on opposite sides, politically and ideologically. She had her fight, and he had his.

That still didn’t make the ache inside her go away.

“Are you alright?” Cedric asked, his voice low, but devoid of the warmth it once held.

He was so cold.

So…

Frigid.

His concern, though it sounded genuine, felt more like an obligation. The sharp edge to his tone made her stomach twist. She didn’t need to hear that now—not from him.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Just… a lot of pressure from the press.” She exhaled, looking away for a moment as she tried to steady herself.

Cedric’s gaze softened, but there was no sign of the closeness they once shared. He simply nodded, his expression unreadable. “They’re relentless,” he muttered, his voice distant, as if he were commenting on something he didn’t care about. “You shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

Hermione gave a small, tight smile. “It’s part of the job,” she replied. Inside, she was wondering why it still hurt to see him again. To hear him, so close, and to feel that same pull she’d tried so hard to suppress.

He stepped closer, but it wasn’t the same. There was no lingering warmth, no trace of the connection they had shared.

He was more distant now, colder. “I’ll let you get back to it,” he said, his tone final, cutting the conversation short.

Hermione nodded, trying not to show how the sharpness of his words stung. “Yeah. I’ll see you around, Cedric.”

He didn’t respond right away. He simply turned, walking away with the same calculated detachment he’d displayed since that night. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway, and Hermione’s chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the reporters or the case.

Hermione swallowed hard, her throat tightening. She watched Cedric walk away, his back stiff, his footsteps echoing in the long corridor, distant, unreachable.

It was the silence after he left that felt the most unbearable—he’d become a steady presence in her life, but now, he was nothing but a memory, a ghost of what could have been.

She fought the tears threatening to spill, knowing that this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place. She had work to do.

She had to stay focused.

Still, her heart twisted painfully.

The kiss. The rejection. The coldness that followed.

It was a mistake, he had said. A mistake. She tried to convince herself that maybe it was for the best, that their differences were too great to ignore. Yet, the more she tried to bury it, the worse it felt.

You shouldn’t care she told herself.

You have a boyfriend.

He doesn’t matter.

All lies.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to turn away, to walk in the opposite direction of where Cedric had gone.

She needed to focus on something else—anything else. She had a job to do. And Edward would be waiting for her in the private solicitors' department, ready to go over the next steps in their case.

Fate had other plans.

As she neared the elevators, she almost collided with a tall, familiar figure.

Shit.

“Ron,” she muttered, her voice tight with the strain she’d been carrying for days.

He blinked in surprise, his face scrunching into a frown. “Hermione. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you.” His voice was rough, tinged with frustration. His eyes were wide, searching hers, as though trying to read something in them—anything to make sense of the silence between them.

There was nothing left.

Not here, not anymore.

Maybe not ever?

She just did not have it in her.

Hermione sighed, the weight of everything pressing down on her. “I’ve been busy, Ron. You know, with everything that’s happened. With the case. I’ve had a lot to deal with.”

“You’ve had a lot to deal with?” His voice edged with disbelief. “What about me, Hermione? What about us?”

Had there really ever been an us?

Her life had spun and change was imminent.

The tension in his voice immediately set her nerves on edge. She couldn’t look at him—not yet. She didn’t have the energy to deal with this, not now.

Not after everything with Cedric.

“Ron, I—”

“You’ve been avoiding me for days. Not returning my owls. Not picking up your floo calls.” He stepped closer, his hands coming up, almost pleading. “I thought we were supposed to be on the same team here. But you’ve been shutting me out.”

Hermione felt her heart pound, a mix of guilt and frustration bubbling to the surface. “I haven’t been shutting you out. I’ve just... been dealing with things,” she said, her voice shaking with the weight of the truth. “Things you don’t understand.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Things I don’t understand?” His tone was sharper now, and she could hear the edge of accusation in it. “What’s that supposed to mean, Hermione? You’ve been working with some mysterious business partner—” he spat out the last words like poison, “—and you’ve been so distracted, so focused on your case, you’ve pushed me away. I don’t know what’s going on with you anymore.”

Her chest constricted, and a rush of heat flooded her face. “I told you, Ron, it’s complicated.” Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “But you—” Her voice cracked, her temper rising. “You can’t just expect me to drop everything because you’re feeling left out.”

“I don’t expect you to drop everything,” Ron shot back, his voice raising in frustration. “I’ve been trying to be there for you. And what do I get in return? You accusing me of being jealous over some bloody business partner and brushing me off like I don’t matter.”

The words hit her like a slap. Her heart skipped in her chest, and before she could stop herself, she felt the anger bubbling up, surging like a tidal wave.

“You are jealous, Ron,” she said through gritted teeth, the words spilling out in a rush of pent-up emotion. “And I don’t know why you’re pretending you’re not! I’ve been nothing but honest with you, and you keep pushing me, questioning me, accusing me... and I’m tired of it. I’m tired of trying to explain myself when you won’t listen. You don’t get it, Ron. You never have.”

His face flushed, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for something to say, but nothing seemed to come out. “Hermione...”

“No!” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “I’m done, Ron. I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice wavered, but she stood her ground. “I need space. I need to think. And I can’t keep pretending like everything is fine when it’s not.”

Ron stood there, stunned. His expression was one of disbelief, a mix of hurt and anger. “What are you saying?” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “That’s it? After everything we’ve been through, you’re just walking away?”

No.

Yes.

YES!

God's, could she?

“Yes, Ron,” she said, her chest tightening, a dull ache settling deep within her. “I think it’s time we both admit that we’re not what we were. We’ve been clinging to something for too long, but we’re not on the same path anymore.”

She didn’t wait for his response.

The words tumbled out too quickly, too forcefully, before she could stop them.

It was over.

They were finally over.

Turning on her heel, she fled.

The sound of her footsteps was sharp in the silence that had settled between them, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t stay there a second longer, with Ron’s eyes accusing her and the crushing weight of their past suffocating her.

Hermione’s footsteps echoed in the empty hallways of the Ministry as she made her way toward the private solicitor’s department, the weight of the day pressing down on her. Her breath came in shallow bursts, every step a reminder of the storm swirling inside her. The argument with Ron felt like a weight on her shoulders, and yet, it was the painful, hollow feeling of leaving Cedric behind that gnawed at her heart. She couldn’t chase him. She shouldn’t chase him.

They were on opposing sides, and no matter how much she cared, they couldn’t be together. That much was clear.

Still, the ache in her chest didn’t go away. It didn’t fade. She had no words for it. The exhaustion from everything—her work, the case, the fractured relationships—was starting to feel like too much. She’d been running on adrenaline, on sheer willpower, but now, in the quiet of the Ministry, the realization hit her that she couldn’t keep this up.

Not forever.

She couldn’t keep running toward people who didn’t understand her anymore. Toward people like Ron who seemed to only see what they wanted to see, not who she was now. Toward people like Cedric, who she knew she shouldn’t want, but whose absence felt like a gaping hole in her life. They were all part of a past she couldn’t hold on to, and yet it was all slipping away so quickly.

This was a new era. A new Hermione. Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself. But the truth was, she wasn’t sure who this new version of herself was. She wasn’t sure who she wanted to be. And the fear of losing herself in this chaotic transition clawed at her insides.

How had it all come to this? How had everything she’d worked so hard for—everything she believed in—suddenly felt so distant, so out of reach?

Her thoughts were a jumble of confusion, like broken pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t quite fit together. She felt both angry and lost, a heady mix of emotions that left her unable to focus on anything but the emptiness that stretched out before her.

But she had to focus. She had to. There was work to do. The case. Edward. She had to meet him. She had to throw herself into the case, because that was the only thing left that made sense.

It was the only thing she could control.

Her footsteps grew more erratic, her mind racing as she approached the solicitor’s department. But just as she was about to round the corner, the weight of everything she’d been carrying finally snapped. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. Her chest tightened painfully, and she felt as though the walls were closing in around her. She needed to escape, to be somewhere—anywhere—where she didn’t have to face the world and all the confusion swirling in her mind.

In a blur, she turned and rushed down the hall, stumbling into an empty office. The door clicked shut behind her, and she pressed her back against it, her breath coming faster now. She slid down the wood, her legs giving way beneath her as she sank to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest.

And then, she broke.

Tears came quickly, hot and relentless, spilling down her cheeks as the weight of everything she had been holding inside burst free.

Her body shook with the force of it, each sob like a jagged piece of herself being torn away. She cried for the relationship with Ron that she’d tried so hard to preserve, only to realize that it had slipped through her fingers. She cried for Cedric—the man who had not been a part of her life for very long, only to become a constant reminder of everything she couldn’t have.

She cried for herself, for the woman she had become, and for the person she was still trying to figure out how to be.

In that moment, nothing made sense. And it was as though the entire world outside that little office ceased to exist. There was only her, alone, raw, and broken. She couldn’t hold it together anymore.

The door creaked open.

Hermione didn’t look up immediately, but the change in the air was immediate—undeniable. She could feel it, like a magnetic pull, though she hadn’t heard a sound. She didn’t need to see his face to know it was him.

Edward.

There was no strength left to speak. No words to offer. No defenses to build. She couldn’t even muster the will to hide her tears, to push down the rawness clawing at her chest.

Instead, she stood there in the quiet office, feeling small, vulnerable, broken.

And then, just like that, he was there.

His presence enveloped her, and before she knew it, his arms were around her—warm, steady, a silent promise of safety. She didn’t have to say a word. She didn’t even have to try to hold herself together.

The world outside, with all its expectations and noise, faded into a blur. The only thing that mattered in that moment was the comforting strength of his embrace, the gentle pressure of his hands rubbing slow, reassuring circles on her back.

The smell of his cologne—a rich blend of cedarwood and amber—filled her senses, grounding her in a way nothing else could. It was familiar, and it felt like a lifeline in the chaos of her mind. She clung to it, letting it anchor her, because for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t have to pretend to be something she wasn’t. She didn’t have to hold herself together.

"Shh," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, a balm to the jagged edges of her emotions. "It’s okay, Hermione. Let it all out."

His voice—calm, smooth—was a contrast to the storm raging inside her. His words wrapped around her like a soft blanket, allowing her to breathe. To feel. To simply exist in the comfort of his presence. He didn’t ask her to explain herself, didn’t push for answers or demand more than she could give. He just held her. And in that silence, in that warmth, she felt something shift deep inside her.

He was the anchor she hadn’t known she needed.

