Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Please note: Certain canon details (such as dates, ages, locations, situation, and outcomes) have been changed for the purpose of this story.

Hermione sighed.

She had always wanted to travel. When she was a little girl, even before Hogwarts sent her an invitation to the infamous school of Magic, she knew there was so much more out there than the perfect little suburb her parents had worked so hard to raise her in. They were simple dentists, both of them, from humble beginnings, whose only dreams were buying a house near a good school with a pretty park where they could walk their dog and lovingly chase around their 2.5 kids. They never were able to conceive again after Hermione, but otherwise, they had never wanted for more.

It was obvious Hermione was different. Not just because unexplainable things would follow her wherever she went, but because she dared to dream big. She would never be satisfied with a normal job, but like other kids her age, she didn’t want to be a ballerina, or an actress, or an astronaut. No, she was going to be the person to actualize World Peace. More specifically, she aimed to be a Peace Architect, she reported to anyone who asked. And how would she do that? They questioned. Well, of course, by traveling the world and making friends everywhere she went. The only problem was, she wasn’t very good at making friends. Adults seemed to love her, but kids her own age often found her to be a pretentious, rule-following, know-it-all. Fortunately for her, that was something she grew out of during her time at Hogwarts, and while she was still unpalatable to some, she found herself loved by many. Funnily enough, she didn’t care if millions loved her. Soon, a small circle was all she cared about, and her execution of world peace had less to do with making a million friends, and more to do with keeping the few true friends she had safe.

Harry Potter was “Undesirable Number One.” And after him, she became equally hunted, all because they had the same vision. A simple life for all, just like the one her parents had achieved, where they could enjoy the small things in life without the fear of the Dark Lord hanging over their head. Taking down Voldemort and his followers was her new definition of world peace, and she was destined to be a part of the plan. She might not have been “the Chosen One,” but it was no coincidence her community had long labeled her “the Golden Girl” when fate had landed her by Harry’s side. No doubt, she was the brightest witch of her age, which is why Harry let her lead the Horcrux hunt whenever he nor Ron could agree on the next step.

It was her alone that packed their belongings with the tricky extension charm she placed on her unassuming clutch. Hermione was the one who figured out how to destroy the Horcruxes, thanks to her endless reading and research. And when they were on the run, it was Hermione’s imagination that found hiding spots for them to settle in for short periods of time. They were almost always muggle places that her childhood memories spun; places the younger version of herself had dreamed that one day she’d be able to seek out on her journey to world peace.

Ironically, traveling was nothing like she thought it’d be. There was no luxury about sleeping on a makeshift sleeping bag, or catching your own meat, or foraging for mushrooms and berries. She didn’t learn anything about culture or history, or whatever knowledge the land had to offer. They were on the run, just trying to survive. Sure, she handled it better than Harry and Ron seemed to, but it was still hard all the same.

“How do you do it, Hermione?” Harry asked three days after Ron had abandoned them. “It doesn’t seem to affect you like it does us.”

His green eyes glared at the locket that hung from her neck. They’d tried everything to destroy it before Hermione realized they’d need the sword of Gryffindor or a Basilisk fang.

“It’s not easy,” she said calmly, absentmindedly stroking the necklace with the tips of her fingers. She wasn’t lying— exactly—but it was difficult for very different reasons. It spoke to her, like it did to them, feeding her dark side, whispering how Harry would be dead a million times over if she hadn’t been there for him, or how Ron was an insufferable little mommy’s boy who didn’t deserve her after all his temper tantrums. But it also… it made her feel bloody powerful. She liked the warmth, the fire, the heat that projected off the heavy gold accessory, as if its magic boosted hers to new levels. “But you need a break.”

“It’s almost like you enjoy wearing that thing,” Ron sneered a month later. He had only been back one night after abandoning them for weeks and he already had an attitude again. She told herself she forgave him, but did she? She wasn’t so sure.

“We need to keep all the Horcruxes we destroy. You-Know-Who can’t find out what we’re doing or he’ll make it harder for us to find the rest,” Hermione explained as she draped the destroyed locket over chest. It didn’t feel the same anymore. The dark magic seeped out the second Ron had stabbed it with the sword of Gryffindor, but for some reason, it had become a comfort to her, and deep down, she wondered if any of it still lingered, the same way traces of sand still clung to a beach towel no matter how many times it was washed. “It’s easier to keep track of it this way.”

She was lucky when Bellatrix was so focused on the sword of Gryffindor when they were captured, she didn’t even realize what was right in front of her. Through the torture, the escape, the Gringots break in, dragon joyride out of trouble, and short stay at Bill’s, no one batted an eye. Harry and Ron had dropped it, too, accepting her half hearted explanation the first time around, and hadn’t brought it up since. Slowly, it became a part of her. Just as much as her wild hair, and her need to overachieve. So much so, she even forgot about it herself.

Until the Final Battle.

“No!!” Ginny screamed.

Death Eaters trickled out of the Forbidden Forest and into the courtyard. Hagrid marched out from behind the pack, face beet red, flooded with tears and snot. Shackles clanked between his feet with every step, dragging against the ground, uprooting rocks and dirt. In his arms he carried Harry like a baby sleeping in their parent’s arms. Except he was very much not sleeping. His skin was so pale it was nearly blue and purple and his limbs were dead weight between Hagrid’s hands.

“H-harry…” Hermione whispered in disbelief as she turned into Ron’s side, knees buckling. Ron’s arms wrapped around her loosely, his eyes still fixed on Harry’s lifeless form.

“He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead,” Ron chanted, as if the words would bring our friend back to them. “He’s going to pop up any second, I know he will.”

Hermione almost let herself believe it.

But Voldemort wanted to make his message loud and clear.

“Crucio!” He sent an unforgivable curse Hagrid’s way, torturing him until he was too weak to sustain Harry’s body anymore. Hagrid fell to his knees in pain, twitching and jerking around on the floor, and Harry collapsed in a heap right next to him, statue stiff.

“Let me go!” Ginny screamed as she swung her elbows right and left in a failed attempt to escape her mother’s firm grip. Mrs. Weasley knew what none of them wanted to admit.

The Final Battle was over.

We lost.

There would be no world peace now, or forever.

“Nigini,” Voldemort cooed to his snake, urging it closer. “Dinner time.”

His smile was vile and unhinged, delighted at the sight of Nigini’s jaw dislocating itself to swallow Harry feet first.

It was too much to bear. Hermione was out of Ron’s arms the next instant, her legs pushed her across the courtyard.

“Fiendfyre!” It wasn’t rational, but she did it anyway, ejecting a blue-green Phoenix from the tip of her wand. The fire roared as it snatched the snake with the claws of its feet, incinerating Nagini and her disturbingly lumpy body. She had never cast the spell before, and she shouldn’t know how to control something so powerful, yet, it was a clean, precise hit. Worst of all, it was black magic. Certainly not something “the Golden Girl” should have mastered so easily. But she didn’t care. She was pleased with herself, and she would do it a million more times if she was given the chance, black magic or not. The locket pulsed over her breast as if it was in agreement, and it was the first time in months she remembered that it was still there. It helped her, she could feel that it helped her. It made her better. No, it made her magic better, more potent.

“Sabulum Obscurus !” Voldemort shouted the countercurse right away, but it was no use. A swirling vortex of amber, glowing sand suffocated her Phoenix, depleting it of oxygen until it slowly died, but couldn’t reverse the damage she had caused.

Not even the ashes were left in the aftermath. It was as if Nigini and Harry had both disappeared into nothingness. One second Harry was there, the next Nigini had swallowed him whole, and in another blink, Nigini was just as absent as Harry was.

Silence. Not so much as a breath could be heard.

Cremated.

He had mentioned it to her once when they were on the run. Just in case things… didn’t end well. Harry knew it wouldn’t be realistic to lay beside his parents if Voldemort won.

Hermione knew this probably wasn’t what he had in mind, but it was the best she could do, given the circumstance.

Better than eaten and digested by a snake. Or at least that’s what she’d have to tell herself for the rest of her life, however short that might be.

And then Hermione did something she wasn’t proud of.

Voldemort’s red, beady eyes raked over her form from top to bottom, and finally landed on the necklace around her neck. Fury, rage, wrath weren't words that could capture the level of the pure, loathing, indignation that rolled off his aura in waves. She could feel his emotions, just like she could feel the dark magic that once spoke to her through the locket. So she took advantage of the broken down magical wards, and apparated.

She fled.

She left her friends, the only family she had left in the world, because she wasn’t ready to die, and she knew that was what came next.

She chose self-preservation, like a slippery serpent telling fork-tongued lies instead of proving she had a brave lion heart.

Hermione didn’t know why she did it, just like she didn’t know why she picked the Trevi Fountain to escape to. Maybe it was because the Trevi Fountain was the first location on her 9-year-old-self’s ‘bucket list.’ Her parents had vacationed in Italy after to celebrate their first seven years of marriage, and on the last day of their trip, they found themselves standing in front of this very same fountain.

“It’s magic, you know,” her mother told Hermione years before her Hogwarts invite confirmed such a thing really existed.

The photo of her smiling parents standing in front of the fountain was always her favorite. Even more so than the dozens of family portraits or school pictures they had stacked on the mantelpiece in the sitting room.

“What kind of magic?” she asked, even though she’s heard the story a thousand times.

“The kind that grants wishes,” her father answered. “If you take a coin, make a wish, and throw it over your left shoulder into the fountain with your right hand, your wish comes true.”

She remembers thinking that it was an oddly specific ritual, but she would diligently practice anytime she came across a fountain, no matter where she was, until she turned eleven.

“And what did you wish for, Dad? Mom?” she just wanted to hear them say it because it made her feel special. It made her feel like magic.

"You, of course,” Dad said as he bopped her on the nose playfully. “We asked the fountain to bless us with a child, and poof! Nine months later, we had the most special, intelligent, miracle child.”

Dozens of doctors confirmed it was, indeed, a miracle. Her mother’s ill health should have prevented it, but with magic, anything was possible, right?

“And one day, you’ll be able to go to visit, and wish for the one thing your heart desires most in the world,” her mother promised.

A sting of disappointment washed over her. This wasn’t how travel was supposed to be. Hermione had always imagined it differently, filled with laughter alongside friends or the quiet comfort of someone special by her side. Even if she were alone, there should have been at least some sense of wonder, the thrill of experiencing something new. But right now? All she could feel was a hollow ache, the kind that made her want to cry even though she was too numb to shed a tear. She couldn’t even recall the last time she had truly felt joy. It had become elusive—rare glimpses, fleeting, shallow, like a passing acquaintance she’d run into every so often. For a moment, there’d be warmth, a fleeting sense of familiarity, only for it to disappear again, leaving her wondering if she’d ever know it properly again.

In all honesty, the idea of seeing the Trevi Fountain became insignificant to Hermione long ago. For the past four years, defeating Voldemort had become the number one, two, and only item on her bucket list. But now that she was here, she had to admit, it was beautiful. Even this late at night, when no one else was around to take in the view with her, there was a palpable buzz of energy about it: the water— the marble stone that lasted the test of time— and the Baroque statues, so elegantly detailed, it was almost as if they could come to life at any second. It made her feel… not inspiration… like she had hoped as a child… but wonder. She was no longer a naive kid, who believed magic to be purely coincidental. Yes, there were unexplainable, mysterious things about magic, but more often than not, there was a science about it. And in this case, that science could very well be the ritual her parents always spoke of.

Which is why she found herself turning around and giving the fountain her back. She had nothing of value left on her except for one thing. Her fingers ghosted over the locket. It was the last thing she had that reminded her of who she was.

It was her only connection to Harry and Ron.

It was a symbol of the sacrifices she made the last year on the run.

It was a reminder that she was not the same Hermione she was, even just months ago.

She had used dark magic. And somehow she knew this locket, which had allowed her to become intimate with dark magic, was the reason. It had to go. And if it did? It might as well have been worth something.

A wish. 

It owed her that.

Her fingers curled around the gold accessory with a firm grip, ripping it from her neck and breaking the clasp. It vibrated softly in her right hand, and she wished, with all her heart, she had never seen this stupid locket before. She wished she could have stopped all of this: all the deaths, all the chaos, all the wrongs. She wished she could go back to the beginning and squash Voldemort like a bug before any of this even started. Her grip on the pendant tightened, until the jagged place where the sword pierced it dug into her skin and made her bleed. Her blood pooled around the necklace as it dripped down her wrist.

She wished, more than anything in this world, that she was a child again, when life felt manageable, and world peace seemed so attainable, if only she made the right choices along the way.

With anger, and resentment, Hermione flung the pendant over her left shoulder until she heard it plop into the water behind her.

She didn’t expect it to work, she lied to herself, so she wasn’t disappointed when nothing happened. Nothing else was going right, so why would this? She didn’t have the heart to look back at the fountain before she began to walk away, aimlessly.

But Hermione didn’t even manage a step before the noises started and the ground violently shook.

When she turned around, she watched in horror as the running water turned red, expanding from the center and infecting the rest of the fountain slowly, until the tide raised like waves in the ocean. It was overflowing, seeking her out. She fumbled, taking a quick shuffle backward, trying to dodge the typhoon currents that formed into hands and reached out to her, getting closer and closer.

Hermione tripped and took a painful fall onto the rough cobblestone, forcing her to crab walk backwards in a panicked attempt to escape.

She was too slow.

The water caught up to her.

Nipping at her heels.

Soaking through her jeans.

Engulfing her up to her breast.

And then it dragged her under.

Chapter Text

She wasn’t dead.

Dead people couldn’t ask themselves if they were dead, right? 

Even if they could, dead people definitely didn’t feel immense pain, Hermione assumed. 

She reached up and touched her throbbing forehead. It was wet with something thick, and even a little bit sticky. When she pulled her hand back, she saw red. 

Blood . 

Hermione was bleeding. 

And lying on the floor, apparently. How did she get here?

She didn't have time to think about it. 

War sirens sounded, wailing in warning. 

“Take cover!!” The man who yelled the command nearly tripped over her as he darted to the nearest underground station. 

How did she get back to London? 

It was another question she had no time to answer. 

The floor was vibrating, and somewhere, not too close, but not too far, glass was shattering, and rocks were raining down on the floor with an earth shattering quake. It was so loud. Too loud for her aching brain. Her head felt just as foggy as the dark, cloudy air polluting the sky. The chaos felt all too familiar: The sound of screams— the smell of copper— the sight of pure destruction. 

Hadn’t she just escaped from this? 

“Get up, get up!” An aged woman grabbed Hermione’s hand and yanked. “Please, we can make it!”

Her legs were jelly, but somehow she managed to stand up. A supportive arm wrapped around her rib cage, acting as a crutch while she limped towards safety. When others rushed at them, pushing and shoving them aside, the woman held on firmly, keeping her propped up. She hadn’t expected the woman to help her any further, but she stayed with Hermione every step of the way. This woman didn’t know Hermione, did she? 

The safety of the underground echoed with anxious mummers, quick footsteps, and crying children. Warm bodies crowded her no matter which direction she turned in. With help, she made it to the edge of a wall. Unable to continue to hold herself up any longer, Hermione pressed her back against the cold, hard surface. Her heart mimicked each booming crash ringing above their heads, each thud more agonizing than the last. Lights flicked above on and off, until a final bang caused them to cease all together.

The waiting was the worst part. 

Was it over? No one knew, and no one wanted to be the first to check and be proven wrong.

“Why did you help me?” Hermione asked as they sat in the dark, biding their time. 

“I was only a few feet behind you. I watched the girl you were walking with push you out of the way. If the bomb dropped even a few seconds later, it would’ve been me that rubble hit,” the woman explained in a hushed voice. “Was she your sister?”

“She died, didn’t she,” Hermione whispered, avoiding her question. She didn’t know who it was she was walking next to, but everyone around her died, it seemed. 

“I don’t think anyone could’ve survived that,” the kind stranger answered softly. 

Hermione didn’t ask any more questions after that, and neither did the older woman beside her. They sat in silence, amongst who knows how many people, waiting for the sirens to stop. It wasn't so bad after a while, once she became accustomed to the thunderous explosions and harsh vibrations of the aftermath, except for the acrid scent of smoke and burning debris slowly creeping into the station. 

But she waited. Patiently. Calmly. Quietly. 

It was sunrise when it was finally safe to limp up the stairs and onto the street to assess the damages.

In the daylight, she knew exactly where she was. 

The moon had still been out when she had regained her senses hours before, which meant they had been confined to King’s Cross all night. Ironic, how it used to be one of her happy places, and now it was tainted, just like everything else in her life. 

Instinctually, her hand reached out to her neck, searching for some comfort, but the locket was gone. Instead, her fingers grabbed at a silk scarf that tied in a bow around her neck. She didn’t remember owning a silk scarf, but she also didn’t remember how she got here, so that was the least of her worries.

Little by little, her wits started to come back to her. In the madness of the attack, she hadn’t noticed how different everything, and everyone, looked since she last saw London. Her eyes widened, absorbing every small detail that indicated something was much, much more wrong than she initially feared. 

It wasn’t just the wreckage from the explosions that felt jarring. It was the women, in silk blouses and high waisted skirts, rushing to get home to their families. Or the police men, in double-breasted wool tunic jackets, clearing rubble and bodies off the street. 

If Hermione’s head ached before, it felt like it was ready to explode now.

The question she should have been asking herself this whole time instead of ‘where is she’ is ‘when is she!’

She truly thought she might faint. 

“Do you need some place to stay?” The stranger from before reappeared next to her. “Until you make your way home, that is.”

How had Hermione not noticed this lady’s appearance before? 

She wore a pastel blue knee length floral dress that hugged her waist with modest black pumps. Each leg had a line drawn down the back to simulate the stockings she was missing. Her cheeks had a dash of rouge and her lipstick was rose red. At the top of her head sat two victory rolls. 

All clues hinted that Hermione had somehow landed herself in the 1940’s.

“You’re probably too weak to apparate,” the lady said gently, her hand landing on Hermione’s shoulder. “And to be frank, you look a bit shell shocked, Dear.”

Hermione’s eyes snapped up at the woman. 

Apparate? 

“How can you tell?” Hermione asked defensively. 

“You hit your head on that curb pretty hard. Not to mention you can barely walk,” the woman observed. 

“No,” Hermione said firmly. “How can you tell I… I can apparate?” She wouldn’t use the word ‘witch’ out in the daylight of the Muggle world like this, even though it was clear no one else was paying much attention to them. 

“Well I suppose you do look a bit young,” she pondered aloud. “But from the way you were knocking back those shots of Fire Whisky at the Leaky Cauldron with your… sister?” the witch paused, waiting for Hermione to agree with her assumption or correct her, but Hermione gave nothing away. Hermione simply continued glaring at her without offering any more information until the witch continued, “I figured you were at least 17.”

“Who are you?” Hermione asked, a bit too hostile, especially towards someone who had been nothing but kind to her. “Are you following me?”

Not only did Hermione have no recollection of being at the Leaky Cauldron, but she had absolutely no idea who was accompanying her at the time either. Yet, the longer she stared at the witch in front of her, the more familiar she looked. She had seen this woman before, but couldn’t pinpoint where. 

“How silly of me. Bathilda Bagshot.” She held a hand out for Hermione to shake, but Hermione just stared at it, like it was a snake ready to strike. After all, the last time she had seen Bathilda, she was a snake ready to strike. Bathilda wasn’t put off, however. She held it there for an uncomfortably long time, smiling at Hermione warmly. Cautiously, Hermione raised her hand and limply reciprocated the formal greeting. “I know you’re probably grieving, but let’s get you somewhere safe. Unfortunately, the muggle world has become just as dangerous as the Wizarding world these past years.”

Hermione nodded weakly. 

She had nowhere to go, and no one to count on, so she accepted Bathilda’s offer without any pushback. In fact, this worked to her benefit. It provided the opportunity to think through how she got here, why she was here, and solidify the details of exactly when in time she had landed. So, when Bathilda offered Hermione the crook of her arm, she took it, and they apparated together.

* * * *

Bathilda was a yapper. She could gab all day long, no responses needed, which suited Hermione just fine. A small nod of the head, or the occasional ‘really?’ could keep Bathilda going for days. They made it a month in each other’s company before Bathilda was determined to learn more about her house guest. 

Just like every other morning, Bathilda had fixed up two English breakfasts and placed them on the formal dining table for just her and Hermione to enjoy. It had become a pleasant ritual Hermione started to cherish. 

“Hermione,” Bathilda started with. Hermione’s name and age was the only truth Bathilda knew about her. Otherwise, Hermione avoided talking about herself as much as possible, and often fell back on her fabricated story of being raised by her sister after their parents had been murdered during Grindlewald’s terror. “Where did you go to school?”

“I was homeschooled,” Hermione lied. She knew Hogwarts wouldn’t have records of her attending since she hadn’t attended until 1991 and it was only 1944.

“I figured as much,” Bathilda sighed. 

“Is that a problem?” Hermione asked suspiciously. Perhaps she should have said she went to Ilvermorny, but she knew practically nothing about it, so the risk of being caught in a lie would be too high. 

“The only trouble with homeschooling is you may find career options a bit… lacking,” Bathilda explained. 

Hermione looked down at her food. She forked some beans before letting them fall off her utensil, trying to make herself look busy. 

“Are you sure you don’t have any extended family? The Dagworth-Granger’s are very famous potioneers. Could be a family trait, if you choose to pursue it,” Bathilda threw out encouragingly.   

“Not that I know of. We were on the run as long as I could remember. We traveling from place to place to keep out of danger.” Hermione took a large bite of sausage. If she kept her mouth full Bathilda wouldn’t expect her to answer any more questions.

“Did you like being a traveler? Or is there something else you’d like to do with your life?” Bathilda continued to pry. “It’s never too early to start making plans for yourself.”

“I see,” Hermione sighed. Maybe her welcome had finally worn out. “I can leave—," Hermione didn't get a chance to finish her sentence.

“It’s not that I mind caring for you,” Bathilda explains with a warm smile. “It’s been lovely having you as company. I never had any children myself, and everyone in my family passed away quite some time ago. So you and me, we’re in the same boat.”

Hermione nodded, seeing the clear parallel. 

“In my time, witches were expected to settle down with a nice wizard, pop out a few babies, and let the man decide what their life would look like,” Bathilda said tersely. “But you know what? Anyone who thinks that way can sod off.”

Hermione’s lips curved up, letting out a little laugh of disbelief. She had already liked Bathilda, but now she liked her exponentially more. 

“I agree, whole heartedly.” Hermione raised her tea to hear lips in an attempt to hide her amusement. 

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” Bathilda chirped with pride. “So let me ask you again. What do you want for yourself?”

Hermione’s brows scrunched together as she thought. The question caught her off guard. When had she ever made a choice that didn’t factor in Harry, Ron, or her friends and family? As much as she loved them all, in this moment, she was thankful she didn’t have any responsibilities to anyone but herself.

“I’d like to take the N.E.W.T.s,” she finally said. It sounded so simple, but the second she said it out loud, it clicked. Everything she had to sacrifice because of the Second Wizarding War, she had a chance at now, and she wasn’t going to miss out on the opportunity. 

“Excellent goal, Hermione!” Bathilda clapped in excitement. “Have you already taken your O.W.Ls?” 

Bugger.

Hermione deflated. Again, there would be no record of her, meaning there would be no record of her nearly perfect O.W.L results. 

“No problem,” Bathilda assured Hermione. “I’ll talk to a good friend of mine on your behalf. We can probably schedule for you to take your O.W.L.s first and then depending on how you do we can set a plan of study to prepare you for the N.E.W.T.s.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, perking up again. She wanted to squeal in excitement at her luck. She had always been peeved at herself for missing perfect marks on her chosen O.W.L.s, but now was her time to rectify that mistake. 

“Absolutely, Darling,” Bathilda beamed at the lively side of Hermione. “Since you’re still 18, if you pass the O.W.L.s, I may even be able to convince Dippet to let you join the other 7th years to help you ready yourself for the N.E.W.T.s.”

“Really?” Hermione repeated, this time a pitch higher than before. She didn’t want to get too excited, but this felt like fate. 

“Eat up and we’ll take a visit to Hogwarts together. I find it’s much easier to persuade a man of something if you look him in the eye and demand what you want from them,” Bathilda said playfully with a wink. 

Hermione’s smile persisted with each and every bite she took. It was the first time she had cleaned her entire plate of food since Bathilda took her in, and it didn’t go unnoticed. 

Chapter Text

Bathilda’s owl, Heathcliff, came every morning at breakfast, and every time he did, Hermione held her breath. So far, there was no off-white envelope with green ink, and it was starting to drive her absolutely mad. She didn’t remember it taking so bloody long to receive her results the first time around! Hermione was starting to think they’d never come.

Another month had passed since Bathilda had marched her down to Hogwarts and into Headmaster Dippet’s office to request her O.W.L.s testing. At first, he was reluctant to agree. Based on his underestimation of what Hermione may know, it was clear he had a prejudice against homeschooled witches and wizards (not that she was truly homeschooled anyways, but she still didn’t care for the judgment). However, when Hermione pasted on a brilliant smile, expressed how enchanted she was by his beautiful school, how remorseful she was that her parents didn’t allow her to attend such an exceptional institution, and ended each sentence with ‘please,’ ‘thank you,’ or ‘sir,’ he warmed up to her quickly. 

Bathilda took a more brash approach. 

“She can take the exams with the fifth year students next week,” Bathilda decided for him. “I assume they still start the second week of June?”

“They do,” Headmaster Dippet exhaled a defeated sighed. 

“Perfect! I’ll be sure to bring her bright and early,” Bathilda stated before she walked out of the room. 

Hermione stayed back a moment, dipping her head in a small bow to show her respect. 

“Thank you very much, Headmaster Dippet. I appreciate this rare opportunity and I promise to do my utmost to make you very proud, sir,” she vowed.

Dippet’s lips quirked up. He was pleased with Hermione’s formality. “I’m sure you will, young lady. Study up and we will see you soon.”

“Absolutely, sir,” she promised before making a step towards the door. She was just about to exit the threshold, when a wrinkled, brown hat stopped her.

“Ah, Hermione Granger,” the sorting hat said as it was propped on a pillar besides Headmasters Dippet’s bookshelf. Its folds formed a smile, that is, if a hat could truly smile. “The brightest witch of her age.” 

“You’ve met the sorting hat?” Headmaster Dippet asked suspiciously. 

“Erhm, no, not officially,” Hermione gave a nervous laugh, darting her eyes to the sorting hat in a silent plea to keep quiet. “I’ve read loads about it, though! It’s the most brilliant tradition of all.” Hermione’s attempt at flattery working on both, Headmaster Dippet who gave an approving nod, and the sorting hat, who kept her secret from spilling. “I’ve always wondered what house I might be sorted in,” she lied with a shaky chuckle.

“Well then, try it on,” Headmaster Dippet prompted. His suggestion left Hermione breathless. She already knew what house she’d be sorted in, and so did the sorting hat, but the old dusty hat played along.

“Yes, Hermione,” it called out to her. “I’d love to get a peek into that sharp mind of yours.”

“Oh,” Hermione was surprised and unsure how to react. She supposed it couldn’t hurt to simply place it on her head. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

Her sweaty, unsteady hands reached out and picked the sorting hat up off its mantel. It was heavier than she remembered. Placing it at the top of her head felt just as odd as it had the first time. Hermione could feel the sorting hat digging through her mind, examining every memory, every want, every need her heart desired. 

“Very curious, Hermione,” the sorting hat pondered, making Hermione feel even more self conscious, especially with Professor Dippet hanging off every word. “Your courage, your need to do what’s right is strong. But your ambition, your thirst to conquer your goals, no matter what gets in your way, is admirable.”

Hermione closed her eyes tightly. She really, really didn’t want to be in Slytherin, she told the hat wordlessly. Not Slytherin!

“I hear you, child,” the hat cooed to her. “But you have big goals ahead of you. You’re destined to change the world,” the hat went on. Dippet’s eyes grow big and round, he was more than invested now. He sat at the edge of his seat, stroking the tips of his beard thoughtfully. “Gryffindor can’t challenge you like Slytherin will. It has to be Slytherin,” the hat announced much to Hermione’s dismay. “Slytherin!” 

Its decision was final. It didn’t care about what Hermione wanted, it gave her what it thought she needed. She stood there, rigid, in disbelief, until Dippet cleared his throat. As she came to her senses, she couldn’t get the hat off fast enough. 

Slytherin?! How could it sort her differently than it did the first time? Was this her punishment for running? For selfishly choosing self preservation once it was obvious to the entire world that Voldemort had won the final battle? How could one choice, one moment, redefine her entire person? The blood drained from her face. Of course she couldn’t be a Gryffindor. A Gryffindor would’ve fought until the very end, no matter how outnumbered, no matter what the inevitable outcome. In truth, she didn’t even know who she was anymore, but apparently the hat did, and it had labeled her a Slytherin. 

“You look disappointed, Hermione,” Headmaster Dippet frowned. 

“Oh n-no, s-sir,” Hermione stumbled over her words. From the green and silver decor around the Headmaster’s office, it was clear which house he was in, and she didn’t need to insult him before even getting the chance to test for her O.W.L.s. “It’s the greatest honor to be sorted into a house known for their cunning and resourcefulness.” 

She was just plain brown-nosing now. 

“Wisely put,” Dippet said with a content smile and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Make Slytherin proud.” 

It was a kind dismissal. One that she desperately needed. She left his office with torn emotions. On one hand, she was eager to go earn that perfect score she always desired. On the other, she knew she had to sacrifice who she was, or who she thought she was, to achieve it. 

At the end of the night, she pretended not to care about the house she was sorted into, even when Bathilda’s eyes went momentarily wide at Hermione’s admission. Hermione pretended not to know of the difference, and Bathilda just gave a tight smile before she changed the subject altogether. Gryffindor, Slytherin, scarlet or green, it didn’t matter, she told herself. Hermione was going to make a difference in this world, even the sorting hat saw it; she just didn’t know how quite yet, but it would come to her sooner or later. 

So she studied. 

And studied. 

And studied. 

And studied. 

She didn’t care if she made Slytherin proud, she was going to make herself proud. 

“They’re here!” Bathilda announced, waving an envelope above her head jovially. “They’re finally here!”

Hermione rushed down the stairs without taming her unruly hair, eager to review her results. She knew, of course, that she’d pass each subject, mandatory and the optional two she selected. But was it a perfect score? She never forgave herself for only getting ‘exceeds expectations’ in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but at least she had this opportunity to redeem her lacking performance. After years of… practical application… she breezed through all of the fifth year examinations, but even so, she couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious. This was a different time than when she attended Hogwarts, so it was completely possible that the expectations were equally different. 

Bathilda held the letter out to Hermione with a confident grin. If only Hermione could feel the same reassurance. 

“You open it,” Hermione pushed the letter back towards Bathilda before she changed her mind and snatched it back. “No wait! I’ll open it.”

Her host gave an amused chuckle, pulling her hands back as a sign of surrender. “Well, go ahead then,” she nudged her. “What does it say?”

With shaky fingers, Hermione opened the wax seal and shimmed the results out of the envelope. 

Dear Hermione Granger,

We are pleased to inform you of your results from the Ordinary Wizarding Level examinations taken in June of this year. 

Potions- O

Transfiguration- O

Charms- O

Defense Against the Dark Arts- O

Herbology- O

History of Magic- O

Care of Magical Creatures- O

Astronomy- O

Ancient Runes- O

Arithmancy- O

Congratulations on your achievements! Your hard work and dedication have clearly paid off. You are well on your way to passing the N.E.W.T.s! I look forward to seeing what further excellence you will accomplish. 

Yours sincerely,

Headmaster Dippet 

“Hermione, a perfect score!” Bathilda cheers. “You’ve been holding out on me, my dear. I knew you were a clever little witch, but results like these are truly unheard of!”

“Thank you, Bathilda,” Hermione said shyly, blushing a bit. She always loved when professors, or anyone she cared for, sung her praise, but she never knew the best way to respond. No matter how old Hermione turned, she would always be painfully awkward until the day she died, a perfectly acceptable character flaw, she decided.  

“We have to celebrate this kind of excellence,” Bathilda decided. “How about The Wand & Cloak? I know you are no stranger to fire whisky,” she added teasingly.  

“Oh, no Bathilda, really, I’d rather not,” Hermione’s cheeks practically flamed. She was, as a matter of fact, a stranger to fire whisky. Even a single pint of butterbeer made her feel uncharacteristically loose. Hermione couldn’t take the risk of feeling out of control, especially at a time where she was already out of her element and needed to stay sharp to ensure no one suspected her of anything odd.

“Come, come, Hermione,” Bathilda waved away Hermione’s protests, “we have to do something special! Go get ready and we’ll be off in no time.”

Just as Bathilda began shoo-ing Hermione upstairs, a second owl dropped a second letter on the breakfast table. Both of them froze, then their eyes darted to the mail at the same time. Hermione didn’t recognize the owl that delivered the message, and by her friend's silence, she assumed Bathilda hadn’t either. Then, Bathilda’s lips parted in happy surprise, while Hermione simply stared, wide eyed.

“Another white and green letter.” Bathilda smirked. “Imagine that!”

Hope soared in Hermione’s heart. Bathilda had mentioned that Hermione may possibly receive an invitation to finish her final year at Hogwarts if she performed well enough on her O.W.L.s, but never in a million years did she believe that would actually be true. After all, everything in her life had always gone sideways up until now. But here, sure enough, was a second letter with the Hogwarts wax seal. Unquestionably, it could be no coincidence that it came right after her O.W.L.s results. 

“Go ahead, Hermione, open it up,” Bathilda encouraged her for the second time today.

Hermione nodded her head, feeling dazed at the possibilities laying between her fingers. When she opened it, she read it twice, before reading it for a third time aloud. 

Dear Ms. Granger,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

Additionally, given your outstanding O.W.L.s results, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to serve as Head Girl for the upcoming school year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

This position is a great honor and carries with it significant responsibilities, including serving as a role model to your fellow students, assisting the staff with school events, and supporting the Headmaster and Deputy Headmaster in maintaining order and discipline throughout the school. You will also work closely with the appointed Head Boy and the team of Prefects.