Steady. Unwavering.

For that fleeting moment, everything else—the confusion, the guilt, the anger—disappeared. He felt like an angel to her. Pure, unwavering, safe. And everyone else? Everyone else was like demons, pulling at her, demanding things she couldn’t give, expecting her to be someone she wasn’t.

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the feeling of his embrace, to the strength of his arms around her. She let herself forget for just a moment. She let herself be held, protected, and for the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe again.

But even as she let herself sink into his embrace, there was a stir in her—something deeper, something she couldn’t suppress.

She wanted more. She needed more.

And before she could stop herself, her hands—still trembling—reached up. They found the cuff of his shirt, fingers brushing the fabric, pulling him closer. She didn’t think. Didn’t plan it. The decision to kiss him was as natural as breathing, a reflex born from the chaos inside her.

She closed the distance, pressing her lips to his.

It was slow at first—hesitant, unsure—but then it grew, deeper, more urgent. His lips were warm, soft, and when he kissed her back, there was a rawness to it, an intensity that sent a shockwave of heat through her.

The world blurred again. Time seemed to stretch, bend, but nothing else mattered in that moment but him. His lips. The pressure of his body close to hers. The racing of her heart.

For a heartbeat, everything was right.

Perfect.

But then, just as quickly as it had started, he pulled away. The abruptness of the separation sent a chill through her, as if the warmth of the moment had been stolen away too soon.

His breath was shallow, ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he looked down at her. His eyes—dark, almost unreadable—locked onto hers, searching, asking, as though he were trying to understand what had just happened.

"Merlin," he breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper, rough and thick with unspoken emotion. "I’ve wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you. But not like this."

The words hit her like a physical blow. A slap. The reality of the situation crashed over her in an instant. It wasn’t right. She shouldn’t have kissed him, not like that. But in that moment, in the overwhelming silence, she realized that she had let her emotions run wild, had given into a need that wasn’t the right kind of need.

She stared at him, breathless, her heart still pounding in her chest, as the weight of what had just happened settled between them. Her mind screamed that it was too soon, too much, too complicated. This wasn’t the right time. She couldn’t—she shouldn’t—do this.

But she had.

Chapter Text

Oh, she knows what I think about

And what I think about

One love, two mouths

One love, one house

No shirt, no blouse

Just us, you find out

Nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about, no

'Cause it's too cold

For you here

And now, so let me hold

Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

And if I may just take your breath away

I don't mind if there's not much to say

Sometimes the silence guides a mind

To move to a place so far away

The goosebumps start to raise

The minute that my left hand meets your waist

And then I watch your face

Put my finger on your tongue 'cause you love to taste, yeah

These hearts adore, everyone the other beats hardest for

Inside this place is warm

Outside it starts to pour

After Dark X Sweater Weather

TPOV

Funerals and wakes were such... sardent affairs.

A waste of time, really.

Why bother gathering everyone to mourn, eat, and wallow in shared sorrow?

It all seemed so pointless.

Tom Riddle stood in the expansive sitting room of Kingsley Shacklebott's grand mansion, which had been transformed into a makeshift funeral parlor. The room buzzed with the murmurs of the gathered crowd—businessmen, Ministry officials, professors, friends, family, and acquaintances—all come to pay their respects. Reporters lined the estate's perimeter, eager for a glimpse of the proceedings.​

Draco and Sofia momentarily drew the attention of the press, their presence a curious spectacle for the onlookers. Beside them, Harry Potter stood with his fiancée, Ginny Weasley, both appearing uncharacteristically subdued.​

Tom had arrived alone, his entrance marked by a brief, impersonal speech on the tragedy. He had seamlessly woven in his stance on capital punishment, emphasizing its necessity in maintaining societal order.​

As he observed the gathering, he couldn't help but notice the undercurrents of politics and pretense. Many wore expressions of grief, yet their eyes betrayed ulterior motives—alliances to be forged, favors to be solicited. The air was thick with insincerity, each attendee playing their part in this orchestrated display of mourning.​

Kingsley Shacklebott's family had always been influential, their mansion a symbol of their status. Today, it served as the backdrop for this theatrical homage, where genuine sorrow was often overshadowed by the pursuit of personal agendas.​

Tom's gaze shifted to the family cemetery beyond the mansion's windows, where the day's final act would unfold—a burial that, to him, seemed more a formality than a farewell. He wondered how many present would remember the deceased for their virtues, and how many would remember them as a stepping stone in their own quests for power and influence.

Tom Riddle stood amidst the opulent surroundings of Kingsley Shacklebott's mansion, his gaze fixed on the grieving minister robed in purple.

The air was thick with sorrow, yet beneath it, a current of anticipation hummed—a feeling Tom knew all too well.​

Anne had been invaluable in orchestrating this day. Her position at the hospital allowed her to gather crucial information: the event's date, time, and the meticulous planning that went into it. Her influence over the committee, a group of nurses eager for a cause, had been pivotal in ensuring everything proceeded as Tom desired.​

It was through Anne that Tom learned of Mr. Taylor's therapy sessions. She had been the one to take his vitals, to administer the unmarked wand, and to chant the spell that allowed Tom to seize control of Taylor's body, mind, and soul. In that borrowed form, Tom had carried out the unthinkable—ending Veronica Shacklebott's life.​

Now, as he observed Kingsley Shacklebott, the pieces of his plan clicked into place. The minister's grief was palpable, but so was his simmering anger—a potent mix that Tom had carefully cultivated. Their brief nod was a silent acknowledgment, a shared understanding of the path they had chosen.​

Kingsley's mourning was genuine, yet beneath it lay a thirst for retribution. The death of his wife would not be in vain; it would serve as the catalyst for change, for the justice he so desperately sought.

And Tom, ever the manipulator, would be there, guiding the narrative, ensuring that the minister's grief transformed into a force that would reshape their world.

He sensed her presence before his eyes confirmed it.

It was an uncanny feeling, like an affliction he couldn't shake off, no matter how meticulously he orchestrated his plans or how assured his rise to power seemed.

Hermione occupied his thoughts incessantly, a source of both irritation and obsession.

The mere thought of her stirred a tempest within him, a fury so intense it bordered on madness. His wand hand twitched involuntarily, and he clenched and unclenched his fingers, struggling to maintain composure. He willed himself not to turn toward the door, where he instinctively knew she stood.​

But then, Draco, who had positioned himself beside Tom, glanced back and offered a knowing smile. Sofia, ever the socialite, followed suit, her gaze flicking toward the entrance with interest.

Unable to suppress his curiosity, Tom allowed his eyes to drift toward the door.​

There she was—Hermione Granger.

Gone was the bushy hair and modest attire he once associated with her. Her hair was now cut short and sleek, framing her face with an elegance he hadn't anticipated. She wore a form-fitting black dress that spoke of understated luxury, a stark contrast to the medical robes she used to favor. Pearl earrings and a matching necklace adorned her, and her lips were painted a bold shade of red. She exuded a sultry confidence, a far cry from the bookish Gryffindor he remembered.

The room seemed to pause, collectively acknowledging her entrance.

Men's eyes lingered with unmistakable desire, while women regarded her with a mix of curiosity and subtle disdain. Some undoubtedly questioned her presence, given her role as the attorney for the murdered Veronica Shackelbot.

How dare she show up here? they must have thought.

Tom couldn't suppress a smirk, his lips curling in amusement.

"My little mudblood witch," he mused inwardly, the term dripping with a mixture of derision and reluctant admiration. She possessed audacity, courage, a fierceness akin to a lioness. She was a creature to be admired from afar, perhaps even coveted, yet kept securely out of reach.

An artifact to collect.

He swallowed.

Not yet.

One day, maybe. But right now, she was nothing more than a distraction. His mind clicked back into focus, and he wrenched his attention away from her. He could feel her presence as she made her way through the room, every step deliberate, every movement carefully measured. She would ignore the hushed whispers, the judging glances that followed her like a shadow.

And then, she was before Kingsley.

Tom watched, eyes narrowing slightly, as the minister’s face shifted into something unreadable. For a split second, it almost seemed like there was a flicker of something—suspicion, perhaps, or doubt—before it faded, replaced by grief. Hermione leaned in, her head tilting toward him as she wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

Tom couldn’t look away.

He used his magic, subtle as it was, to strain his hearing, focusing in on their exchange. The soft, breathless words she whispered were like a challenge—something more than a simple condolence.

“Don’t let this change you.”

The words hung in the air, reverberating like a distant echo, and for a moment, Tom thought he saw a flicker of something in Kingsley’s eyes. Something too subtle for anyone else to notice. Something sharp. It was gone almost immediately, but it was there.

Careful, little witch, he thought. You won’t win this. It was never your game to win.

Tom looked away, the room beginning to feel tight, suffocating in a way. He pushed back the flicker of unease that danced in the corners of his mind. He had more important matters to deal with.

The pieces were in motion, and his plans, like threads pulled by invisible hands, were tightening around everyone.

​Draco leaned in, his voice a low whisper meant only for Tom's ears. "Heard Granger and the Weasel broke up. He was crying about it in the office yesterday. Too bad you're engaged now."​

The weight of Draco's words hung in the air, laden with implications. The public remained unaware of Tom's engagement—a strategic decision he had orchestrated meticulously. He had deemed it prudent to withhold this information, allowing the brewing scandal surrounding Veronica Shackelbot's murder to dominate the headlines. The tragic event served as the perfect smokescreen, diverting attention and fueling public sentiment against the perceived leniency of the opposition.​

The revelation of his engagement would come, but only when the time was right. Every move was calculated, every detail accounted for. In the world of politics and public perception, timing was everything.

And he was a master of timing.

Tom ignored him. His gaze flickered back to Hermione, noting how she settled herself next to Potter and Ginny. The entire bench seemed like a row of fiery redheads, and Tom couldn’t help but notice how the entire group of them—a tight-knit, unyielding force—was clustered together. There was something jarring about how close they were. They seemed to form a barrier around Hermione, and it was like watching a predator stalk an animal behind the safety of a fence.

He scanned the room. His eyes locked briefly on Ron, sitting at the far end of the bench, avoiding Hermione’s gaze like it was a plague. He sat rigid, every inch of him bristling with something that Tom couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was pain? Perhaps something darker, but Tom didn't care. He hadn’t been useful in a while.

Ron Weasley had outlived his purpose.

Tom’s lips curled slightly as he thought about it. He could release him now. He’d been under the Imperius curse long enough. Ron’s mind was muddied, controlled, but Tom no longer needed him for the delicate manipulation he’d been doing for months. The Weasley boy had become an afterthought.

With the flick of his wand, he could undo it all. Ron would be free, but it wasn’t a kindness—it was merely an unburdening of unnecessary weight. Let him go back to his miserable life, to his unremarkable existence.

No, he didn’t need Ron anymore.

But Hermione?

She was the one who lingered. She was the one who kept his mind tangled in knots.

Tom pushed those thoughts away. He’d deal with her later. For now, he had a funeral to attend, a game to play, and an audience to watch.

All in good time.

The room was filled with a cacophony of speeches, shared memories, and heartfelt songs. After what felt like an eternity, a recess was announced, granting attendees time for refreshments and restroom breaks.

Impatient with the drawn-out proceedings, Tom stood abruptly and made his way toward the gardens, seeking respite from the stifling atmosphere.​

Once he was certain he was out of earshot, he lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as the smoke curled around him. A sense of stress—an unfamiliar sensation for someone of his stature—washed over him. Lord Voldemort, possessing a new body and semblance of a soul, experiencing stress?

The irony was not lost on him.​

Anger, annoyance, impatience—all these emotions churned within him.

The urge to storm back inside and either eliminate everyone present or seize Hermione and claim her in an empty bedroom gnawed at him. He paced, attempting to quell the tumultuous thoughts racing through his mind.​

As he wandered the estate grounds, he overheard two familiar voices—Potter's and Hermione's—carrying on the wind.​

"He's a mess, Hermione. You need to talk to him. Fix things."​

"Harry, it's over. You don't understand. Maybe one day we can be friends again, but there's nothing there."​

Silence hung between them before Harry spoke again.​

"My wedding is going to be awkward."​

She sighed.​

"It will be fine. I promise. How's your investigation going?"​

Harry's sharp inhale betrayed his frustration. "No idea why Cedric is alive, what Voldemort wanted with him. There was a possible breach in Azkaban months ago, those murders... I don't know. We just keep hitting dead ends. I feel like something bad is coming. Something I can't see yet. And this—Veronica being dead—is just horrible. You know Kingsley is angry with you, right, Hermione?"​

Tom's lips curled into a smirk at the mention of Kingsley's anger. The minister's emotions were a tapestry of grief, suspicion, and perhaps guilt. Hermione's role in the unfolding events was far from insignificant.

Returning to the mansion, Tom entered to find Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini by the refreshment station. Theo's gaze was fixed on a blonde across the room, while Blaise's attention was on a brunette who seemed vaguely familiar. Pouring himself a glass of water, Tom observed as Blaise discreetly passed Theo a flask.​

"Say, Cedric," Blaise began, his voice low, "did you ever hook up with Pansy when we were in grade school?"​

Tom followed his gaze. "Parkinson, right?"​ He shook his head. "Not that I can recall."​

"Who's the blonde next to her?" Theo asked, just as Hermione and Potter entered the room. Tom watched as Pansy Parkinson approached Hermione, engaging her in animated conversation.​

Exasperated and eager to distance himself from the crowd, Tom snatched the flask from Theo's hand, turned, and made his way down the hallway, ascending the stairs to find solitude away from the gathering.

​​Tom wandered through the expansive halls of the Shacklebolt estate, flask in hand, appreciating the array of art that adorned the walls. Kingsley Shacklebolt, known for his tenure as an Auror and later as Minister for Magic, had amassed an impressive collection during his travels. The portraits and sculptures reflected a life rich in experiences, stirring a sense of nostalgia in Tom. He missed the days of his youth when he had ventured far and wide, exploring the world in his early twenties.

Now, in this new form, he found himself confined, the same face, the same power, but a different body.​

He couldn't remember the last time he’d enjoyed a drink this much.

The library was a sanctuary of sorts, and it beckoned to him with its rows of books and the thick scent of old paper. A place to escape the festivities, the crowds, and most importantly, the constant reminder of the things he couldn’t control.

He welcomed the solitude, stepping into the room with a soft creak of the floorboards beneath his boots.

He wandered further inside, letting the soft glow of lamplight wash over him, bathing the room in a comforting hue. It was quiet, peaceful in a way that most places were not. There was something almost nostalgic about it—an echo of his past, before everything had become so... complicated.

And then, his eyes fell on her.

She sat alone by the window, surrounded by the soft golden light from the lamps. Her face was half-shadowed, but there was an unmistakable familiarity in the way she carried herself—elegant, graceful, even in this unexpected setting. The bane of his existence, the little Mudblood witch who had somehow managed to stand out among the rest.

She was engrossed in a book, but there was something more in the way she sat—something that suggested she wasn’t truly absorbed in the text, that her mind was somewhere else.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment, watching the way her fingers gently traced the edge of the pages.

A silent tension hummed in the air, though it was subtle, almost imperceptible.

He knew, deep down, he should leave her to her quiet. Yet, something gnawed at him—something that had been building ever since she’d entered the room earlier. It was the liquor, yes, but there was more. It was an inexplicable pull, a magnetic force that drew him toward her.

He hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t anticipated being so... affected. But here he was.

He took another swig, feeling the burn of the liquor in his throat, and approached her.

His steps were silent, deliberate. It was almost as if he couldn’t help himself.

A few feet away from her, he finally spoke, his voice laced with a mixture of amusement and something darker, “I can’t seem to escape you.”

Her head lifted from the book, and for a moment, their eyes met—an almost electric pause in time.

She set the book down, the corners of her lips curling slightly, though there was a trace of weariness in her expression.

“Oh, I didn’t know anyone else would be up here,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of relief. “I just had to get away from all that. It was too much.”

He didn't answer at first, unsure of what possessed him. The liquor? The feeling of being trapped in this strange life? Perhaps it was both, but something pushed him forward.

He took another swig from the flask, letting the warmth fill him, and before he even knew what he was doing, he sat beside her.

Without a second thought, he passed the flask to her, his fingers brushing against hers for a brief moment.

The action felt natural, like an unspoken invitation to share in the moment—a strange, fleeting connection that felt almost... intimate.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “Me too.”

***

HPOV

Hermione took a deliberate sip from the flask, her eyes narrowing as she studied Cedric with a mix of curiosity and concern. "You're going to use this now, aren't you? To pass your bill?" she asked, her voice tinged with the weight of her thoughts.

Cedric's eyebrows arched slightly, and an amused smile curled at the corner of his lips. "Is that what you're worried about?" he responded, his tone lightly mocking, as though the weight of the situation didn't faze him.

He reclaimed the flask, tipping it back for another measured sip, his gaze unflinching as it stayed locked on hers. Hermione shook her head, frustration building inside her. "No. I'm worried about Kingsley, Mr. Taylor, and society as a whole. I'm concerned about representing a murderer. I'm troubled by what this could mean for our world."

Hermione’s gaze locked onto Cedric, her eyes narrowing with growing frustration. He just shrugged, the casualness of his demeanor somehow more infuriating than anything he could have said. "It's not that deep, Hermione," he said, as if dismissing her concerns with a flick of his wrist, as if her emotions meant little more than the dust in the air.

Her hands clenched at her sides, fists trembling with the effort not to let her anger consume her. "Oh, it's back to 'Hermione' now?" The words were biting, sharp as a dagger, aimed at the calm exterior he wore like armor.

Cedric's lips curled up, a barely perceptible smirk tugging at the corners. His voice dropped to a lazy drawl as he replied, "That's your name, isn't it?" He was so annoyingly unconcerned, and it made her blood boil. He wasn’t just dismissing her; he was erasing the weight of her feelings, like they didn’t matter.

A jolt of raw anger surged through her chest. The audacity. "So today, you're not cold? It's not just 'Granger' anymore? Are we back to being friends again, Cedric?" The words left her mouth sharp and accusing, a wall of hurt and rage woven through her tone.

For a moment, the air between them thickened, charged with the unsaid things both of them were afraid to confront. Cedric’s gaze flicked briefly to hers, but there was no remorse, no understanding, only the quiet gleam of something more calculating. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he waved his hand dismissively, as if her frustration was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "I very much liked your hair the other way," he said, an odd flicker of interest passing through his eyes. "Long, untameable. What made you change up your look?"

The question—so casual, so disarming—added layers to her frustration, but it also did something else. She couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn’t just talking about her hair. His eyes studied her like a piece of fine art, evaluating and dissecting her, and for reasons she couldn’t understand, it made her skin crawl.

There was something unsettling beneath the surface, something unreadable about him in this moment.

Hermione's fingers tightened around the flask, the cool metal pressing into her palm, grounding her as the tension in the air between them grew thicker, more suffocating.

Stay calm. Just breathe.

Her heartbeat raced in her chest, the sound of it drowning out everything else. She couldn't let him see how much his words were cutting through her, how they were sinking into her like poison.

“I’m still untameable,” she said, her voice steady, the weight of her words carrying something beneath the surface, a quiet dare. He had no idea what she was capable of.

No idea who he was dealing with.

Cedric’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a playful smile that formed. It was something colder, something almost… predatory. “Thought Weasley was able to tame you for a bit. Guess that’s done and over with,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with mockery. “Didn’t shag you enough, huh? Couldn’t keep up with the neighbors, could he?”

The words hit her like a fist, driving the air from her lungs.

A sickening coldness swept through her, her vision blurring with the red-hot rush of fury. Her whole body went still for a second, suspended in time as the weight of what he had said landed.

Her heart pounded, an uncomfortable tightness settling in her chest. She could feel the heat of her anger rising in waves, the sting of his words burning through her skin. Don’t let him get to you, she told herself, but it was already too late.

She was burning up from the inside out.

Without thinking, the flask flew from her hand, crashing against the wall.

The shattering sound was deafening, splitting the silence like a gunshot. It was loud.

Final.

Like a line had been crossed, something irreversible had happened. Her anger, her frustration, the deep, gnawing ache inside her—all of it came to a head in that one violent moment.

Then, before she could even process what she was doing, she was standing. Her body moved of its own accord, propelled by fury she couldn’t control. She was on him in an instant, her palm slamming against his cheek, the sound of the slap sharp and unforgiving.

But before she could pull her hand back, Cedric’s grip shot out, swift and firm. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, the pressure unyielding, a silent command to stay.

Her heart skipped a beat as he yanked her closer, his other hand curling around her waist, pulling her in with a force that sent a shiver through her. She could feel the heat radiating from his chest, his breath now a ragged pulse against her skin.