You are expected to arrive at Hogwarts no later than 1 September, where you will meet with the staff to discuss your duties and responsibilities in detail.

Congratulations once again on this remarkable achievement. We have every confidence that you will continue to demonstrate the leadership, academic excellence, and dedication that have earned you this position.

We await your owl no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Headmaster Dippet 

Only then did she flip past the first page to read the second. There, she found a list of requirements she would have to bring with her to school. 

“I hope those are happy tears, lass!” Bathilda beamed. “Perfect O.W.L.s, Hogwarts acceptance, and Head Girl? Now we really must celebrate!”

“31st of July. That’s next week,” Hermione panicked. “I have to write back right now!”

Bathilda gave a boisterous laugh, “So this is the real Hermione, eh? Type A, I see.”

Hermione was back to blushing. People tended to think negatively of her when they called her type A. It had somehow morphed from a compliment to an insult over her first years at Hogwarts. Even her closest friends hated that aspect of her personality most. 

“It’s not a jab, dear. Some of the brightest witches and wizards are type A. Have you ever seen Olivander when he’s trying to match a wizard to a wand? Without people that are type A, this world would be without much of its greatness,” Bathilda said, soothing Hermione’s nerves. 

She had, indeed, witnessed Olivander match a wand with a wizard, her own wand in fact, but certainly couldn’t reveal that tidbit. Especially because Olivander remembers each and every wand he created, along with the person he hands them off to. 

“I’ll tell you a little secret as well,” Bathilda pretended to conspire with a wink. “I can often be type A myself when I get to writing.” 

“I once read that Nicholas Flamell tends to obsess in a type A manner when working on his projects. Specifically the philosopher's stone,” Hermione smirked, wondering if Bathilda would recognize her reference. 

“My goodness, me, here I thought you had no idea who I was, but you knew the second I introduced myself, didn’t you, girl?” Bathilda giggled.

“I found ‘A History of Magic’ most instructive during my homeschooling years,” Hermione nodded. “I must’ve read it a hundred times. But I have to admit, ‘Magical Theory’ and ‘The Dark Arts: A History’ easily rival some of my favorites.” 

“No wonder you’re so brilliant! Happy to hear I was a mentor even before we officially met in person.” Bathilda teases. “Okay, then, dear. Go write your letter, but then you’ll let me take you out.”

“Thank you, Bathilda, I’ll be quick!” Hermione grinned as she dashed up the stairs. 

Chapter Text

The war had left its mark on the station, the main building partially damaged, but the trains continued to run as usual. As Hermione and Bathilda walked side by side toward platform 9 ¾, Hermione couldn't help but feel a small sense of relief. This time, at least, she wasn't injured—no broken bones, no lingering bruises. Just the quiet comfort of having someone by her side as they made their way through the chaos.

Together, they dashed through the barrier and were met with the sight of the familiar scarlet engine, its sleek frame already hissing with steam, preparing for its departure. The platform buzzed with energy—families exchanging farewells, kids in black robes hoisting trunks aboard, their final waves filled with excitement and a hint of nervousness. Hermione glanced at the clock; there were still a few precious minutes before 11 AM. She clung to those fleeting moments, holding on to Bathilda’s arm a little tighter, knowing she’d miss her terribly once she was back at school. 

“The house will seem so empty while you’re away, Hermione,” Bathilda said, as if she was reading Hermione’s mind, “but I’m happy for you. You’ll get the finest education the wizarding world can offer, and then you’ll pass your N.E.W.T.s with flying colors. Just remember, your future is yours.”

“Thank you for everything, Bathilda,” Hermione said, feeling a rush of liquid pooling in the corner of her eyes. In truth, Hermione appreciated Bathilda’s pep talk.  If it weren’t for this sweet, funny, brilliant older witch, she would’ve been entirely lost. “I’ll write to you as often as I can.” 

“Good, darling, I look forward to it.” Bathilda pulled Hermione into a tight embrace, and Hermione held on just as firmly. This hug was something she needed—just like the comforting hug her mother had given her before stepping onto the Hogwarts Express for the very first time. Despite Hogwarts being her home for so many years, it felt like she was starting all over again. No familiar friends by her side, uncertainty about what to expect from her professors, and the weight of new responsibilities as Head Girl looming over her. It was a strange mix of familiarity and the unknown that left her feeling unsteady.“You’ll always have a home with me in Godric’s Hollow should you choose it.” 

Hermione didn’t respond. She couldn’t, or she was sure her tears would spill over, so she just nodded her head and gave a grateful smile, cuddling her closer. 

A whistle sounded. 

It was now or never. 

Hermione and Bathilda separated.

“Study hard,” the older witch told the younger. “But make sure to have some fun along the way.” 

Hermione grinned. “I will,” she promised, tipping her head in a slight bow before hopping on the train. The wheels started moving before the doors closed, so Hermione stood at the edge and waved until Bathilda was just a small dot in the distance. 

The doors finally closed.

Hermione was on her own now. 

* * * *

The day after Hermione sent her confirmation to Headmaster Dippet, officially accepting the role of Head Girl, another letter from the castle arrived. This time, it carried the gleaming Head Girl pin, a symbol of her new authority, along with a detailed set of instructions outlining her responsibilities. By the next morning, Hermione had memorized the expectations, of course, and carefully pinned the badge onto her neatly pressed robes for the first day. 

The directions had instructed her to meet the Head Boy and the prefects at the very front of the train in the first compartment. Although Hermione was eager to gather with other like-minded individuals who clearly valued hard work and doing what was right, what thrilled her most was the prospect of finally meeting a young Albus Dumbledore. Even if Bathilda hadn't spoken so highly of him, Hermione had already decided he would be her anchor during her time at Hogwarts. True, he wouldn't remember her—they had technically never met yet—but if he had loved her once, surely he would again.

As Hermione made her way through each section of the train, she couldn’t help but notice how many students’ eyes followed her. No one introduced themselves, and neither did she, but she took her time observing each one as she passed. It struck her how little had changed in fifty years; the same types of students seemed to exist across any era. There were the rowdy ones, wrestling in the hallways, others practicing magic on one another to show off what they’d learned over the summer, and then there were the social butterflies, flitting from compartment to compartment, eager to reconnect with friends before arriving at school. A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. She hoped fitting in here would be easier than it had been in the 1990s, but something told her not to get her hopes up.

It had taken Hermione longer than she anticipated to reach the front of the train, but she was still a few minutes early. As she stepped into the compartment, she initially thought she was alone. The space was quiet, and no one was immediately in view. She turned to take a seat, but froze mid-step when she caught sight of a boy sitting quietly in the far corner, his attention buried in a book. His presence startled her, but she quickly composed herself, silently observing him for a moment before deciding whether or not to speak.

“You gave me quite a scare,” she exhaled, resting a hand over her fast beating heart. “I didn’t see you there.”

The boy lowered his book to look up at her; his face betrayed no emotion. 

The first thing Hermione noticed was how undeniably handsome he was, which only caused her heart to beat faster. His dark hair was slicked back neatly, and his eyes—green, but so deep they could almost be mistaken for black—seemed to pull her in. When he stood up, she realized with a start that he wasn’t just a boy; he was a man. Much taller than most boys her age, his slim yet firm physique was accentuated by the way his white button-up shirt clung to his frame beneath his robes. She forced herself not to stare, but it was more difficult than it should have been. There was something about him—something magnetic that made her want to keep looking. Maybe it was his unshakable confidence, or perhaps it was the way his magic seemed to radiate wildly off him, in contrast to the cool, composed way he carried himself. The contradiction between how he looked and how he made her feel left her unsteady, like she was standing on the edge of something unknown.

“My apologies, Miss,” he said, with a slight bow before reclaiming resting place. “Please, take a seat.”

Hermione picked the seat farthest from him on the opposite corner of the room and pulled out a book of her own. She had already read ‘Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection’ a few times, but she was hoping the third time around would still be just as valuable. Unfortunately, before she could get through the first few lines, she was interrupted. 

“The prefects don’t have to be here until 1 PM,” he stated casually, returning his attention back to his text. It was ‘The Art of Potion-Making’ by Libatius Borage, another one of the seventh year textbooks that Hermione was already familiar with, yet was still keen to review. 

Apparently, he thought she was a fifth year student. He had never seen her before, so it was a fair assumption. Hermione hid her smile with her book. For some reason, she liked the thought of correcting him. Maybe it was the ‘know-it-all’ part of her personality she would never be able to outgrow. 

“Actually, I’m Head Girl,” she said with poise, pointing at the title of the book in her hands for further confirmation that she was, after all, a seventh year student. 

For the second time, he set his book down, but now with a frown. His brown knit together in confusion, as his eyes darted to the pin on her robes. She could feel the intensity of his glare from the otherside of her textbook. Hermione pretended not to notice, letting him study her all he wanted. She was used to people disliking her for her accomplishments and overachieving ways, so she tried not to take it personally. 

Abruptly, the compartment door screeched open and in stepped the very person Hermione had been waiting for. 

“Professor Dumbledore!” Hermione practically jumped out of her seat to greet him. 

His brows quirked up, amused at her enthusiasm, stopping Hermione in her tracks. Her cheeks colored, embarrassed at her eagerness. She was acting like a fangirl when she was supposed to be unacquainted with him. She would have to tone it down in the future.

“Ms. Granger,” Dumbledore nodded at her respectfully. “Bathilda has told me so much about you.”

“Hopefully good things,” Hermione laughed.

“The brightest witch of your age, I hear,” Dumbledore says with a warm smile. “Dare I admit, I was hoping your presence would help me convince her to return to Hogwarts as a professor again.”

“Retirement suits her well.” Hermione said softly, unexpectedly emotional. She never thought she’d see Dumbledore again, and now here he was, standing in front of her, healthier than ever. “She’s writing a new textbook. Hopefully it will be of good use to your future students.” 

“They always are,” Albus agrees. “She mentioned a few of them were most instrumental for you to earn such high O.W.L.s results. I have to say, 10 straight O’s is extremely remarkable, young lady.” 

Hermione was grinning so wide her face started hurting. 

“Yes, absolutely! Truly, I couldn’t have done it with her guidance in a number of books. And sir, if I may be so bold, the same can be said for several of your essays and collaborations,” Hermione’s words came out faster than she aimed for, but Professor Dumbledore didn’t seem to mind. 

“Is that so?” Albus laughed jovially, stroking his beard. “And which did you best enjoy?” 

“Hmmm… that’s a tough one. It would have to be between ‘Transfiguration: Theory and Practice’ or ‘The Importance of Muggle Studies,’” Hermione said after a few moments of deliberation. “Oh! Also, your contributions to ‘A Study of Ancient Ruins,’too! There are just so many to choose from, I can’t pick a favorite.” 

“My, my, you may be more well read than half the professors at Hogwarts, dear,” Albus teased. “Please, feel free to explore my personal library at my office anytime you’d like. I assure you, there are many more scholars with more impressive writings than myself, and I’d love to share them with you.” 

“Thank you so much, Professor,” Hermione said, in awe. This went better than she had expected. “I will certainly take you up on your offer.” 

The Head Boy cleared his throat.

Hermione had completely forgotten he was in the room for a moment, but now that she was reminded, a wave of discomfort washed over her again, and she couldn’t quite place why. He reminded her of someone—not him specifically, but the energy he exuded, his magic. It felt as if she had encountered it before. Not only did it feel familiar, but it felt… intimate. And she didn’t like that at all, especially when he glowered at her with such unmistakable disdain.

“Oh, Tom, I see you must’ve met Hermione,” Dumbledore said politely, but lacking warmth. 

“No, actually, we hadn’t been formally introduced yet,” Tom turned towards Hermione and extended his hand.

Hermione reciprocated his action, intending to give him a formal handshake, but instead, Tom turned her hand over and kissed the back of her knuckles. His touch was electrifying. The moment his lips met her skin, she felt a strange heat rise within her, leaving her feeling uncomfortably warm. Even after the kiss, it was as if his magic continued to caress hers, lingering in the air between them.

Instinctively, she yanked her hand back so quickly that it took him by surprise. She realized it might’ve seemed rude, especially given the era they were in, but Hermione was unaccustomed to men displaying such affections, and to be frank, she preferred to do without. Rubbing the back of her hand, she tried to erase any trace of his touch, her movements betraying her unease. His eyes followed her hand with a curious intensity, deepening her discomfort.

“Hermione Granger,” she introduced herself blandly. 

“Tom,” he said smoothly, laying a hand on his chest. His smile was a touch too practiced, like a mask he wanted the rest of the world to see. “Tom Riddle.”

* * * *

The second Tom introduced himself, Hermione blanched. 

Why? He wondered curiously. 

Had someone warned her about him already? Dumbledore, or perhaps former Professor Bagshot, no doubt. Neither of them liked Tom much, although Professor Bagshot only taught him for his first two years at Hogwarts, and her prejudice would be considered mild next to Dumbledore’s. 

Well, that took the fun out of it. Tom liked to play with his food before he ate it, and at first, Hermione seemed like she might’ve been amusing to hunt down before the kill, but maybe he was wrong. He was peeved to still be thinking about her even after they exited the train and were provided a supper in the Great Hall. The first feast was always his favorite, but she ruined it this year. And it was his last year to experience such a luxury. That irritated him even more, he thought as he picked at his roast.

It was settled then. He planned to learn more about this Hermione girl, find her weakness, and exploit it until she was just another number under his thumb. He wouldn’t be intimidated by her ‘10 straight O’s.’ He himself had earned 11 O’s, a truly perfect score, and the Deputy Headmaster had never so much as offered him congratulations, let alone showered him with smiles and compliments the way he did Hermione. Tom’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile as he watched her from a distance. Her connections to influential figures might have allowed her to bypass certain rules and secure her place at Hogwarts for her final year, but she would soon learn that here, in Slytherin, only one person held true power—and that was him.

Hermione had the misfortune of being sorted into his house, and whatever favor she had gained from Dumbledore would mean nothing down in the dungeons. Here, the only authority was Tom’s, and the rules bent for no one but him. The thought of breaking Dumbledore’s prized pet amused him. She was a challenge, one he hadn’t yet decided how to conquer, but soon enough, after a bit of observation, the perfect method would reveal itself. It always did.

From the corner of his eye, Tom watched Hermione intently, noting the contradiction that her appearance presented. Her unruly brown curls seemed to defy the composure of the rest of her. Despite the wildness of her hair, everything else about her was perfectly controlled. She sat upright, her posture rigid and proper, selecting the correct utensils for each course as though she’d been practicing for this moment her whole life. Her fork never made a sound against the plate, and she took small, measured bites, maintaining an effortless flow of conversation.

It irritated him.

Andromeda Black, who surely belonged anywhere but Slytherin, had practically thrown herself at Hermione the moment she sat down. Playing the overly eager welcome wagon, Andromeda introduced herself without hesitation, and within a half hour, the two were already on a first-name basis. Tom ground his teeth. The sight of it irked him. The last thing he wanted was for Hermione to feel comfortable on his turf. Yet, there she was, chatting away like she belonged, and Andromeda was practically ready to braid her hair and trade friendship bracelets.

It was nauseating.

“It’s so nice to have another seventh year witch in Slytherin!” Andromeda gushed at Hermione. “Elenora got married before 6th year and Florence never came back after last Christmas break, so we only have five of us left. Well, six with you, that is.”

“Happy to be here.” Hermione gave her a friendly smile.

“Who shows up here in year seven anyways?” Walburga sneered, tossing her ratty black hair out of her eyes. “Is that even allowed? I’ve never seen it happen before.” 

“I’m here, aren't I?” Hermione said in a falsely sweet tone. “Although I appreciate the suggestion that I’m already making Hogwarts history.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Walburga snapped from across the table. “I was simply pointing out that you don’t belong here, Granger.”

“Well, fortunately for me, your opinion doesn’t matter, and those that do, happily extended an invite to me. However, feel free to address your concerns with Headmaster Dippet. I’m sure he’d love to hear that someone in his own house is questioning his decision making capabilities.”

“Are you threatening me, Granger?” Walburga practically spit at Hermione, leaning over the table to get closer to her. Still, her pathetic ploy at intimidation flopped. 

“Not at all, Walburga. I’m simply sympathizing with your concerns and helping you channel your energy appropriately.” Hermione’s smile grew even wider as she batted her eyelashes innocently. 

Walburga huffed, knocking her plate over as she made her dramatic exit, stomping out of the Great Hall.

Witches . Tom rolled his eyes.

Hermione didn’t even flinch as she waved goodbye to Walburga’s retreating form. 

“That was brilliant, Hermione,” Andromeda giggled to Hermione’s left. “No one ever stands up to Walburga. But be careful, she likes to play dirty.”

“I’d like to see her try,” the girl said. She was so self-assured it was flat out arrogant. Yet another reason to dislike the witch. 

Tom had resolved to ignore Hermione, but it was proving to be nearly impossible. The unfortunate reality was that they both had to fulfill their duties as Head Boy and Head Girl, meaning their paths crossed far more than he’d have liked. Watching her guide the first years into groups, organizing the prefects with precise efficiency, only added to his growing annoyance. She was insufferably proactive, unlike most Head Girls, who typically deferred to the judgment of the Head Boy. But not Hermione. She took initiative, taking control with an entitled air that grated on him.

The list of her irksome flaws was growing rapidly. The one thing Tom had always appreciated about witches was their submission, and Hermione was utterly incapable of providing that. More than once, he had been forced to interrupt her, stepping in to take control of the instructions she had been giving. He didn’t care about the dirty looks she threw his way. He would continue doing it until she was properly trained.

The thought amused him.

She was fortunate he hadn’t resorted to more extreme measures on their first night together, but her luck wouldn’t last long, especially if her defiance persisted. He would enjoy teaching her the meaning of true control.

After they had finished all their tasks for the night, Tom was back to ignoring her. He didn’t want to encourage her self-importance by giving her more attention than she deserved. 

“Tom,” Hermione called to him firmly when he left her behind to head back to the Slytherin dungeons. 

Tom cast a brief glance over his shoulder, just long enough for her to see that he had heard her. Then, without hesitation, he kept walking, making sure she understood the message. He wanted her to feel the sting of being ignored, the deliberate dismissal of her presence. After years of dealing with witches attempting to secure his attention, Tom had become well-versed in how to handle them. Unlike wizards, who responded primarily to force, witches required a subtler approach—an intricate balance of positive and negative reinforcement.

Compliments and praise were earned through obedience, behavior that aligned with his expectations. But when they stepped out of line, like she had, indifference was the most effective punishment. Nothing unnerved them more than being unnoticed, forgotten, insignificant. And Hermione, despite her frustrating defiance, was no different. He would use that to his advantage, breaking her down piece by piece, until she learned her place.

“Tom!” She yelled more forcefully this time, rushing to catch up to him. “What's the matter with you?” she demanded, catching the arm of his robe and tugging until he faced her.

Tom glanced down at her hand where it gripped his sleeve, his expression carefully blank. She wasn’t touching him directly, but her magic sparked in the space between them, inching closer to his, like it was drawn to him by some invisible force. It wasn’t quite as electrifying as the moment when her skin had brushed against his during their earlier introduction, but he could sense the potential for it. If her fingers dared to make contact again, it might ignite the same unnerving sensation.

It had been a long time since anyone had dared to be this bold with him. And those who had quickly learned to regret it. Tom didn’t like to be touched—he found it unpleasant, invasive even. But Hermione’s touch, or the closeness of it, unsettled him in a way that was entirely unfamiliar. There was discomfort, yes, but it wasn’t the usual revulsion. It was something far more dangerous. Something he couldn't quite name.

Tom frowned, still staring at her long, thin fingers twisted in his clothes. 

Blushing, Hermione quickly withdrew her hand, wiping it against her robes as if the mere thought of touching him disgusted her. It wasn’t the first time she’d done something like this. Tom recalled her doing the same on the train, oblivious to how offensive the gesture might seem. For a witch Dumbledore praised as the “brightest of her age,” she certainly had a glaring lack of self-awareness. Tom found it curious—how someone so lauded for their intellect could be so clumsy in the subtleties of interaction, particularly with him. She was either too naive or too bold for her own good, and either way, it would cost her.

“Can I help you with something Ms. Granger?” Tom asked with a disinterested tone.

“Look, Riddle, we’ll be working as a team all year as Head Boy and Head Girl,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “We don’t have to like each other, but we do have to respect each other.”

“Is that so? I don't remember that outlined in Dumbledore’s instructions,” Tom responded, resuming his walk to the common room, and effectively ending the conversation. 

"So, that’s the game we’re playing then?" Hermione shouted after him, her frustration clear in her voice. Tom didn’t slow his pace, didn’t even acknowledge her outburst. His silence only stoked her anger.

"Immature git!" she added, louder this time, before turning on her heel and scurrying off in the opposite direction, cheeks flushed with irritation.

Her insult took Tom by surprise. Witches of her stature didn’t typically resort to such crude words, but they rolled off her tongue with a practiced ease that suggested familiarity. The thought made his lips twitch—almost a smile, though he wouldn’t admit it to himself. He hated to acknowledge it, but there was something about her sharp tongue and defiance that intrigued him. Hermione was proving to be more unpredictable than he’d anticipated, and now he found himself wondering how he might provoke her further, just to see what other unexpected reactions he could draw from her in the future.

Chapter Text

Hermione would have stayed in the library all night if it weren’t for the pesky 10PM curfew imposed on seventh years. She had always felt that rule was pointless—especially for students preparing for N.E.W.T.s—but she complied, if only reluctantly. A neat line of books lay spread out in front of her, each one carefully selected: Chronicles of the Eternal Hourglass: A Study of Temporal Shifts, Winding the Sands: The Art and Peril of Time Travel, Temporal Alchemy: Unlocking the Mysteries of Time and Magic, and Echoes of the Past: Journeys Through Magical Time Portals. At first glance, none of them seemed to hold the answers she so desperately sought, but she had learned long ago not to judge a book by its cover. Hope lingered with each turn of the page, a small but constant ember.

Hermione had anticipated this search, even before coming back to Hogwarts, so she had placed an Undetectable Extension Charm on her school bag—standard practice for her by now. It was always best to be prepared, especially for moments like this, when the answers she needed weren’t as accessible as she had hoped. Even if tonight didn’t yield the breakthrough she was searching for, tomorrow was another day.

Duplicato . 

Her wordless charm glided seamlessly from one book to the next, until Hermione had conjured four perfect copies of each textbook before her. She cast a cautious glance around the dimly lit library; no one could know of her interest in time travel—if they did, it could expose her secret. But determination surged within her; she needed to unravel how she had landed in this peculiar time. The fountain had played a pivotal role, that much was clear, but there had to be more to it than just that. What was the connection between the locket, her wish, the ritual, and the fountain? She was certain that the answers lurked somewhere in this vast collection of knowledge.

Once everything was packed away, she hurried down the aisle, her heart racing with anticipation. She took a sharp corner toward the hallway, ready to dive into her research at home, but was suddenly halted by an immovable force. 

“Oh!” A gasp of surprise slipped from Hermione’s lips as she fell backwards, but someone caught her before she hit the floor. When she looked up at the hero, she gasped for a second time. “R-ron?” she whispered, allowing him to help her to her feet.

“Sorry about that, Miss. Didn’t see you there.” The boy looking back at her was tall and lanky, with a cascade of bright red hair that seemed to catch the dim light of the library. His abundance of freckles splashed across his pale skin added a warmth to his otherwise fair complexion, while his blue eyes shone bright and clear, reminiscent of a cloudless morning sky. A friendly, lopsided grin spread across his full lips, exuding an easy charm that was impossible to ignore. 

Her brain reminded her that Ron wouldn’t be born for another 40ish years or so, but the butterflies in her stomach told a different story. 

“Are you okay?” he asked her when she didn’t respond. 

“Um…Yes,” Hermione managed to squeak before clearing her throat. “Thank you for catching me.” 

“Anytime.” His smile grew bigger, looking at her with interest. “Miss…?”

He waited for her to fill in the blank. 

Merlin’s Beard. Hermione couldn’t look at him and not think of Ron. 

This boy reminded her of the version of Ron she actually liked—not the insufferable, whiny Mama’s boy who often got on her nerves, but the Ron who had stood up for her when Malfoy had the audacity to call her a Mudblood. He was the Ron who had complimented her during their O.W.L. examinations, recognizing her brilliance in a way that made her chest swell with pride. And then there was the Ron who had gazed at her with nothing but adoration in his eyes during their last summer visit at the Burrow, a sweetness she had cherished as they stole secret kisses when no one was watching. This boy, with his easy grin and familiar charm, seemed to embody all those memories—those cherished moments that had made her heart race in ways she had never expected.

Suddenly, Hermione was hit with guilt. 

She left Ron at a moment he needed her the most.  

Yes, Ron had disappointed her greatly when he abandoned her and Harry in the forest during their hunt for Horcruxes, but deep down, she knew it wasn’t entirely his fault. His soul was too pure to withstand the dark magic of the locket, a burden that had nearly crushed him under its weight. In reality, she could easily recognize that Harry would have likely succumbed to madness as well if he hadn’t been a Horcrux himself, tethered to that dark magic in a way that protected him. So what did that say about her? What was her excuse for not only tolerating it but sometimes even craving Voldemort’s dark magic? The questions gnawed at her, but in her heart, she found it easier to forgive Ron when she compared his transgressions to her own. After all, everyone had their breaking points; perhaps his had simply come at a different moment than hers.

She missed Ron immensely, although sadly, she’d likely never see him again. However, the red-headed boy in front of her dulled the pain a smidge.

“Hermione Granger,” she responded, returning his smile, and reaching out a hand. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger.” He took her hand with a soft, informal shake.“Septimus Rhys Weasley.”

Weasley . 

Hearing the name aloud made her heart skip a beat. 

Hermione had seen his name on the family tree in the burrow many times. Septimus Rhys would one day marry Cedrella Arabella Black, and Arthur Weasley, Ron’s father, would be one of their many children. 

“You can just call me Hermione,” she said shyly, tucking her hair behind her ears. 

His eyebrow raised a bit as his smile grew wider.

“Hermione,” he tested her name on his lips. “Then, please, call me Rhys.”

“Lovely to meet you, Rhys.” Hermione wished she would stop blushing already. 

“Head Girl?” Rhys nods at Hermione’s pin. “You’re a seventh year? How have we not met yet?” 

“Yes, I’m new, actually,” Hermione said, starting to slowly gain her confidence back. 

The clock struck 10PM and chimed with a loud ring, interrupting them. 

“I guess that’s my cue to head back to my common room for curfew instead of sneaking off to the kitchen for a late night treat,” Rhys said, running his hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the Head Girl.”

Hermione giggled. “Don't worry, I can look the other way.”

“Hermione!” Rhys sounded like Ron after she punched Malfoy in the face, and it only made her color deeper. “I’m impressed.”

“I can’t deprive a growing boy of necessary nourishment, Rhys,” Hermione teased. “That would simply be immoral.”

“Well, in that case, fancy coming with?” Rhys offered. “I may not be the best company, but the house elves are quite the laugh.”

When she didn’t answer right away, he filled the silence. “Please, Hermione. I might need an escort in case we run into any overly eager prefects.”

Hermione bit her lip and nodded. She knew she shouldn’t fall back into old habits of breaking rules so soon, but Rhys already made Hogwarts feel like home again. Harry and Ron might not be here to make late night kitchen runs with her, but maybe Rhys could be a much needed substitute in their absence. 

“Brilliant!” Rhys swung his book bag over his shoulder and held a hand out to take hers as well. 

“Very gentlemanly of you,” Hermione said playfully, taking him up on his offer.

“Blimey, Hermione, what do you have in here?” Rhys laughed. 

“Just a few books,” she said innocently. 

Thirty two books to be exact. 

“You can give it back if it’s too heavy,” she said to poke a bit of fun at him. 

“Don’t worry, these arms aren’t solely for blocking quaffles,” Rhys joked. 

“You’re a keeper, then?” Hermione concluded.

“The best one there ever was,” he said, confidently. “In more than one way.” 

Was Rhys flirting with her? He was!

“I see you’re wearing green and silver now, but I’ll give you a scarlet and gold scarf for when you come watch me play,” he stated, matter of factly. “After watching me on the field, you might even consider changing houses altogether.” 

“Aren’t we bursting with confidence today?” Hermione laughed.

Rhys gave her another heart stopping smile along with a casual shrug before pausing in front of a portrait of a large pear.  

“It’s a secret passageway,” Rhys said, opening the portal for her to crawl in first.

“Brilliant!” Hermione pretended to be surprised as she climbed in.

The tunnel was dark and silent, an enveloping shadow that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of them. Rhys grabbed Hermione’s hand to lead her to the other side, and to her surprise, she didn’t pull away. The warmth of his grip sent a ripple of unexpected comfort through her. It struck her that such an act, so inconsequential in the 1990s, might be considered improper in the 1940s. They could easily have drawn their wands to cast a Lumos spell, illuminating their path without needing to touch one another. Yet, as his fingers interlaced with hers, she felt a flutter of warmth and security that made her hesitate to break the connection. Rhys had a way of making the darkness seem less daunting, and in that moment, with his hand in hers, she felt an undeniable sense of safety.

When the portal finally ended, Rhys helped Hermione down, and she was met with a scene that felt both comforting and familiar. The house-elves were still bustling about, despite the late hour; on the left, a few were preparing dough for the morning's baked goods, their nimble hands working quickly and efficiently, while on the right, a dedicated team was busy washing the dishes from the earlier feast. As Rhys and Hermione came into view, the lively chatter in the kitchen momentarily hushed. All eyes turned toward them, and the house-elves paused their tasks, offering warm smiles and cheerful greetings. Their welcoming presence filled Hermione with a sense of belonging, reminding her that, despite the whirlwind of changes she was navigating, some things remained steadfast and true.

“Hello, Master Rhys and friend!”

“Hi!”

“Hello!”

There were so many friendly greetings all at once. 

“Hello all,” Rhys saluted back to them. “This is Hermione.”

“Hello, Mistress Hermione!” Every elf in the kitchen chanted in unison, their voices ringing with friendly and cheer. Hermione would usually pause to remind them not to call her “Mistress,” insisting instead on simply being addressed as “Hermione.” But in that moment, overwhelmed by the comforting familiarity of the castle and the chaotic memories of the day, she decided to let it go. After all, their eagerness to serve and their joyful spirits wrapped around her like a soft blanket, and she found solace in the fact that, despite everything, she was still welcome here.

“Hi there!” She waved to the crowd.

They all waved back with happy smiles, and then returned to their work. Only two little elfs paused what they were doing to hobble over to them excitedly. 

“Master Rhys has come to visit Wibble,” a young looking house-elf jumped up and down from glee. 

“And you brought a friend!” the second exclaimed. 

“I did,” Rhys nodded his head happily. “Hermione and I were hoping you may be able to help us out with a few leftover goodies.”

“Blinky can!” The second elf volunteered whole heartedly, vanishing and reappearing within seconds with a tray ginger snaps. 

“My favorite, thank you, Blinky,” Rhys said with a mouthful of biscuits. 

How many meals had Hermione sat across from Ron while he shoveled food in his mouth with both fists, the exact same way Rhys was doing now?

Hermione took one of the freshly baked biscuits and nibbled on it slowly. She wasn’t actually hungry, but she was grateful for the chance to join him on his kitchen adventure, especially since it allowed her to learn more about Rhys. Even in the 1990’s it was rare to encounter a purebred wizard who respected house-elves, but from his brief conversation with Blinky and Wibble, it was evident that Rhys was ahead of his time. Even Ron had been somewhat pigheaded about house-elves in his younger years, but Rhys seemed to genuinely care for them, treating them as equals rather than mere servants. This thought made Hermione's heart swell with admiration; perhaps there was more to Rhys than met the eye, and she was eager to uncover it.

“Will you come visit again tomorrow, Master Rhys?” Wibble looked at him with big, water eyes and a hopeful smile.

“Not tomorrow, but soon,” Rhys said, grabbing a few more ginger snaps to go before he opened up the portal again. 

“Lumos,” Hermione whispered before leading the way.

He grinned at her sheepishly before proceeding to shove the rest of the ginger snaps down his throat to offer her his newly freed up hand.

“Next time,” Hermione laughed. She didn’t want to start sending him the wrong message. Yes, she liked him, and genuinely wanted to be friends, but this was Ron’s granddad for Merlin’s sake. She needed to keep her wits about her or she might accidentally alter the timeline in a way that would prevent Ron from being born.

“Worth a shot,” he said, his words barely intelligible with his mouth stuffed so full.

When it was time for them to part, Hermione gave a little wave, and took her bookbag off his shoulder. 

“See you around,” she told him before she turned back towards the Slytherin common room.

“Hermione, wait,” Rhys called for her.

“Yes?” she asked curiously.

“I can walk you back,” he offered. 

“No, no, it’s fine. The Gryffindor Tower is quite far from the Slytherin dungeons,” she explained.

“Really, I don’t mind,” he persisted. “It can be a bit eerie walking around the castle at night.” 

“That is very chivalrous of you, Rhys,” Hermoine said, walking backwards. “But if anything jumps out at me, I can use my cunning mind to find a way out of it, you see.”

Rhys chuckled and tipped his head. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

Even after she turned around, Hermione could feel his eyes following her.

* * * *

She hadn’t intended to stay out so late, but now that it was nearly midnight, getting caught breaking school rules on her first night was simply not an option. As the newly appointed Head Girl, she was expected to be a shining example of excellence. Just as she was about to put her strategy into action, a voice cut through the air—one that belonged to the last person she wanted to see.

“Tom, you’ve been awful quiet all night,” someone said teasingly. 

“Just getting a head start on my studies,” Tom said in that bored tone he often takes. “You should consider doing the same.”

“As if Lestrange has ever studied a day in his life,” another boy laughs.

Bugger!

Hermione didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping, but she also didn’t want them to see her coming back this late. It was an unfortunate Catch-22. 