Her pulse quickened as his presence enveloped her, all-consuming. The air around them was thick, electric, crackling with unspoken words. His proximity—too close, too intimate—made her body tense, but her mind swirled in a haze, caught between the lingering anger and something she didn’t quite understand.

The raw, dangerous intensity in his eyes flickered, darker than anything she had ever seen.

Darker than the forbidden woods in her nightmares, deeper than the midnight sky.

There was a ferocity there that shook her, a power she had never felt from him before, but it was tinged with something else—something she couldn’t quite place. Something unsettling and magnetic all at once.

Her breath hitched, her body caught between the instinct to pull away and the pull of something far stronger. Would he hurt her? The thought flashed through her mind, quick and sharp like a cold knife. But the moment his gaze softened, her fear was replaced by something else—a quiet, desperate longing.

His grip tightened, but it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t angry.

It was possessive, protective.

The tension in the air between them seemed to shift, as if the room itself were holding its breath.

Then, slowly, he leaned in. His free hand, the one that had once held her in a vice-like grip, now brushed gently against her cheek, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles. His touch was soft, reverent, almost as if he was memorizing the feel of her skin. A shiver ran down her spine at the warmth of his hand, at the way his fingers seemed to linger, like they couldn’t quite pull away from her.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The only thing she could focus on was him—his closeness, his touch, the way he was slowly drawing her in with every passing second. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, and it was more than just the physical distance that had closed between them. It was as if his presence filled her, flooded her senses until she was drowning in it.

He leaned even closer, his breath mingling with hers, their lips inches apart. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her wrapping around him. “You linger,” he whispered, his voice low and almost painfully intimate. “You’ve planted yourself inside me. Your essence fills me.”

His words were soft but heavy, like they carried a weight far deeper than she could comprehend. The air was thick with them, pressing down on her chest, filling her lungs with something sharp, something sweet. Her heart raced as she felt the heat rising between them, as the space between them collapsed entirely.

Then, his lips brushed against her ear, and she could hear the barely contained tension in his voice as he spoke, "I cannot control it. I cannot fight it. You have me tangled up inside."

She didn’t know what had come over her. Didn’t know why she didn’t pull away. But as the tension between them grew, the heat became undeniable. Her eyes fluttered shut, and before she knew what was happening, she was leaning into him, her lips brushing against his in a tentative, almost reverent kiss.

It started soft, tentative, as if neither of them quite knew if they should go any further. But it didn’t take long before that spark between them ignited. His hands moved, one still holding her wrist, the other tracing her back, drawing her closer until she could feel every inch of him pressed against her.

Every, very rock-hard inch.

She could feel his heartbeat racing in sync with hers, the pulse of it vibrating through her chest, filling her with something wild and untamable.

She responded without thinking, her hands finding their way to his neck, pulling him closer, her lips parting slightly as the kiss deepened, slow and insistent. There was a hunger there—an ache that neither of them had realized was building between them, too long ignored and now impossible to deny. He groaned softly, his lips trailing down her jaw, across her throat, as if he couldn’t get close enough.

His hands roamed, but there was a gentleness there, a careful reverence, as if he was afraid to break something fragile within her.

But there was nothing fragile about this moment. There was nothing fragile about the fire that blazed between them now.

It was raw, passionate, and unrelenting.

Her breath came in shallow bursts as she pulled him back to her lips, kissing him with the same desperate intensity that he kissed her. Every brush of his lips against hers sent electric shocks through her, every shift of his body against hers made her pulse race faster.

The kiss deepened, each second intensifying the heat between them, and Hermione felt as though the world outside had ceased to exist. There was only the sound of their breathing, the soft press of their bodies, and the pull that neither of them could resist.

His hands moved again, and though his touch was gentle, there was an unmistakable urgency to it. One hand slid from her waist to the curve of her hip, his fingers brushing the fabric of her skirt, the sensation sending a wave of heat through her. She felt the subtle movement as he lifted the hem of her dress just a fraction, his fingers tracing the soft skin of her thigh.

Her breath hitched as the fabric of her skirt shifted, the cool air brushing her skin, and she instinctively gripped his shirt, pulling him closer, as though she needed to be swallowed up in the heat of him.

He kissed her harder now, his mouth claiming hers with a passion that mirrored her own. As he moved, his other hand slid to her back, his palm flat against her spine, gently urging her closer. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, his heart racing in time with hers, and for a moment, it was as if nothing else mattered.

The world outside was nothing but a distant memory.

His hand slid down, his fingers curling around the fabric of her skirt, inching it up slowly, deliberately. It was an intimate gesture, careful and almost reverent, as though he was savoring the closeness between them. Hermione felt a flutter of something—anticipation mixed with a spark of vulnerability—but she didn’t pull away.

She couldn’t.

Her breath quickened as she shifted closer to him, her hands slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the muscles that tensed beneath her touch. Her fingertips grazed the hard lines of his chest, the sensation sending a wave of desire through her. The feeling was intoxicating, dizzying.

But even as the tension between them reached a fever pitch, neither of them pushed further. The air between them was thick with desire, yet both seemed to understand that they were teetering on the edge of something—something too precious to rush, something that had to be savored.

He paused, his lips pulling away from hers, and for a moment, they were both silent, their breath mingling, their hearts pounding. His hand remained on her skirt, the fabric still hiked up just enough to feel the heat of his touch against her skin. He looked at her, his gaze soft but filled with something deeper. Something she couldn’t quite place but knew, somehow, was just as important as everything else they’d shared in that moment.

“Hermione,” he whispered, his voice rough, as his thumb gently traced the edge of her skirt. His touch was tentative, as if testing the waters, unsure but drawn to her in a way that seemed almost desperate. “Are you sure…?”

The question hung in the air, laden with unspoken meaning. She met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest. Every part of her felt like it was on fire, yet there was a calmness to him that soothed her, a steady presence that grounded her in this moment. His eyes were dark, but not in anger—there was something deeper, something that made her pulse race in ways she couldn’t name.

She nodded slowly, her chest rising and falling with every breath she took. The tension between them was palpable, thick and suffocating, but there was something comforting in how he held her—his hands on her skin, his body so close, yet still giving her the space to breathe, to decide.

“I’m sure,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, but there was certainty in it, something that made the world outside of this room disappear.

For a moment, he didn’t move. His hand remained at the hem of her skirt, the tip of his thumb caressing the fabric, as though he were waiting for her to say something else, for her to pull away, for some sign that this was too much. But she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t want to.

Instead, she reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as she slid her hands under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tension in his muscles beneath her touch. The world outside seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only the two of them in this moment, bound by an invisible thread of desire and unspoken understanding.

He shifted, his hands moving to her waist, his grip tightening ever so slightly as if to pull her even closer. His lips found hers again, soft at first, then deepening as the kiss grew with an urgency that mirrored the fire building between them. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a thousand words unsaid, an aching need for something more.

But even as the intensity grew, there was still a hesitation between them—a respect for the boundaries they hadn’t yet crossed. Neither of them wanted to rush, not now. Not when everything felt so fragile, so precious. The connection between them was something neither of them had anticipated, something that neither of them could quite control, but it was undeniable.

They paused, their foreheads touching as they caught their breath, the quiet of the room wrapping around them like a blanket. His hand, still resting at the edge of her skirt, lingered, waiting.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, his voice low and steady, as if the question held more weight than it seemed.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest, the air thick with the weight of his words. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence envelop them, the intensity of the moment growing by the second. There was no turning back, but as she stood there, with him so close, she found that she didn’t want to. Whatever this was—it felt right. It felt like the beginning of something she hadn’t expected, yet something she had longed for, though she couldn’t fully understand it.

The fire between them wasn’t just about desire—it was deeper.

Something raw. Something that tied them together in a way neither could have predicted.

“I’m sure,” she whispered, her voice barely audible but filled with certainty. Her hand rested on his, guiding it ever so slightly, a silent invitation for him to move closer.

His gaze locked on hers, a flicker of something more—something profound—in his eyes. Slowly, as though every movement was calculated, Cedric slid his hand inside her skirt, his fingers lightly brushing the fabric of her knickers. His touch was soft at first, but the underlying tension was clear.

The air between them seemed to hum with expectation.

She felt her breath catch in her throat as his touch lingered. He didn’t rush. Instead, he took his time, exploring the moment with care, as though he were savoring every second, every inch of her. He circled her, she was a puddle and his fingers circled her knickers until he made them disappear and he grazed her entrance until she was writhing and almost on the verge of begging.

His fingers continued to graze her entrance, a soft caress that sent a shiver down her spine. His finger traveled further, one inside gently, and then two.

Her breath hitched, and she found herself leaning into him, instinctively drawn to the heat of his body. He moved with intention, every motion slow, deliberate. She pressed closer, her breath warm against his neck as a soft sound escaped her—half a sigh, half a moan—unfiltered and instinctive. Her fingers curled slightly against his back, gripping him as though she needed the anchor.

Then he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, his voice like smoke and fire all at once.

"I cannot wait to consume you."

The words sent a shiver down her spine, igniting something fierce and fluttering in her chest. His voice, low and reverent, didn’t just speak of desire—it spoke of obsession, of reverence, of a longing that bordered on unbearable.

Hermione’s pulse surged, the heat between them rising in steady, pulsing waves. And yet, despite the tension, despite the flame licking at her skin, she never felt out of control. Every touch, every breath, every whispered word from him was grounding, reverent, as if he was discovering something sacred in her. He removed his fingers and she almost cried out in agony as he licked them clean, and her insides boiled but she didn’t feel overwhelmed.

She felt cherished.

Desired.

Seen.

Like he was peeling back every guarded layer of her soul, not with force, but with reverence—holding each fragile piece as though it were something precious, something worth protecting.

And she wasn’t afraid. Not of him. Not of this.

Whatever they were stepping into, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like an unraveling of something that had been tightly wound for far too long.

Cedric’s grip on her body loosened, but not to push her away. He shifted instead, his movements slow and careful, as if afraid to break the moment.

He cradled her gently in his arms, the way one might carry something beloved. With a flick of his hand and a murmured spell, a thick, plush blanket unfurled across the library floor, soft and inviting against the cool stone.

He laid her down with the same care, his hands lingering on her as though reluctant to let her go even for a moment. Her breath hitched again, not from nerves, but from the intensity of what she saw in his eyes as he hovered above her.

He knelt beside her, the golden light from the sconces catching in the curve of his cheekbone, the tension in his jaw, the unspoken question in his expression.

And then, slowly, without breaking her gaze, he began to remove his shirt. There was no rush, no dramatics—just quiet purpose.

Hermione's breath caught as her eyes followed the slow reveal of him, the smooth lines of muscle, the steady rise and fall of his chest. But it wasn’t his body that made her pulse race—it was the way he looked at her. Like she was the only thing in the world he saw.

Like she was the only thing that had ever mattered.

He leaned over her again, his hands braced on either side of her, and for a moment, he didn’t touch her at all. He just stared, eyes burning into hers with something deeper than longing.

Devotion. Hunger. A tenderness she hadn’t expected from him.

“Say it again,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

Hermione reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw, her touch light but sure. “I’m sure,” she said, steady this time.

And with that, the space between them vanished.

His pants and knickers disappeared, and she took in the sheer length of him.

Clothed, he looked like a god—untouchable, composed, carved from something regal and distant. But nude… nude, there were no words. The sight of him stole the breath from her lungs. He wasn’t some cold, mythic figure anymore. He was real. Warm. Beautiful in a way that was raw and entirely human.

Every line of his body seemed carved with purpose, not for perfection’s sake, but for strength and truth. There was vulnerability in his nakedness, in the way he stood before her without armor, without pretense. And somehow, that made him even more powerful.

She felt her throat tighten—not with nerves, but with awe. Because in that moment, looking at him, she didn’t just see someone she wanted. She saw someone who had quietly, entirely, undone her.

And he was looking at her the same way.

He said nothing—didn’t need to. His eyes met hers, a silent question burning in their depths, and she answered it with a single nod, slow and sure.

Without uttering a word, he lifted one hand, fingers brushing the air with quiet precision. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt the warm hum of magic pass over her skin—gentle, intimate. In an instant, her dress vanished, as if it had melted away into the very air around them.

She lay beneath him, the soft blanket beneath her a contrast to the rising heat between them. The sudden exposure should have made her feel vulnerable, but it didn’t.

Not under his gaze. Not when he looked at her as if she were something sacred.

There was no teasing smirk, no arrogance—only reverence. As if he couldn't believe she was real. As if he would spend a lifetime memorizing every detail of her. And Hermione, in that suspended moment of silence and magic, knew without a doubt—she had never been seen so completely.

He was gentle—almost reverent in the way he touched her. His hand rested lightly at her waist as he leaned in, and then his lips met her skin.

He began at her collarbone, trailing soft, lingering kisses along the curve of her neck. Each press of his mouth was unhurried, deliberate, as if he were trying to memorize her with touch alone. Her breath caught at the sensation—warm, delicate, and achingly intimate. She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the feeling, her fingers curling in the fabric beneath her.

He entered her swiftly, but gently.

They both moaned as their bodies collided. He filled her entirely, as if he was made to fill her.

He moved slowly—agonizingly so. Every stroke, every breath, every brush of his skin against hers was deliberate, controlled, as though he was savoring the moment second by second. The patience in his movements was maddening, a tenderness so intense it nearly unraveled her.

It wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. Like he wasn’t just touching her body, but reaching for something deeper.

Something buried beneath every wall she’d ever built.

His hands traced her like a map he already knew by heart, yet still wanted to explore with wonder. His lips grazed her skin in slow, measured kisses that left trails of fire in their wake, and she had to bite down on a whimper, her body arching instinctively toward him.

The gentleness was unbearable in the most exquisite way. It made her want to scream—not from frustration, but from how deeply she felt it. From how much he made her feel without ever needing to rush.

She never knew something so slow could burn so hot.

He continued to move gently, with the same deliberate care that had her entire body humming with anticipation. Every stroke of his cock inside her, every soft kiss along her skin, felt like an invocation—slow, patient, worshipful.

But she wasn’t passive beneath him. No—Hermione met his touch with a fervor that surprised even her. Her hands roamed his back, clutching at him, drawing him closer, responding to every kiss with one of her own, breathless and eager. Her lips found the hollow of his throat, the edge of his jaw, anywhere she could reach, each kiss hungry with the longing she could no longer contain.

The slow burn between them began to shift.

Grow.

Their rhythm changed—not all at once, but like a flame catching wind. What had been slow and reverent turned heated, intense.

His kisses deepened, and his strokes grew bolder, mapping her body with more urgency. Every touch now felt charged, ignited by the fire they’d been building with such aching restraint.

The world around them blurred, melted away, until there was nothing but the two of them—breathless, tangled, consumed by a storm neither had expected but both were powerless to resist.

He moaned in her ear, the sound low and raw, and it sent a tremor through her. There was something so vulnerable about it—so real. It wasn’t just desire; it was need, connection, the sound of him losing himself in her, just as she was in him.

She met his rhythm fervently, her body moving in perfect sync with his, as if they had always known each other this way. Every shift, every press of skin against skin, was instinctive.

Natural.

Her breath caught as he murmured something unintelligible against her neck, his voice thick with emotion, with heat.

The rhythm between them was no longer gentle—it was desperate. Fervent. She clung to him, nails pressing into his back, her lips finding his again in a kiss that was all hunger and no hesitation. And still, beneath the intensity, there was tenderness. Even now, he held her like she was something precious.

She wasn’t sure how long it lasted—minutes, hours, a lifetime. Time seemed to dissolve around them, the world narrowing to the heat of their bodies and the way they moved together, perfectly in sync.

It felt endless… and yet, somehow, not nearly long enough.

Every breath was ragged, every touch electric. The tension built, wave after wave, until it was unbearable, consuming. Hermione clung to him, heart racing, fingers tangled in his hair, her body trembling beneath his as the fire between them blazed hotter, higher, until—

They both cried out, the sound raw and unrestrained, their voices tangled in the silence like a vow. It wasn’t just release—it was surrender.

They were undone together, caught in the same crashing wave of passion and need and something deeper, something that wrapped around them like magic.

She felt him shudder against her, his body trembling with the final waves of release, and instinctively, she held him tighter. Her fingers curled around his back, her cheek pressed to the damp skin of his shoulder, her own body still quivering with the aftershocks. Her heart was pounding in her chest, loud and steady, like it was trying to mark this moment as something unforgettable.

For a long, suspended breath, neither of them moved. They just lay there, wrapped around each other, bodies tangled, chests rising and falling in time.

The room was hushed, filled only with the sounds of their slowing breaths and the distant whisper of the world outside that suddenly felt so far away.

Consumed.

Yes. That’s what it was.

Completely, utterly consumed—by him, by this. By something that felt like far more than passion, far more than the moment.

Finally, Cedric stirred. He pressed one last kiss to her temple, then gently pulled back, as if reluctant to let her go. He lay beside her, arm draped over her waist, his bare chest still rising and falling as he turned his head to look at her.

And in his eyes, she saw none of the heat from before. Only softness. Reverence.

And something dangerously close to love.

His semen pooled from out of her.

They had not even thought to use contraception.

The realization hit her like a cold wave, a sharp contrast to the warmth that had enveloped them only moments before. She felt her chest tighten, her breath catching in her throat. A wave of panic washed over her, as if everything she had just experienced—the intensity, the connection—had been overshadowed by a single, sudden truth.

Her mind raced, but her body stayed still. She could hear the thundering of her pulse in her ears, the silence in the room suddenly deafening.

She gulped, the action thick and heavy in her throat, and her gaze drifted to Cedric, his face still relaxed beside her, unaware of the sudden shift inside her.

Would he feel the same rush of panic? Would he regret it, or worse, would he not even care?

Chapter Text

All I want is nothing more

To hear you knocking at my door

'Cause if I could see your face once more

I could die a happy man, I'm sure

When you said your last goodbye

I died a little bit inside

I lay in tears in bed all night

Alone, without you by my side

But if you loved me

Why'd you leave me?

Take my body

Take my body

All I want is

And all I need is

To find somebody

I'll find somebody

All I Want, Kodaline

TPOV

Salazar. Fuck.

Tom lay on the library floor beside Hermione, the weight of the moment settling over him like a heavy cloak. And yet, what weighed on him wasn’t just what they’d done—it was something else. Something… foreign. It coiled in his chest and stirred in his blood, unfamiliar and uninvited.

He stared up at the ceiling, brow furrowed, jaw tense. He didn’t quite understand the feeling pulsing through him. It wasn't lust—that had been satisfied. It wasn't victory, either, though something inside him certainly felt conquered. No, this… this was something else entirely.

He swallowed, his throat dry. He, Tom Riddle, who could manipulate minds and twist fate, was at a complete loss.

Flabbergasted. Unnerved by his own reaction. The fuck was this?

But one thing—one truth—shone through the chaos in his mind with sharp clarity:

Hermione Granger was his.

Entirely. Unquestionably. Irrevocably his.

And there wasn’t a force in this world or the next that would come between them.

Not time, not blood, not even the girl herself. He wouldn't allow it.

He turned toward her, propping himself on one elbow as he studied her face in the dim library light. Her skin still glowed faintly, kissed with warmth and afterglow.

A stray strand of hair clung to her temple, damp with sweat, and something about it made his chest tighten.

Reaching out, he brushed it gently away, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.

Then, on instinct—strange, baffling instinct—he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

The sensation startled him. It wasn't just physical. It was protective. Reverent. Tender.

Tenderness—now that was the strangest part of all.

He had never felt the urge to treat someone delicately. He wasn’t made for softness. Yet here, now, with Hermione lying beside him—sated, quiet, her breathing deep and steady—something in him shifted. She looked vulnerable in sleep, not weak, but unguarded. Unmasked.

And something primal in him stirred with that truth.

She wasn't something to be possessed like a trophy, polished and displayed. No—Hermione was something else entirely.

Something to guard.

Something rare.

Something that could break.

And gods help anyone who dared try.

She stirred beside him, lashes fluttering before her eyes blinked open. Brown. Deep and stormy.

Still dazed. Still absorbing.

He watched her swallow hard, her gaze shifting from him to the space between them, and he could almost see the thoughts racing behind her eyes—the unraveling, the realization.

“We—uh…” Her voice was hoarse, uncertain. She cleared her throat and tried again. “We weren’t careful.”

Tom’s brows lifted slowly, his expression unreadable.

He stared at her in silence, and she held his gaze for as long as she could before looking away. The weight of her words hung heavily between them.

Then, the meaning clicked.