Peaking around the corner, she spotted four boys lounging in the common area. One of them, she wish she didn’t know, and the other three she could only make educated guesses about. 

“Who needs to study when you have a face this handsome?” These words confused Hermione, because the boy who uttered them was completely average in every way. Brown hair, fair skin, brown eyes, but in a way that seemed common, like she could find ten more of him on the street with her eyes closed. 

“With a face like that, you should be studying twice as hard as the rest of us,” a boy with greasy, slicked back hair sneered. Hermione could recognize his white blonde hair anywhere. His light blue eyes and pale creamy skin could be mistaken for albino. Whoever he was, she was certain he was a Malfoy. “Maybe then you can actually find a job, unlike the rest of your family.”

“Says the boy who has never earned anything for himself in his entire life,” the third boy said. Something about the way the words rolled off his lips reminded Hermione of Viktor Krum, heavily accented from some sort of slavic country. Just like the first boy, he had brunette hair, fair skin, and brown eyes, but nothing about him was ordinary. His unkempt locks were dark, like ink on fresh parchment, and eyes were haunting, with two piercings accenting his heavy brow. 

“Oh, sod off, Dolohov,” Malfoy scoffed.

Dolohov. 

A small gasp escaped Hermione's lips before she could stop it. Antonin Dolohov sat in the very same room as her now, the same man who had left a lasting mark on her during the battle at the Department of Mysteries in her fifth year at Hogwarts. Instinctively, her hand rose to her sternum, where the silver line of his Cruciatus curse would forever linger as a painful reminder of that harrowing encounter. She had tried countless spells to erase its memory, but the scars—both physical and emotional—remained, a testament to the darkness she had faced. 

Tom slammed his book shut with a loud thud. His head snapped up mechanically before he cracked his head from side to side. 

“Leave me,” he ordered. 

“But-,” Malfoy didn’t even finish the full word before he was interrupted.

“Bed, now.” Tom sounded like a parent disciplining their child. 

“Goodnight, my lord,” Dolohov jumped up first, giving a slight bow before heading to his room. 

“Of course, my lord,” Lestrange seconded. 

“See you tomorrow, my lord.” Malfoy exited last. 

Hermione held her breath, willing Tom to leave sooner rather than later, but of course she had no such luck. 

“And where have you been all night, Ms. Granger?” Tom asked, his voice smooth and slightly mocking as he reopened his text, making it clear he had no intention of leaving anytime soon. 

He seemed perfectly at ease in the common room, surrounded by the rich dark green walls and the dim silver lighting that flickered like shadows around him. The fire crackled behind him, casting a warm glow as he settled deeper into his armchair, which resembled his own personal throne.

Hermione sighed, knowing there was no point in trying to hide any longer. She stepped out from her hiding place, her heart racing as she faced him. 

“None of your business,” she said boldly, walking past him to dart to her chamber.

“Not so fast.” Hermione hadn’t expected him to step out in front of her. “As Head Boy, it’s my duty to discipline you for breaking the rules.”

“Seriously, you’d take points from your own house, Riddle?” Hermione tested him.

“If it will keep you in your place, then yes,” he answered smoothly. 

“My place? I’m Head Girl, not some first year sneaking out after dark,” Hermione said defensively. “Are you saying you never bend the rules a little? ”

“If I do, I don’t get caught,” he responded arrogantly. 

She knew she shouldn’t challenge him. This wasn’t some typical chauvinist wanker; this was a young Voldemort. Yet, with his neatly slicked-back crew cut, tight button-up shirt, and perfectly chiseled features, she found it difficult to take him seriously. As the noseless, red-eyed psychopath of the future, he was undeniably intimidating. But right now? She felt as if she were looking at a pompous male model who thought far too highly of himself, rather than the bloodthirsty Dark Lord he was destined to become. Despite the danger he represented, a part of her couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his self-satisfied demeanor.

“Great, I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Hermione rolled her eyes, attempting to sidestep him. 

“Just because you’re Dumbledore’s pet doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want,” Tom said, blocking her path. “The second you step into this dungeon, you’ve crossed into my kingdom, so unless you wish to feel the bite of the snakes that dwell here, I suggest you follow my orders. If I ask where you’ve been, you answer. Understand?”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. She had passed the point of being simply ‘put out’ and was now firmly into the ‘fed up’ category. 

“Listen here, Riddle. I’m no one’s pet,” Hermoine’s magic flared, and she felt it sparking through the tips of her fingers. “Now, I’ll stay out of your way, if you stay out of mine.”

Tom took another step towards her, forcing her back to the wall. He crowded her so close, she could feel his hot minty breath on her face. She swallowed.

“I don’t think so.” His eyes glanced at her throat before they moved back to her eyes. “Let’s try this again. Where were you?” 

His magic closed in on her, as if it was trying to assert its dominance. Tom wanted to make her feel small and powerless. He wanted to bully her into submission. 

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Hermione reminded herself not to let him rattle her. That was exactly what he wanted, and she refused to give him the satisfaction of winning this battle.

“None-ya.” She smirked. 

“None-ya?” he repeated, his brows wrinkled together trying to understand what she meant. In the 1990’s anyone would’ve understood what was coming next. But in the 1940’s? Surely not. 

“None-ya bizness.” She shoved at his chest, taking advantage of his confusion. 

Tom stumbled back and Hermione used the diversion as an opening. She rushed to her room in hurried steps, and quickly closed the door behind her. 

“ Protego .”

“ Muffliato .” 

“ Colloportus .”

“ Repello .” 

“ Detentus .” 

Her wand traced a swift arc from left to right across her door as she cast every spell and ward she had ever learned to keep unwanted guests at bay. Exhausted, Hermione collapsed onto her bed, feeling the weight of the day settle around her. Tomorrow, she would regroup and devise a better plan to neutralize Voldemort and find a way back to the future. Today, she was just grateful to have emerged from that confrontation in one piece… for now.

Chapter Text

Something about Hermione Granger made Tom want to unleash violence. Not the kind he typically enjoyed—hexes, jinxes, or even the Unforgivables. No, they didn’t feel quite right for her. With Hermione, he wanted something more intimate, more visceral. He wanted to feel her pulse beneath his fingers as he wrapped his hand around her throat, squeezing until the air left her lungs. He imagined his other hand clamped tightly over her mouth, silencing her insolent words. Maybe then she’d stop being so defiant, so infuriatingly clever. Maybe then, she’d finally understand who was in control.

The thought alone made him inconveniently hard and at the worst possible moments. For example, right now, in potions class. He shifted uncomfortably beneath the desk, discreetly adjusting his robe to hide the problem. Tom wasn’t experienced with these types of feelings, and he wasn’t a fan.

“Polyjuice allows the drinker to take on the voice and physical appearance of another person for one hour's time. It takes about a month to prepare, and requires a sample of the target's hair to be added to the final brew.” Hermione said confidently. 

Hearing her voice only continued to exasperate his issue. She would pay for this vile, demeaning effect she had on him. 

“Excellent, Hermione!” Slughorn praised her yet again. “Another five points for Slytherin.”

It had been like this all week. Every time a professor posed a question, Hermione Granger's hand shot up like a rocket, eager to be the first to answer. Normally, Tom relished being the sole voice of authority in any classroom, but he hadn’t even bothered raising his hand these past few days. He refused to stoop to competing with her relentless, almost desperate eagerness. Instead, he decided to bide his time, waiting for her to falter—just once. When she did, he would swoop in and humiliate her with his effortless superiority.

But infuriatingly, that moment hadn’t come. She hadn’t missed a single answer, and worse, they shared nearly every class together except for Divinations. The fact that he had yet to catch her slipping was a frustrating testament to her sharpness.

The worst part, though, was the way Hermione looked right after receiving praise. So smug, so unbearably pleased with herself. She had that same irritating expression every time—a small, self-satisfied smile that curled at the edges of her lips, like a cat that had been stroked by its owner. Her eyes would gleam with a quiet sense of triumph, as though she were basking in the attention and approval, purring with silent arrogance. It made Tom's blood boil to watch her take such pleasure in the professors' praise, as if she had earned it, as if she was his equal.

“Starting next week, we’ll be making a polyjuice potion,” Slughorn announced. “And the student who produces the best one will win a special prize!”

“What’s the prize?” Lestrange, who was sitting two seats over from Tom, inquired. 

“Great question, Mr. Lestrange,” Slughorn said in that annoying, merry voice he always used. “The winner will be presented with one serving of Felix Felicis.” To support his statement, he pulled out a petite vial that contained a gold elixir. 

Tom’s ears perked up at the mention of Felix Felicis. That potion could be invaluable for his post-graduation plans, giving him just the edge he needed to ensure everything went according to his design. Luck, after all, was something he controlled, but a vial of liquid fortune would only solidify his path to power. And lucky for him, he was the best potioneer Hogwarts had ever seen. Winning this reward wouldn’t just be possible—it would be child’s play. With a smug smile tugging at his lips, he mentally mapped out how he would secure the prize without breaking a sweat.

“Is anyone familiar with this potion?” Slughorn looked at Hermione as he asked. 

“The Felix Felicis potion, also known as ‘Liquid Luck,’ grants the drinker a period of good fortune, ensuring that everything they attempt will be successful.” Hermione didn’t even raise her hand before delivering her perfect textbook answer this time. 

Tom rolled his eyes. 

“Right again, Ms Granger!” Slughorn chirped. “Another 5 points for Slytherin.”

Hermione was positively beaming. 

Tom loathed seeing the Granger girl so happy, especially when she gave her brightest, most unguarded smiles to a man like Slughorn. The sight of it made his blood boil. He wanted to wipe that joy right off her face, to tear away the light she carried, to drag her into the same suffocating, unrelenting tides of anger that pulled him under, day after day. The rage that churned inside him demanded an outlet, and Granger, with her insufferable brilliance, was the perfect target. He wanted to infect her with his darkness, to see her unravel, to feel her lose control as completely as he did in moments like these.

“Now, for today, we’ll be doing a warm up activity with a partner to get us back in the swing of potion making,” Slughorn announced. “By the end of the period, I want each pair to hand in a Calming Draught that is either excellent or outstanding quality. Any questions?” 

He barely gave any wait time before he proceeded, but the instructions were simple—so simple that even the biggest dolt in the room should have been able to follow them.

“Great! Select your partner and head over to the ingredients closet to collect the items you’ll need,” he directed us. 

Tom would never do Hermione the courtesy of selecting her as his potions partner, but he was curious—curious enough to see whom she would choose. Andromeda had stopped attending Potions after her fifth year when it ceased being a core requirement, as had most witches. Walburga was out of the question after their less-than-friendly introduction, so that left Hermione with two remaining options. Cedrella Black, a shy Slytherin and outcast of the Black family, or Augusta Windsorvale, an outspoken, proud Gryffindor. His money was on Augusta—after all, both she and Hermione were annoyingly outspoken and didn’t seem to grasp their place amongst the company of wizards.

Abraxas nodded at Tom before slipping into the ingredients closet, leaving Tom free to choose his preferred station. Everyone knew better than to claim the center table in the first row; it was practically marked with an invisible ‘reserved’ sign, bearing Tom’s name. As expected, he moved toward it with an air of ownership, making a point to feign disinterest in Hermione’s movements. Even when he wasn’t watching her, though, he was hyper-aware of her presence, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

Her nose was buried in a book, which was odd given that they had only ninety minutes to complete their task. She diligently underlined key passages and scribbled annotations in the margins of her potions text, utterly absorbed in her own world.  

Tom’s irritation simmered just below the surface. While he respected her relentless pursuit of knowledge, it was difficult not to find it infuriating in this moment. Only someone as pompous and arrogant as Hermione would ruin a perfectly fine textbook by thinking herself clever enough to scribble her own thoughts in permanent ink. It was an affront to the art of potion-making, a discipline that required precision and respect for established knowledge. How dare she treat the book as her personal canvas, believing she had anything of value to add to the centuries of wisdom contained within?

“Partners?” Septimus dropped by her desk to ask. 

Hermione looked up at him and blushed. Blushed! Tom couldn't believe it. It seemed she was at a loss for words; instead of giving him a verbal confirmation, she simply nodded.

“Brilliant!” Septimus beamed at her with a large, dopey smile. 

Tom felt his fists gripping the bottom of the lab table until the edge dug into his flesh painfully. 

When had they become friends? They weren’t even from the same house! Plus, Septimus Weasley was a blood wanker! Tom thought Hermione would be astute enough to steer clear of the brainless sporty types like him. What could they possibly have in common to talk about? Hermione was intellectual—though not up to par with Tom—but certainly more so than most in their year. The only thing Septimus knew how to do was block a bloody quaffle from a bloody goal post.

Tom was fuming by the time Abraxes came back and laid out all their ingredients on the table. He barely registered Abraxes's question, too busy tracking Hermione and Weasley from the ingredients closet to the back of the room. Septimus was such a knobhead he didn’t even offer to carry the ingredients for Hermione, like any true gentleman would have insisted on. The two of them laid out their ingredients side by side, laughing and joking around as if they were in a pub instead of a classroom.

No, this simply would not do. From his usual seat in the front, Tom wouldn’t be able to hear anything the two of them were saying. He had to be closer, to infiltrate their little bubble and remind them both who was in charge.

“Are you listening, Tom?” Malfoy asked, concern etched into his features.

Tom didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. “We’re moving to the back of the room,” he replied coldly, grabbing his things and stalking toward the table directly next to Hermione and Weasley. Two Gryffindors had already started working on their project at this station, but Tom couldn't care less.

“Move. This is my table,” he commanded, his voice low and threatening.

“We already started, Tom,” Cedric Thorne dared to say, his tone a mix of defiance and apprehension.

Tom glowered at him, a promise of retribution flashing in his eyes. Cedric’s insubordination was unacceptable, and he made a mental note to punish him whenever he could corner him alone. A Stinging Hex would be fitting, but the Cruciatus Curse was not out of the question if he felt particularly vindictive.

For now, he simply lifted his wand and vanished the potion they had started with a single, cold word: “ Evanesco .”

Cedric’s partner, Elan Peverell, paled as he leaned over to stare at the bottom of their cauldron, disbelief written all over his face. The potion had been perfectly fine moments ago, but now it was nothing but a memory.

“Now,” Tom said more firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was a threat, and both boys knew it. The air in the classroom shifted, tension crackling like electricity, as Tom's dark gaze bore into them.

Cedric and Elan quickly avoided eye contact as they gathered their things, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and defeat as they relocated to the table Tom had earlier abandoned. Malfoy cast a curious glance at Tom but wisely chose not to question him; instead, Abraxes moved in silence, laying out their ingredients once more and organizing them in the order Tom would need to add them.

Hermione's awareness of Tom's stunt was palpable. Though she pretended to focus on her work, her smile had vanished, replaced by a small frown as she busily completed the first few steps of her potion. Weasley, however, was not as subtle; he narrowed his eyes in Tom’s direction, positioning his body between Tom and Hermione, as if he could shield her from whatever darkness Tom might unleash.

Tom smirked, relishing the moment, and sent a cocky wink in Weasley’s direction. The response was immediate—a deepening scowl from Septimus, who was clearly agitated. But Tom didn’t care; he had gotten what he wanted. Hermione was mostly quiet for the next ninety minutes, save for the occasional instruction she offered Weasley for minor assistance.

Tom’s gaze remained locked on them, particularly on Weasley, who kept glancing over his shoulder, clearly suspicious and ready to react. Each time Weasley caught Tom’s eye, Tom would offer an innocent, practiced smile, refusing to break eye contact until Weasley squirmed under the weight of it and was forced to look away, frustration etched on his face.

By the end of class, Tom felt confident that Weasley would think twice before coming near Hermione again. But if he didn’t, Tom would be more than ready to solidify his message. And he would have fun doing it…

* * * *

Hermione should have been elated that her Calming Draft received the highest marks, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't shake off the lingering tension from potions class, especially concerning Tom’s treatment of Rhys and the other Gryffindors. Watching Tom assert his dominance had left a knot of unease in her stomach. He was intelligent and powerful, but the way he manipulated the dynamics in the room was alarming.

She had seen the way Rhys had shifted uncomfortably under Tom’s scrutiny, and it made her heart ache. Rhys was a good friend, someone who deserved respect, not the casual cruelty Tom wielded like a weapon. Something needed to be done before this escalated further, before Tom turned his attention back on Rhys, as he so often did with those he perceived as weaker.

Hermione bit her lip, contemplating her next move. She didn’t want to jeopardize her friendship with Rhys, but if it meant protecting him from Tom’s wrath, she would make that sacrifice. Rhys's safety was vital—not just for him, but for Ron’s timeline to remain undisturbed.

She knew she had to act, but the question was how. Confronting Tom directly would only escalate the situation, and she doubted he would listen to reason. Maybe she could find a way to talk to Rhys, to make him understand the need for caution. She needed to tread carefully, to navigate the precarious balance of friendship and protection without letting her emotions cloud her judgment.

As she packed up her things, Hermione resolved to find a way to shield Rhys from Tom’s darkness, even if it meant walking a fine line. She couldn’t let anyone else bear the brunt of Tom’s whims; she had to be the one to step in and stand up for those she cared about. 

“Hermione!” Rhys called out, trying to catch up to her. 

She had left Rhys behind after submitting their potion, hoping that distancing herself would spare him from Tom’s unpredictable wrath. The thought of Tom knowing about their recent late-night escapades sent a shiver down her spine. What would he think if he found out she had spent two nights this week breaking curfew with Rhys to sneak into the kitchen for late-night snacks? Or that they’d spent another morning by the Black Lake, quizzing each other in preparation for the History of Magic pretest?

Hermione couldn't wrap her mind around why Tom cared at all about her friendships, especially those with Gryffindors. He had made it clear how little he he thought of her. Yet, she couldn’t ignore the truth: he did care. His scrutiny, his cold gaze, and the way he seemed to take pleasure in exerting control made her feel as though she were walking a tightrope.

“Wait up!” Rhys said when he was nearly caught up. She hesitated for a second, peaking over her shoulder before she decided the coast was clear. 

“Follow me.” Hermione grabbed his sleeve and led him up three flights of stairs until they were tucked away in the trophy room. It was just as she remembered. Dimly lit, dusty, and cluttered with evidence of excellence from centuries of Hogwarts graduates. No one ever came in here during her timeline, and it seemed to hold true in this one as well. Why would they? It was cramped and had a faint smell of mildew.

“W-why are we here?” Rhys' cheeks were flushed, and Hermione realized his heavy breathing had nothing to do with the flights of stairs they had just climbed. 

Oh Merlin… 

Hermione didn’t mean to act in a way that may be perceived as untoward, but this decade was so much different than her own. Couldn’t a girl and boy simply hang out without it meaning anything deeper? Apparently not. 

“I-I just wanted to get away from Tom,” she explained. “He was acting strange, and it would be best if both of us just stayed away from him.” 

Her explanation did nothing to calm the color from Rhys’ face, but he nodded in agreement. 

“Tom’s always been odd,” he said earnestly, “but today was out of character.”

“I see,” Hermione sighed. She figured Tom usually attempted to keep up his cold but polite mask around those outside of his circle, but in truth, she didn’t know much about the young Tom Riddle other than the few stories Harry chose to share with her and Ron. Voldemort she had a more firm grasp on, sure, but from her initial assessment, Tom wasn’t quite there yet, thankfully. 

“Is there… something going on between you two?” Rhys’ asked, frowning. 

“What? No, don’t be preposterous!” Hermione actually laughed at the suggestion. “The only thing between Tom and I is pure loathing.”

“Why is that? Did you know him before you got here?” Rhys pried. 

“No, but I suppose he wasn’t pleased that I didn’t lay down and let him walk all over me when he attempted to steam roll my decision as Head Girl. And likewise, I don’t much care for men who think women should be seen and not heard,” Hermione scoffed.

Rhys grinned in that half smile that Ron used to do. 

“What?” She asked, wishing he wouldn't look at her like that. It was impossible to ignore the way her heart fluttered every time he did. 

“You’re something special, Hermione,” he said softly, looping his index finger around her pinky.

Getting close to Rhys like this was a terrible idea. It went against everything she needed to accomplish while she was here in the past. She should be focusing on dismantling Tom’s future plans to ensure he never became the Voldemort that took over the world as she knew it. But Rhys’ small acts of affection disarmed her, making her a complete melt.

Every time he smiled at her, a warmth blossomed in her chest, threatening to distract her from her mission. It was in the way he brushed a stray hair from her face or the soft laughter they shared over a joke that only they seemed to understand. Those moments felt like a delicious secret, a small sanctuary away from the chaos of their lives, but Hermione couldn’t afford to lose sight of her purpose.

“But be careful,” he warned her seriously. “Tom isn’t just a bully. He’s… dark. And I would hate to see him hurt you or for you to become a target. Bad things happen around Tom, and it’s not coincidental.”

“Don’t worry about me, Rhys. Trust me, I’ll be okay,” she sighed. “Honestly, it’s you I’m worried about. After his behavior in class today I suspect he’ll try to hurt you to prove his point to me.” 

“I’d like to see him try,” Rhys said with contempt. “I promise you, he’d regret it.” 

“Well, perhaps just for now, we shouldn’t be seen together,” Hermione suggested, slipping her pinky out of his soft grip. “Until his attention is elsewhere.”

“Hermione, no,” Rhys disagreed, taking both her hands this time. “We can’t allow Tom to dictate our decisions, that’s absurd.”

He had a point, so she stayed quiet.

“If anything, once he understands that you’re not on your own, and that you have friends here, he’ll be more likely to back off,” he added.

Another good point, she silently agreed.

“In fact, I was already planning on asking you, but now that we are on the topic of enjoying each other’s company, I was wondering if you’d come out and support me during my first Quidditch match next Friday.” He squeezed lightly on her finger tips. 

She didn’t particularly like Quiddich; truly, everything she knew about Quiddich had been learned against her will thanks to Harry and Ron’s obsession with the sport. But even so, she found herself excited to attend, and maybe even a little bit flattered that he specifically wanted her there to cheer him on. 

“Of course,” she giggled nervously, pulling her hands back to tuck her unruly hair behind her ears. “I should probably already know, but who will you be playing against?” 

“Hufflepuff, which means we’ll blow them out of the water,” Rhys said.

“Overconfidence is the worst enemy of a wise man,” she teased. 

“Hermione, you wound me!” Rhys joked back. “But when you see me on that field tonight, you’ll understand where the confidence comes from. 7 o’clock sharp.” 

She laughed and rolled her eyes at Rhys. In this way, he was very much unlike Ron. Hermione would never forget how nervous Ron would get before matches; it was probably the only time in their years of friendship that she actually witnessed him lose his appetite. Meanwhile, Rhys seemed to have an overflowing amount of self-assured faith in himself.

Normally, she might consider such an attitude off-putting, but with his boyish grin and messy hair, Rhys pulled it off effortlessly. He had a way of making confidence look easy and fun. There was something infectious about his enthusiasm that made her want to smile, and she couldn’t help but feel a little lighter in his presence.

“Okay, I’ll go,” she assured him, “but I have to finish up a few things before curfew, so I better get moving.”

“Wait, one more thing,” Rhys said, stopping Hermione in her tracks before fishing something out of his bag. He held it out for her to take, and her eyes widened in surprise.

It was one of his extra practice jerseys, his last name pressed boldly across the back. She recognized it immediately; although on the field, he would be wearing his official Gryffindor robes, she had seen Harry and Ron in their jerseys enough times to know what this was. The fabric looked soft, and the vibrant red color seemed to shimmer in the dim light of the trophy room.

“Wouldn’t that kind of be… kind of a statement,” she questioned, skeptical of his intentions. 

“If you wanted it to be.” Rhys scratched the back of his head as he looked down at his shoes. “It could be.”

“Look, Rhys, I have to be honest with you,” Hermione forced herself to say. As much as she’d like to allow herself the freedom of exploring whatever was happening between them, he wasn’t meant for her. It stung a little that she might have to see him with Cedrella, but that was his fate, and she needed to accept that before things went any further between them. “I’m okay being friends, but my focus really needs to be on school. I’m here to take my N.E.W.T.s, and I want to earn the highest score possible. My future depends on it.”

She had confided a tiny bit about her circumstances to him on their second trip to the kitchen, so he was aware that she didn’t have family to fall back on after graduation. 

“I respect that, Hermione,” Rhys said even though he twisted his lips in disappointment. “Friends,” he promised. 

“Friends,” she agreed, snatching his jersey out of his fingers. 

After all, friends supported each other, right?

Chapter Text

Tom always considered Quiddich to be a waste of time, but he often looked forward to match nights because it meant securing the entire library to himself while the rest of the student body congregated on the field to watch a bunch of tossers pass around a quaffle. 

Tonight would be no different. 

If he was lucky, he might even find an opening to get Hermione alone so he could demand answers about her relationship with Rhys. 

He shouldn’t care. He didn’t want to care. But there was something about her that kept his attention. She was like an annoying gnat that kept buzzing around the room. Everywhere you looked, it was there, and no matter how many times you attempted to squash it, it persisted. 

Tom’s eyes gravitated to Hermione again . She was the only student he knew that was here as often as Tom was, and she always picked the same spot in the back corner of the library, tucked away, hidden from everyone else. It was Tom’s favorite table, but he allowed her to have it for now, all so he could keep a close eye on her. Every once in a while, she would glance up and look around, like she could feel his eyes on her, but he remained invisible thanks to the Disillusionment Charm he’d mastered two summers ago. To the untrained eye, the table to the left of hers was empty, save for an open book. And when she wasn’t looking, he would discreetly turn a page. Unfortunately, more often than not, he found himself too distracted by her to actually pay attention to his text. 

It was absolutely off-putting, the way she chewed on the end of her quill between her pink plump lips whenever she pondered whatever she was reading. And he certainly hadn’t gotten over the way she violated her books by scribbling in them with her big bubbly letters. But what truly fascinated him was how quickly she’d finish her selections. She simply devoured textbooks, and even when she was done with them, she’d secretly made copies for her own personal collection before slipping them in her bookbag for future study. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He’d definitely be doing that next time he was given an excuse to enter the restricted section of the library.  

As much as he hated to admit it, he finally acknowledged that he had spent so much time observing her in the library these past two weeks, he was starting to fall behind on his school work. Well, not exactly behind , but he was less ahead than he would like to be, which was completely unacceptable. So when she took a quick peak at the clock and jumped up to pack away her things, he was almost relieved. Although he might not be able to get answers out of her just yet, he’d be able to study without distraction for at least a few hours while she joined the knobheads at the Quidditch game for the night.  

Tom’s relief was short lived however, because Hermione retrieved a jersey out of her bag, gave it a quick shake, and then stripped off her robe to pull the scarlet and gold shirt over her blouse. He didn’t need her to turn around to identify who it belonged to. Still, the moment he saw “Weasley” printed along her shoulders, his plans for the night changed immediately. 

He stood so quickly, his chair dragged across the floor. 

Hermione’s eyes darted in his direction. 

“I know you’re there, Riddle,” she huffed. “How many times have you stalked me while under a Disillusionment Charm?”

Clever witch.

Even some of his own knights hadn’t figured out when he was under a disillusionment charm, regardless of how obvious he made it. Typically, people ignore the things that make them uncomfortable, and the thought of an invisible person in the room, watching them, was one of those things, even for witches and wizards. 

Tom dropped the spell; there was no use of pretending anymore since she had him figured out. 

“Who said my disillusionment charm has anything to do with you?” He asked sharply. “It’s about convenience and privacy.”

“Is that why you’ve sat at that very table to watch me study everyday for the past two weeks?” She challenged him. 

“Well, my spot has been occupied by a certain entitled, inconsiderate witch that hogs it every time I need to attend my work,” he shot back, stepping closer to her. 

The nearer he came to her, the more his magic drew him towards her. He didn’t like that. It made him feel desperate and out of control, so he took a measured step back again. 

“Hmm, sounds like it might be her spot now.” She mocked him, advancing in his direction. “But I suppose you can borrow it in her absence. Unlike you, she has better places to be at the moment.”

“And where exactly might that be, Granger?” Tom leaned against a shelf to his right. 

“I’ll give you one guess.” She smiled sweetly, pointing at her newly added apparel. 

“I didn’t think you were the type,” Tom scoffed. “But I guess you’re just another Broomstick Bimbo.”

“How dare you!” Hermione seethed, continuing to approach him. She was so close he could reach out and grab her if he wanted. The more he provoked her, the more her magic seemed to pull at his, drawing them together in a way neither of them could ignore. “Maybe if you knew anything about being a friend, you’d know what it meant to support their endeavors.”

“I have plenty more friends than you,” Tom gave a humorless laugh. “And unlike you, I don’t have to throw myself at them to get their attention.”

“Oh you mean your little group of muppets? Those aren’t friends, they’re minions, Tom!” She countered. “Or should I say My Lord ?” She exaggerated the last two words, intending to ridicule his title. 

“Hmm,” Tom smirked. “You can call me your Lord any time, Granger.”

“As if!” Hermione hissed at him, advancing a final step. “I am my own person, and no one will ever lord over me.”

“You say that, and yet, you let another wizard put his stamp on for you all to see.” Tom’s lip curled as he stared at Weasley’s jersey. “And worse yet, you picked a pathetic, weak, dim-witted, twit at that.”

It was Tom’s turn to invade her space. With each insult he aimed at Septimus, Tom inched towards Hermione, until they were nose to nose, in the middle of the library. Although the majority of the school would’ve already scurried off to the quidditch game, anyone could walk in on them and misinterpret their position for something it wasn’t. 

“What are you really trying to say, huh? Should I have picked you, then?” She asks sarcastically. “A cold, rude, sexist, pig who barely has human emotions?”

She wasn’t physically touching him, but her magic pressed insistently against his, probing, testing, charging the very air between them. It was warm, invigorating, like a power he could siphon endlessly, leaving him beyond the reach of cold, fatigue, or hunger. The pull between them intensified, a taut thread ready to snap at any moment, thrumming with a force he could experience in every cell of his being.

“I feel plenty of emotion, Hermione .” Hermione’s pupils dilated when Tom spoke her name. 

Slowly, her eyes drifted to his lips and she swallowed. Only a breath separated them; he could feel the exhale from her lungs ghosting over his mouth. It was the first time he wondered what it might be like to kiss a witch. A fleeting curiosity, one he’d never entertained before. Yet, now, as her magic coiled around his, drawing him closer, the idea slipped into his consciousness, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

When goosebumps rose along her neck, he knew she wasn’t immune to it either. The magnetic pull between them was unmistakable, palpable—undeniable, even to her. Their magic was playing with each other, a dance of power and sensation, both heady and intoxicating. Tom wished he could bottle this feeling in a potion, or trap it somehow, to access it whenever he needed a boost. 

“But the emotion I feel?” If he so much as shifted a centimeter, he could close the distance and claim her lips—but he remained deadly still, resisting the pull with every ounce of control he had. “Isn’t the kind of emotion you can survive.”

“And what kind of emotion is that?” She whispered, her voice barely audible, eyelids hooded, and chest heaving as if she were struggling to steady her breath.

Suddenly, Tom grabbed the collar of Weasley’s shirt between his fists and ripped it in two, right down the middle. 

Hermione shrieked in surprise. 

“Anger.”

“Tom!” she cried in disbelief.

Tom yanked the remains from her arms and shredded it one more time for good measure. 

“Hate.” 

Using wordless magic, he set the fragments on fire and tossed it to the ground until it burned to ash. 

“What are you doing?!” The pure terror in her eyes was unmistakable, and it sent a sharp thrill through him. That would teach her not to underestimate him again.

“Possession.” 

He took a step back from her, breaking whatever connection their magic had manifested. 

“Stay away from the Weasley boy, Granger, or next time? It’ll be him instead of the shirt.”

Hermione was finally speechless. 

Tom turned on his heel, placed a hand in his pocket and casually made his exit. 

He did, indeed, have better places to be, despite what she might think. 

* * * *

Hermione was an hour late by the time she made it to the Quidditch field. She would’ve only been 30 minutes late if it hadn’t taken her an extra half hour to gather her bearings after Tom’s little temper tantrum. He had completely entrapped her in his presence, his gravitational pull drawing her into his orbit, holding her captive in a moment that felt both thrilling and dangerous. She could not, for the life of her, understand what had overcome her in the moment, and truthfully she was still a bit shaken from the way his presence made her feel: chaotic, invigorated, powerful. His magic heightened her awareness of how attainable her goals were, if only she dared to explore darker methods than she typically entertained. it was the same feeling Tom's locket gave her the many months he wore it strung over her chest, but stronger. 

It was unwise to allow herself to be so close to him; she had left herself too vulnerable, making the mistake of underestimating how truly insane Tom Riddle was. Hermione had to remind herself, again , this wasn’t just any other angsty school boy, this was Voldemort in his early years. Most likely, he didn’t even have a complete soul . According to Harry, by this point in his life, he would have already created two horcruxes, which meant Hermione had two targets she needed to focus on eliminating. 

Tomorrow . She vowed to herself. 

For today, she would enjoy one last distraction. 

She was just glad by the time she finally made it to the stands, the game was still going. Instinctively, she joined the Gryffindor section, not giving it a second thought until she was surrounded by unfamiliar people. 

“Hermione! Over here,” a brunette witch from her potions class waved her over. Hermione found it a bit odd that the girl seemed to be expecting her, and even saved her a seat, but she wasn’t going to turn down a potential ally, so she went with it. 

“Thank you,” Hermione smiled, accepting the seat next to her.

“Augusta Windsorvale,” she introduced herself with a firm handshake. “Rhys let me know to look out for you.”

“Oh!” Hermione’s smile widened. This was Neville’s grandmother, who would later become Augusta Longbottom. “Hermione Granger. Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Ms. Granger. I respect your dedication to your studies. To be honest, at first I was a bit peeved when you snatched the Head Girl position from right under my nose, but after observing you in class this last fortnight, I’m satisfied that it was well deserved,” Augusta said with a stone face. Her voice had a determined confidence to it, and Hermione could already see how she would morph into the proud, stern witch that Neville would someday be desperate to please. 

“Thank you, Ms. Windsorvale, I appreciate that,” Hermione blushed. She had a feeling Augusta wasn’t the type to hand out praise unless it was genuine. 

“Augusta,” she said, instructing Hermione to address her informally.

“And you can call me, Hermione,” Hermione returned the sentiment. 

Just as Rhys predicted, Gryffindor is well ahead by 170 points, and he’s certainly played a crucial role in that. He'd already blocked three Quaffles with ease, including one that had seemed nearly impossible to catch. 

With another save, Rhys caught Hermione’s eye, blowing her a kiss and sending her a wry smile before returning his attention to his sport. 

Hermione laughed. She didn’t wave back, feeling slightly self-conscious of others watching. Rhys was so endearingly silly that she struggled to take him seriously, but she couldn’t shake the worry that others might misinterpret his playful demeanor. Instantly, she was glad Tom had prevented her from wearing Rhys’ jersey, not that she would vocalize that thought.

“Oh no,” Augusta said, still maintaining her stoic voice. “Rhys is about to get himself in a world of trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione’s cheeks flushed. Did Augusta know about Tom Riddle’s warning somehow? 

“Rhys is my friend,” Augusta said matter-of-fact. “But I believe ‘girl code’ dictates an openness between us.”

“Erhm, okay?” Hermione said, confused.

“Let’s just say you’re not the first Slytherin witch who has occupied this seat,” Augusta revealed.

Hermione frowned, running through a list of potential matches. 

Did Slytherins even date outside of their house? It was extremely rare, even in her time, so it came as quite the shock that it may be happening now when ‘blood purity’ and ‘pureblood pride’ was even more popular within the group. The only witch she had interacted with so far who seemed genuinely welcoming, even without knowing anything about Hermione, was Andromeda Black, who would one day be Andromeda Tonks. Despite knowing for certain that Andromeda was not destined to marry into the Weasley family in the future, Hermione didn't want to accidentally step on her newly acquired friend's toes. Andromeda had been nothing but kind to her, and the last thing Hermione wanted was for Andromeda to view Hermione’s friendship with Rhys as an act of betrayal. 

“I see,” Hermione sighed. “It’s not like that between him and I,” she explained. “Honestly, we’re just friends. I’m not even interested in dating.”

Augusta’s face remained blank as she nodded. 

“I’m only here to complete my N.E.W.T.s,” Hermione babbled on, as if she needed to convince Augusta of her innocence. “Boys are not a priority.”

“I might not believe you if you weren’t so invested in our classes, but I do,” Augusta said, making Hermione feel a tad lighter. “Unfortunately, Cedrella Black might not be on the same page.” Augusta nodded to the witch rushing out of the second aisle in the Slytherin stands across the way. 

A flash of long blonde hair made Hermione’s stomach drop. 

Cedrella, Ron’s grandmother, was attending Hogwarts?! 

Hermione chided herself immediately for being so thick. How did she not notice that the quiet blonde witch in her potions class was Cedrella?! How must Cedrella have felt when Rhys’ picked Hermione over her in potions class last week? Or when he chased her down after class ended? What would this mean for Rhys' future with Cedrella? She had to make things right before it was too late. A small part of her even hoped that perhaps her and Cedrella could make friends eventually. Mrs. Weasley never had very nice things to say about her Mother-in-Law, but maybe she was just misunderstood.

“I should go after her and explain.” Hermione stood up immediately to go follow the witch and set the record straight. 

“I’d wait if I were you,” Augusta said, grabbing Hermione’s wrist and tugging her back into her seat. “Give her some time to calm down first. Cedrella is quiet, but she’s still a Slytherin.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hermione narrowed her eyes, feeling like Augusta’s advice had a backhanded compliment attached to it. Augusta knew fully well that Hermione was also a Slytherin, and she still opted to display such blatant prejudice without a moment's hesitation. 

“It means what you think it means. Taunt a snake and they shall strike. It’s in their nature,” Augusta said as if she was reporting about the weather instead of making wild and biased statements about an entire people group solely based on their Hogwarts house.   

“Well, that seems like a misguided statement, Augusta. You can’t just stereotype people based on where the sorting hat placed them,” Hermione’s indignation grew. 

“Hermione, the sorting hat places us into our houses for a reason. I like Cedrella, but when Katie McGreggor from Ravenclaw started giving Rhys googly eyes last year, suddenly she found herself losing clumps of hair after using her everyday shampoo. Coincidence? I think not,” Augusta shrugs, blasé. “And Rhys wasn’t even paying notice of Katie, so imagine if he was.”

Hermione let that thought marinate. Not just the idea that Ron’s paternal grandmother could be so cold blooded as to harm a witch undeservedly, but the former statement as well. 

The sorting hat places us into our houses for a reason.

What did that say about Hermione? 

Had she changed so absolutely from her first year at Hogwarts to now? 

She supposed it was only natural after everything she’s been through, but that didn’t mean that she liked the idea. 

“Oh brilliant,” Augusta said, a bit more chipper, but still a bit robotic. “Edwin caught the snitch for Gryffindor. We win. Let’s go congratulate Rhys and the rest.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea for me,” Hermione pulled away from her. She had already made enough of a mess for herself, she didn't need to make it worse by continuing to get close to Rhys.

“I didn’t mean to unnerve you,” Augusta looked at her with pinched brows. “I just thought I'd let you know, so you can do what you need with the information.”

“Well, I suppose I could use this opportunity to make a few things clear.” Hermione bit her lip. 

“There is a time for everything, Hermione,” Augusta states with a hint of a smile, “and right now, is a time to celebrate. Anything else can wait until morning.” 

“I suppose,” Hermione reluctantly agreed, allowing Augusta to drag her toward the festivities. 

* * * *

Hermione couldn’t believe Augusta snuck her into Gryffindor Tower. She was so happy to be reacquainted with the red and gold lion emblem decor she could cry. Her heart didn’t know what to appreciate first: the deep, rich colored tapestries strung over the windows that gave a perfect view of the Hogwarts grounds, the crackling stone fireplace which offered the room an inviting warmth, or the rustic armchairs she often snuggled into when reading an instructional text next to her two best friends. It was a shame she didn’t get sorted into Gryffindor this second time around because the cold, regal formality of the Slytherin common room couldn’t quite compete with the way Gryffindor tower vibrated with life and love. 

Gryffindor students cheered for their Quidditch players, chatting their house name in pride. Even Augusta, who was so proper and serious, joined in with the bunch. 

“Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor!!!”

“Let’s party!!!” 

It was Rhys who made the announcement, shaking a single serving of sealed Butterbeer violently before popping off the lid and spraying the crowd with its froth. 

Hermione wrinkled her nose and tried dodging the stream as much as possible, but unfortunately a few of her large and unruly curls were still casualties to the mess. 

This was the one part of Gryffindor she never quite got the hang of. Typically, she’d enjoy the energy while tucking herself into a corner and cracking open a book instead of a brew. However, as a visitor, she didn’t have the luxury, so she tagged along with Augusta as they pushed their way through the sea of students towards Rhys to offer their congratulations. 

When they reached him, Rhys was holding up a dark haired boy’s legs while he chugged Butterbeer straight from the tap. 

“Ninteen!”

“Twenty!”

“Twenty one!”

The lads around him counted each second that passed as he continued drowning himself in the liquid. 

The boy didn’t make it to twenty two before he asked to be set down. He hiccuped, with a silly grin on his face, proud of his accomplishment. 

“Beat that, Rhys!” he challenged.

Merlin . He looked just like Harry, except with blue eyes instead of green.

“Without a hitch, Mate,” Rhys teased, ready to take his turn until he spotted us. “Hold up, Fleamont, give me a second first.”

When Rhys turned their way, he revealed a very naked torso under his open Quidditch robe. Hermione intentionally looked anywhere but his pale flesh, refusing to acknowledge his freckled six pack. 

“Great job, Rhys.” Augusta gave him an affectionate punch to the gut. “Bloody brilliant.” 

“Thanks, Auggie,” he responded, pulling her into a side hug, but his eyes stayed firmly fixed on Hermione. 

“Hermione, I’m so glad you made it,” he beamed, embracing her into a full body cuddle. His bare chest was hot against Hermione’s chest; it made her uncomfortable. She curled into herself, taking a step back from his clutch. She didn’t want to give him any wrong ideas, especially after what she found out earlier.

“Ah, the brightest witch of our age,” the dark haired boy said lightheartedly. “You have to start saving some questions for us the rest of us during class or we’ll never be able to beat Slytherin for the House Cup.”

“Oh,” Hermione was so awestruck by his resemblance to her deceased friend, she had a hard time coming up with a response. 

“He’s just having a laugh, Hermione, feel free to continue answering the questions,” Rhys smirked. “Takes the heat off of us when we have no idea what’s going on, innit?” 

Hermione observed Rhys with a frown now that her rose colored glasses had been decidedly removed. He had always been carefree around her, but at the moment he was positively giddy with drink. 

“No jersey?” he asked offhandedly. 

“Sorry about that, I must’ve misplaced it,” Hermione lied.

“That’s okay, I got loads more,” he said indifferently. 

“Care for a Butterbeer?” Fleamont offered her kindly. Hermione was thankful for the change in subject. 

“No, thank you,” Hermione declined politely. 

She may no longer be in the den of vipers but she still had to keep her wits about her around this many strangers, Gryffindor or not. Augusta, however, opted in, allowing Fleamont to fill her cup to the brim. 

“We also have Fire Whisky if that’s more your speed,” Rhys said, holding out a depleted bottle of liquor.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she assured him. “Maybe a pumpkin juice if you have it?”

“Right over there,” Rhys pointed to the back of the room where the cooler sat out. 

For a second, Hermione thought he may accompany her to get one. But then, he turned around, took a large swig straight from the bottle, wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve and walked off. 

“Time to break that score of yours, Fleamont! Lift me.” Rhys went back to his drinking games.

Tom would’ve retrieved the pumpkin juice for her. 

She wasn’t sure why she had that thought, but it did occur to her that Rhys was a bit ill-mannered when he was pissed. Any butterflies she had previously experienced around Rhys were firmly dead. It was even fair to say, this version of Rhys gave her the ick . 

The pumpkin juice was all the way at the bottom of the cooler, so it was dripping wet when she pulled it out. And apparently it was an unpopular choice, because there were several more of them left in the cooler comparison to the craft butterbeer selections. To spare herself the experience of holding a dripping bottle, she located a red cup to use instead. 

After pouring the contents of her beverage into the solo cup, Hermione was free to make her way back to her friends. She was about to brave the mob of Gryffindor’s on the dancefloor when she tripped over a stool that definitely had not been there before. 

“Are you okay?” a blonde witch helped her up, offering her a few paper serviettes. “Here let me hold that while you clean up,” she said, grabbing Hermione’s drink from her hand while she dried herself off.

“Cedrella! So nice to see you here,” Hermione said, trying to wipe away some of the split pumpkin juice that sloshed out of her cup and landed on her hands and robes. 

“Why wouldn’t I be here? I’ve been invited to every Gryffindor party since fourth year,” Cedrella said defensively, shoving Hermoine’s drink back in her direction. 

Okay then.  

Clearly Cedrella was marking her territory, which Hermione completely understood and had absolutely no problem with. Of course Cedrella would be chippy with her; she had the wrong impression of Hermione’s intentions with Rhys.  

“Listen, Cedrella, I just wanted to let you know that you have nothing to worry about when it comes to Rhys,” Hermione assured her, taking back her cup of pumpkin juice. “We’re just friends, and nothing has happened between the two of us, nor will anything ever happen between the two of us.” 

“Of course I have nothing to worry about,” Cedrella snapped. “He’s my boyfriend. I’ve been with him for three years and you’ve known him for two weeks!” 

Hermione’s eyebrows raised at the bite in Cedrella’s venomous words. If Hermione were any less of a witch, she would gladly tell her about the fact that Rhys was the one who kept pushing things between the two of them, not Hermione. In fact, she distinctly remembered his insinuation that Hermione could be something more to him when they were holed up in the trophy room last week, and she turned him down. But she wasn’t here to make enemies, and she didn’t need any unnecessary drama with witches. Tom Riddle was enough of an enemy for a lifetime. 

“Exactly,” she agreed dryly, taking a large sip of her pumpkin juice just to escape the awkward tension building between them. 

“Enjoy your drink, Lush,” Cedrella grinned wickedly. 

Apparently Augusta was on target with her estimation of Cedrella. Quiet did not equal shyness, and Cedrella was a shining example. It was a shame, since Hermione had wanted to like Cedrella Black, especially given that it was Ron’s grandmother, but she hated to say, she had still yet to meet a Black she liked aside from Sirius... and perhaps Andromeda. 

Hermione took another careful sip of her juice, determined to avoid spilling it again in the crowded room. As she weaved between bodies to make her way toward Augusta, she could feel the warmth from the throng of people pressing in on her. By the time she had barely reached the opposite side of the room, a thin layer of sweat had already begun to form on her forehead. Had it been this warm here all night? 

“Are you okay?” Augusta inquired, having to raise her voice above the elevated music to be heard. “You look a little off.”

The conversation with Credella left her feeling slightly nauseous, but she didn’t want to be a killjoy by complaining about the interaction to her new friend.

“I’m fine, I think I just might just call it a night,” Hermione said, starting to feel light headed from all the noise and the heat. She just wanted to go to her room and take a rest. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Augusta asked, scanning Hermione from head to toe for any signs of intoxication. “You only drank pumpkin juice, right?” 

Hermione nodded. “I think it might have been spoiled though because I don’t feel so well. I’ll see you in the Great Hall tomorrow.” The pumpkin juice didn’t smell spoiled, and it didn’t taste odd, but it was the only other explanation for why she suddenly felt ill. 

“Do you want me to walk you back?” Augusta offered, sounding a bit worried, sniffing at Hermione’s cup. “You look rather affected.”

“I’ll be fine,” Hermione said, already retreating towards the exit. 

She needed to get out of this cramped space; she needed air, and thankfully, Augusta let her go, frowning, but waving goodbye as Hermione disappeared behind the portal. 

Halfway to the dungeons, Hermione’s limbs began to feel like lead. Her head knew where to take her, but her body didn’t get the memo. A wave of dizziness made her uncoordinated movements worse, and then, suddenly she was crawling on the floor on her hands and knees, trying to make the room stop spinning. She lifted a foot until it was flat against the ground, and begged her leg to push herself up, to stand, but instead she stumbled, slamming back to the floor again. Panic surged; she couldn’t move anymore, she was completely paralyzed aside from the tremors that wracked throughout her. She was freezing, shaking, shivering from cold or fear or both. She watched herself, detached from the scene, as if her soul had floated outside of herself to observe just how pitiful she was in this moment. 

Hermione stayed that way for who knew how long, fading in and out. It was light, then it was dark, and then it was very, very dark. She was alone for some time, it seemed.  

And then, as if the dawn had broken, she felt warmth. A familiar energy was seeking her out. It came closer and closer until she finally felt the terror melt away, despite her inability to rise. She was safe, somehow she knew she was safe, so she relaxed.

Someone picked her up. Someone with dark hair and a firm chest. Her hands roamed over the base of their neck, twisting her fingers into soft hair, then tracing their shoulders, and finally moving down to their toned arms. Whoever it was felt so good , she would never get enough. She wanted them to touch her, too. Hermione whined, begged, pleaded for them to touch her. She wanted her bare skin to soak up their body heat. She tried so hard to rip at their clothes, to get closer. She wanted to be as close as one could get to another before they became one whole being. 

They laid her down on a soft surface; she was floating on a cloud. For a brief second, her savior hovered over her, brushing her hair away from her damp forehead. And when they stepped away, she whimpered at the loss of their physical touch, but their magic stayed by her side. It lingered over her body like a blanket, swaddling her, comforting her. The last thing she remembered was the smell of fresh parchment and mint before the door clicked shut.

All she was left with was darkness.  

Chapter Text

Tom strolled toward the Slytherin common room, his mind still lingering on his recent visit with Nocturna in the Chamber of Secrets. To everyone else, she was Slytherin’s Monster, the fearsome basilisk of legend, but to him, she was more than that—a loyal companion, the one creature on this earth that would never betray him. Guilt tugged at him, urging him to release her back into the castle, to hunt as she deserved. He hated the idea of her being confined, deprived of a proper meal, but the risk was too great. After nearly being caught by Dumbledore during his fifth year, the old man now had Tom under constant watch. So, for now, Nocturna would have to settle for the freshly slaughtered rabbits he brought from the Forbidden Forest. It was far better than the filthy rats she normally fed on, Tom reasoned, but still, not nearly worthy of his magnificent basilisk. 

While in the Chamber, he created a replica of Salazar Slytherin’s diary, using a spell he’d learned—thanks to Hermione, albeit unintentionally. He had discovered the diary during his first venture into the Chamber of Secrets, but never once allowed it to leave the sanctuary of its ancient walls. Risking one of his most prized possessions was out of the question. However, with the original now secured in the Chamber and the duplicate locked away in his heavily warded room, he took comfort in knowing he could study it thoroughly within the safety of his quarters, without the limitations of time or the need to descend into the depths of its original home.

As Tom strolled down the deserted hallways, a calculating smirk tugged at his lips. What else might the clever little witch be useful for? She was irritatingly self-righteous at times, but there was no denying her potential. In just the two short weeks he'd known her, she had proven herself intellectually superior to any of his so-called knights—even Malfoy, who was usually the sharpest among the lot. Hermione would be an asset to his cause, but he would need to break her in, to make her believe it was her own choice to align with him. The thought unsettled him—he detested free thinkers, their unpredictable nature clashed with his need for control. Yet, that was what made her invaluable. Without her independence, she wouldn’t be the finely honed instrument he required. He just had to find a way to reshape her loyalties, to mold her into his, without dulling the edge that made her unique. Wrestling her away from Dumbledore would make the quest all the more satisfying, a game he was eager to win. Hermione Granger would become his little pet soon enough, Tom vowed.

To accomplish this goal, he concluded that he’d have to alter his approach with her. Though the way her eyes filled with fear when he tore Weasley’s shirt from her chest was a strangely beautiful sight, he knew it would only drive her further away. Yes, Tom had left their encounter in the library feeling satisfied, even craving more, but Hermione had turned and run straight back to that useless Weasley boy. However, if he eased off, maybe even played the role of the gentleman, she might start seeking him out instead— might come to trust him over anyone else.

It was frustrating that she responded better to positive reinforcement, when punishment suited her so well. Tom knew her flushed cheeks, heaving chest, and that exquisite, surprised cry would occupy his mind when he laid down tonight. But Hermione was different from the Slytherins in their house—she was driven by trust, not fear. So, he’d have to play the long game with her, which was unfortunate, considering patience had never been one of his virtues.

Just as he descended the final set of stairs leading to the dungeon corridor, Tom's gaze caught sight of a limp body sprawled halfway down the hallway, opposite the direction of the common room. As Head Boy, it was technically his responsibility to ensure the safety of every student. Yet, it wasn’t duty that drew him in. Instead, curiosity bloomed, especially when his magic buzzed with a familiar energy at the sight. Something about this situation tugged at his instincts, and he couldn’t help but want to investigate.

There was only one person that evoked this type of response. 

Hermione.

He didn’t think; he just sprinted the remaining distance to arrive at her aid, and when he reached her, he took a knee beside her as he examined the damage.

Hermione’s hooded lids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. The sharp defiance he had grown accustomed to was absent, leaving her eyes vacant, hollow. The only sound that slipped past her parted lips was a faint, pitiful whine between shallow breaths. Instinctively, his hand reached out, brushing against her cheek. Her skin was cold beneath his fingertips, and she unconsciously leaned into his palm, seeking the warmth he offered. Aside from that small movement, she remained eerily still—pale, fragile, and utterly unresponsive.

“You’re okay,” Tom reassured her, his voice steady and calm. He would make sure of it, no matter the cost.

Not twenty minutes ago, he had reveled in the thought of Hermione’s terror, but now, seeing it instigated by someone else felt utterly unacceptable. The moment she was sorted into Slytherin, she had become his —an object of his possession, someone he would claim as his own.

With a flick of his wand, he cast a diagnostic spell to assess her injuries accurately. 

The results flickered purple, revealing the cause: Potionem Felicitatis Obscuratae. 

So, she had somehow ingested a draught of Clouded Bliss.

No, he corrected himself. Hermione would never be foolish enough to experiment with illegal drugs. She might bend the rules, but she valued her mind too much to pollute it with something as revolting as a street drug designed to impair judgment and dull the senses. 

This was no accident—someone had drugged her with it intentionally.

Rage .

It was one of the familiar emotions he had shared with Hermione earlier today, and at this moment, it surged through him with full force.

Someone harmed his property and they will face the consequences. 

Tom scooped Hermione off the floor and cradled her to his chest, rushing towards the common room. With anyone else, he would have effortlessly employed his magic to create distance as he relocated their body to Hospital Ward. Yet, in the pursuit of earning this witch's trust, he endured her touch, all while striving to keep her safe and out of trouble. The more he interacted with her magic, the more accustomed to it he became. While the mere brush of another often left Tom feeling sullied, as if their magic carried a contagion that required meticulous cleansing, Hermione’s magic was… rather exceptional. He despised the pleasure he derived from the way their magic ignited in close proximity, a dazzling display that stirred something unsettling within him. He would still need to take the time to evaluate why that was, but that could wait for later.

As he approached the common room, she caught Tom off guard; her hands reached out, seeking comfort. When her fingers wove through the hair at the base of his neck, he suppressed a shiver. She was torturing him with her soft, delicate touch, treating his body as if she owned it. It was as if she were committing his form to memory, tracing his shoulders and then his arms, her eyes now relaxed behind closed lids. He had to dispose of her somewhere safe. While her touch might not be repulsive, he wasn’t accustomed to the reaction she stirred within him. He felt hot and needy; he didn’t like it. Tom didn’t want to feel the need for anything other than what he could secure himself.

Tom entered the common room, and his mood immediately soured when he saw several of his Knights lingering there, waiting for him no doubt. Abraxas raised a brow in surprise, Tom had never been sighted with a witch before, while Dolohov, to his credit, glanced away respectfully, as if aware of the delicate situation. Tom’s jaw clenched in irritation. To any observer, this undoubtedly looked like something it wasn’t, and that misperception alone was enough to stoke his anger.

“What do you have there, My Lord?” Lastrange asked in wicked interest. Unexpecting, vulnerable females reduced Lastrange into a gleeful predator, which never bothered Tom until now. He didn’t like the idea of Hermione being the object of Lastrange’s perverted fascination.  

“Not now,” Tom snapped, silencing him before heading to the girls dormitory hall. 

He was already acquainted with the location of Hermione’s room; he simply hadn’t the opportunity to sneak in and rummage through her personal items— yet. But he soon would. Her door was the only one lacking the usual frills or warning signs. It didn't need them. The passage to her sanctuary was protected by a series of wards that would stump any average wizard. But Tom was anything but average.

He couldn’t access his wand with Hermione’s weight pinning him down, but he had begun to experiment with wandless magic. It wasn't as powerful as the magic he wielded with his wand, but perhaps if he could siphon off some of Hermione's magic, it would suffice.

“Allow me access to your strength, little pet,” he whispered into her ear, tucking her closer to his chest. 

Silently, he summoned her magic, recalling how it had probed at him in the library. He could feel it then, a tantalizing desire to merge with his own, yet he had resisted. But now, he was ready to allow it in, not for her benefit, but for his own selfish gain. He was curious to test what their combined powers could unleash. 

Tom hadn’t truly expected a response from her, given her current state, but this witch had a knack for surprises. Her magic flowed eagerly into his, a warm rush that ignited something unexpected within him. The mingling of their magic was mesmerizing—like the first time he wielded dark magic. It was a rush of power, a revelation that anything was possible, and a haunting realization that he would do whatever it took to hold onto this feeling, regardless of how dark or depraved the path might be.

Hermione stirred. 

Tom’s gaze snapped down at her, his heart pounding in his chest. Her eyes remained shut, yet her breaths came heavier, more erratic. She was touching him again—no, more like grabbing at him, fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt beneath his robe. The sensation sent a jolt of heat through him, igniting an unfamiliar urgency. It was as if her instinctual need for connection was stripping away the carefully constructed barriers he had always upheld.

Every tug of her fingers against his chest felt like a plea, a desperate grasp for something he wasn’t sure he was willing to give. The line between comfort and possession blurred, and he found himself wrestling with the duality of wanting to shield himself from her touch while battling the raw desire stirring within him.

“P-please!” she might’ve asked, but it was unclear. “T-t-ou-ch!”

The little witch nearly ripped the buttons from Tom’s shirt, her desperation palpable as she clawed at him. With a swift motion, he restrained her hands against his chest, effectively stopping her from completing the job. Her soft, delicate wrists felt fragile in his grasp, easily secured by just one of his large palms.

Heat surged through him, an unexpected flush creeping up his neck, and he felt a hint of embarrassment wash over him. He should kill her for daring to take such liberties with his body, for invading his personal space in a way that made his blood run hot. Yet, a darker curiosity gnawed at him—he wondered what those fingers might feel like if they ventured a little lower, exploring the territory just inches away from where she was.

It was a dangerous thought, a reckless notion that sent his mind spiraling into forbidden territory. He felt the weight of her magic intertwining with his, fueling a power that was both enthralling and terrifying. This was not the control he was used to wielding.

“Ruptura Warda,” he grit; his breaths were harsh and heavy.

Tom had used the spell before, but it felt different this time—enhanced and far more precise. Typically, he forced his way through the protections like an ax, methodically chipping away at the trunk of a tree until it finally gave way, falling in slow surrender. But now, with their magic intertwined, the process was remarkably effortless.

The instant the incantation left his lips, it was as if a bulldozer had barreled through a glass house, shattering the defenses completely with a single, resounding strike. The wards guarding Hermione's sanctuary crumbled before him, scattering like shards of glass in all directions, leaving nothing but a clear path to her most intimate secrets.

Rushing into her room, he stumbled slightly; the aftereffects of their magic left him feeling shaky—yet not weak. No, it was exhilaration coursing through him, electrifying every nerve ending. It was as if he had lived his entire life at half charge, merely existing, but now he was fully alive, vibrant and pulsing with untamed energy.

His body was overwhelmed, struggling to absorb the sudden surge all at once, like a storm threatening to break loose. As he tumbled onto her bed, it cushioned their fall, and he barely caught himself before he crushed her beneath his weight. His elbows and knees formed a cage around Hermione’s slender body, a protective barrier, even as the chaos within him churned.

For the first time, she looked peaceful—her breaths steadied, and the tension that usually gripped her features seemed to dissipate, replaced by an expression of serenity. In that moment, he couldn’t help but marvel at how vulnerable and beautiful she appeared. He brushed her hair away from her damp forehead softly. 

Tom couldn’t shake the feeling of ownership that coursed through him. She was his, even in this state of unconsciousness. The thought sent a thrill through him, mingling with the intoxicating buzz of their combined magic. 

Now was the perfect moment. Tom could dip into her mind, use Legilimency to sift through the secrets she had buried deep within. He could unravel every thought she kept hidden, every whispered fear and desire that shaped her. But as he hovered on the edge of that dark temptation, a flicker of hesitation coursed through him. It wouldn’t feel like a true victory to invade her mind while she lay there, weakened and vulnerable, at the mercy of another’s cruelty.

No, he wanted more than that. He craved the moment when she was fully conscious, when she would understand the magnitude of his intrusion. He envisioned the thrill of sorting through her thoughts while she was aware of him—every pulse of her heartbeat, every breath hitching in her throat as he navigated the labyrinth of her mind. He wanted her to know it was him, Tom Riddle, who was unraveling the depths of her soul, dissecting every feeling she had ever felt, every yearning she had ever craved. He would leave no stone unturned, and she would come to understand just how much power he wielded—not just over magic, but over her. That would be the true conquest.

With a shuddering breath, he forced himself to rise, the sudden loss of warmth where they had connected sending a shiver down his spine. He severed the bond between their magic, feeling the echo of her energy retreating from him like a tide pulling back into the sea. As he backed away from the bed, he cast one last glance at her serene form, a beautiful enigma lying peacefully in his domain. Already, he felt the absence of her magic mingling with his, a void that left him craving the captivating rush they had shared.

Hermione whimpered, her arms crossing over her chest at his loss. 

She was cold. That wouldn’t do. 

Calorificus . 

He circled his wand around her, conjuring a warming spell with a final flick. His magic wrapped around her, settling with a slight shimmer that danced like a delicate veil over her skin. It would disappear when she woke, but for now, it would be like a piece of him was still with her, a lingering reminder of his presence. It brought a strange sense of satisfaction, a feeling he didn’t often indulge.

Tom left a few moments later, once he was confident she was comfortable. 

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he bid his farewell with a knowing smile.

She wouldn’t remember what happened tonight, but he would.

Always.  

* * * *

Hermione jolted awake, her heart racing and breath quickening as she heard the giggles and footsteps of her classmates clattering down the hallway outside of her door. An ache throbbed in her head, a persistent reminder of whatever had transpired the night before. Her muscles felt tight and sore, each movement sending a wave of discomfort coursing through her. Panic held her in a chokehold as she struggled to piece together the fragmented memories of the previous evening. The last thing she recalled was leaving Gryffindor tower feeling ill and weak. How had she ended up back in her room?

The stories she’d heard whispered among her peers rushed back to her: tales of witches and wizards who had been drugged at parties, their autonomy stripped away in an instant. Had that happened to her? A knot twisted in her stomach as she mentally checked herself for any signs of trauma. Thankfully, she felt certain she hadn’t been assaulted—thank Merlin for that—but the violation still lingered like an unwelcome shadow, leaving her shaken and frightened. 

Hermione drew in a slow, deliberate breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions swirling inside her. In that moment, she longed for the presence of her two best friends—how much easier it would be to face all of this with them by her side, offering their unshakable support. But now, she stood alone. Yes, she'd made a few connections since arriving, but the idea of confiding in them now seemed reckless. She couldn't trust anyone with this information, not until she was certain of who the real culprit was. Doubt and caution, as always, had to guide her.

Cedrella topped her list of suspects, and yet the lack of concrete evidence held Hermione back from confronting her directly. It was true that Cedrella had been the only person at the party to treat her with overt hostility, but that alone didn’t make her a villain. The unsettling truth was that it could have been anyone—a stranger lurking in the shadows—and, deep down, Hermione found herself wishing for that to be the case. The thought of Cedrella, Ron’s grandmother, being the one responsible filled her with genuine sorrow. It was a painful realization that made her heart heavy, and she struggled with the idea that someone she once hoped to be an ally was capable of such treachery.

For the next few weeks, Hermione maintained a deliberately low profile. There were no late-night excursions to the kitchen with Rhys, no shared study breaks by the Black Lake, and when Rhys tried to engage her before or after class, she politely declined. She often gave the excuse of needing to study for her other courses or blamed the demands of her Head Girl duties—anything to avoid hurting his feelings. Yet, beneath the surface, Hermione felt the weight of her decision. It saddened her to push Rhys away entirely, but she had come to terms with the uncomfortable truth: the deeper their connection grew, the more she risked disrupting his timeline with Cedrella—and by extension, the very chance of Ron’s existence. Which is exactly why instead of sitting beside Rhys in Potions, she quietly opted for Augusta as her deskmate. Unfortunately, by the third week, it was clear Augusta had taken note of the change in her behavior and seemed compelled to address it, perhaps sensing a need to speak on Rhys’s behalf.

“You’ve been staying busy since the Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff game,” Augusta observed. 

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. She didn’t feel the need to explain herself.

“Rhys has been asking about you,” Augusta added. “He seems to have the idea that you’ve been avoiding him.”

“I’m taking ten classes, Augusta,” Hermione sighed; she was hoping it wouldn’t come to this. “And patrolling the hallways four times a week. Creating the schedule and hosting meetings for the prefects regularly. These tasks are time consuming and I don’t need any distractions.”

“I told him as much.” Augusta nodded. “But I think it’s only right for you to tell him the real reason you’ve stopped spending time with him.” 

Hermione tapped her wooden stirring rod on the side of her cauldron and set it gently on the table before she turned to her friend to grant Augusta her full attention. Augusta did the same.

“Who says there’s another reason?” Hermione asked calmly. 

“What happened after you left the party that night? I saw you talking to Cedrella. Then, all of a sudden you were ill and left. According to Rhys, you haven’t spoken to him since.” Augusta relayed the events as if she were a detective, leaving out her personal thoughts and focusing on the facts. 

“Nothing happened,” Hermione rushed to end the conversation. 

She didn’t want to talk about it. In truth, Hermione hadn’t fully processed it herself, but she had come to two clear conclusions. First, she must have made it back to her room on her own. The day she arrived at Hogwarts, she had carefully warded her room with protections no other student could possibly break; of that, she was certain. By logical deduction, she had to be the only person capable of walking through those doors. Second, under no circumstances could she tell Rhys what she suspected Cedrella of. She was sure he would lose all respect for her if she did. Rhys might have been a silly schoolboy at times, especially when he indulged in too much drink, but at his core, he was a true Gryffindor. And Gryffindors like him would never tolerate what Cedrella—allegedly—had done.

“If Cedrella hurt you, Rhys would want to know,” Augusta said with confidence. “It’s not right to keep it from him.”

“Enough, Augusta,” Hermione snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. “You have no proof that Cedrella hurt me. And if I were you, I’d be careful about spreading that kind of misinformation. I left because I didn’t care for what was happening in the Gryffindor common room. My idea of fun doesn’t include getting trashed and acting foolish.”

“I see.” Augusta frowned.

“Brilliant,” Hermione said, turning back to her project. “Now if you excuse me, I plan on winning a vial of  Felix Felicis, and in order to do that, I must focus my utmost concentration.”

Hermione hated that she had to be rude to get Augusta off her back, but the witch was too astute for her own good. Augusta could suspect Cedrella of foul play all she wanted, but she absolutely could not tell Rhys about it. 