His gaze sharpened.

And he looked away, nodding once, deliberately. “No,” he said quietly. “We were not.”

Did he care?

Not particularly.

Did he want another version of himself running around, unplanned and inconvenient?

Absolutely not.

They’d need to be more calculated moving forward. That much was certain. And if complications arose—unwanted, premature ones—he would do what was necessary.

He was not above it.

But he didn’t say any of it aloud.

What would be the point?

She would come to understand it—in time.

Instead, he turned his gaze back to her, eyes scanning every inch of her face like it held the answer to a question that had never been asked out loud. There was something maddening about the way she looked at him now—half uncertain, half trusting. It stirred something sharp in his chest, something he didn’t have a name for.

And for a fleeting, disorienting second, Tom wondered—if the unthinkable did happen… would he still want to undo it?

He silenced the thought before it could take root. It was too soft. Too dangerous.

Without warning, his hand slid into her hair, threading through the damp curls as he pulled her forward—not harsh, but firm enough to leave no room for doubt. Then his mouth was on hers, claiming her with the same fierce intensity that had never quite left him.

She gasped into the kiss, caught off guard, but melted into him almost instantly. Her moan vibrated against his lips, a soft, instinctive sound that sent heat shooting down his spine. The stir of her response, the way her body reacted to his without hesitation, snapped something awake in him all over again.

The kiss deepened, no longer soft or exploratory, but consuming. His grip tightened around her waist as he shifted beneath her, lifting her with effortless strength until she was straddling him, and he entered her once more. It wasn’t a request. It was an unspoken command, executed with precision and purpose. She yielded without resistance, without thought, her body folding into his as if she'd been crafted to fit him.

“Cedr—” she breathed, and for a fleeting second, he allowed her the illusion of speech.

“We should—”

But he silenced her with his mouth.

Not violently—Tom was never careless with important matters. But his kiss was final, decisive, a deliberate reclamation.

You are mine, it said. Your body. Your breath. Your silence.

And she didn’t stop him.

Her hesitation melted beneath the weight of his control as he moved inside of her gently, his cock twitching, and her cunt gripping him deliciously.

Her hands found his shoulders, gripping, clinging, her resolve unraveling thread by thread as she pressed into him.

His lips never left hers for long. When they did, it was to trail down her jaw, her throat, each kiss leaving a mark not on her skin, but somewhere deeper—where logic frayed and reason dissolved.

He controlled their pace as he gripped her waist, savoring each stroke, going slowly.

He could feel her trembling.

The soft whimpers at the back of her throat. The heat in her movements, hesitant but no longer shy.

Tom's hands anchored her, guiding her rhythm with barely perceptible shifts. He set the pace—always. Her body responded, pliant, eager, and it stirred something dark and dangerously satisfied within him.

His breath was steady, measured, but beneath the surface, he was coiled tension.

He wanted more. He always wanted more.

But not yet.

Not entirely.

He was not some boy lost to desire. He was Tom Riddle. Every indulgence was calculated. Every step was part of a larger design.

Still, he leaned up, brushing his mouth to her ear, letting his voice curl around her like smoke.

“Hermione.”

Not a question. Not a warning. A possession, spoken aloud.

She gasped—he could feel it, the way her body reacted to the sound of her name on his tongue. The way she nearly crumbled for him.

He liked that.

Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling, and still they held there, suspended in a moment between devastation and restraint. He could end her, ruin her in a thousand ways—but instead, he kissed her again.

Slower this time.

Not to soothe her.

To remind her: He could have all of her.

Whenever he chose.

And so he did.

He had her—again and again.

With a purposefulness that bordered on obsession, Tom took her like she was a secret spell only he had the right to speak aloud. Each time she gasped his name—the wrong name, the only name she knew—he felt a twisted thrill pulse through him. She screamed for someone who no longer existed. And still, she screamed for him.

Her fingers clawed at his back, her nails dragging down his spine as if she were trying to anchor herself in reality. The sting of it only deepened his satisfaction. He welcomed the pain. It reminded him he was still in control of his own body, even as she threatened to pull him apart from the inside out.

He gave her everything she didn’t ask for and everything she craved.

Again. And again.

And each time he came undone inside her, it was without thought, without restraint.

Careless. Intentional.

Consequences? He did not concern himself with such things.

He was Lord Voldemort.

What did he care for biology?

What did he care for fate?

All that mattered was her—them—in those moments of destruction disguised as desire. Her body beneath his, shivering, gasping, undone. The soft, breathless way she said his name—not his name—like it was sacred.

Her voice. Her skin. Her soul.

And still he wanted more.

It wasn’t until she was too spent to speak, until her limbs trembled with exhaustion and her lashes fluttered shut from sheer depletion, that he finally allowed himself to stop.

Even then, he didn’t move from her. His chest heaved with the effort of spent power, muscles tight, every inch of him taut with a kind of quiet fury he didn’t yet understand. Not at her. Never at her.

But at the way she made him feel.

How dare she?

How dare she make him forget everything except her?

She was breathing softly beneath him now, the rise and fall of her chest gentle, almost innocent. As if she hadn’t just been taken apart and remade.

As if he hadn’t just claimed her in every way that mattered.

He hovered there a moment longer, watching her sleep like she was something rare and dangerous, something beautiful that might vanish if he looked away.

When he stirred, the sky beyond the tall library windows was painted in deep strokes of orange and violet—sunset. The shadows in the room had lengthened, stretching like specters between the bookcases.

The sound of distant chanting drifted faintly through the walls—solemn, reverent. The burial had begun. Veronica Shacklebolt’s body would be lowered into the earth now, as was wizarding tradition. Sunset marked the boundary between life and death. Symbolic, sentimental. He understood the ritual, but felt no need to attend. He’d already shown face for politics sake.

He sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders to work out the tension. His limbs ached in a way that was rare for him—an echo of something primal. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment, melted candlewax, and her.

Tom stretched, unhurried, and summoned his clothes with a wave of his hand. They flew to him obediently, reassembling piece by piece. Shirt. Trousers. Robes. His magic was precise, his movements casual. Unbothered.

Then, he turned his head to look at her.

She was still asleep—soft, sprawled across the conjured blanket, lips parted slightly, hair a wild halo around her face. Her dress was discarded beside her. He let his eyes linger on her bare skin for a moment longer than necessary.

There it was again.

That… feeling.

He didn’t like it. Couldn’t name it. But it tugged at him nonetheless.

He stepped closer and knelt beside her, brushing a single, curling strand from her cheek. Then, deliberately, he touched his fingers to her shoulder.

“Up,” he murmured.

She stirred, slow to rise. Her eyes blinked open, still fogged with sleep, and she rubbed them with the back of her hand like a child. She looked around—momentarily confused—then her gaze found him. Watching her.

“Must we really go back?” she asked, her voice rough and quiet.

Tom shrugged, turning back to the clasp of his collar. “No one has come looking. I doubt we were missed.”

He summoned her dress before she could ask, catching it mid-air. As he handed it to her, he knew precisely when she noticed. Her brow furrowed. She turned the dress over in her hands, inspecting it like something had gone terribly wrong.

She looked up at him, sharp and questioning.

“Why does my dress suddenly have sleeves?” she asked. “And why is the skirt longer?”

Tom didn’t blink. “It was indecent.”

She gawked at him, and he could see the faint flush of indignation rise in her cheeks. “It was perfectly fine before.”

“It’s perfectly fine now,” he replied evenly, adjusting the line of his robes. “More appropriate.”

She muttered something under her breath, something like control issues, but he didn’t bother responding.

He watched as she slipped the altered dress on—still beautiful, still his. He had crafted the changes with precision, wrapping her in silk and subtle constraint. He hadn’t meant to. It had just… happened.

He extended a hand to her once she was dressed.

She hesitated for a beat. Then took it.

Tom’s lips barely twitched, the ghost of a smile never fully forming. She could protest all she wanted. But she was here.

And she was his.

HPOV

Cedric took her hand in his, his grip warm and steady, and with his other hand, he tossed his robes casually over his shoulder. He looked relaxed, a bit smug, the way he always did when he thought he'd won something. And maybe he had—because she hadn’t let go of his hand since they’d left the blanket behind.

As they walked toward the library doors, the weight of the outside world still hadn't quite settled back over her. Her hair was a mess. Her dress, slightly altered thanks to him, still felt foreign on her skin. But there was something comforting about the way their fingers fit together, something grounding.

"Let’s go watch a movie," she said, half-playful, half-hopeful—like they could pretend, just for a little longer, that nothing had happened outside those library walls.

Cedric smirked, his thumb brushing the top of her hand. “10 Things I Hate About You?”

She laughed softly, the sound surprising even her. It felt strange, after everything, to still be capable of something light. “You actually remember the title?”

“I pay attention,” he said smugly.

Her giggle must have echoed, because just as the doors to the library swung open and they stepped into the hall—Cedric looking effortlessly polished with a robe slung over one shoulder and her hand held confidently in his—the hallway silence shattered.

A voice. Familiar.

Fractured.

"Mione?"

She froze.

That voice hadn’t said her name like that in months—like it still meant something.

Her breath caught as she looked up.

There, standing at the end of the corridor, was Ron.

His face was pale, as if all the blood had drained from it in an instant. His eyes flicked between her and Cedric—her dress, their joined hands, Cedric's faint smirk—and landed on her like a blow.

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

Ron’s face flushed crimson, his ears going nearly purple as his eyes locked on their joined hands—and then, with a suddenness that made her stomach drop, he pulled his wand.

He didn’t point it at her.

He pointed it past her.

Straight at Cedric.

“This,” Ron said, voice shaking with a fury barely contained. “This is why you ended things with me? How long, Hermione? How long have you two been shagging behind my back?”

His voice echoed down the corridor like a slap.

“Was it while we were still together? Was it me you were lying to while he was sneaking into your bed?”

Hermione’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The words stuck in her throat. The guilt wasn’t clean—it wasn’t even true. But it looked true now, didn’t it?

Before she could respond, Cedric stepped forward—calm, unarmed, and entirely unbothered. No wand. No fists. Just quiet, deliberate motion.

He stopped in front of her, not glancing back, placing himself between her and Ron with the ease of someone who did not fear consequences.

His tone, when he spoke, was low. Icy.

“Weasley,” Cedric said, voice clipped and precise. “You’ve had your time. Whatever you were to her, it ended the moment she saw through you.”