“Well,” Augusta said in a haughty voice. “Maybe you should pick a new deskmate to sit with next week. I wouldn’t want to distract you.”

The suggestion made Hermione’s eyes sting. She enjoyed Augusta’s company; Augusta was one of the few witches that appreciated Hermione for being her outspoken, overachieving self. But, perhaps this distance was for the best. Augusta had her own timeline, her own future, and Hermione knew she shouldn’t interfere with it. The more she thought about it, the more painfully clear it became: maintaining distant, shallow relationships was the only logical path forward. It would be a long, lonely existence, but that was the price she had to pay. After being drugged, Hermione realized her true purpose. She wasn’t here to make friends or build a life. She was here to stop Voldemort before he gained real power. Studying for her N.E.W.T.s and posing as a diligent Hogwarts student served as the perfect cover while she focused on her mission—locating and destroying Tom’s existing Horcruxes, one by one.

“Superb idea,” Hermione agreed.

Hermione and Augusta remained quiet for the rest of the period, an unspoken tension settling between them. When class finally ended, they silently gathered their things and parted ways without a word.

* * * *

Tom watched Hermione chew absentmindedly on her quill, her brows knitted in concentration as she poured over her Transfiguration homework. He had long since abandoned the use of the Disillusionment Charm—there was no point after she had caught him. And yet, despite his decision to remain in plain sight, nothing had changed. She carried on as though he weren’t even there, her indifference gnawing at him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

It bothered him, this dismissal. It bothered him even more after the night he had intervened, coming to her rescue when she was drugged. Surely, the effects of the drug would have clouded her memory, but complete forgetfulness? That seemed unlikely. Shouldn't she recall at least fragments of what had happened? After all, he could never imagine forgetting the intensity of that moment—the raw, palpable surge of their combined magic. The sheer force of it was unforgettable. So, had she really forgotten? Or did she remember all too well, and was simply pretending she didn’t? The possibility twisted inside him, leaving an irritation he couldn’t shake.

Weeks had passed since Tom found her unconscious in the hallway, and yet he remained no closer to securing her trust. He had wavered back and forth, contemplating whether it was even a wise goal to pursue at all. On one hand, if he could win her over, siphoning her magic could make him unstoppable—she was a secret weapon that would enhance his own power and ambition. But on the other hand, there was something about her that unnerved him. Hermione made him feel needy and out of control in ways he had never encountered before, emotions he despised. Such distractions were unnecessary, and he couldn't afford to be vulnerable. The prospect of surrendering to these feelings both fascinated and made him cautious. 

In the meantime, as Tom contemplated the best approach to take with Hermione, he remained focused on training his knights. Although they lacked her innate talent, he was determined to cultivate their abilities under his careful instruction. As he scribbled out a lesson plan for their next meeting, he noticed a fellow Slytherin classmate making her way toward Hermione. The unexpected intrusion was curious; no one had ever visited her in the library before, and from the way Hermione frowned at the witch approaching her, it was clear that she preferred her solitude.

“Cedrella,” Hermione said dryly, going back to her Transfiguration essay.  

“Why did you stand up for me?” Cedrella asked without a courteous salutation. 

Tom was missing context, but he was intrigued. 

“Let it go, Cedrella,” Hermione said, waving her away. 

“You know it was me,” Cedrella grit between her teeth. “Do you plan on blackmailing me?”

Hermione's head snapped up, her glare fixed on Cedrella as if she were ready to unleash a curse. Tom found himself secretly hoping she would. He wasn't entirely sure what Cedrella had done to provoke such fury, but the intensity of Hermione's gaze made it clear that the witch had earned whatever wrath was coming her way.

“Listen closely, Cedrella,” Hermione hissed quietly. So quietly, Tom had to strain to hear the rest. “I wasn’t lying when I told you that Rhys and I were just friends. I have no interest in him, and I was never a threat to you. With that said, if Rhys knew you drugged me, he would never talk to you again.”

“I know,” Cedrella said miserably. 

Tom’s right eye twitched. 

His initial instinct was to Avada the blonde wench, but that would be too simple. A mischievous smile curled on his lips as a far more entertaining idea took root in his mind. He needed a "volunteer" for his next practical session with his knights, and it appeared he had just found the perfect candidate.

“Let’s come to an understanding then, shall we,” Hermione said threateningly. “I won’t tell Rhys a word— but you have to promise to never, ever drug, or harm anyone again. If I hear even a whisper of you retaliating against another girl for something Rhys related, I’ll expose you.”

Cedrella nodded desperately. “I promise, never again.”

“Brilliant. Now leave,” Hermione dismissed her and Cedrella scurried away quickly. 

Tom chuckled darkly to himself.

His little witch believed she had dealt an appropriate punishment, but it was far from sufficient. The thought of all the things that could have befallen Hermione if he hadn’t been the one to discover her sent a wave of anger through him, but it also ignited a spark of inspiration. He couldn’t wait to show Cedrella exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of her own cruelty.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up feeling optimistic. It was time to take control, she decided. That resolve carried her right into Potions class, where she boldly sat at Tom Riddle’s favorite desk, a silent declaration of her intention to stand her ground. Since she had begun sitting with Augusta, Hermione and Tom had formed a wordless truce—she kept her distance, and he allowed it. But now that Augusta had made it clear their partnership was over, Hermione knew she had to be proactive. There was no way she could trust Walburga or Cedrella to sit beside her, and picking any of the boys would only put a target on their backs—something Tom had made painfully obvious before. That left her with one choice: face him head-on.

It was probably for the best, she reasoned. The closer she got to Tom, the more likely she’d be able to accomplish her mission. As she placed her bag on the middle lab table in the front row, she noted, with a small sense of satisfaction, that it truly was the best seat in the room—no wonder Tom preferred it. She methodically arranged her notes, lined up her supplies, and settled in comfortably, pretending not to notice the pair of piercing green eyes locked onto her.

Tom was displeased. From the moment he walked in and saw Hermione—sitting not only at his table but also in his spot—his posture stiffened, and his entire demeanor became ice cold. Hermione ignored him, nonchalantly chewing the end of her quill as she copied the day’s objectives from the board, feigning obliviousness.

“Hermione,” Tom greeted her in that perfectly polished, polite tone of his. But beneath it, she could sense the undercurrent of irritation. He didn’t take the seat next to her; instead, he stood directly in front of her, blocking her view of the classroom, making his displeasure crystal clear. Abraxas, always trailing in Tom’s shadow, was equally annoyed.

“Hello, Tom,” Hermione replied cheerfully, as if they were old friends. “Beautiful day, don’t you think?”

“Ms. Granger,” Abraxas chimed in, his tone a mixture of disbelief and suspicion. “Perhaps it’s best you sit somewhere else.”

“And why would that be, Abraxas?” Hermione asked, continuing to write in her distinct half-cursive, half-print script. “This seat is obviously the best in the room, and it was unoccupied.”

“That’s Tom’s spot,” Abraxas warned, lowering his voice slightly.

“Tom’s spot?” Hermione played dumb, looking around as though confused. “I didn’t realize there were assigned seats. Should we ask Professor Slughorn to confirm?”

She knew she was playing a dangerous game, but the nerves didn’t kick in until Tom’s expression changed. First, there was the flash of rage—fiery and brief—but then his face smoothed over into an unreadable mask. That, more than anything, sent a chill down her spine. His calm, calculated exterior was far more terrifying than his anger. She had stepped onto his turf, and now she had to see what he would do next.

“No, of course, you should have it, Hermione,” Tom said smoothly, his voice devoid of any tension.

Both Hermione and Abraxas exchanged wary glances. The lack of confrontation was far more concerning than any argument would have been. Tom Riddle wasn’t one to let things go easily, and if he relented without a fight, Hermione knew there would be consequences—ones she wouldn’t see coming until it was too late. 

“Abraxas, find another seat,” Tom added casually, waving his hand to dismiss his ever-loyal follower. Abraxas hesitated for a split second, clearly as baffled as Hermione, before he quickly moved to another table.

Tom slid into the seat Abraxas had vacated, his demeanor composed and indifferent as if the change in seating arrangements didn’t bother him in the slightest, but Hermione knew better. She could feel the tension lingering beneath the surface, and his compliance only meant one thing: retaliation would be silent, calculated, and far more dangerous than she anticipated.

She would simply stay on guard, refusing even the smallest vulnerability around him. With her heartbeat quickening, Hermione resumed writing, but she was hyper-aware of Tom’s presence beside her.

“Welcome, welcome, class,” Slughorn greeted his students. “Today is a very special day. Can anyone tell me why?” 

Hermione raised her hand confidently, unfazed by the inevitable eye rolls and muttered insults from her classmates. Being called a brown-noser had long since lost its sting; she was used to it.

“It’s time to check whether our Polyjuice potions have brewed correctly,” she explained confidently. “If the potion is thick, dense, and has a lumpy consistency, similar to a traditional potion both in texture and color, we’ve been successful. However, if the brew is smooth or watery, then something went wrong.”

“Brilliant, as always, Ms. Granger!” he had said, his voice full of warmth and cheer, making her feel both flattered and determined to meet his high expectations. 

“Now, I’ve placed all your potions in random order and hidden your names beneath them. We’ll take a blind vote on which potion best matches the description Ms. Granger provided,” Slughorn continued, gesturing toward the back of the classroom where rows of cauldrons were lined up. 

Tom and Hermione exchanged knowing glances. A blind vote was an equalizer, stripping Tom of the opportunity to boost his standing unfairly by the association of his loyal followers. They both knew Hermione stood a chance based on merit alone, and she could sense the competition between the two of them would be close.

Professor Slughorn added one last instruction, “To help you with your vote, feel free to turn to page three hundred and seven in your textbooks, where you’ll find an image of a perfectly brewed Polyjuice Potion.”

As the class buzzed with excitement, students crowded around the back of the room to inspect the cauldrons. It became apparent that only a few had succeeded in brewing something even remotely resembling a polyjuice potion. Cauldrons Three, Seven, and Eight stood out among the rest, their contents thick and properly lumpy, while the others had either too smooth a consistency or were laughably watery. The translucent failures at the back barely registered as attempts.

When it was time to cast their votes, students used their wands to add their tally to the chalkboard keeping score. Hermione stood in front of the two cauldrons, biting her lip in concentration. She was stumped between Cauldron Three and Cauldron Eight. Both potions were thick and lumpy, which was perfectly ideal for Polyjuice Potion, but something about Cauldron Three drew her in. Its texture was slightly too smooth, and she couldn't quite explain why, but it just made her feel… charmed. Still, Hermione couldn’t let personal bias cloud her judgment. She cast her vote for Cauldron Eight, knowing it was the better match to her meticulous standards, even though her instincts pulled her toward Cauldron Three. Cauldron Three must’ve been hers, she thought as she returned to her seat, feeling slightly defeated. What other reason could explain the way she felt so drawn to the magic surrounding it? 

“Ah, our top three performers!” Slughorn was thrilled to see at least a few of his students were successful at brewing a master level potion. 

After a few minutes of whispers and speculation, the final votes were tallied: Cauldron Seven secured third place, but it was clear to everyone that the true contest had been between Eight and Three. Ultimately, Cauldron Eight emerged victorious, with Cauldron Three close behind, missing a tie by only two votes. 

“Congratulations, Hermione,” Tom whispered so close to her ear she could feel his breath on her neck. 

She held her quill tighter, resisting the urge to turn her head toward him. Instead, she kept her focus on the front of the classroom. “How do you know that Cauldron Eight is mine?” she questioned.

“Your magic,” Tom replied softly. “It was unmistakable.”

“But… you voted for Cauldron Eight.” Hermione’s brows pinched together in confusion. If Tom believed Cauldron Eight belonged to her, why had he voted for it? Tom was not one to support a rival’s success, especially when something as valuable as a prize was on the line. He could have easily sabotaged her by skewing the vote, yet he hadn’t. It didn’t make sense. Was this some kind of twisted strategy? Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that this was another one of his mind games, but she wasn’t sure what his endgame was this time.

“Shhh,” Tom raised a finger to his full, plump lips, signaling for silence as he gave a small nod toward Slughorn. Their professor was ready to make his final announcement, but Hermione barely registered his words as her name was called for the triumphant win—she was too distracted, her gaze locked on the ring wrapped around the finger Tom used to shush her.

The Gaunt Ring. 

Tom’s second Horcrux! 

It had been there, in plain sight, this whole time. 

A rush of emotions flooded her—gratitude mixed with sheer horror. On the one hand, she now knew where the Horcrux was, an invaluable advantage on her quest to destroy him. But on the other, it would be nearly impossible to capture if Tom wore it every day, so casually, so dangerously close to him. How would she ever get her hands on it without him suspecting her true intentions? Her stomach churned with the weight of the discovery, but she masked it under a composed expression, hiding her inner turmoil from Tom’s ever-watchful eyes as best she could.

“Come collect your prize, Hermione!” Slughorn’s voice broke through her swirling thoughts. He held out a small gold vial of Felix Felicis—the liquid luck. She popped up from her seat and graciously accepted.

She should be proud of herself; this was no ordinary prize. Felix Felicis was the ultimate tool, nearly impossible to brew and even harder to come by. And now, here it was, resting in the palm of her hand.

Her mind raced with possibilities. 

The golden liquid would undoubtedly play a key role in her next task. With this, she could secure at least one of Tom’s Horcruxes—perhaps even the ring currently wrapped around his finger, although the diary of his younger self was much more probable. So, she allowed herself a small, inward smile. The tides had just shifted in her favor, although she’d need to be careful, very careful, to use it at the perfect moment.

As she returned to her seat, feeling Tom's eyes follow her every move, she knew this vial could be her greatest weapon. But with Tom Riddle, nothing would would easy, and luck would only get her so far.

* * * *

“Hermione.” As Hermione walked toward the door, she heard Professor Slughorn call her name. “Can you stay back for a second?” 

“Of course, Professor,” she answered brightly, hanging back at her desk while everyone scattered out into the hallway.

Tom glanced back at them with an arched brow before moving on with the rest of their peers. 

“My dear, you truly are the brightest witch of your age,” Professor Slughorn said with a happy clap. “Your potion was a clear winner, and that is saying something, because Tom’s was spectacular as well,” he added.

Ah . So Tom’s was the potion from Cauldron Three, which means his magic was the one calling to Hermione, even above her own. She’d have to dissect that later.

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione smiled politely.

“I’ve asked you to stay behind today because I need a favor from you. Can I count on you?” Slughorn asks, as if Hermione would be able to say no to a Hogwarts professor. 

“Anything, sir. Happy to help,” Hermione agreed dutifully. 

Dolohov crept up behind her, making Hermione jump. The creepy smile on his face made it clear that the scare was entirely intentional. Every time he was near, her instincts flared—her hair practically stood on end, warning her that a predator was close by. He unsettled her in a way that was entirely different from Tom Riddle.

Tom was cruel and sadistic, relishing the pain he inflicted on others. Yet, beneath his veneer of malevolence, the darkness growing inside Hermione could understand his deep-rooted need to achieve his goals at any cost. Tom killed and maimed with purpose: to provoke fear, demand obedience, and punish those he deemed deserving. There was a wicked clarity in his madness, a twisted logic she could almost grasp.

But Dolohov’s depravity was aimless—he was unhinged simply for the sake of it. He was the type of villain who thrived on chaos and suffering. The thought of him made her skin crawl; he was the kind of monster who would cut someone open just to watch them bleed, who might skin another human alive and wear their skin as a grotesque trophy. She bet he'd keep someone on the brink of death alive just to torture them, even if they had done nothing wrong; no, especially if they hadn't done anything wrong.

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine as she turned to face him, steeling herself against the unease that washed over her. She had to remain vigilant; his unpredictable nature was a threat she couldn't afford to underestimate. The jagged silver scar between her breasts was proof of that. 

“Allow me to introduce you to Antonin Dolohov,” Slughorn said, blissfully unaware he was standing in the presence of true evil. 

A chill ran down her spine, as if Antonin could sense her fear despite the fake smile she forced onto her lips. His grin widened, a malicious glint in his eyes that sent a wave of dread coursing through her. She narrowed her gaze slightly, trying to mask her discomfort, but it only seemed to amuse him further. With a suggestive flick, he began to play with his tongue piercing, the metal clattering against his teeth as he scraped the bar against each individual pearly white. Hermione couldn’t help but be drawn to the unsettling motion, her stomach twisting with a mix of revulsion and anxiety.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dolohov,” Hermione said, forcing the words out in a grimace. She didn’t offer her hand. She wouldn’t . It was a courtesy someone like him didn’t deserve from her.

Though Slughorn still remained oblivious to her discomfort, Dolohov's keen eyes caught the tension beneath her facade, and it only seemed to delight him further.

“Granger,” Dolohov acknowledged with a slight nod, clearly unbothered by the absence of a handshake.

“Brilliant! Now that you two are acquainted, let me explain,” Slughorn chattered on. “Dolohov here would greatly benefit from some tutoring, and since you are Head Girl and possess such maternal and patient qualities, I thought, who better to ask than Hermione Granger!”

Hermione suppressed a scoff, her brows knitting together in disbelief. Maternal? Patient? She was neither. Would someone ‘maternal’ have captured Rita Skeeter in a glass jar for months while she was in her Animagus form? Would someone ‘patient’ have pressured her best friend into creating an army of students, then berated anyone who didn’t take their role as soldier seriously? No. Hermione had neither of those traits.

The truth was, Hermione was the worst teacher, and the very opposite of Slughorn's perception. But in the 1940s, ‘maternal’ and ‘patient’ were simply euphemisms for being female, unfortunately for her. The thought only deepened her frustration.

“Happy to help.” Hermione had become better at lying lately, at least, she hoped. 

As much as she wanted to refuse, she knew she couldn’t let Slughorn down. Not only was he the head of Slytherin house, but he seemed to genuinely believe in her ability to help others.

“Excellent! I’ll leave you two to get to it then.” Slughorn gave a hearty pat to Antonin’s back before walking them to the door. “I have a meeting with Professor Sageet to get a free tea leaf reading in the next few minutes,” he added as he nearly shoved them outside his classroom and slammed the door. 

Hermione groaned. “Well, come on then.”

Dolohov chuckled darkly, following her like a shadow until they were both tucked away into Hermoine’s favorite corner of the library. 

“So what subject do you need the most help in?” Hermione asked, drawing out a schedule for both of them to follow. “We’ll start there.”

“Transfigurations.” Dolohov sunk deeper into his chair, crossing his arm over his chest. He looked aggressive, like a coiled snake ready to strike. “Maybe History of Magic, too.” 

“And what is your best subject?” she inquired to get a full picture.

“Dark Arts,” he said menacingly, his heavy accent adding to the malice of it. 

“There is no ‘Dark Arts’ offered at Hogwarts,” Hermione corrected him while she completes the finishing touches on her chart. “Do you mean Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“You know what I mean, Hermione.” 

Hermione suppressed a shudder, momentarily pausing her task as she glanced up at him. It was a reflexive reaction. If Tom Riddle was the devil, Antonin was Satan’s little helper, but unlike Tom, Dolohov looked the part. Even in the 1990s, she had never encountered a wizard with so many piercings. Antonin sported two on his right brow, snake bites adorning his bottom lip, and countless others climbing up each ear. To top it off, his tongue piercing glinted under the light as he incessantly fidgeted with it, capturing Hermione’s attention against her will.

“See something you like?” he said, biting his lip. 

Instantly, she lowered her head, returning to the schedule to hide her embarrassment. “Okay, here you go,” she slid the piece of paper over to him after she placed the finishing touches. “This will be our study schedule. Four times a week, for the next four weeks. We should see improvement by then, and if not, we’ll have to reconsider this arrangement.” 

“No,” he says, offering no explanation as he pushes the schedule back to her. 

“What do you mean, no?” She snaps at him. “Do you think I’m doing this because I want to? No, I’m doing this because the Head of our House expects it.”

“These dates are a ‘no,’” he pulls out a pen and crosses out a few random dates from each week off the calendar. 

“Why not?” Hermione gritted. Dolohov was taking half the classes she was and had no other responsibilities and he was acting like he was as high and mighty as the Minister of Magic himself.  

“Because I said so,” he answered sardonically. 

They locked eyes, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air, neither willing to back down. Hermione would die on this hill if she had to, or perhaps just tell him to sod off and accept that Slughorn's disappointment.

But then, a realization struck Hermione. Her gaze shifted back to the schedule, where her suspicion was confirmed: each day he had crossed out coincided with the nights Tom assigned the Slytherin prefects to patrol the corridors near the girls' bathroom on the second floor—the very spot where Moaning Myrtle had been killed only two years prior.

Tom Riddle and his knights were meeting in the Chamber of Secrets!

“Fine, then we’ll switch them around,” she offered, maneuvering a few spots to make the updates work for the both of them. 

“Brilliant,” he snarled, snatching the schedule from her fingertips and stalking away.

A smile crept onto Hermione's lips. She knew tutoring Antonin would be torture, but it felt like a fair trade-off. The nutter had inadvertently helped her with her true aim, making it all the easier for her to execute the next step of her plan.

This time next week, she’d be one more horcrux closer to achieving her goal.

Chapter Text

Tom was running late. Tom Riddle was never late. His meticulous nature and obsessive control over every detail of his life made such lapses inconceivable. And yet, here he was, still in his room instead of halfway across the school, his mind still tethered to the words of Salazar Slytherin’s journal. He had been so consumed by the ancient text that time had slipped from his grasp—a rare occurrence, and one that troubled him deeply.

For the longest time, the letters from Winifred, tucked between the journal’s pages, had seemed beneath his notice. Tom had dismissed them as the trivial musings of a witch caught in the grip of infatuation, irrelevant to his pursuit of power. He had skimmed over the corresponding entries that mentioned her, deeming them unworthy of his attention, but that had been a grave mistake. Underestimating any fragment of his ancestor's legacy was foolish, and Tom prided himself on never being a fool.

As he finally delved deeper into the letters, Tom’s perspective shifted. Winifred had not merely been a passing distraction to Salazar, a witch to sate his desires. No—Tom now realized with a sharp clarity that she had been a vital counterpart, an intellectual rival who had challenged Slytherin on his path to greatness. The letters revealed a tension between the two, a competitive edge that had driven Salazar further into the shadows of the dark arts. Their relationship became a delicate balance of possession and distrust, admiration and loathing—a dynamic that shaped Salazar’s rise to power in ways Tom had not fully understood.

And it was this realization that gnawed at Tom. How could he have missed it? Salazar had cared for Winifred, that much was obvious. The way he lingered on her words, the way her presence haunted his thoughts even years later—it was all laid bare in the journal. But that care had twisted into something darker. Salazar had resented her for the hold she had on him, the way she made him feel weak, desperate, and unworthy of the greatness he sought.

Tom's mind whirled with dark thoughts, a storm of unease brewing within him. Salazar’s feelings for Winifred mirrored the emotions that Hermione stirred in him—dangerously close, and deeply unsettling. It was this unsettling realization that had driven him to scrutinize every detail of their recorded interactions, a desperate race against time that had led him to the brink of distraction.

With a begrudging sigh, Tom tucked the journal back into a secret box alongside his old journal—the first Horcrux he had ever created. Sliding both carefully beneath his bed, he knew this hiding place was hardly ingenious, yet it would suffice for now. He was confident he would return within hours to resume his inspection, driven by an insatiable curiosity that gnawed at him.

In the silence of his room, Tom dismissed any thoughts of intrusion. No one would be foolish enough to invade his privacy; and should someone dare, they would find themselves thwarted by the protective wards he had cast, designed to keep prying eyes at bay. In his world, control was paramount, and he intended to maintain it at all costs.

Protego Totalum.  

As a force of habit, Tom cast his usual spell to keep unwanted guests out of his quarters, ensuring his solitude remained undisturbed. Rushing down the stairs, he was acutely aware of the time slipping away. Cedrella was most likely already waiting for him at the designated spot, and he couldn’t afford to let her leave before he arrived. The prospect of additional interruptions was unacceptable, so his irritation flared when he turned the corner to exit the Slytherin common room, only to collide with someone.

The impact jolted him, and he narrowed his eyes at the intruder, annoyance coiling tightly within him. Time was of the essence, and he had no patience for distractions. 

“Oops!” Hermione said, catching herself around his waist. 

Tom loomed over the witch, his presence casting a shadow that seemed to swallow her whole. She appeared diminutive in comparison to his tall frame; her petite stature accentuated by the way her untamed hair, wild and frizzy, added a few extra inches. It framed her face in a chaotic halo, contrasting sharply with her composed demeanor. Tom's expression hardened as he assessed her, irritation simmering at the unexpected encounter.

“Ms. Granger,” Tom said respectfully, removing her arms from his torso and taking a step back. He would never become accustomed to the way Hermione’s magic called to him, her touch only exhausting that feeling. Her proximity was the exact type of distraction he was trying to avoid. Hermione made him feel chaotic, a turmoil that was the last thing he needed moments before executing his plan with Cedrella. He was still reeling from Hermione’s unexpected win in potions class a few days prior, and seeing her around deepened his bitterness. It was a stinging loss, one he had to swallow, but the reality hit him harder when he reflected on how he had missed his chance at victory not by just one vote, but two . It was a lost cause, no matter which way he had voted.

In a calculated move, he chose to vote for her, not out of admiration, although her potion was irritatingly best, but as a means to begin gaining her trust. It was a necessary step in his strategy; securing her loyalty would be essential if he hoped to siphon her magic in the future. Each interaction, each shared moment, would be another thread woven into the intricate web he was crafting—a web designed to ensnare not only her allegiance but her very power.

“Tom!” she exclaimed, her voice oddly chipper. He wasn’t accustomed to seeing her in such a cheerful mood— at least not when she was near him. In fact, he had only witnessed her genuine smile a handful of times, most notably during her first few weeks hanging around Septimus. The unexpected brightness in her demeanor stirred a mix of curiosity and skepticism within him. What could possibly have her so elated?

“I was just looking for you, actually,” she continued, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. 

“Oh?” Tom asked, a nagging apprehension creeping in at this unexpected announcement. Hermione didn’t seek him out unless it was to discuss Head Boy and Head Girl agendas before their meetings with the prefects. However, they had already mapped out the monthly schedule, leaving no reason for her to approach him again until the next month was on the horizon. “How can I help you, Ms. Granger?” he inquired, his tone cautious as he scrutinized her expression for any indication of her true intentions.

“Ms. Granger?” Hermione teased playfully. “Tom, you can call me Hermione. You have before, have you not?”

Tom's eyebrow raised, a clear demonstration of his suspicion. They both knew the only time he had ever called her "Hermione" was during moments of hostility, a reminder of their fraught history. Yet, this new development could potentially support his plans to gain her trust. He considered the implications, weighing the risk against the reward. Still, he was determined not to let her sudden openness disarm him. 

“How can I help you, Hermione ,” he corrected. 

Gooseflesh raised on her arms at his use of her name, and the pull to her magic intensified unexpectedly. It was as if a thread connected them, drawing him closer to her power, igniting a dangerous curiosity within him. He kept his expression neutral, masking the surge of emotions that churned beneath the surface, determined to maintain control over the situation.

“I was wondering if you had any time to study together tonight,” Hermione asked, fidgeting with the tips of her fingers. Was she anxious for his answer? “You know, for the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam next week.”

He narrowed his eyes, a flicker of intrigue passing through him. Tom had been approached by numerous witches eager to "study," but for the first time, he suspected that Hermione genuinely wanted to engage in academic pursuits. A slight disappointment washed over him at the thought of having to decline her offer.

Typically, he preferred to study independently, enjoying any solitary moments, but the idea of collaborating with Hermione held a certain appeal. He recognized the potential it presented—not only would it allow him to gauge her knowledge of the dark arts, but it would also provide the perfect opportunity to pinpoint her weaknesses. Demonstrating his superiority in the subject was also an enticing prospect, one that would further establish his dominance and keep her firmly in her place.

“Unfortunately, I have plans I’m running late for,” Tom responded, gauging her reaction with a keen interest. He knew well that witches didn’t take kindly to hearing 'no,' and more than once, that word had sparked frustration or embarrassment in them, a testament to their expectations of his interest. But this time, it wasn’t about interest at all; he had other priorities that demanded his attention, no matter how enticing the opportunity to engage with her might be.

“Ah, I see,” Hermione said with a smile. She didn’t seem deterred, or offended, in the least. “Another time then, perhaps.” She shrugged, circling him before starting to walk backwards towards the common room. “Let me know!” 

She was just about to turn around and leave when Tom called back to her.

“Hermione,” Tom said, surprising himself. He should have let her go. He’s running late for Merlin’s sake! 

She stared at him with that unguarded smile he was unaccustomed to receiving. 

“I’m free tomorrow.” The words slipped out before he could fully comprehend their weight. He wasn’t sure what had inspired him to say it; he told himself it was all part of his plan, deliberately ignoring the fact that his offer was impulsive—something wildly out of character for him.

Hermione cocked her head to the side for a moment, studying him in a way that made him feel disturbingly exposed. He discreetly wiped his hands on his robes, a subconscious attempt to rid himself of the nervous energy that was creeping in. Why wasn’t she answering him? Wasn’t this her idea to study together? The silence stretched between them, amplifying his unease as he realized she was making him feel… nervous?

“Brilliant! I have to tutor Antonin after class for a bit, but I’m sure he’d be delighted if you joined us.” Hermione grinned.

Tom hadn’t planned on having an audience while he interrogated her, but he knew it would be a sign of weakness to back down now. He could, however, manage to spin the situation to his advantage, especially since Antonin was one of his most loyal followers. Having him there might even prove useful.

“Tomorrow, then,” Tom agreed, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his tone. “If you’ll excuse me now.”

He made his exit with a slight bow, secretly relishing the feeling of Hermione’s eyes on him as he walked away. The power dynamic had shifted, and he intended to exploit it fully.

* * * *

Cedrella had still been waiting for Tom by the time he arrived at the Armor Gallery fifteen minutes late. He had chosen this location for its proximity to the Chamber of Secrets, knowing he would need a quick escape to meet his knights. The strategic choice suited his purposes perfectly. Cedrella was making his plan all too easy for him; it almost took the fun out of the game. Tom reveled in the thrill of manipulation, but he couldn’t deny that the ease of it dulled the excitement just a bit. 

He approached her with a practiced smile.

“Tom,” Cedrella cooed, most likely trying to sound alluring. Her attempt was a failure. He had yet to meet a witch or wizard who could captivate him the way Hermione did. Tom frowned at the thought. 

“Did you bring what I asked for?” Tom asked, cutting to the chase.

“Yes, I did,” she replied, a gleam of mischief lighting up her eyes. This witch may have appeared quiet, but Tom recognized her malice. It wasn't just her past actions toward Hermione over a trivial boy that gave her away; it was the way she stood before him now, fulfilling his dark request with an unquestionable sense of glee. “But just out of curiosity, who is it for?” 

“I’m afraid if I tell you that, you may hesitate to provide it,” he said offhandedly. 

“It’s for Hermione, isn’t it?” Cedrella smirked, pulling out a vial of Clouded Bliss from her robe. “I’ve noticed the way you look at her.” 

“Oh?” he asked, baiting her into expanding more.

“She’s quite insufferable,” Cedrella laughed. “And with the way she overshadows you in class, I’d say she deserves whatever you do to her.”

“And if I said it was for her?” Tom asked, his indifferent facade barely concealing the rage that simmered beneath the surface. Not only had this witch implied that she’d take pleasure in Hermione, getting drugged again, even after Hermione had so generously forgiven her, but she also had the nerve to suggest that Hermione was somehow better than him. No one was better than Tom, not even his little pet, Hermione. He couldn’t decide which infuriated him more.

“It would be no bother to me,” Cedrella giggled, her laughter ringing hollow in his ears.

“Hmm.” Tom’s eyes narrowed, a predatory glint flashing across his features. He relished the thought of doing his worst to her, his mind already spinning with the most unpleasant of possibilities.

“But, Tom, if it were me that you wanted to… you know…” she said, blushing as she bit her lip. “I’d be a very… willing participant.”

Tom’s nose scrunched up in distaste. He had no doubt she was being honest, and the thought absolutely revolted him. The idea of Cedrella, with her pathetic attempts at seduction, made his skin crawl. He couldn’t fathom how someone, who was rumored to be engaged to another wizard at that, could so easily offer themselves up to another. It only served to deepen his disdain for her. If there was something Tom despised more than ignorance it was disloyalty. 

“You want to take Hermione’s place?” Tom asked, allowing her to hang herself.

She nodded eagerly. “Please.”

“I see,” Tom drawled indifferently. “Well, go ahead then.”

Cedrealla’s forehead wrinkled. She was confused. “Go ahead, what?”

“Drink the potion.” Tom nodded at the vial in her hand. 

“I think you’ll find it much more satisfying if I don’t drink this,” Cedrella smirked devilishly. 

“I suppose you’re right. But if we do this, you have to obey every single thing I say, Cedrella. No matter what. Can you do that?” 

“Yes,” she said breathlessly before eagerly nodding once more.

“Close your eyes,” Tom commanded, and when she did, he used his wand to secure a blindfold over her eyes, reinforcing it with a spell that would prevent her, or anyone else, from being able to take it off. It would stay firmly fixed over her eyesight until he decided she could see again. 

“I like this game,” Cedrella practically moaned.

“Quiet!” he snapped at her threateningly. “Say one more word and I’ll bind your mouth shut.”

She quietly folded her lips inwards as a sign of obedience.

“Now, bend over and grab your ankles,” Tom added.

Cedrella complied immediately, eager to follow Tom’s sick orders. 

Ropeus Apparere . A rope materialized. 

Vinclum Tenax . The ropes moved on their own to secure her wrists and ankles in an effective hogtie.

Wingardium Leviosa. Cedrella gasped as she was magically lifted into the air.

“Don’t make a sound,” Tom grit menacingly.

He had instructed the Slytherin prefects to steer clear of this area, but if they heard a girl screaming, it was only natural for them to start poking around.

Tom levitated Cedrella effortlessly to the nearby girls' bathroom. Ever since his fifth year, when Nocturna had claimed the life of a foolish Muggle girl, this place had become a ghostly sanctuary—no one dared to enter, making access to the Chamber of Secrets that much easier for him. His knights waited quietly for him inside, just as he had instructed. Among them, Lestrange appeared the most eager, a predatory glint in his eye that made Tom’s lips twitch with satisfaction. Everything was falling into place, and he could hardly contain his anticipation for what was to come.

When they were secure in the depth of the Chambers, and Nocturna was firmly out of range, Tom began the next phase of his design. 

He glamoured the chamber to resemble the Slytherin common room, transforming the dim space into an illusion of familiarity before placing Cedrella on her back in the middle of the floor. Her arms and legs pointed straight at the ceiling, her skirt askew just enough to give a glimpse of her backside.

Tom scowled at the sight of the demented witch, her chest heaving in eager anticipation. She wanted this—or whatever she thought it was—but she was gravely mistaken. Nothing about Tom's plans had any semblance of intimacy, and she would soon discover that her assumptions were entirely off base. 

Tom removed her blindfold, watching as she blinked a few times, adjusting to the sudden brightness. As the scene sank in, she gasped, her eyes widening in shock as they darted between the various members of Tom’s following. He had assembled an army of wizards behind him, each one with strong family ties to the original twenty three, rich in both money and connections.

Cedrella paled, and Tom’s smile grew darker, more sinister as the blood drained from her face. She requested this— he would remind her. 

“What’s going on?” Cedrella asked, shaking with pure terror. 

She understood she was a sitting duck. While she might have been able to report one Slytherin for wrongdoing, the thought of implicating the entire house was unthinkable—it would mean the destruction of her own reputation. Whatever transpired within these walls would remain a secret she would carry to her grave, a burden she would never share. The weight of her predicament settled heavily upon her, and the reality of her situation began to sink in. She was trapped, surrounded by those that— like her— thrived in darkness, and there was no escape.

“Cedrella volunteered to be our target for tonight’s lesson,” Tom announced formally. 

“N-no,” Credella whispered, searching the group for a weak link to draw sympathy. To her misfortune, Tom didn’t align himself with wizards that sympathized with the enemy, which is exactly why instead of pity or compassion, she was met with callousness and apathy. 

“As previously promised, today will be a lesson on unforgivables,” Tom instructed. “You’ll each have a turn to practice either the Cruciatus or the Imperius curse. I’ll go first to demonstrate.”

“Please don’t! I’ll do anything!” Cedrella begs, hot tears trailing down her crumpled face.

“If I go last, can I Avada her?” Antonin asked with a wicked smile.

Credella cries louder, sobbing for any one of us to step in on her behalf. 

“Unfortunately, we will have to return her alive or it may cause an investigation,” Tom sighed. He had nearly cast the Avada curse on her himself the second he found out she was responsible for drugging Hermione. 

“Notice how he said alive but not in one piece,” Lestrange chuckles, elbowing Crabbe, a stout, slightly dim-witted knight. Tom doesn’t correct him, because Lestrange is right on base; he wants to see Cedrella broken. More importantly, he wants her to be on the receiving end of what she was ready to dish out to Hermione.

“Before we get started,” Tom turned to Cedrella, cold and calculated, “you have a choice. You can either take the vial of Clouded Bliss and never know what’s about to happen to you, or be offered no mercy, and experience everything we do to you to the fullest degree.”

“Tom, please, please don’t do this,” Cedrella tried to appeal out to his humane side, but Tom didn’t have a humane side. “If you let me go, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Here’s the thing, Cedrella,” Tom kneeled down on one knee, sneering at the pathetic creature in the eye. “You’re going to do whatever I say even without me letting you go. You know why?”

“P-please,” she continued to cry for his help.

“Because if you don’t, Septimus will not only find out you drugged Hermione,” Tom whispered so quietly only she could hear him. “But he’ll also hear how you fucked Malfoy in the library of his manor on New Years Eve. You were technically engaged to Septimus, even then, isn’t that right?”

Her eyes were so large they seemed like they may pop out of her head at any given moment. Cedrella never knew Tom and Dolohov saw her with Malfoy that night, but it had been a running joke between the knights for quite some time, and ever since, Lestrange was eager to give her a go, too. 

“If this is about Hermione, I’m sorry!” She pleaded desperately. “I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry, Tom, please!!” 

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, but actions have consequences,” he said dully. 

“N-no, please, no,” her words were barely intelligible at this point.

“Do you want the Clouded Bliss, or not, Cedrella,” Tom sighed, rolling his eyes at her dramatics. 

She nodded, whimpering a small “yes.”

Tom tossed the draught to Lestrange, confident that it would please him—a reward for his loyalty and a testament to the way Tom catered to those who remained faithful. Lestrange caught it deftly, pouring the potion down Cedrella’s throat while whispering cruel words that made her struggle against her bindings and sob even harder.

A smirk spread across Tom’s face as he observed the scene unfold, knowing he could count on Lestrange’s depravity to amplify her torment. The room was thick with tension, and he reveled in the knowledge that he had orchestrated this moment, carefully crafting it to extract the most fear and desperation from her. This was the fate that could have befallen Hermione if he hadn’t intervened.

Within moments, the fight drained from Cedrella’s limbs, replaced only by the raw terror lingering in her eyes. 

Tom clapped his hands and rubbed them together, a satisfied smile illuminating his features. “Now, who is ready to get started?”

Chapter Text

Felix Felicis was a miracle worker.

Hermione rejoiced silently as she slipped back into her room with not one, but two prized possessions in her hand.

Her heart had nearly stopped when she’d run headfirst into Tom on her way to his room, fearing she’d misread Antonin’s excuse for being unavailable that evening. But luck, it seemed, was on her side, all thanks to the little vial of gold liquid she had won in her last Potions class. 

Breaking through Tom’s protective ward wasn’t as difficult as Hermione had anticipated. He’d only used a single spell to protect his quarters, which almost disappointed her. Even for someone who saw himself as invincible—especially compared to their so-called "simpleton" classmates—she’d expected more precautions. However, the great Tom Riddle, in all his conceit and glory, underestimated his opponents. It had been all too easy for her to blast through his ward. All she had to do was locate its weak point right at the crack of the door. Only one extra zealous cast of the Bombarda spell had done the trick.

Now, the real challenge began. Hermione hadn’t exactly thought through what she would do next. Yes, she had secured the first Horcrux Tom had ever created, the journal that belonged to his younger self. But how would she destroy it? The Sword of Gryffindor wouldn’t be impregnated with Basilisk venom for many decades yet, and the thought of heading into the Chamber of Secrets to confront the creature with nothing but a rooster was ludicrous. She’d have to think long and hard before determining her next steps.

In addition to the Horcrux, Hermione had taken a second book. 

In another half-hearted attempt at secrecy, Tom had stored his Horcrux next to an artifact that neither Hermione nor the rest of the wizarding world even knew existed: the journal of Salazar Slytherin. It was careless, she thought, for someone as calculating as Tom to leave two such valuable items together. But his arrogance was always his downfall. He believed himself untouchable, even when the stakes were at their highest. So, she duplicated both items, leaving the replicas behind and taking the originals for herself. She was so positively giddy, riding on the wave of her success, she didn’t know which one to explore first. 

Ultimately, she settled on the Horcrux. Although Hermione understood the danger of willingly immersing herself in Tom’s dark magic—particularly the remnants of his soul—her curiosity overrode her caution. She was desperate to get inside his head, especially after their earlier interaction. 

She hadn’t expected him to agree to her study proposal, and in all honesty, she hadn’t genuinely meant for them to study together at all. Her intention had merely been to gauge whether he’d return soon enough to catch her rummaging through his possessions. But now that he had agreed, she felt an unexpected thrill. She knew he would be a challenging study partner, and she hoped she could bring equal value to their collaboration. The prospect of delving into the depths of Tom’s knowledge—his insights into the dark arts and his unique perspective—was tantalizing. And in the meantime, she would do just that using his Horcrux.

She sat at her desk with the Horcrux placed in front of her, staring at the journal before opening it. It called to her, like they were each opposite electric charges, drawing them together with a force that grew stronger the closer they got. She missed it— the feel of his magic— and on instinct, she placed her hand around her throat, reaching for the ghost of Tom’s locket. With his journal at her fingertips, it was easy to recall the feeling of possibilities, invincibility, she drew from his magical source. By herself she was capable, but with his boost, she was unstoppable.     

As she flipped through the blank pages, she could almost sense Tom's presence enveloping her, his ambitions swirling in the air seductively. The journal wasn’t merely a collection of thoughts; it was a portal into his mind, a glimpse into the darkness that fueled him. She hesitated for just a moment, aware of the risks, but there was no reward without risk, she told herself. What secrets lay hidden within those pages? What could she learn about him—and perhaps about herself—in the process?

She understood the mechanics of this peculiar magic. The book might appear blank at first glance, but it was far from empty. To uncover his secrets, all she needed to do was set her quill to parchment.

With a steady breath, she began to write, allowing herself to be drawn deeper into his world, eager to uncover the truth behind Tom Riddle’s relentless pursuit of power.

“I should kill you,” she wrote, a playful smirk spreading across her face as she captured the words in her large, bubbly handwriting. She could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of his reaction.

“ Kill me? How delightfully naive. ” Tom’s letters were smooth and well-formed, similarly to the persona he often projected. “ I find it amusing that you believe you can intimidate me. Instead, consider this: those who threaten greatness often end up being mere footnotes in history. ”

“ Quite arrogant for a book ,” Hermione responded, laughing lightly; even his horcrux was boastfully self-important. “ But I could do it, you know. I could take you out to the forbidden forest right now, and fiendfyre you right now. ”

“ Ah, you speak of Fiendfyre—a powerful and destructive magic. But do you truly believe you have the capability to harness such forces? To conjure Fiendfyre is not merely a display of power; it requires precision and control. Would you be able to wield it effectively, or would it consume you instead? ” Tom’s Horcrux attempted to plant insidious seeds of doubt in Hermione’s mind, a defensive mechanism that wouldn’t work on her.

“ I’ve done it before .” Hermione recalled, pride blooming in her chest. Not many witches and wizards could say as much. “ To destroy your little pet. ”

“ So you’ve taken the bold step of wielding Fiendfyre before. How deliciously reckless! Destroying my precious pet, you say? That speaks volumes about your capacity for destruction. But tell me—what did that act achieve? ”  

“ It gave me great pleasure to hurt you, ” Hermione wrote, with a dark satisfaction. “ To know that I, Hermione Granger, outwitted you, even for just a moment. ”

“ How delightfully petty, Hermione Granger.” Hermione could imagine his smile as he wrote down each word. “ So tell me, what is the purpose of telling me you want to kill me. Why not just kill me?”

It was a valid point— one that Hermione didn’t know the answer to. Or perhaps she did know the answer, and she was lying to herself. Perhaps… part of her wanted to keep it. To use Tom’s diary as a tool to manifest her magic the way the locket did. But this diary offered something more than the locket. It offered knowledge: dark, mysterious, and forbidden.The kind that both repelled and fascinated her in equal measure. Hermione hesitated, the quill hovering above the parchment, as if acknowledging that once she began, there would be no turning back. But ultimately, she needed answers, she decided; she needed power over her enemy, she needed to understand the dangerous allure of Tom Riddle— in a way no one else could teach her— if she wanted to achieve her goals. 

“ I want something from you first, ” Hermione finally wrote back. 

“ I thought I was just a simple, arrogant little book? ” Not even the memory of Tom Riddle could hold himself back from being a pompous arse. 

“ I guess I’ll just have to destroy you sooner then, since you won’t give me what I want ,” Hermione threatens. 

“ Not unless I get to you first. ” The words populated only for a moment before disappearing again. 

Then, suddenly, the pages of Tom’s journal fluttered violently, as if caught in a gust of wind. Hermione’s eyes widened in shock as a blinding light burst from the parchment, illuminating the entire room. The words returned, sharp and bold, rising from the page, swirling in the air before her, and before she could react, the light pulled her in.

Her body hit the cold, hard floor with a dull thud, leaving her disoriented. As Hermione opened her eyes, she was greeted by the unnerving sight of Tom Riddle standing over her, his expression cold and calculating. He was only an outline—a translucent figure, a mere memory of the wizard who had once been—but his presence still dominated the space. He wasn’t flesh and blood, and yet, his power was palpable, filling the air around her, dark and magnetic.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She shivered, not out of fear, but from the intoxicating pull of his magic, the same dangerous force that had always fascinated her. She closed her eyes, allowing the sensation to wash over her like a wave, momentarily forgetting the peril she was in. This was the power she craved—the power she knew she shouldn’t want, but couldn’t help being drawn to.

“Who are you to threaten me?” Tom demanded, closing in on her.

Hermione’s breath quickened as she scrambled backward, her palms stinging against the rough stone floor, only to find herself pressed against an unyielding wall. Tom moved with predatory grace, his form looming over her before he dropped to his knees, closing the distance between them. His dark green eyes pierced through her, brimming with intensity.

The air crackled with the energy between them. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her throat in a firm grip, lifting her up from her crouched position. Hermione gasped, a low moan escaping her lips as his magic collided with hers, surging through her in a way that made her skin tingle. She could feel him everywhere, even though he was nothing more than a memory, a phantom conjured from the depths of the Horcrux.

Her mind raced— he wasn’t real —but the sensation of his touch felt alarmingly tangible. The force of his power enveloped her, suffocating yet electrifying.

Tom’s voice was low, a deadly hiss. "What dark magic are you yielding?" His chest rose and fell with unrestrained anger, his grip tightening. His eyes bore into hers, demanding answers, as if he, too, was struggling with the reality of their connection.

"Finite Incantatem."

The words escaped her lips in a desperate whisper, the only incantation her foggy mind could muster under the weight of his magic. As soon as she uttered the spell, a burst of energy pulsed through the air. The grip around her throat loosened, and the overwhelming sensation of his presence began to fade. His form flickered, destabilizing, as though the force binding him to her was severed by the spell.

Hermione gasped for breath, her body trembling from the aftershock of their magical collision. Tom’s translucent figure wavered before her, his dark green eyes still locked on hers with an intensity that made her blood run cold. Yet, as the effects of the incantation took hold, his powerful aura began to dissipate, leaving behind a lingering trace of the darkness that had surrounded them, until it was gone altogether. The pressure around her died away, but the memory of it—of him—clung to her like a shadow. 

Hermione’s body jolted backward into her desk chair, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. Her wide eyes darted to the journal now resting innocently before her, its pages blank as though nothing had ever happened. It looked harmless, an unassuming book with no indication of the dark magic she had just experienced. 

Her hands trembled as she slowly backed away, her heart still racing. She didn’t trust it. Not anymore. The memory of Tom’s grip on her throat, the overwhelming presence of his magic, lingered on her skin. She had to put it away—now. With a quick flick of her wand, she slammed the journal shut, the force of her magic making the cover snap together with finality.

Her chest heaved as she considered where to stash it, until finally, she shoved the journal into the very bottom of her bookbag. There, she hoped, it would be safe, at least for the time being. She could still feel its charge, that electric hum of dark magic, calling to her—faint, yet persistent—but at least it was contained. 

For now.

* * * *

Hermione's nerves were a tangled mess as she prepared to face Tom again, her mind racing at the thought of their upcoming meeting. Rationally, she knew he would have no knowledge of her encounter with his Horcrux—it was only a disconnected fragment of his soul, after all—but the intensity of the experience left a deep impression on her. His piercing eyes, full of malice, paired with the firm, almost possessive touch his younger self had exerted over her had been seared into her mind since yesterday.

She recalled the phantom of his hand at her throat, his dark magic wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket. Facing the real Tom, who had no idea what had transpired, so soon after the fact, felt like a dangerous game. Would he sense something off in her demeanor? Would he notice the way her heart pounded faster in his presence, or the way her fingers twitched nervously when he came too close? She never thought she’d think it, but thank goodness for Antonin’s presence. He would be a needed distraction for her— and perhaps for Tom. 

When Hermione arrived at the library, she found both of her study partners already waiting. Tom was engrossed in a Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, his eyes scanning the pages with methodical intent, while Antonin idly tossed a quill into the air with casual wandless magic. The moment they noticed her approach, their movements stilled, and two sets of dark eyes turned toward her in unison.

She flushed under their mutual scrutiny, her nerves prickling with discomfort. There was something unsettling about the way they watched her, as if each were appraising her for different reasons—Tom, with his cold and unreadable gaze, and Antonin, dangerously curious. She refused to let them intimidate her.

Hermione slammed a large glass jar onto the table with a resounding thud, its contents shifting violently. Inside was a young acromantula, its long legs and glistening fangs visible through the transparent container. Tom frowned, scrunching his nose in distaste at the sight, while Antonin's eyes widened with intrigue, a glimmer of excitement dancing in their depths. It was exactly what she intended. She needed to gain Antonin’s interest if he were to take anything she said seriously. 

The spider, sensing the sudden change in its environment, frantically launched itself against the walls of the jar, its tiny body bouncing from side to side and top to bottom in a futile attempt to escape. It was a relentless effort, a desperate struggle for freedom that only served to highlight the impossibility of its attempts. Hermione watched with a mix of satisfaction and sympathy, aware that she was the one in control, and determined to ensure its safety by the end of her lesson. 

“Someone’s been breaking school rules again, I see,” Tom remarked, his frown deepening.

“Only in the pursuit of knowledge, of course,” Hermione ignored his attitude, selecting a chair an equal distance away from both wizards. 

She enjoyed seeing Tom a bit frazzled, and she mentally noted that he seemed to find spiders off putting. Antonin, on the other hand, was completely enraptured by the small creature, his eyes sparkling with intrigue as he leaned closer to the jar. 

“You must’ve gone deep into the forest to capture it.” Antonin stared at Hermione with renewed interest. She found herself sucked in by his unique accent, watching his lips move as he spoke. Their rhythm felt oddly familiar—and the mysterious edge emanating from his magic reminded her of her first kiss with Viktor Krum. It had been sweet and exploratory, yet also rough and untamed.

“I had to visit the more secluded parts of the Forbidden Forest, yes,” Hermione replied, shrugging off her nervous energy. 

Antonin still gave her the heebie-jeebies, she decided as she unconsciously rubbed at the scar beneath her blouse, but he wasn’t nearly as daunting as Tom. She could feel Tom’s critical eye from her peripheral vision, so she kept the focus on Antonin for the moment—the lesser of two evils. 

“Did you see the nests?” Dolohov’s eyes positively radiated with fascination. 

Hermione gave a small laugh. She hadn’t expected him to be so boyish. 

“Thankfully I found this little guy before I reached the depths of nests, but I did get a small glance at them,” Hermione replied. “They’re quite beautiful, actually.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed at her response, skepticism etched across his features. He clearly found her story to be a ridiculous falsehood. 

“Is that so?” he said, his tone dripping with superiority. “You do realize those creatures are lethal, right? It’s not exactly a stroll in the park.” His expression remained stern, clearly unimpressed with her bravado. “And you expect us to believe you just pranced in and out without a problem?”

“I’m aware of the dangers, Tom.” Hermione said dryly, a flicker or annoyance rising at his condescending tone. “And yet, I brought evidence of my success, didn’t I?” She gestured to the frantic acromantula in the jar.

“And why did you bring this little pest today, Hermione?” Tom questioned, leaning back in his chair, putting more distance between him and the jar. “To show off that you’re reckless and short-sighted?”

“Actually,” Hermione said, brushing off his insults as if they had no effect on her. Let him underestimate her all he wants; that will simply make taking him down much easier. “Antonin explained that the first class he needed support with was Transfiguration. So I brought our inspiration.” 

Tom’s expression darkened as he regarded the wriggling spider. “You’re using a lethal creature as inspiration in a Transfiguration lesson?” he asked, his voice laced with sarcasm, emphasizing the absurdity of her suggestion.

“But that’s the fun of it, Tom, don’t you think? ” Hermione remarked, her eyes glinting with excitement. She found it satisfying to be the reason Tom felt unsettled, and she was ready to make him even more so. 

Antonin chuckled at Hermione’s boldness. Tom was less entertained, continued to scrutinize her with his reproving scowl.

“It makes getting things right so much more motivating when there’s life or death on the line,” she added. It was true; some of her best magic was inspired by the sheer will to survive. 

Antonin smirked in agreement, his gaze flickering to the acromantula as he toyed with one of his lip piercings in eager anticipation. The thrill of the situation seemed to invigorate him, and he leaned forward, clearly intrigued by the prospect of what might come next.

“It’s unwise,” Tom maintained, his voice steady as he crossed his arms, defiant. 

“Oh, have it your way, then,” she replied with a sigh, a mischievous spark in her eyes. To the surprise of both wizards, she opened the lid and allowed the acromantula to scurry out. Immediately, it turned toward Tom, its legs skittering across the table in a frantic search for freedom.

Before it could reach him, she raised her wand with a quick flick. “ Petrificus Totalus. ”

The spider froze mid-step, its body rigid as it collapsed into a still heap. Hermione snickered at Tom’s startled expression. “See? No harm done,” she said triumphantly, enjoying the way the tension rose in the room.

Tom's frosty demeanor persisted. “That doesn’t make it any less foolish,” he countered, though she could see a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he finally shifted closer to the incapacitated spider.

“Maybe, but it sure makes things interesting,” Hermione shot back hotly. “Now, Antonin,” she continued, turning her attention to her pupil, “when I see acromantulas, I think they’re so adorable and cuddly and misunderstood.” It was Hagrid who had taught her to think in such a way—he, himself, often being misunderstood.

Dolohov raised an eyebrow, amused at Hermione’s assessment of the creature “Adorable? They’re massive spiders.”

“Exactly!” she replied, her enthusiasm bubbling over. “Their size just adds to their charm. Besides, they have feelings, you know? They live to protect their nests and families, just like any creature. It’s all about perspective.”

Tom snorted softly, clearly unimpressed. “Perspective won’t save you when they decide to bite,” he remarked, shaking his head.

“But that’s the challenge!” Hermione insisted, undeterred. “Understanding their behavior makes you a better wizard. If you learn to see them as more than just dangerous beasts, you can find ways to coexist. Knowledge is power.”

Antonin looked between them, amusement burning in his eyes as he considered her words. “And you think this one is just misunderstood?”

“Absolutely!” she affirmed, grinning at him. “Once you get past the fangs and the creepy-crawly legs, there’s a lot to appreciate. They’re actually quite fascinating.”

Tom sighed, pretending to be bored. “You have a way of romanticizing danger, don’t you?” 

“Perhaps,” she said, smirking. She must, to believe that she can stare a young Voldemort in the eye while simultaneously working to undo his aspirations from right under his nose.

“And how is all of this supposed to help Antonin with transfigurations?” Tom asked defiantly.

“Because we’re going to practice turning this acromantula into a cuddly stuffed animal,” Hermione replied calmly, as if her thought process was the most obvious thing in the world.

Tom raised an eyebrow, disbelief written all over his face. “You want to transfigure an acromantula into a stuffed animal? That’s… ambitious.”

“Ambitious is one word for it,” she said, with another shrug. “But think about it! If Antonin can master this, he’ll be able to transfigure anything, even the most dangerous creatures. It’s all about pushing boundaries.”

“I like it,” Antonin agreed, shooting a dark grin Hermione’s way. 

She smiled back, feeling an odd spark of camaraderie. Maybe she had also misunderstood Antonin the way most people misunderstood acromantulas. When she looked beneath the surface, there was a depth to him that intrigued her, much like the complexities of the creatures they were about to tackle—heebie-jeebies aside. Again, life was all about perspective. 

  “Brilliant!” Hermione continued, her enthusiasm apparent. “It’s not just about the spell; it’s about understanding what we’re working with. Every creature, even the most feared, has its own unique magic. Once you grasp that, transfiguration becomes so much more than just waving a wand.”

“You’re taking an unnecessarily risky approach, Hermione. Not everyone can handle that level of challenge,” Tom scoffed.

“But Antonin can!” she insisted, glancing at Antonin, who nodded in agreement. “Right?”

“Definitely,” Dolohov replied, determined. “I’m up for it. Just wait and see.”

Tom sighed, his displeasure clear. “Very well, then. Let’s see if you can turn that acromantula into something even remotely cuddly.”

She straightened her posture, exuding confidence as she prepared to demonstrate. The library felt charged with energy, a mixture of excitement and apprehension hanging in the air.

“Alright, Antonin,” she continued, her voice steady. “It’s imperative to focus on the acromantula and picture what you want it to become—a soft, cuddly stuffed animal. I’m visualizing it clearly in my mind as I cast the spell.”

With a determined glint in her eye, Hermione raised her wand, ready to channel her magic. She took a deep breath, her heart racing. This had to work, or Tom would rub her failure in her face until the day she died.

“ Furrifacio !” she enunciated clearly, Tom’s eyes firmly fixed to her every move. With a wave of her wand, she began to weave the incantation, pouring all her intent and precision into the spell. The air around her crackled and sparked as her magic slowly produced her desired outcome.

Where the spider had collapsed, now lay a small, cuddly stuffed animal, its soft fur a stark contrast to the sinister creature it had once been. Hermione squeaked in satisfaction, her heart soaring at the sight of her successful transformation. It was one thing to push boundaries, but this was different. It was a show of her creativity, her ability to apply magic more advanced than what could be learned from simply reading a textbook.

Antonin let out an impressed laugh, his eyes wide with admiration as he reached out to pick up the plush toy, turning it over in his hands. Tom, however, looked sour, his lips pressing into a thin line. It was clear he hadn’t expected her success. He narrowed his dark green eyes at the stuffed animal as if its existence were offensive to him.

“Impressive work, Hermione,” Antonin said, sounding genuine. “I didn’t think you could pull it off.”

“Neither did I,” Tom muttered under his breath, irritation lacing his voice. 

She smiled at Antonin, reveling in the moment. “Now, the real challenge is to see if you can replicate it,” she said, encouraging him to rise to the occasion.

As Dolohov studied the stuffed acromantula, Hermione felt a sense of pride swelling knowing she had been the one who had also sparked a fire of his ambition. He was decidedly apathetic in all their classes, but for the first time, he felt vibrant with interest.

“I can do it,” he said, his voice brimming with self-assuredness.

“Excellent!” Hermione chirped. “Now place it in the center of the table and I’ll transform it back so you can have a fresh start.”

He followed her instructions, placing the plush acromantula directly in the middle of the table, its soft body slumping slightly as if it were awaiting its fate. Antonin’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as he watched Hermione prepare for the next step.

“ Finite Incantatem ,” Hermione declared with poise, the words flowing naturally from her lips. The acromantula twitched as it regained its senses, its multifaceted eyes blinking rapidly. Before it could recover enough to attempt escape, she was quick to cast the full body binding curse once more, rendering it immobile. “All yours, Antonin,” she encouraged.

He nodded, determination settling on his features as he allowed Hermione to guide him through the process. “Look at your target carefully; inspect it,” she instructed, her voice steady and motivating. “Then, picture your objective: how fuzzy, and fluffy, and cuddly you want to make it.”

Hermione noticed Dolohov’s lips twitch up at the mention of “cuddly,” and it almost made her laugh. He was genuinely enjoying this, and so was she. “Visualize how it felt in your hands,” she continued, “and then cast your spell: Furrifacio .” She pronounced her unique incantation carefully, ensuring it was clear for him to master.

“ Furrifacio ,” Dolohov echoed, his distinct Slavic accent lending an intriguing edge to the spell. His brow furrowed in concentration, and Hermione could see the gears turning in his mind as he focused on the acromantula before him. The air around them seemed to thrum with potential, and Hermione felt a rush of energy as they engaged in this unconventional lesson together.

“Now, let your magic flow through you,” she urged, her eyes locked on his, willing him to succeed. Antonin took a deep breath, his wand poised, and for a moment, it felt as though the entire room held its breath, waiting for the transformation to unfold.

“ Furrifacio ,” Antonin cast the spell, his focus unbreaking as his wand moved with accuracy. Slowly, the acromantula's rigid form began to twist and contort, its spindly legs folding in as its hairy body shrank. The transformation was almost mesmerizing as the once menacing creature softened into a soft plush toy—fluffy, harmless, and undeniably cuddly.

“You did it!” Hermione exclaimed, her face lighting up with pride as she clapped enthusiastically. "I knew you could!"

Antonin's lips tilted to the side in a half smile, satisfaction flooding his eyes as he inspected his successful transfiguration project. “It wasn’t so difficult,” he remarked, his voice low but pleased.

Hermione beamed at him, her heart swelling with the shared victory. “You did brilliantly,” she cheered, feeling a warm sense of accomplishment herself. This was the kind of moment she lived for—teaching and learning in equal measure. Even Tom, despite his usual reserved expression, seemed to be re-evaluating his earlier doubts.

“Well done, Antonin,” Hermione added, her smile unwavering. “Now, let’s try it again, just to make sure you’ve really got it down.”

Dolohov nodded, catching some of Hermione’s eagerness, and together, they transfigured the spider back and forth half a dozen times. Each time, Antonin grew more confident, his wand movements sharper, his spellcasting more fluid. Tom watched patiently, his expression unreadable, yet a palpable tension hung in the air, as if he was calculating each of their steps.

Hermione, sensing the shift, glanced over at Tom. He had been quietly observing the entire time, his sharp gaze never leaving their work. She wondered if he felt left out of the practical lesson. Despite his natural brilliance, Hermione knew Tom valued control over every situation, and this transfiguration exercise had kept him on the sidelines.

“Do you want to give it a go?” she asked him, her tone light and encouraging. She hoped to break the barrier between them, maybe even get him to warm up to her a bit.

Tom was about to respond, a cool smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, when Professor Slughorn’s booming voice interrupted them.

“Ah! What have we here?” Slughorn’s large frame appeared in the doorway, his mustache twitching as his eyes darted between the trio and the frozen acromantula on the table—still in its plush form. “Up to a bit of extracurricular magic, are we?”

“Just fulfilling that tutoring promise, Professor,” Hermione said lightly, her words smooth and casual. She knew if Slughorn had any inkling of the real nature of their ‘tutoring,’ she would be in serious trouble.“Transfigurations today, History of Magic tomorrow.”

“Splendid! I knew I could count on you, Hermione,” Slughorn beamed, clearly pleased. He glanced at Dolohov, as though the boy were invisible; his focus was entirely on Hermione and Tom. “Antonin will have his grades up in no time,” he continued, his voice dismissive, as though Dolohov wasn’t in the room with them. It reminded Hermione of how Slughorn used to overlook Ron, sparking a flicker of pity for Antonin.

"And now, with two of my brightest stars here together," Slughorn's tone grew more animated, "Tom, Hermione, I would be honored if you both attended my Slug Club Fall Festival next week. It’s shaping up to be a grand event! Alaric Thistledown from the Chudley Cannons, Peter Blackthorn, the editor of The Daily Prophet, and Ignatius Hawkeweather from the Department of Mysteries are just a few big names that will be in attendance. Quite the gathering, I assure you!"

"Of course, sir," Tom replied smoothly, offering a slight, elegant bow. His eyes were cool, calculated; he would never turn down a chance to be in the midst of such influential company.

“It would be my honor,” Hermione added with a bright, practiced smile. In truth, she had no interest in going, but it would be rude to decline.

"Brilliant!" Slughorn beamed, his round face glowing with satisfaction. "Well then, see you in class, you two," he said, his eyes only on Tom and Hermione, again, as if Antonin didn’t even exist. With a jovial wave, he turned and waddled out of the library, leaving them in silence once more.

Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Antonin, her lips pressing into a thin line of sympathy. She recalled how terrible it left Ron feeling when he wasn’t invited to Slughorn’s Christmas party during sixth year. “Antonin, would you want to go? He might let us bring a plus one.” 

Antonin’s eyebrow lifted in surprise at Hermione’s offer, his sharp eyes flicking over to Tom for a brief moment before returning to her. There was a pause as he seemed to consider the idea, the hint of a smirk ghosting the corner of his mouth.

“I appreciate the offer,” he said slowly, his voice thick with that familiar Slavic cadence. “But I’m not sure a Slug Club gathering is quite my scene.”

Tom, who had been quietly observing the exchange, nodded in approval at Antonin’s response, a small, almost imperceptible smirk playing at his lips.

“Really, I insist,” Hermione pressed. “It was quite rude of him to invite us in front of you without extending the offer your way. Please, think about it and let me know if you reconsider.”

Antonin’s cheeks colored, though his eyes softened slightly at Hermione’s insistence. “You’re kind to think of me,” he replied, his tone lighter. “But don’t hold your breath.” 

Hermione chuckled at Antonin's response, finding his brusque demeanor more amusing as she got to know him better. After all, she'd spent years around Harry and Ron, two wizards who could be just as blunt and occasionally tactless. Growing up with them had taught her not to take such comments too personally. Besides, it wasn't like she was asking Antonin out on a romantic date—this would be completely platonic.

“Well, the offer stands,” Hermione said, maintaining her warm smile. “Just let me know if you change your mind.”

Suddenly, the scraping of Tom’s chair echoed in the air as he slammed his textbook shut and stormed off in an abrupt exit. Hermione blinked, her mind scrambling to understand what had just happened. What had his knickers in a twist? 

“I have to go,” Dolohov sighed, standing up and grabbing his things. His eyes lingered on the plush acromantula mischievously. “Can I take this with me?”

Hermione hesitated, her original plan to return the creature to the forest tugging at her conscience. But Antonin’s amusement softened her decision; he just wanted to practice more. "Alright," she relented with a small smile, “but take good care of it—whether it's fuzzy or eight-legged.”

Antonin grinned, seeming oh so boyish again as he tucked the stuffed spider under his arm and he took off in a jog behind Tom. Hermione felt pleased about how the session went overall, even though she was unable to make any progress with Tom. At least she’d helped someone today.