Ron's hand trembled around his wand. “I swear to Merlin, I’ll hex you where you stand—”

Cedric tilted his head ever so slightly, not a flinch in sight.

“You won't. Because if you do,” he said smoothly, “you'll lose more than your dignity in this hallway.”

There was no anger in his voice.

No raised volume.

But something in the way he said it made the corridor colder.

A promise, not a threat.

An executioner’s whisper dressed as courtesy.

Ron faltered, wand still up—but his hand wasn’t steady anymore. His eyes flicked from Cedric’s unreadable expression to Hermione’s frozen face, and the fire behind his own started to dim, replaced with something else. Something broken.

Hermione stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on Cedric’s arm.

“Ron, put it down,” she said quietly. “Please.”

His jaw worked, clenched and tense, but after a long, bitter pause… he lowered the wand.

“You changed,” he muttered, barely audible.

“No,” Hermione said softly. “You just never saw me clearly.”

Ron shook his head once, then turned and walked away, stiff and silent, his footsteps echoing long after he was gone.

The moment he disappeared around the corner, Cedric exhaled—one slow, controlled breath—and turned back to her.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice now gentler.

She nodded slowly, eyes still lingering on the space Ron had vanished into.

And then she looked at Cedric—really looked at him.

Not just the way he shielded her. But the way he’d handled Ron and everything like a chess piece.

And she wasn’t sure if she felt safer.

Or more trapped.

***

A week had passed since that night in the library—since they clung to each other like lifelines on the floor between ancient shelves and forgotten histories. And somehow, impossibly, Cedric had spent the night every night since.

Their days were spent carefully apart, but their nights? Their nights were chaos.

Heat. Need. Complicated, tangled limbs in tangled sheets.

Quiet moans that turned into shouting matches with the neighbors in the flat upstairs. Her couch had broken—twice. Her throat was raw from screaming his name into the dark like it was a spell she couldn’t stop casting.

And yet, today, in that courtroom, they had looked at each other like strangers.

Worse.

Like enemies.

They hadn’t exchanged a single glance filled with warmth. No knowing smirks. No touches beneath the table. Just cold, cutting stares across the ancient stone chamber of the Wizengamot. Like they didn’t know every crevice of each other’s bodies. Like his mouth hadn’t been on every inch of her, and hers on him. Like he hadn’t kissed her so deeply the night before that she’d nearly wept.

They’d stood on opposite sides of the courtroom, robes pristine, posture perfect, like they weren’t the two most unhinged people behind closed doors.

In public, they were political adversaries.

And in the courtroom? Mortal enemies.

He stood for capital punishment. She did not.

She could still feel the sting of his words from earlier, each one calculated and thrown like daggers during his opening argument.

“If we are to claim that justice has weight, then let it be heavy. Let it mean something. Mercy is not justice—it is sentiment dressed in robes, and sentiment does not belong in law.” He hadn’t looked at her as he spoke, but every word had been aimed like a blade to her throat. “The law does not bend for those who meant well and failed. It punishes the choice, not the excuse.”

She had risen to respond, hands shaking beneath the table, voice cold and clear. “If justice is without compassion, it is cruelty in disguise. And cruelty has never changed a system—it only upholds it.”

They hadn’t acknowledged each other after that.

Not in the hallway. Not even a glance.

She had walked past him with her chin high, jaw tight, ignoring the weight of his gaze burning into her back.

But she felt it.

She always felt it.

That pull—magnetic, infuriating, inevitable. It didn’t matter how composed she looked or how hard she tried to bury it under principle and parchment. He was there, always, just beneath her skin.

And tonight, like clockwork, she knew he would show up again.

At her door.

Silent. Needing. Needing her.

And she would let him in. She always did.

Because when the night fell and the walls came down, she was no better than him.

Mr. Taylor’s trial was everything—one of the most important cases she’d argued in her career—and the Minister was not on her side. She’d known it the moment Cedric had finished his opening statement with brutal eloquence, and Kingsley had offered him that silent, approving nod.

She should’ve felt proud for holding her ground. But all she felt was pressure—tight and coiling.

She pushed the thoughts aside and looked over at Crookshanks. He was perched by the door like a sentinel, tail flicking slowly, yellow eyes fixed on the entrance.

Waiting.

Just like her.

She glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight.

Cedric usually arrived around nine—never early, never too late.

But tonight… nothing.

Was he angry with her?

He had looked angry after her closing argument—jaw clenched, arms folded, that unreadable expression carefully concealing something far less restrained. She’d struck a nerve. She’d meant to.

But now, pacing her sitting room in silence, barefoot, wine forgotten on the table, the fight didn’t feel like a victory.

It felt like a fracture.

This is an addiction, she told herself. A bad one. One that made her stomach twist when the door didn’t knock. One that made her limbs ache for him even when her mind screamed no.

Her body was traitorous. Her loins, her breath, her fingertips—every part of her was already reaching for him in anticipation.

Where was he?

What if he didn’t come?

What if this was it?

What if he had finally decided—calmly, coldly—that she wasn’t worth the complication anymore?

The thought dropped into her chest like a stone through water—sinking fast, pulling everything down with it.

Heavy.

Cold.

Irritated, she shoved herself up from the couch and stormed to her bedroom. Crookshanks gave her a withering look as she passed, as though disappointed in her lack of patience.

She ignored him.

The moment her head hit the pillow, she regretted it. The room was too quiet, too still. Her eyes found the familiar crack on the ceiling and locked onto it, counting its jagged lines like they might anchor her to something rational.

This can’t lead anywhere, she told herself. It never could. No matter how good it felt. No matter how much her body responded to him like it had been built for it.

They were fire and frost.

Enemies in public. Opposites in politics. In wealth. In blood.

And poor Ron. She’d written him a letter—apologetic, raw, honest. He hadn’t replied. Not a single word. Not even an angry Howler.

Harry must know by now. And if Harry knew… then Draco surely did too.

Unless Ron hadn’t told anyone. Maybe he was too embarrassed.

She swallowed hard.

The guilt curled in her chest, tangling with everything else she didn’t want to name.

Her fingers twitched, already reaching toward the edge of the bed, already calculating how quickly she could get dressed, grab her wand, and hunt Cedric down herself.

Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, I deserve an explanation. Even if it ends tonight.

But just as she swung her legs off the mattress, the bedroom door slammed open with a force that made her heart leap into her throat.

He stood in the doorway like a storm in tailored robes—contained, but only just.

The shadows clung to him, drawn to his edges, as if even the darkness itself obeyed him. His eyes met hers with absolute certainty, like the room already belonged to him.

“Going somewhere, darling?” he asked, his voice like silk drawn over a blade.

Hermione froze, her heart stuttering in her chest.

Then she swallowed.

And exhaled.

Of course he came.

Of course, he waited until the exact moment she was unraveling—until she was pacing the edge of something too fragile to name.

She didn’t answer him. She didn’t need to.

Because in three long strides, he was across the room. And then his hand was at her throat—not choking, not threatening—but holding. Possessive. Certain.

His mouth crashed onto hers in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs. It was fierce, hungry, unrelenting—nothing soft, nothing careful. He kissed her like he was punishing her, like he needed her to remember who she belonged to.

She breathed him in like he was oxygen and she’d been drowning without him. And he inhaled her just the same, like he’d spent the night furious at himself for needing her and furious at her for letting him.

He was different tonight.

She could feel it in his body, in the rigid strength of his grip, the press of his mouth, the heat radiating off of him like fire just beneath the surface.

The first night had been gentle. He’d touched her like she was something rare and sacred, worshipped her with patience and care. And most nights after that carried the same weight—hands that lingered, whispers in the dark, soft praise tangled in sighs.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he came to her like this.

Rage coiled beneath his skin.

Eyes dark.

Unforgiving.

His mouth found her neck, feverish and desperate, kissing her with the urgency of a man starving. His breath came ragged against her skin, his teeth grazing that vulnerable spot just beneath her jaw.

“You are mine,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice frayed with emotion he’d never dare name.

His fingers tugged at her t-shirt, bunching the fabric, pulling it slowly—deliberately—up over her ribs, her shoulders. Exposing her to him again like he’d done a hundred times and would do a hundred more.

Her nipples were instantly hard, and she secretly wished for his mouth to be savoring them. She nodded, breath catching, her eyes fluttering closed as her body arched into his.

But that wasn’t enough.

“Say it,” he growled softly, the demand laced with fire and restraint.

Hermione’s heart slammed in her chest, a tremor rushing through her.

She opened her eyes, met his gaze—dark, furious, aching—and gave him the truth he needed.

“I’m yours.”

It wasn’t surrender.

It was confession.

His eyes flashed—not with satisfaction, but something deeper, something unreadable and consuming. He exhaled slowly, like he was letting go of something he’d been holding back for too long. Then, without a word, he took her mouth again.

His kiss was different now—hungrier, deeper. As if her words had unlatched something feral within him. She felt his hands tighten around her waist, then slide over her ribs, her spine, her hips—commanding, steady, never unsure.

She wasn’t guiding this.

She wasn’t meant to.

He stood above her, gaze locked on hers, and with a flick of his fingers, her knickers vanished—disarmed by silent magic, like a spell he'd mastered long ago. Moments later, he lowered his trousers, unhurried, eyes never leaving her. He was still fully clothed, and she was now completely nude before him.

There was no hesitation in him. Only intention.

He pressed her back against the wall, the cool stone shocking against her skin. And with one swift, fluid motion, he delved deeply inside of her—decisive, unyielding—like he'd been waiting all day for this exact moment.

She gasped, thrilled. He was undeniably beautiful—every inch of him crafted with impossible precision. Powerful, imposing cock. Filling her, claiming her. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as her gaze swept over him, lingering in the dim light. He moved within her slowly—deliberately—every motion controlled, unhurried, devastating. He was… larger than she had imagined. Boldly, breathtakingly so. And somehow, it suited him. This overwhelming presence, this quiet, terrifyingly beautiful confidence.

There was nothing hesitant about him.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Exactly what he was.

And so did she.

Cedric guided her with precision, molding the moment the way he molded everything—decisively, completely. His dominance wasn’t loud or demanding. It was measured, consuming. He didn’t need to speak. Every movement of his body, every shift of his hands, was its own command.

And she followed—helplessly, willingly—gripping against him as soft moans escaped her lips, each one more breathless than the last. His breath grew rough, his rhythm deeper, and she matched it without thought, without resistance.