Chapter Text

Trips to Hogsmeade held a certain significance for Tom that none of his classmates could begin to understand. With no guardian to sign off on his permission slip, he'd been denied the privilege of leaving the school grounds until he came of age in the middle of sixth year. For him, the excursions were still somewhat novel, a brief interlude from the structure of Hogwarts and a reminder of how far he'd come. Honeydukes, in particular, was a favorite. 

Growing up in an orphanage, he had no access to luxuries like sweets or treats. Now, as a Dark Lord in the making, he watched his fellow students—pampered and privileged—fuss over who could buy the finest gifts, the rarest chocolates, or the most expensive trinkets for him. It amused him to watch them try to outdo one another, unaware that their petty competitions were meaningless compared to his grander plans. Still, Honeydukes was a place that appealed to his rare moments of indulgence—where, just for a fleeting second, he allowed himself to enjoy what he was once denied.

However, this particular trip to Hogsmeade wasn't about indulgence or the momentary pleasures of honeyed confections. It was about acquiring something far more valuable: knowledge. Specifically, the knowledge of Hermione Granger's movements, associations, and objectives. Where did she go during her free time? Who did she choose to spend it with? And more importantly, what were her motives?

Tom had been on edge ever since their study session with Antonin. Hermione had not only showcased a sharp intellect but demonstrated a level of creativity that disturbed him. She had invented her own spell—something that went beyond the scope of the traditional Hogwarts education. This wasn’t mere bookishness; it was ingenuity of a kind that made him eager to uncover more about her. After watching her closely, particularly during her interactions with Dolohov, Tom realized just how little he actually knew about her. 

It was time to go deeper, to feign intimacy and trust, tricking her into revealing more about herself. The more he could uncover, the more he could manipulate. Hermione Granger’s arrogance might be her undoing, and Tom would use that to his advantage. He would find out what made her tick and then exploit it until she had no choice but to submit to his will. 

Tom cloaked himself under the Disillusionment Charm, his form blending seamlessly with the backdrop as he trailed Hermione from a distance. Though he knew she was aware of his skill with such spells, she wouldn’t be expecting it—not now, not here, especially when she seemed so utterly focused on her destination. She moved with purpose, quick and deliberate, as she advanced on the students who had left the castle grounds much before her. No hesitation. No pause to ask for directions or even to admire the gradual transformation of scenery from the familiar grounds of Hogwarts to the snow-dusted village of Hogsmeade. It struck Tom as... odd.

On his first excursion to Hogsmeade, he couldn’t help his almost childlike fascination with the unknown territory. The mist that clung to the forest edges like forgotten whispers, the quaint rooftops of Hogsmeade emerging in the distance, and the soft, pale glow of the snow-covered village against the steel-gray sky—it had all been captivating. A moment to savor, even for someone like him who rarely allowed sentiment to cloud his thoughts.

But Hermione? She dismissed the path ahead of her as if it were nothing more than a task to be completed, a means to an end. There was no marvel in her eyes, no curiosity for what lay beyond the next bend. It was mechanical, calculated—something that directly contradicted the lecture she had recently given on “perspective,” a lecture that had dripped with idealism and naïve admiration for the world around her. 

This inexplicable indifference only deepened Tom’s curiosity. If Hermione’s attention wasn’t on the journey itself, then what, or who, was she so focused on? And what did it mean about her true intentions? He would find out. 

Tom shadowed her discreetly, slipping into the pub just in time to watch Hermione’s face light up with an excitement he rarely saw. She practically bounced on her feet when she spotted the figure in the farthest corner: none other than Bathilda Bagshot, the former professor and author of A History of Magic . Bagshot had already settled in with two butterbeers, one nearly half-empty, and rose from her seat with a beaming smile, arms open to greet Hermione.

The moment they embraced, something tugged at Tom’s attention. He found the scene utterly foreign and, frankly, baffling. Such warmth, such affection—it was almost too intimate, too... human. Tom wasn’t accustomed to witnessing such genuine displays of emotion. Even in his interactions with his followers and their families, formality and cold detachment reigned supreme. Physical affection was something beneath them, an unnecessary show of weakness.

Hermione hugged the old professor as if they had been separated for years rather than weeks, the act as natural as breathing. It fascinated him, this strange connection between the two women. What secrets did Bathilda Bagshot hold for Hermione to seek her out like this, and with such joy? Tom’s eyes narrowed as he quietly maneuvered closer, listening intently while his mind churned, more determined now than ever to unearth the purpose behind this meeting.

Whatever it was, his knowledge of it would be crucial to his plans to win the Granger witch over.

“Hermione, my darling,” Bathilda’s voice crooned, overly affectionate, too warm for Tom’s liking. It made his skin crawl. He watched as Hermione’s face lit up, her usual composed demeanor slipping into something softer—something Tom found irritatingly pathetic. She missed the old woman.

“Bathilda! Hogwarts would be so much warmer with you there,” Hermione smiled.

Tom’s gaze shifted to Bathilda, who cackled after Hermione’s response. “Poppycock,” she said, dismissing Hermione’s flattery as polite nonsense. "From the sound of your letters, you seem to be doing just fine!" 

Tom’s lip curled. Of course she was fine. Why wouldn’t she be? Hermione Granger had a way of carving out space wherever she went, infiltrating circles she had no business in. And yet, she did so with that insufferable grin of hers, as though it were effortless.

Then came the mention of the Slug Club.

Tom’s brow furrowed. Bathilda’s voice rang in his ears: “Did you know he’s never invited a witch to one of his events before?” 

Tom froze. 

Never. 

It was true, he hadn’t noticed a witch at any of the previous gatherings, but Tom had thought nothing of it prior to Bathida’s mention, but then again, Tom had no reason to notice witches before Hermione.

A low growl of irritation threatened to escape his throat. So that’s what Hermione had been playing at—gaining another foothold where she didn’t belong, using her charm to break into one of the last exclusive realms of influence within Hogwarts. A "boys' club," Bathilda had called it. And now Hermione had shattered that barrier too.

“And have you been following the entirety of my orders closely, Hermione?” Bathilda wiggled her eyebrows. 

Tom’s eyes narrowed, watching the exchange with sharpened focus. Bathilda’s question, laced with teasing affection, made Hermione’s cheeks flush as she choked on her sip of butterbeer. 

"Oh," The hesitation in her response, the way her voice faltered, only confirmed what Tom already suspected: Hermione was hiding something. "Y-yes," she stammered, visibly uncomfortable as she fidgeted in her seat. 

Tom smirked to himself. It pleased him to see Hermione unsure of herself for once.

"Well, don’t leave me hanging, child!" Bathilda pushed further, her tone playful but curious. "As an old woman, I live through you now. Tell me more."

Tom’s curiosity piqued. What promise had Hermione made to this old crone? Something that embarrassed her so easily? Whatever it was, it had to be important. Hermione Granger wasn’t one to blush lightly, and for Bathilda to coax such a reaction meant there was something deeper at play. Something Tom could use.

He leaned in closer, concealed by his Disillusionment charm; this was what he was looking for—a chink in the armor she wore so confidently. If Hermione had made some private vow—something personal, something she would do anything to keep hidden— perhaps he could exploit it, use it as much needed leverage. 

“My courses and Head Girl responsibilities have kept me busier than expected,” Hermione said with a secret smile. “But I suppose I did have quite a… fun.. study session earlier this week.”

Tom watched with rapt attention, noting her words as measured and careful. 

“Oh, Hermione, studying is not the kind of fun I was referring to,” Bathilda sighed with a chuckle, drinking the last of her butterbeer. “I meant making friends, sneaking around the castle, causing a bit of a ruckus!”

“Professor! Are you insinuating I should break school rules?” Hermione pretended to be scandalized before giggling at the idea.

“Now that I no longer teach at Hogwarts, I can let you in on a little something,” Bathilda exaggerated, looking around slyly for any witnesses before sharing her secret. “Rules are meant to be broken.”

Tom had never witnessed this side of Bathilda Bagshot before. The esteemed, but now retired, professor had always been a paragon of respectability, a strict disciplinarian who had no tolerance for frivolity or foolishness. Yet here she was, behaving like a giddy schoolgirl—teasing, gossiping, and indulging in trivialities. 

“Well, I guess, it was the method of study that was entertaining,” Hermione pondered. She had barely touched a sip of her drink. “And the company.”

Tom watched with rapt attention as Hermione continued, her words still calculated and ambiguous. That pause, that subtle hint of secrecy, like a joke no one else could understand—it infuriated him. 

“Why didn’t you just say so! Tell me about the lad, then,” Bathilda probed eagerly. “Herold, two more butterbeers over here, please!” Bathilda waved down the barkeep. Herold replaced her empty glass with a new one right away, and brought an extra for Hermione. She now had two untouched pints in front of her.

“A lad,” Bathilda had said, eager to pry into the details of Hermione’s social life. Tom’s grip on his wand tightened, though he was careful to remain silent and unseen. His mind raced as he considered the implications. Who could it be? Dolohov? That Weasley whelp? Or someone else entirely? Tom seethed.

“Who said it was a lad?” she stammered, giggling as she attempted to hide her face behind her hands. Her reaction was almost… coy. He had never seen her like this before, and it displeased him. 

“I know that look, lass,” Bathilda teased, undeterred. “What’s his name? What’s he like?”

Hermione bit her lip, her cheeks flaming. "It’s kind of embarrassing, Bathilda," she admitted, still half-concealing her face. "I-I don’t think he likes me very much. No, I know he doesn’t like me very much." There it was again—Hermione’s half truths. 

Tom's lips pressed into a thin line. 

Someone had Hermione rattled. The thought sent a sharp pang through him, igniting a fierce desire to be the one who occupied her thoughts in place of the unworthy boy she spoke of. How infuriatingly intriguing.

“Fine, if you can’t tell me a name, then at least describe him. You can do that for an old, lonely witch, can’t you?” Bathilda urged, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Come on, Hermione! You know I can keep a secret.”

Tom was at the edge of his seat, holding his breath, waiting for Hermione’s answer. 

“He has dark hair,” Hermione began, offering little more than an obscure description. After all, plenty of wizards had dark hair. Tom, himself, had dark hair for Merlin’s sake! She did nothing to help narrow down his list of suspects. 

“Yes?” Bathilda prodded, eager for more details.

“And… I guess you could say he’s kind of the ‘bad boy’ type.” Hermione smirked, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes as she thought about him.

Tom’s expression darkened at the revelation. A flicker of anger sparked in him, intensifying when he realized who she must be thinking about. 

Dolohov . 

The very idea twisted in his gut like a venomous snake. How could she be attracted to someone like him ? Dolohov was everything Tom despised: reckless, impulsive, and reveling in chaos. Yet, he was also mysterious in a way that drew people in, and the confirmation that Hermione had been captivated by him—the complete opposite of Tom— was unbearable.

“Those are always the most fun,” Bathilda’s voice echoed in his mind, and he wanted to lash out, to declare that fun was for fools. What could she possibly see in Dolohov? He was nothing more than a brutish pawn under Tom’s thumb.

His jaw tightened as he suppressed a wave of jealousy. He would ensure that she realized her mistake before she wasted her time on someone so worthless. If Hermione was infatuated with Dolohov, Tom would simply show her what a weak, pathetic, ambitionless twat he was. After all, if anyone was going to capture Hermione Granger’s attention, it should be Tom—not some dim-witted knight who lacked the vision to see her true potential.

“They are,” Hermione agreed darkly, twisting at the ends of a curl.

“Have you kissed the fellow yet?” Bathilda wiggled her eyebrows in a conspiratorial manner, a smirk playing on her lips.

Tom’s heart skipped a beat, nostrils flaring with rage.

“Bathilda!” Hermione exclaimed, amused, but failing to directly answer the question. “What kind of question is that?”

As Hermione deflected Bathilda's teasing question, Tom’s thoughts twisted with frustration. The way she laughed with Bathilda—so carefree, so unguarded—only fueled his envy. Did she truly not see the danger in a boy like Dolohov? Intertwining her future with someone like Antonin would only lead to shattered dreams and wasted talent. Hermione was too significant to spend her life as a womb for a pureblood family to produce an heir. The Dolohov’s would confine her to their quarters in eastern Europe, crushing her spirit and treating her worse than cattle should she align herself with them. Tom, on the other hand, was the one who could elevate her, who could open doors to greatness. She still wouldn't be considered an equal, but she could be the ally of the wizard who would soon be known as the most powerful Dark Lord that ever existed, instead of a breeding cow. 

Tom's expression hardened as he leaned back, watching her with a calculating gaze, contemplating how he might pull her back into his orbit. He would show her that the real excitement lay not with those who merely wore the label of “bad boy,” but with someone who could offer her true darkness, true power.

“Keep me updated when you do,” Bathilda continued to tease her. 

“You’re incorrigible!” Hermione replied, her smile bright and infectious. “I’ll make no such promise, but I do promise to write.”

“I suppose I can settle for that. Your weekly letters have gotten me through your absence. You are missed, little lass! Will you be joining me for the winter holiday?” Bathilda inquired, her voice warm and inviting.

Tom had never anticipated that Hermione might remain at Hogwarts. He was accustomed to solitude, relishing the peace of the castle during the holidays. However, the prospect of her potential presence could certainly add an intriguing twist to his usual routine.

“As much as I hate to give you bad news, my Head Girl duties will hold me at Hogwarts through the duration of the break,” Hermione said with a faltering smile. “And actually, I best get back soon; I have the east wing to patrol tonight.”

“Ah, my diligent little witch,” Bathilda cooed, pushing Hermione’s hair behind her ears. “You remind me so much of myself at your age.”

Hermione sat a little taller, pride swelling within her at the compliment from Bathilda.

“Take care of yourself, lass,” Bathilda said, her smile warm and sincere. “And if the opportunity presents itself, kiss that boy,” she added with a cheeky wink.

Tom's fist pushed into his knee, a surge of irritation at the mention of a kiss. The image of Hermione showing Dolohov physical affection twisted something dark within him. If Bathilda believed Hermione would find joy in a fleeting romance, she was sorely mistaken. Hermione’s mind needed stimulation for true satisfaction, something Dolohov certainly couldn’t offer.

As they walked back to the castle, Tom shadowing Hermione discreetly, he wrestled with the urge to drop his Disillusionment charm and confront her directly. The impulse to demand an explanation warred within him—he needed to confirm his assumption that she was referring to Dolohov as the ‘company’ she considered fun. If so, it was a ridiculous notion! He wanted to punish her for even having such thoughts.

But just as he was about to yield to that impulse, their path was obstructed. Augusta appeared, looking frazzled—a first, from what Tom had observed. Typically, the witch maintained an air of superiority, exuding either boredom or an insufferable pride. Tom had been accused of the same, but while he projected polite indifference, she was just bloody arrogant.

“Augusta, what’s wrong?” Hermione asked, concern flashing across her features.

Tom rolled his eyes, stifling a scornful smile. How typical of Hermione to exhibit such unwarranted compassion. He’d have to teach Hermione to manage her emotions more effectively; not everyone deserved her worry, and certainly not a Gryffindor like Augusta, who would never place true loyalty above her perceived ‘morals.’

“Did you do it?” Augusta nearly shouted at Hermione, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and panic. “Was it you?”

“What are you talking about, Augusta? Slow down,” Hermione replied calmly, her brow furrowing in confusion.

Tom watched the exchange with a sense of amusement, leaning against a nearby tree, arms crossed. Augusta’s frantic energy was entertaining, and he couldn’t help but wonder what calamity had unfolded to send the usually composed Gryffindor into such a tizzy.

“You know exactly what I mean!” Augusta spat, her voice rising in indignation. “Cedrella! She’s been in the hospital wing all week.”

“Oh?” Hermione questioned, her eyes widened in surprise. “What happened to her?”

“As if you don’t know, Granger,” Augusta replied, her tone dripping with accusation. “She was drugged. Funny how that happened, isn’t it? She was drugged right after drugging you. But you didn’t just drug her did you? You tortured her. She won’t even talk! She won’t tell me or Rhys anything! What did you do to her?!”

“So now I’m ‘Granger’ and not ‘Hermione?’” Hermione replied tersely. “I see.”

“Are you not even going to deny it then?” Augusta practically foamed at the mouth. 

“Well, you so obviously have made up your mind, with or without my confirmation,” Hermione scoffed, turning her back on the witch and beginning to walk away. 

Tom was intrigued. Hermione obviously didn’t do what Augusta was accusing her of, and yet, instead of fighting to prove her innocence, she simply disengaged, deeming the confrontation unworthy of her time. It was a tactic Tom had often employed himself, one that required a certain level of boldness.

“You’re a snake, Hermione Granger! Just like the rest of the vipers in that hole beneath the castle!” Augusta screamed, sounding positively unhinged. “You’ll pay for this!”

Hermione stopped, glanced over her shoulder at Augusta, and threw a two finger salute in the air. “Bring it, tosser!” she said, laughing loud and clear, leaving Augusta equally as shocked as she was infuriated. 

Tom nearly laughed himself, a rare smile creeping onto his lips. He was impressed with his little pet, and perhaps even a bit… proud .

Chapter Text

Hermione was smiling at Dolohov again, her expression softening as if she believed him capable of any real merit, all because he managed to answer a question in History of Magic that any competent fifth-year should be able to recall. It was laughable, yet she praised him as if he had accomplished something extraordinary.

Tom's patience thinned as he watched the scene unfold. The urge to skip their next study session rose within him—how could he possibly endure such mediocrity any longer? He could feel his own intellect being insulted just by proximity to Dolohov’s pathetic grasp of basic material. But despite the temptation to distance himself from this inanity, Tom couldn’t allow Dolohov to gain any further favor in Hermione's eyes. That alone was enough to keep Tom there, forcing himself to tolerate the interaction. He couldn't afford to let them grow closer.

"Brilliant, Antonin!" Hermione gushed, her voice full of warmth. "I knew you'd enjoy History of Magic once you shifted your outlook on the subject and made the connection to our modern world."

There she goes again, Tom thought, irritation building. Perspective. The word was beginning to grate against his nerves.

"Learning about the magical wars isn’t so bad," Antonin replied, a playful grin creeping onto his face. He was clearly becoming too comfortable in Hermione’s company, a dynamic Tom found increasingly unacceptable.

Tom’s jaw tightened. He could feel the tension in his fists as he clenched them subtly beneath his robes. Perhaps it was time to remind Dolohov where he truly stood—beneath Tom’s ambition and far below Hermione’s potential. Yes, after today’s study session, a little talk with Dolohov was certainly in order. Tom would make it clear that whatever spark of camaraderie Antonin thought he had kindled with Hermione would be snuffed out swiftly.

Tom was not one to share his possessions—least of all, his plans for Hermione.

"I’m confident you’ll be ready for the exam next week," Hermione announced, her tone full of unwarranted optimism.

Dolohov, as usual, shrugged off her praise. "As long as I get an 'acceptable,' that’s all I need." He said it with an air of nonchalance, as if that grade—likely the highest he'd receive all term—would satisfy him.

"'Acceptable?' Oh please!" Hermione replied, a teasing glint in her eyes. "I’ll take it as a personal offense if my pupil doesn’t at least receive an 'Exceeds Expectations.'"

Dolohov’s face flushed, and he averted her eyes, too bashful to meet Hermione’s after such encouragement. That reaction, that idiotic shyness, stirred Tom’s disdain even further. 

He couldn’t help the scoff that escaped his lips. Exceeds Expectations? Antonin had never come close to such a mark in his life. The only reason he even managed to scrape through each year was because of the influence his parents wielded—particularly their threat to personally Avada any professor who dared dishonor their son, and by association, their family. Tom recalled how Dumbledore, during fifth year, had attempted to give Dolohov the 'P' he rightfully deserved, only to be promptly overruled by Dippet after a ‘talking-to’ from Antonin’s family.

The momentary flush of embarrassment on Dolohov’s face, which deepened after Tom’s derisive sound, brought a small flicker of satisfaction. The truth was evident, and even Dolohov knew it—he was a brute with no real intellect. The fact that Hermione wasted her time on him, lavishing praise on someone so utterly beneath her, was more than Tom could stomach.

"Don’t listen to him!" Hermione snapped, shooting a glare in Tom’s direction. Her attention immediately returned to Dolohov, her expression softening. "Look at me, Antonin," she demanded, her voice firm but encouraging. She didn’t stop until Dolohov, slightly taken aback, met her gaze. The way they locked eyes, the intensity of it—it sent a sharp pang of resentment through Tom’s gut. 

Hermione never looked at Tom like that.

The realization struck him harder than he'd ever admit. No matter how many nights they spent in the library together, no matter how many discussions they engaged in over subjects far beyond Dolohov’s limited grasp, she had never gazed at him with that same warmth, that infuriating faith. With him, she was all sharp intellect and sparring wit, constantly challenging his views, testing his patience, but never offering that tender encouragement she so easily bestowed upon someone as undeserving as Dolohov.

Why not Tom? He grappled with the question.

"I believe in you, okay?" Hermione continued, her words filled with certainty that made Tom’s stomach twist even further. "You can do it, and you will."

The unwavering conviction in her voice, her insistence on seeing potential in a man who had none, only stoked Tom’s fury. He hated seeing them like this, Dolohov basking in the attention that should have been Tom’s alone. 

Dolohov nodded, giving her a smile which she returned promptly. 

“So…,” Hermione changed the subject. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Okay?” Dolohov’s blank expression did little to ease Tom’s rage. 

The fool didn’t even understand what Hermione was asking. The mere fact that she had to spell it out for him, and yet still chose to ask him, was an insult. He’d expected more from her. But now, she was squandering her time on this plonker, offering him invitations he neither deserved nor understood.

“The Slug Club Event,” Tom said, filling in the gaps. The Slug Club, the very circle of power and influence she sought to navigate, and she was eager to drag along a dullard like Antonin?

“I was wondering if you changed your mind by chance. Slughorn assured me that I could bring an escort,” Hermione asked, rushing her words in the way she tended to do when she got nervous. 

Tom’s patience, already thin, began to fray as he watched Hermione fumble through her words, asking Dolohov— Dolohov —to accompany her to the Slug Club event for the third time. The fact that Hermione had repeated her offer—had gone out of her way to ask Antonin once again—was nothing short of infuriating. When she’d first mentioned it last week, Tom had assumed it was a fleeting thought, a pity invite, something even she wouldn’t have even taken seriously. Neither he nor Dolohov had, in fact. But now, standing here and hearing her ask again —as if Antonin was a worthy choice—Tom’s frustration twisted into something darker.

Dolohov's gaze flickered toward Tom, silently seeking approval, an act that was shockingly perceptive given his usual lack of awareness. It was the first truly intelligent thing he’d done all day, recognizing that the decision to accept or decline Hermione’s offer was not his own to make—it belonged to Tom.

But instead of the satisfaction that should have come with such deference, Tom felt a sharp pang of bitterness. Dolohov wanted to escort Hermione. That much was clear. The recognition stung, because despite Antonin’s usual ineptitude, in this instance, his desire was undeniable—and it meant that Hermione had made an impression on him too.

Hermione huffed in frustration, her annoyance evident as she realized Dolohov stood there, waiting for permission. Tom felt a surge of possessiveness; the urge to deny Dolohov outright and reclaim what was rightfully his clawed at him.

“Tom, wouldn’t you want your friend to be there?” she was corning Tom into approving Antonin’s attendance. Normally, he’d never let anyone sway his decisions, but Tom had to navigate this carefully. If he exposed too much, it would betray his own vulnerabilities, and Tom Riddle was never vulnerable. Not to anyone. “After all, his success is your success.”

“Of course you should go,” he replied, his words gritted out with barely concealed irritation.  Tom’s eyes, narrowed into dangerous slits, bore into his knight with a cold intensity that made it clear: Dolohov had crossed a line. The audacity of it, to even entertain the notion of escorting his Hermione to an event like the Slug Club— his territory.

Before Dolohov could utter a single word of affirmation or rejection, Hermione practically glowed with excitement. “Brilliant! I’ll meet you in the common room at 5 o’clock sharp!” she chirped, springing to her feet and waving goodbye as if their plans were set in stone, leaving no room for further discussion.

Once she was out of earshot, Dolohov turned pale, the realization of Tom’s simmering fury settling heavily in the air.

"Five o’clock sharp, is it?" Tom said in a low, measured tone, though every word dripped with venomous restraint. He could feel his magic clawing beneath his skin, begging for an outlet, and Dolohov, ever the fool, seemed to finally understand just how perilous his position had become.

"My Lord, I—" Dolohov started, but Tom cut him off with a cold smile.

"Do not mistake my approval for leniency," Tom said softly, stepping forward, his voice like ice. "Remember your place, Antonin. You’re attending because I allow it. Nothing more."

Dolohov swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to the ground in submission, but Tom didn’t ease up, the fury still simmering beneath the surface. No matter what games Hermione played, no one was allowed to cross him. And if Dolohov forgot that, Tom had no qualms about reminding him—forcefully, if necessary. 

Tom took a deep, controlled inhale, forcing himself to regain composure, his irritation boiling just beneath the surface. “Don’t worry, I have a plan to rectify this unsavory situation,” he declared, the corners of his mouth twisting into a confident smirk. “And you’re going to do everything I tell you, without question.”

“Happily, My Lod,” Dolohov agreed, paling. 

* * * *

Hermione had finally decided to take Bathilda’s advice to heart: it was time to let herself have some fun. Initially, her interest in Antonin had been entirely tactical. After all, he had unknowingly helped her obtain one of Tom’s horcruxes, and she had hoped that by staying close to him, he might slip up again. But, as she spent more time with him, Hermione found herself unexpectedly enjoying his company.

It surprised her how quickly her perception of him shifted. Where once she had seen nothing but cruelty and darkness, she now saw shades of complexity. Antonin wasn’t the embodiment of evil she had first assumed. Instead, it became clear to her that his desire for power and his attraction to darkness were rooted in a deep-seated pain—pain inflicted on him by others. In hurting, he sought to hurt, a tragic cycle Hermione understood more clearly than she’d ever expected. And yet, the more she understood him, the more her rigid judgment softened, even though she never lost sight of her mission.

Antonin’s parents, she learned, had been as cruel as they were demanding, expecting greatness from their son but using entirely misguided methods to achieve it. Instead of encouragement, they offered only biting ridicule and harsh mockery whenever he failed to meet their impossible standards. It was no wonder, then, that Antonin had grown into someone so deeply damaged, seeking validation in all the wrong places.

During their tutoring sessions, Hermione quickly noticed how well he responded to even the smallest bit of praise. It was as though he was starved for the affirmation he had never received. But despite this, Antonin had made the unfortunate choice to surround himself with people who mirrored the behavior of his parents. His so-called friends—if they could be called that—offered no support, only reinforcing his insecurities. Tom Riddle was the worst of all. His clear disdain for Dolohov's abilities, dismissing him as a useless nobody, grated on Hermione the more she became aware of Tom’s manipulative cruelty. It was troubling to see Antonin believe in those dismissals, accepting them as his truth when, in fact, he was anything but worthless. It made her think that maybe, her purpose could expand a bit: not only did she want to get a perfect score on her N.E.W.T.s and destroy Voldemort before he gained power, but she also wanted to help Antonin along the way in whatever capacity she could.

What Hermione hadn’t anticipated, however, was the reaction she received from Tom Riddle when she decided to make Antonin part of her personal project. Tom’s displeasure was palpable, though he remained characteristically controlled, his irritation visible only in the subtle clues. It was obvious that he didn't appreciate her attention on one of his most loyal knights, but what puzzled her was the reason behind it. Was Tom simply concerned that she might distract Antonin from his duties, or was there something more at play? Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if Tom’s reaction stemmed from something deeper—perhaps a possessiveness over his followers, or even an unconscious fear that Antonin might find strength and self-worth elsewhere outside of Tom’s direction. Tom was nothing if not strategic, always calculating the advantages of every relationship. And yet, his displeasure over Antonin receiving her attention felt almost... personal.

Hermione had yet to open Tom’s journal again after the terrifying consequences of her last attempt. When she closed her eyes at night, she still felt the ghost of his fingers tightening around her neck, the phantom grip as real as it had been in that chilling encounter. Just like the darkness from the locket, the Tom Riddle from the journal made her feel alive again. His presence had transcended the pages, not just a relic of the past, but a force that still had the ability to affect her in ways she hadn’t predicted. 

It took every ounce of Hermione's willpower not to look at Tom during their study sessions with Antonin. But in the quiet moments, when the conversation lulled and no one was watching her too closely, her eyes would drift his way, as if drawn by an invisible force. She memorized every curve of his lips, the sharp angles of his jaw, the speckles of intensity in his dark green eyes. She tried to ignore the memory of his magic brushing against hers—that potent, electric sensation that had lingered far too long, imprinting itself in her mind. The mere thought of it made her squeeze her thighs together, heat rising in her cheeks. It was maddening— especially since she should know better. Tom Riddle would sooner kill her than kiss her; he was not someone to have romantic thoughts about. If only her body would catch up with her mind, she sighed.

“I’m so excited you let me help you get ready!” Andromeda exclaimed. “I’ve been dying to do your hair.” 

“You may be the only one ambitious enough to take on the task,” Hermione laughed. She figured there was no way her friend could make her wild mess of a mane worse , so why not let her give it a go. 

“Challenge accepted,” Andromeda grinned, pulling out her wand with a swish. "The key to curly hair like yours is to keep it hydrated."

Before Hermione could respond, she felt a wet, cold liquid trickling onto her scalp, the sensation surprising her. Her hair immediately began to react, twisting and scrunching up with each expert wave of Andromeda’s wand. The strands tightened into defined curls as if they were coming alive under the magic.

“Merlin’s beard! What did you just put on my head?” Hermione asked, her eyes wide with both curiosity and mild apprehension.

“Relax, it's just a hydration spell with a bit of aloe essence. Works wonders for curls!” Andromeda replied, her focus on Hermione’s hair as she continued to work her magic. “See for yourself.” Andromeda held up a mirror for Hermione to inspect the results. 

Andromeda held up a mirror, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She barely recognized herself. The wild, untamed mess of frizz she had become accustomed to had transformed into soft, cascading ringlets that framed her face beautifully. Each curl was perfectly defined, bouncy, and full of life—exactly the kind of hair she had always dreamed of having.

“Wow, Andromeda, this is incredible!” Hermione exclaimed, her fingers reaching up to touch the soft strands. She could hardly believe the change. “I look… different.”

“I told you! Sometimes you just need a little magic and a lot of love to bring out your best self.” Andromeda beamed with pride, her eyes sparkling with delight. 

Hermione smiled back, feeling a warmth in her chest. It wasn’t just the transformation of her appearance that made her feel good; it was the support and friendship that had led to this moment. Briefly, she allowed herself to bask in the joy of it, grateful for Andromeda.

“I’m not sure what to say,” Hermione said, giving her friend a thankful cuddle. “Except for: I absolutely love it!”

Andromeda seemed a bit shocked at Hermione’s sudden affection, her eyes widening in surprise. Was it a Slytherin thing to be completely unfamiliar with endearment? But after a heartbeat, she melted into the embrace, wrapping her arms around Hermione tightly.

“I’m glad you like it, Hermione, but you didn’t think we were done, did you?” Andromeda laughed, glinting with mischief as she waved her wand.

Suddenly, a swarm of makeup supplies and a selection of dresses circled around them, sparkling in the light, a whirlwind of colors and textures. Lipsticks of every shade danced playfully in the air, while shimmering eyeshadows floated gracefully, waiting for Andromeda’s command. The dresses—some elegant, others whimsical—hovered enticingly, inviting Hermione to try them on.

“What—what is all this?” Hermione exclaimed, both excited and overwhelmed. “I didn’t sign up for a full makeover!”

Andromeda gave another girlish giggle. “Consider it a package deal! You can’t have fabulous hair without the perfect look to match. If you’re going to be the only girl there, all eyes will be on you.”

Hermione felt a flutter of nerves and anticipation in her stomach. “ I haven’t even thought about what to wear,” she said, biting her lip.

“Exactly! That’s why I’m here.” Andromeda winked, gesturing grandly to the floating dresses. “Now, let’s find the outfit that will make you shine like the star you are. Although I have a feeling you’ll look stunning in anything.”

As the vibrant garments swirled around her, Hermione couldn't help but smile. Maybe stepping out of her comfort zone wouldn’t be so bad after all. It might even be a part of the fun. 

* * * *

Hermione felt like a princess. Even when she attended the Yule Ball with Viktor, she hadn’t felt this beautiful. The jewel neckline of the velvet emerald dress Andromeda had chosen for her featured a keyhole cutout and an art deco design at the waistline, which added a touch of elegance. The fitted bodice hugged Hermione’s chest closely, gracefully skimming over her hips before flowing out into a bell-shaped curve that swayed with every movement.

Andromeda had kept her word, giving Hermione a natural makeup look that enhanced her features beautifully. However, there was one thing her friend refused to compromise on: the lipstick. So, Hermione’s plump lips were coated in a bold blood-red hue, adding a striking contrast to the soft, understated makeup.

As she twirled in front of the mirror, her dress flowed and shimmered in the light. Hermione marveled at the transformation. Her hair, her makeup, and now this stunning dress—it all came together to create a version of herself she had never thought possible.

“Absolutely breathtaking!” Andromeda exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You look like you’ve stepped right out of a fairy tale! Now, just remember to own it when you walk into a room. That’s the mark of a true Slytherin.”

“Thank you, Andromeda. I really appreciate all of this.” She beamed, feeling empowered, and with a final look in the mirror, she took a deep breath, ready to embrace the evening ahead.

Hermione descended the stairs, her friend at her side as she approached the Slytherin common room. There, right at 5 o’clock, stood Antonin Dolohov, exactly as she had requested. His usual nonchalant demeanor was briefly interrupted as his eyebrows shot up the moment he spotted Hermione. For a split second, she caught the flicker of interest in his dark eyes.

“You look beautiful, Hermione,” Antonin said, his voice heavy with his distinct accent. He extended his arm toward her, and Hermione took it instantly, relaxing into a soft smile. Despite the formal robes he wore for the evening, he still managed to look like the same Antonin she had come to know—unpolished, with his signature piercings and the shaggy dark hair that gave him an ever-present rebellious air.