Because she wanted to.

Because something inside her had already surrendered the moment he walked through the door.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, anchoring herself against the onslaught of sensation. Stroke after stroke.

Her cunt clenched achingly around his perfect cock. Every inch of her felt alive under his attention—his weight, his heat, his mouth never straying far from hers. When he pulled back to look at her, just briefly, his chest was rising fast, breath ragged despite how composed he appeared.

She could feel the tension radiating off of him—barely leashed, as if he was holding back the part of himself that didn’t want to go slow. That didn’t care about gentle. And yet, he was still careful. Still controlled.

It drove her mad.

Her breath hitched as he adjusted her weight like it meant nothing, his strength casual, assured. He carried her the short distance to the bed, and when her back hit the mattress, it was with a soft thud and a sudden rush of breath that left her chest rising fast.

He moved above her, smooth and certain, every motion intentional—like his body had already memorized how to move against hers. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question.

His hands found her again, skimming over her skin with maddening slowness. He touched her not like she was fragile, but like she was his—already taken, already known, already marked.

He moved against her like he owned her—like she was his to unravel, to command, to keep.

And maybe she was.

She should have known.

She should have realized from the beginning that shagging Cedric Diggory was never going to be just shagging.

It was magic.

It was madness.

It was everything.

He was a drug, and she was long past the point of addiction.

He moved with that same dark rhythm—slow, controlled, devastating. Each shift of his body carved deeper into her, like he was writing something into her skin that would never fade. And in every movement, she heard the words he didn’t say:

I warned you. You’re mine now.

She whispered his name—Cedric—a broken sound between her lips, not meant to guide him or pull him back, but to anchor herself. Because she was losing herself under his hands, under his weight, beneath the pull of something she didn’t have the strength to resist.

Still, he said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Every breath he stole from her, every place his mouth lingered, every drag of his palm over her curves—it all spoke the truth she had already given voice to.

And Hermione knew—with aching certainty—that whatever this was, whatever line they’d crossed…

They weren’t coming back from it.

***

Hours later, Hermione stood in the bathroom, the soft flicker of candlelight casting golden shadows across the walls.

She stared at her reflection, head tilted, fingers grazing the faint bruises blooming along her neck—delicate traces of teeth and lips that hadn’t known mercy. More surfaced along her waist, dull smudges where his grip had been strongest.

They weren’t harsh. They weren’t cruel. But they were his.

She exhaled slowly, reaching for the edge of the sink. Her mind flipped through every concealment charm she could think of, but most were short-lived. She’d end up reapplying one every hour just to keep herself from raising eyebrows in court the next day.

Before she could reach for her wand, she heard him—bare footsteps against the tile, quiet but unhesitating. And then, like a shadow finding its mark, he was behind her.

She felt his warmth first, his body pressing lightly into hers, arms sliding around her waist like they belonged there.

Cedric.

Still naked. Still impossibly confident. Still completely unapologetic.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He met her eyes in the mirror, gaze steady, unreadable. And then he lowered his head.

She felt his lips on her skin before she could even take a full breath.

He kissed each mark he’d left behind—softly, deliberately. Her neck. Her shoulder. The curve of her hip where he’d held her so tightly she’d ached from it. Each kiss was slower than the last, like he was undoing something only he could see.

And then the chill came.

A soft shimmer of cold spread through her skin where his mouth had touched, leaving behind a tingle, a strange sort of magic—gentle but old. Ancient. One by one, the bruises faded, dissolving under the faint silver light until her skin looked untouched, unmarked.

Her brows lifted. Her breath caught.

“How did you do that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes still locked on the mirror.

He didn’t stop kissing her. He just smirked against her skin, the warmth of his breath curling against her collarbone.

“Old magic,” he murmured. “Takes more than a wand to erase what I leave behind.”

Her breath faltered.

She opened her mouth—to ask what sort of old magic, where he learned it, was it dark, was it safe—but she didn’t get the chance.

He flicked the shower on with a snap of his fingers, water rushing behind the curtain, and in the next breath, he was pulling her toward it, fingers slipping through hers with purpose.

Her limbs ached. Her everything ached, delicious and sore and entirely used up. She was well past the point of wanting more. Of being able to give more.

He must’ve known that—because when the warm water began to cascade over them, he didn’t touch her with hunger.

He just touched her.

His hands moved over her back, slow, steady, coaxing out the tension from her muscles with the same focus he used when presenting a legal argument. His thumbs worked into the knots in her shoulders. Down her spine. Over the bruises he’d already healed.

No rush. No pressure.

Just quiet care.

And Hermione, against every instinct screaming for space, let herself lean into him.

Because even if she didn’t understand what this was—this thing between them—she knew one truth with certainty:

When he touched her like this, it didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like being kept.

***

They argued the next morning over what was, infuriatingly, the best frittata she had ever tasted in her life. Golden, perfectly puffed, with roasted vegetables and herbs she couldn’t even identify. He’d woken up early to cook it—shirtless, smug, and far too good at pretending they were something domestic.

She sat at her kitchen table, in his oversized button-down, fork in one hand and an increasingly tight grip on her temper in the other.

She was two bites away from jamming her fork directly into his smug, dark-slated eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Cedric said coolly, “why you won’t just let me walk you to work.”

She took a long sip of her orange juice to stall herself from launching into a tirade. Then she set the glass down, purposefully not meeting his gaze.

“You think I haven’t noticed you trying to tail me most mornings?” she said. “You know why. You’re the opposition. I don’t want you anywhere near my office, or anyone thinking for one second that we’re—”

She stopped herself. She didn’t even know what they were, much less what she was willing to call it aloud.

He raised a brow, cutting into his own plate with far too much elegance for someone so aggravating. “Can you at least tell me where your office is?”

She shook her head without hesitation, stabbing another bite of frittata like it had personally offended her.

“Who is your mysterious investor, then?” he asked, his tone casual—but she heard the edge beneath it.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “You're relentless.”

“And you're secretive.”

And he wasn’t?

She gave a small pout, not because she meant to, but because it slipped through—the kind of expression she reserved for when he poked too close to something real.

He saw it, of course.

He always saw everything.

That only made her more irritated.

She pushed her chair back with a scrape and stood, walking her plate to the sink.

“You don't get to have access to everything,” she said over her shoulder. “Just because you know what I sound like when I’m falling apart doesn’t mean you get to walk me to work like we’re some storybook couple.”

Behind her, he didn’t move. Just watched her.

And she could feel it—his gaze crawling over her like it always did. Calculated. Controlled. Possessive.

“Storybook couples,” he said at last, “don’t argue over frittatas.”

She turned to him, one brow arched. “No. They argue over who gets to poison the apple.”

He smiled.

And it was the most dangerous thing in the room.

***

Weeks past.

They were overwhelmed.

Stretched thin, running on caffeine and adrenaline, barely keeping their heads above water. And despite the growing pressure, Hermione Granger had the distinct, surreal honor of being the solicitor for the most infamous living wizard at the time.

At least the most infamous one still breathing.

She shuddered at the thought of the last villain who had graced their world—whose name still sent a chill through the room when spoken aloud, even now.

He was gone.

Thank Merlin.

But now, there was Mr. Taylor.

He was everywhere—splashed across every front page in the country, headlines twisted in red ink and panic. Infamy, it turned out, was still fame. And Hermione’s firm was now in the spotlight not just because of her war record, or her name, or her relentless politics—but because she’d taken on the kind of case no one else wanted. The kind of client people whispered about.

It didn’t matter that she was right. It didn’t matter that the law should protect the vulnerable. Not when the public had already made up its mind.

Her name was stamped on every headline. Hermione Granger, Defender of the Damned.

Which meant the caseload was impossible.

Their office—only a few months old and already bursting at the seams—was painstakingly overwhelmed. Files stacked to the ceiling. Letters unanswered. Meetings triple-booked. And no matter how much she worked, how fast she moved, it never seemed to be enough.

The biggest case, of course, was Mr. Taylor’s. And looming beside it like a shadow: her oppositional bill to Cedric Diggory’s. The political battle had become just as consuming as the legal one. Every time she saw his name on parchment or caught sight of him across the courtroom, her stomach twisted.

They were at war in two places at once: the courts, and the press.

And Edward—thankfully—had stepped in. He’d pushed to bring on more staff, and fast. Alicia Spinnet and Dorian Blackwood had been hired almost overnight. Both competent. Both sharp. And both needed if they were going to survive the month without someone collapsing in the stairwell.

Hermione exhaled and rubbed her temples.

The real weight wasn’t just in the work. It was in the lines being drawn—in the quiet stares she caught from Ministry officials who used to call her friend. In the rumors whispered through court hallways. And in the way Cedric looked at her now—cold in public, scorching in private.

They were playing with fire on every front.

And something told her they were about to get burned.

An owl arrived, tapping at the glass with what felt like intentional irritation.

Hermione looked up, still absentmindedly chewing the end of her pen—a habit she thought she'd broken back at school, but which had crept back with a vengeance since Mr. Taylor's case had devoured every waking hour of her life. She crossed the room, shoulders tight with fatigue, and unlatched the window.

The owl swept in like it owned the place, dropped a bundle of letters onto the nearest stack of case files, and swept out again without so much as a blink. No patience, no pause. Just like everything else in her life lately.

She exhaled through her nose and scooped up the parchment, fingers already tense before she even unrolled the first.

Harry’s wedding postponed.

Again.

Her chest sank. October, this one said, scribbled hastily in Harry’s familiar, barely legible scrawl. Can’t risk it. Things are getting worse. We’ll talk soon.

She let out a quiet sigh and set the letter aside, careful not to crush it between other documents already fraying at the edges.

Sad, but necessary. There were too many threats circling now. Too many dark corners no one wanted to peer into. Ginny had mentioned in a rushed Floo call the week before that Harry was barely sleeping—staying at the Ministry more nights than not, refusing to go home. The entire Auror department was on edge.

Mysterious deaths. Disappearances. Mutilated bodies.

Some bearing marks. Not just scars—marks. The kind no one wanted to speak aloud. The kind history hadn't forgotten.

And now, apparently, they'd found Theodore Nott Senior.

Her brows drew together, tension curling low in her spine. If that rumor was true, she could only imagine what Draco was feeling. He and the rest of that once-gilded inner circle had been walking tightropes since the war ended—trying, failing, and trying again to distance themselves from legacies soaked in shadow.

But blood clings. Especially when it carries a name like Nott.