She wasn’t sure what she expected tonight, but she couldn’t deny the comfort she felt in his presence. When they turned to leave, Andromeda in typical exuberance, darted back upstairs, leaving Hermione and Antonin standing awkwardly for a beat.

“Wait! I have to get a picture of this!” Andromeda called, appearing again almost as quickly as she’d vanished, clutching her magical camera. “I never thought I’d see the day: Antonin Dolohov going on a date!” she giggled, her words cutting through the moment with a lighthearted tease while she snapped the photo.

“A date?” Hermione’s response was immediate, and she glanced at Antonin, trying to hide her sudden nerves behind a polite laugh. Was this a date? She hadn’t meant for it to be. 

“We’re just friends,” Dolohov clarified, his voice calm and straightforward. 

The words were a relief to Hermione, easing some of the tension away. The idea of leading Antonin on, even unintentionally, made her feel uneasy. Though she had grown fond of him and could certainly appreciate his looks—there was no denying that Antonin Dolohov was handsome—he simply didn’t stir the same feelings in her that a certain someone else had.

As much as she tried to suppress it, her thoughts drifted back to Tom Riddle in that moment. Antonin, with his comfortable silence and genuine moments of vulnerability, made for pleasant company. But he didn’t make her cheeks burn or her pulse race. He didn’t send shivers down her spine when he looked in her direction, and he certainly didn’t make her magic react in the strange, mysterious way it did around Tom.

Hermione wished, more than anything, that it could have been Antonin—or anyone, really—who could provoke that kind of intense, all-consuming reaction in her. Anyone but Tom Riddle actually. Yet, despite her best efforts, the pull toward him was undeniable, no matter how much she reminded herself that getting involved with him was nothing short of dangerous.

“Hermione, you’re frowning in this picture. Let’s take a new one,” Andromeda said, her tone slightly exasperated as she waved them back into position. 

Antonin wrapped an arm around Hermione’s waist and gave a playful salute to the camera. Hermione caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and laughed heartily, her earlier stress dissolving. 

“Perfect!” Andromeda exclaimed, satisfied with the result as she lowered the camera. “Now off with you two before you’re late.”

As they made their way through the dimly lit halls towards Slughorn’s office, Hermione turned to Antonin, her mood lighter. “I’m glad you decided to come,” she said sincerely.

Antonin glanced sideways at her, his usual smirk softening into something more genuine. “Wouldn’t have missed it,” he replied, his voice low but warm.

Hermione thanked him silently with a wide smile. The evening ahead felt uncertain, but with Antonin by her side, the prospect of the night was a little less daunting. 

“Hermione,” Antonin began, slightly sheepish. He stopped walking, causing her to turn and face him fully. “Before we go in there, there’s something I want to say.”

“Is everything alright?” Hermione asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and caution.

Antonin hesitated for a second, then spoke, his voice softer than usual. “You’ve been good to me, even though you didn’t have to be. Yes, Slughorn asked you to tutor me, but you’ve done more than just tutor me.”

Hermione quickly brushed off the compliment. “It helps me brush up on my basics too,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

“No, Hermione. You’ve gone beyond that.” Antonin's voice grew more earnest. “You presented the lessons in a way you knew I’d like, made them hands-on, and gave me encouragement instead of shaming me when I didn’t get something right away.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I’m not an idiot, but I do have a learning disability. I don’t tell anyone about it because it’s embarrassing... but I trust you with that information.”

Hermione blinked, surprised at his sudden reveal and ponding what might have brought it on. She hadn’t expected this from him, but in that moment, her heart softened even further. She realized just how much Antonin had kept hidden behind his usual bravado.

“Having a learning disability isn’t anything to be ashamed of,” Hermione told him sincerely. 

Antonin’s expression crumpled, and his voice tinged with something almost like regret. “See, that’s exactly what I mean. You’re not like us, Hermione. You’re good ,” he said, as if admitting the truth caused him a pang of discomfort.

Suddenly, there was a clear divide between them—their worlds, their choices—Hermione wasn’t sure just how far gone Antonin was at this point, but the darkness haunting him felt more tangible, more real. She saw it in his eyes, a mixture of admiration and sadness, as if he both envied and resented the light she represented.

“You can be good, too,” she urged, earnestly Deep down, she wanted to save him—from Tom, or maybe even from himself.

Antonin chuckled, the sound hollow, brushing off her words. “No, it’s too late for me, Hermione,” he said with a resigned smile. “But listen, if one day you never want to talk to me again, I’ll understand. Just know, if you ever need anything , I’m here for you. You can count on me.”

It pained Hermione to hear the finality in his tone, and she realized that despite her desire to help him, Antonin believed he was already lost, and therefore, he might be. The weight of his words settled heavily on her, leaving her unsure of what to say next.

“Okay,” she finally said with a sad nod.

Antonin held out his arm again, and without another word, she took it. 

Together, they walked in silence toward the Slug Club's Fall Festival.

Chapter Text

The Slug Club Fall Festival was as lavish as ever. Dozens of chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting a soft, warm glow over the polished wood floors. Ornate, velvet-draped tables were laden with an extravagant display of roasted meats, their savory aroma blending with the sweetness of sugar-dusted pastries and the faint, exotic perfume of flowers in their elegant arrangements. Caterers floated through the room, offering trays of crystalized pineapple—Slughorn's favorite, and coincidentally, one of Tom’s as well.

Yet, for the first time in his Hogwarts career, Tom found himself indifferent to it all. The grandeur, the influential guests, the power this event usually promised—it all felt meaningless. The room, bustling with laughter and conversation, felt strangely empty to him, hollow in its opulence. How could a space so crowded feel so utterly dull?

Tom couldn't afford to miss the Slug Club Fall Festival; it presented an invaluable opportunity to form connections that might pave the way for his post-Hogwarts plans. However, as he sat there, his eyes darting toward the entrance every minute, his presence felt almost futile. Hermione and Dolohov hadn’t arrived yet, and though Tom refused to appear too eager, he couldn’t shake the urgency to know the moment they entered the room.

“Tom and I completely agree,” Malfoy interjected, nudging him discreetly. Tom realized he'd missed a crucial part of the conversation, but it barely registered. His mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with far more important matters.

“Isn’t that right, Tom?” Malfoy pressed, the expectant look on his face betraying his need for affirmation.

“Of course, whole-heartedly,” Tom replied, his tone smooth and effortless, even as his focus remained split. A polished smile graced his lips, masking the simmering distraction beneath.

“Excellent. It’s nice to see some of our youth unpolluted by the liberal ideas being pushed around here lately. Perhaps you two might consider joining the Ministry after graduation,” Chief Ravenlock offered, his eyes gleaming with approval.

“A-absolutely!” Abraxas stammered, clearly caught off guard, but eager to please.

Just then, a flash of familiar curly brown hair appeared at the entrance, finally catching Tom's eye.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Tom said with a polite tip of his head, his formal demeanor betraying none of the urgency that surged within him. Without a second thought, he moved toward Hermione, drawn to her presence as though magnetized, leaving the conversation behind like a distant afterthought.

Tom barely made it a few steps away before Abraxas caught him by the elbow, tugging him back with a subtle urgency. 

“What are you doing, Tom?” he asked, his expression a mix of confusion, frustration, and concern. “You just brushed off the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot! He practically handed you the perfect chance to discuss our plans.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed as he waved off Malfoy's concerns. “Malfoy, do you truly think a man with that much to lose is going to openly express his disdain for Mudbloods while Dumbledore is breathing down his neck? Think, for Merlin's sake. Go over there, make your usual ‘connections,’ and then invite him to Malfoy Manor for your family's infamous New Year’s party. That’s where the real conversations will happen. If he accepts, we’ll know precisely where his loyalties lie.”

Abraxas stared at him for a long moment, brows furrowed, hesitation written in the lines of his face.

Tom turned toward him, his patience wearing thin. “Is there something you want to say, Malfoy?” he asked curtly, his voice laced with warning. “Spit it out.”

Abraxas clenched his jaw, glancing over his shoulder as if weighing his words carefully. “It’s that girl,” he said, his voice tight, taking a subtle glance at Hermione. “What’s so special about her, Tom? We don’t even know who she really is. For all we know, she could be—”

Tom’s look darkened before Abraxas could finish.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true!” Abraxas hissed under his breath. “What kind of name is Granger anyway? Trust me on this, Tom, she’s a mudblood!”

“Would a mudblood be able to produce a better quality potion than myself, Malfoy?” he asked, the smoothness of his tone starkly contrasting with the cold intensity in his eyes.

Abraxas faltered, his face a mix of frustration and uncertainty. “I-I—” he began, but Tom’s casual yet pointed response had thrown him off balance. He tried again, huffing with renewed determination. “Tom, there’s something wrong with that witch.”

“Yes, I agree,” Tom replied, his retort quick and cutting. “Which is why I’m keeping a close eye on her. Or did you imagine I was as dim-witted as the rest of the fools at this school?”

Abraxas flushed, turning an unmistakable shade of pink. “Of course not,” he muttered, his eyes darting away.

“So, you just don’t trust me then?” Tom’s voice was sharp now, the accusation delivered with calculated speed.

“No, that’s not it,” Abraxas stammered again, running a hand through his hair, clearly rattled. 

“Question me like this again,” Tom said, his voice low and dangerous, “and see what happens.” He waved Malfoy off with a dismissive flick of his hand, his cold eyes lingering on him just long enough to make the threat clear. Abraxas swallowed hard, taking a cautious step back, knowing better than to push any further.

Hermione weaved in and out of sight, her petite frame easily lost among the taller wizards in the crowd. Tom’s eyes, instead, tracked a distinct shaggy head of dark hair—Antonin Dolohov. The word escort echoed bitterly in Tom’s mind, igniting a flash of near homicidal rage. Dolohov might serve his purpose for now, but once his usefulness was exhausted, Tom would cast him aside. He didn't truly belong here—not the way Tom and Hermione did. Dolohov was nothing more than a pawn, easily discarded.

Tom had nearly reached the pair when someone deliberately stepped into his path.

Dumbledore.

Tom seethed. The old fool knew exactly how to provoke him, always choosing to acknowledge him by pretending he didn’t exist. One day, when Dumbledore least expected it, Tom would exact his revenge, and it would be glorious —slow, meticulous, and deeply satisfying.

“Hermione,” Dumbledore greeted her with a dazzling smile—the kind he typically reserved for his precious Gryffindors. “Already breaking those glass ceilings, I see. Bathilda was entirely right about you.”

“Thank you, Professor, but I assure you, no such praise is needed.” Hermione’s cheeks flamed, her modesty feigned as she soaked in the attention. Tom knew better. She relished moments like this, basking in the recognition. He would exploit this little weakness of hers, he decided. In due time…

“Always so modest, Hermione,” Dumbledore teased, eyes twinkling in that infuriating way of his. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how quickly Antonin’s grades improved once he started joining you in the library,” he added, casting Dolohov a knowing glance. Tom despised that smug glint in Dumbledore’s eyes—he always seemed to be in on a joke no one else understood. “Perhaps transfiguration is for anyone, after all.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dolohov replied, his tone polite but his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The barb had struck deep, as Tom knew it would. After all, who could forget Dumbledore’s biting remark in third year— ‘transfiguration isn’t for everyone’ —after Antonin had accidentally turned a field mouse into a fur-covered plate rather than the golden chalice they were assigned? It was no secret that Dolohov’s immediate and extended family consisted of notable, and nearly extinct dragon shifters— him being the odd exception—a rare type of transfiguration magic that only select few born with the ability could foster. It was a sore subject for Antonin, and Dumbledore knew exactly where to twist the knife.

“Hermione, you have yet to visit my library to make selections from my collection. Please feel free to do so whenever you’re available,” Dumbledore reiterated, extending the invitation for the second time since the school year began.

“Absolutely, sir! I should be free on Tuesday,” Hermione replied eagerly, her enthusiasm unwavering.

“Excellent! I’ll expect you after class on Tuesday,” Dumbledore beamed, plucking a crystalized pineapple from one of the catering trays and popping it into his mouth. “Ah, I never really understood the popularity of these little treats. Quite over rated, don’t you think?”

Tom’s patience wore thin as he observed Dumbledore’s self-satisfied demeanor. With a loud clearing of his throat, he stepped around the insufferable old wizard, directing his full attention toward Antonin and Hermione.

“Oh, Tom, didn’t see you there,” Dumbledore remarked, his voice dripping with phony ignorance, clearly intending to provoke. “Well, I best make my rounds,” he added, executing a slight bow of his head while casting one last, warm smile in Hermione’s direction. Tom felt a surge of irritation; the beat crone knew exactly what he was doing, and it was infuriating.

“Hermione,” Tom finally said, allowing himself to fully absorb her appearance.

His breath caught in his throat. Yes, she was Hermione, but not his Hermione. The wild curls that usually framed her face had been tamed, and her makeup exaggerated her already perfect features, transforming her into a polished imitation of herself. A fierce urge gripped him; he yearned to smear the vivid red from her lips, exposing the raw pink beneath. He wanted to tangle his fingers in her hair, to pull at those curls and let them spill messily around her shoulders, wild and untamed, which was utterly inappropriate for an occasion like the Slug Club Fall Festival.  

And her dress? It was simply indecent.

Tom had never seen her outside of her school uniform, and perhaps he should be grateful for that. He appreciated how the frumpy button-up shirts concealed her chest and how her traditional robes distracted from her natural shape. Because beneath it all, Hermione was stunning. The way the fabric clung to her curves was maddening; the slit over her chest teasingly hinted at what lay beneath. He found it infuriating how the dress skimmed her hips, showcasing her slender waist while accentuating her womanly curves. The impulse to rip the dress from her body and burn it—just as he had with Weasley’s jersey—was almost overwhelming. But then he’d have to blind every pair of eyes in the room to preserve the view for himself.

He swallowed hard before finishing his thought. “You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” she said with a soft smile, tucking a curl behind her ear shyly. 

“Hermione, there you are, dear!” Slughorn greeted her, his cheeks flushed a deep ruby red, clearly affected by drink. “And Tom, lovely to see you! How are you two enjoying the festivities?”

Naturally, Slughorn’s gaze swept past Dolohov as if he didn’t exist.

“I was just telling Antonin what a beautiful scene it is here tonight,” Hermione said, clasping her hands around Dolohov’s, her voice light and cheerful.

Tom inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Was she simply being polite? Or perhaps the truth was that she couldn’t help herself around ‘bad boy’ Antonin. The absurdity of it almost drew a scoff from his lips, but he held it in, keeping his composure. She was provoking him—whether consciously or not—but now was not the time to let it show.

“Ah, Dolohov, yes, you must be enjoying yourself, of course,” Slughorn says, clearly pleased with himself. “No expense was spared. Not sure how I’ll outdo myself next season, if I’m honest, but isn’t that the fun of it?”

It was a rhetorical question, so they all just smiled and nodded. 

“Have any of you tried the Elf-made wine? It’s quite potent, but I think you all deserve a glass or two for such an occasion,” Slughorn encouraged. “I may have had a few myself,” he adds with a hiccuped laugh. 

“Thank you, sir, we will be sure to do so,” Tom replied smoothly, though the idea repelled him. Unlike lesser wizards, Tom would never indulge in anything that dulled his senses. Where others sought the heady sensation of drink, Tom only craved the intoxication of power. His mind remained sharp, always calculating. “Right after convincing Ms. Granger to allow me a dance.”

“Oh,” Hermione repeated, her cheeks flushed in surprise. “That would hardly be appropriate. I’m the only lady here, and it may draw attention.”

Tom’s smile widened, calculated. “On the contrary, Ms. Granger. It would be an insult not to dance, especially when Professor Slughorn has provided such an exquisite setting, complete with a gorgeous string quartet.” His voice was smooth, but his gaze was piercing, daring her to decline.

“As always, you are absolutely correct, Tom, my boy,” Slughorn chimed in, his jovial tone matched by a hearty slap on Tom’s back. Tom tolerated the gesture although he was longing to swat the man’s fat, sweaty fingers off his shoulder.

“Hermione, dear, humor an old man,” Slughorn continued, oblivious to the tension. “It would be a great pleasure to see two bright stars come together by my own doing.” His eyes gleamed with self-satisfaction. “Wouldn’t they make a fine couple, Antonin?” he added, forcing Dolohov into the awkward moment.

Dolohov hesitated, then nodded reluctantly, mumbling, “Of course.”

Tom smirked, fully aware that Hermione was cornered now. Her mind was working, trying to find a way out, but no response came. She glanced at Antonin with a fleeting, apologetic smile, as if asking for forgiveness without words. Finally, she sighed, resigned to her fate, and dipped her head slightly before extending her hand toward Tom.

Victory. The first of several if his plans went accordingly. And they always did. 

Without hesitation, Tom stepped forward, taking her the tips of her fingers with smug arrogance, his grip firm as he led her toward the dance floor. She was right about them drawing attention, but Tom didn’t care. In fact, he wanted them to see she was his. 

Tom guided Hermione to the center of the room, positioning them directly beneath an opulent chandelier that bathed them in soft, golden light. As the music swelled, they fell into rhythm, moving in time with the slow, graceful notes of the song. Tom wasn’t formally trained in the art of dance, but he had observed plenty at Hogwarts' Winter Balls and had stood in as a partner for a few widows who attended the Malfoy Manor’s New Year’s Eve parties. Yet tonight, he cast aside the formalities of structured movement, choosing instead to pull Hermione closer than was customary, his hand possessively firm against her waist.

He expected her to object, to step back or comment on the closeness. But when she didn’t resist, a wave of satisfaction ripple through him. She was letting him take control, whether she realized it or not. And that was all the permission he needed.

“You’re very good at this,” Hermione said, surprising Tom with the compliment. His immediate reaction was suspicion, his mind quick to question whether or not she was teasing him. Her tone seemed genuine, but Hermione was clever—too clever at times.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had much opportunity to practice dancing,” she added, her voice softer now, eyes darting down toward her feet. “But you lead quite well.”

Tom’s gaze flicked to her, studying her face. The shyness in her posture, the way her fingers curled slightly in his hand—it disarmed him. Instead, he offered a polite smile, though his mind raced with calculations. Compliments from Hermione were rare, and rare things were to be analyzed.

Tom pulled Hermione closer, enjoying the way her face flushed in response. The warmth of her body pressed against his was intoxicating, but more than that, it was her magic—so close, so palpable—that stirred something deeper within him. It hummed through the air, mingling with his own, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the sensation of their energies intertwined.

It wasn’t just about the physical proximity; it was the power, the control, and the quiet submission she showed by not pulling away. Tom reveled in it, his grip tightening ever so slightly as they moved in sync with the music, their steps becoming an unspoken dance of dominance.

“Would you accept if Dolohov requested a dance?” Tom asked, the words leaving his lips before he had fully considered them. Yet, now that the question was out, he needed to hear her answer.

Hermione laughed softly. “Antonin wouldn’t have asked,” she said, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Like me, he doesn’t enjoy being the center of attention.”

It was a subtle jab, and Tom knew what she was really implying—that he enjoyed the attention, that he thrived on it. But she was wrong. It wasn’t about liking the attention; it was about not caring whether people stared or not. He was confident enough in his superiority to know that their eyes on him only worked in his favor. Every influential wizard present today would remember this moment, and Tom would ensure it left an unforgettable mark on them. It wasn’t vanity that drove him—it was strategy, the careful positioning of himself in their minds, exactly where he wanted to be.

“I think you do enjoy this, Hermione,” Tom said with a smirk, his voice low and suggestive. “Maybe not the attention, but the dancing. The closeness. You’re melting into me, as if there’s nowhere else you’d rather be but here, in my arms.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt the change. Her body tensed, the fluidity of their movements faltering, the ease between them vanishing. Tom’s smirk widened slightly, knowing he’d struck a nerve. She had been comfortable, letting her guard down, and now, with a few well-placed words, he’d shattered that momentary truce.

"Don’t tense up now, pet," Tom murmured with a dark chuckle, tightening their embrace by guiding Hermione’s hand from his palm to his shoulder. The increase in proximity was deliberate, meant to make her feel his control. "Or are you going to pretend you’d rather be with the ‘bad boy’?” His voice dropped to a whisper, hot against her ear.

To his surprise, she laughed—audibly, without hesitation. That she had the nerve to laugh at him was infuriating, but he allowed it because she was right back to melting into him, resting her cheek against his chest. Could she hear how fast his heart was racing?

“Oh, Tom,” Hermione said, almost playfully, as if she found his possessiveness amusing. "Are you up to your disillusionment charms again?" Her teasing tone lit a spark of defiance in him, but instead of replying, Tom slipped a finger under her chin, tilting her face until her gaze met his. He arched a brow, silently demanding the answer to the question he hadn’t yet voiced but that lingered between them: Would you really prefer anyone else?

Her laughter faded, and in that moment, Tom knew—she wouldn’t.

But he was too hasty to draw a conclusion, because a second later, her tune changed. 

“If you must know,” Hermione said, biting her lip to suppress another laugh. “I do very much like a bad boy.”

It was his turn to go rigid. 

She was talking about Antonin! How could she possibly even think of another while Tom was right in front of her, touching her, teasing her magic with his own? Didn’t she know how many other witches would kill to be in her position at this very moment? 

Tom sunk his fingers into her hip hard enough to leave his mark, trapping her there against himself as if she might slip away at any moment. The sensation of her body molded against his ignited something primal within him. “You really think he’s a better choice?” he challenged, his voice low and dangerous. “You’d rather be with someone who doesn’t deserve you?”

He was close enough to feel her heartbeat quicken, the way her breath hitched slightly at his words. Beneath her playful facade, he sensed a vulnerability, and it fueled his determination to reclaim her for himself.

“You’re right, he doesn’t deserve me,” Hermione replied, though this time, her laughter lacked the same lightness. It was sad and bitter, and when she looked up at him, brushing the backs of her fingers against his cheek wistfully, she almost appeared remorseful. “But the heart wants what it wants.”

Tom's grip tightened imperceptibly. She was playing with him, pretending to be submissive and then stabbing him with each of her words. Her coyness only intensified his irritation; how dare she toy with him like this? He felt a surge of anger mixed with an unsettling thrill at the challenge she posed.

“Then tell your heart to be quiet,” he murmured, leaning closer, his voice a seductive hiss. “It doesn’t know what’s best for you.”

He could feel her warmth radiating against him, a tantalizing reminder of how easily she could slip from his grasp if he wasn’t careful.

“Right again,” Hermione smiled warily, laying her head back on his shoulder.

They finished the rest of the dance in silence, simply soaking up the feel of each other until the end of the song. When the pair finally broke apart, it was unwillingly—at least from Tom’s end. The moment their bodies separated, a cold sense of loss washed over him. He cursed himself for allowing such a feeling to surface; it was weakness, and weakness had no place in his carefully constructed world.

Tom’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, trying to memorize the way she looked in that dress, the way her eyes sparkled with unspoken thoughts. Would she even notice his absence once they parted? Or would her thoughts return to her ‘bad boy?’ He could feel the eyes of the crowd on them, and he knew it was time to resume his usual facade—yet he hesitated. The only one he wanted to captivate tonight, or any night, was Hermione, and that desire burned brighter than any applause or accolades he could ever receive. The thought pained him because while he could easily corner her into a dance or force her to submit, it would mean nothing if it weren’t of her own free will. If she wished to exchange Tom for another, all his efforts would be in vain.

For the rest of the night, Tom avoided Hermione as he grappled with a profound contradiction: his yearning for Hermione’s heart and his instinct to dominate everything in his path. He was on the precipice of understanding something about himself, something that could either empower him or destroy him. 

In the end, he knew what he had to do. 

Her heart would be his.

Chapter Text

Hermione hurried down the corridor. She was late for another one of her tutoring sessions with Antonin. After the Slug Club’s Fall Festival, things had shifted in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Tom had distanced himself, no longer attending their last few sessions, a fact that tormented her mind more than it should. It was curious—he had been the one to pull her close that night, to hold her in a way that was almost… possessive. She found herself replaying that moment to herself often—too often. The way his body pressed against hers as they swayed to the music had left an imprint she couldn’t shake, no matter how much she wished she could.

It had been another two weeks since then, but the memory clung to her, like an unwanted visitor. She wished she could heed the advice he gave her, to "tell her heart to be quiet," but her heart had never been one to listen. Every time they passed in the hall or their eyes met from across the room, the rhythmic pounding in her chest betrayed her. It was infuriating—how could she let him, of all people, get under her skin like this? With a frustrated sigh, she pushed the thought aside. She had a lesson to focus on, and Antonin was waiting.

When Hermione reached the Black Lake, the secluded spot where she and Antonin had been meeting for their tutoring sessions, she frowned. He wasn’t there—but Draco Malfoy was. The sight of him made her stomach twist uncomfortably. There was something about him that unsettled her, an unnerving similarity to another insufferable blond she would know decades in the future. The resemblance went beyond a simple name or his sharp, aristocratic features; it was the quiet arrogance that radiated from him, the way he seemed to hold the world in thinly veiled contempt. He hadn’t yet done anything outright to provoke her dislike, but she sensed his disdain lurking just beneath the surface, like a shadow waiting to pounce.

At the start of the year, Malfoy had barely acknowledged her presence, which, truthfully, had suited Hermione just fine. But lately, it was as though he’d made it his mission to make her feel unwelcome. His glares followed her every time she answered a question correctly in class, his eyes narrowing as if her success were a personal affront. In the common room, he’d often shoulder checked her with just enough force to make her notice, but not enough to call him out on. It was a petty, underhanded game, and while she refused to let it rattle her, there was no denying the simmering unease it left in her wake.

"Mr. Malfoy," Hermione greeted him, forcing politeness into her tone as she dipped her head slightly. She was tempted to forgo any pleasantries altogether, but antagonizing him further seemed unwise. Best to keep things civil—if only for now.

"Granger," he spat out her name with venom, his lips curling into a sneer.

Hermione frowned, instinctively folding her arms across her chest. "Did I do something to offend you?" she asked, her voice steady and confident.

Malfoy’s lip curled in disdain as he hissed, “Your entire existence offends me. How you were sorted into Slytherin, I will never understand. But you can’t fool me like you’ve fooled the others, Mudblood.”

The slur hit her like a slap, sharp and full of venom. Hermione felt her heart race, every fiber of her instinctively recoiling. She clenched her hand, nails pressing into the glamoured scar on her arm—the one that would forever mark her past. He couldn’t possibly know her truth. It was impossible. But the word, the one she’d sworn never to hear again, twisted inside her, reigniting old wounds. She wouldn’t let him see that, though. Not a hint of her pain or her past would slip.

She stood taller, her expression calm but ice-edged. “You must have confused me with someone else, Malfoy. But where I come from, people with manners don’t speak like that.” Her tone was smooth, but beneath it, her anger simmered. Her secret weighed heavier in these moments, reminding her that denial was her only option.

"That's the thing, Granger," Malfoy sneered, taking a step closer, crowding her space with deliberate mal-intent. "You come from nowhere. No one knows anything about you or your family. So tell me—who are you, really?"

Malfoy’s voice was laced with hostility, his magic prodding at her mind in a way that only someone skilled in Legilimency would attempt. But Hermione was no novice either. She’d spent a year practicing Occlumency with Harry, fine-tuning her defenses while on the run. She met his gaze head-on, her face hardening into a mask of defiant amusement, a brow raised in silent challenge. If he wanted to get through her walls, he’d have to try much harder than that.

Malfoy's face twisted in rage as his failed attempts to break into her mind seemed to erode the last of his composure. His pale skin flushed, and with a snarl, he reached out, seizing a fistful of her hair and yanking hard, dragging her down. The world spun as Hermione’s knees buckled, a gasp slipping past her lips—not from pain but from the shock of the assault. The cold, damp grass scraped against her skin, and before she could regain her bearings, Malfoy’s weight bore down, pressing her further into the ground. 

“Bloody Mudblood!” he seethed, practically foaming at the mouth. His hips dug uncomfortably into her, pinning her beneath him, and his sneer was all too close. She forced her breathing to slow. He was stronger, perhaps, but brute strength was only part of the game. Hermione had survived far worse, and she wasn’t about to be intimidated now.

In one swift motion, she drew her knee up sharply. Her knee connected with his groin, hard, and the effect was immediate. Malfoy’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened in a pained, silent scream as he collapsed to the side, clutching himself. Taking advantage of his shock, Hermione scrambled to her feet, her pulse pounding with the adrenaline of victory. Watching him writhe, she couldn’t help a flicker of satisfaction. His face contorted in agony, and as he gasped for breath, she felt her own sense of power return.

“Petrificus Totalus! ” 

Hermione froze as the spell narrowly missed her, barely grazing the air before it hit its target. Her breath caught as she turned to see Antonin standing there, his wand lowered, a storm of anger on his face. Abraxas lay frozen on the ground, victim to Antonin's perfectly timed spell.

Antonin’s eyes were still blazing with fury, but his playful smirk softened the tension. “Should we make him our test dummy today?” he asked, his rare smile bringing a moment of levity.

Hermione let out a small breath, grateful—and cautious. She appreciated that Antonin had stepped in, keeping his promise from the Fall Festival to look out for her. But uncertainty lingered. Had he overheard the heated exchange, including Malfoy’s damning accusation? And if so, did he believe any of it? Would he see her differently if he did?

Her instincts told her no. He was still in the dark.

“He would make a very good ferret,” Hermione replied, standing and dusting herself off, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Two generations of Malfoy ferrets, she mused with private gratification. “However, it's against school rules.”

Antonin's brow raised with feigned surprise. “Are you telling me you never bend the rules a little?” It was the same question, the same wording, she had once asked Tom.

Hermione paused at Antonin's remark, her curiosity piqued. She cocked an eyebrow, taking in his appearance more closely than she had before. Yes, he had the same distinct accent, the same unruly mop of hair, but something about him felt different today. There was an odd shift in the way he carried himself, and his presence felt... heavier, more controlled. His magic, though still familiar, had a subtle edge that made her pulse quicken. It brushed against hers, sharper, darker, and unmistakably familiar in a way that didn’t belong to Antonin.

She smiled back at him, masking her sudden doubt with a calculated ease, her heart racing as her suspicions flickered to life. Could it be…?

“Maybe once or twice,” Hermione said, biting her bottom lip to hide the tremor of nerves. She kept her tone light, teasing, but behind the mask, she felt a special thrill that only one person could provide. She was ready, eager even, to play along.

“Well, then, Hermione, with that in mind, what’s on the agenda today?” Antonin inquired, that little glint of evil in his eye was so much more prevalent today. 

“Hmmm, you know what might be fun?” she teased, wondering just how far she could take it. “If you taught me something today.”

“So the student teaches the tutor,” he said, positively beaming with excitement. “I’m afraid there is only one thing I might know that you don’t, Hermione. And I don’t think you’ll be too interested in learning it.”

“Nonsense,” Hermione dismissed the concern flippantly. “I remember you telling me you’re quite good at dark magic, and after Mr. Malfoy’s actions, I think it might be time for you to show me your expertise.”

Hermione's heart thudded in her chest as she watched Antonin react, that dark glint in his eyes flaring at her suggestion. His smile didn’t quite fit the Antonin she’d come to know. It was sharper—colder, almost predatory—and the way he straightened his posture sent a shiver down her spine.

He chuckled softly, a sound she hadn’t heard for weeks. “Dark magic? You’re full of surprises today, Hermione,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle shift in cadence—more polished, more deliberate, than Antonin’s usual tone. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Hermione tilted her head, feigning nonchalance as her suspicions solidified. “I’m no stranger to danger,” she said with a confident laugh. “Come on, show me what you’ve got. I can handle it.” She could feel the tension crackle between them, her mind racing as she carefully baited him, knowing that if she pushed too far, she'd reveal her own hand.

“Very well,” he said slowly, his lips curling into a smile that sent a chill through her body. “But remember, once you step into the darkness, it’s hard to find your way back.” His words hung in the air, dripping with meaning, as if he were speaking from experience—Tom’s experience.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. She knew. She was certain now. 

This wasn’t Antonin at all. 

* * * *

An hour earlier

Tom looked up slowly from the parchment he’d been reviewing, his cold gaze locking onto Antonin as he entered the room. Dolohov stood tall, masking whatever apprehension he might have felt behind the dutiful exterior he’d perfected over the years. But Tom knew better. He could sense the unease rippling beneath the surface, the tension tightening in his knight’s shoulders. 

Good. He should be nervous.

“You called for me, My Lord,” Dolohov spoke with practiced calm, bowing his head in a sign of respect.

Tom allowed the silence to stretch, savoring the moment. He had let this play out long enough—waiting, gathering every scrap of evidence he needed, keeping his distance from Hermione and her little study sessions by the Black Lake, calculating when to strike. It had taken all his restraint not to intervene sooner, to not tear the entire situation apart the moment Hermione declared her heart had chosen Dolohov at Slughorn’s party. 

But patience was a virtue, so Tom would play the long game—which was a shame because he so much more preferred instant gratification. 

For three long sessions, he had let it slide, letting Dolohov bask in the illusion of safety, thinking he had escaped his master’s ire. He’d also let Hermione toy with the idea of being with her so-called "bad boy" consequence free. But Tom had never truly left them alone. He had been watching, always watching, and the sight of them together—so comfortable, so close—had gnawed at him relentlessly. Every moment she spent with Dolohov, every smile, every laugh... was intolerable. Unforgivable even.

However, today, their cozy little arrangement would be dismantled. Tom would make sure of that himself. 

“Kneel,” Tom ordered, the single word cutting through the silence like a knife, slicing away any remaining shred of pride Antonin may have held onto. Tom Riddle watched as Dolohov hesitated, his eyes flickering with a brief flash of uncertainty before the inevitable submission. Tom’s command hung in the air, heavy and absolute, leaving no room for defiance.

“Yes, My Lord,” Antonin replied, his voice holding steady, though the strain was evident. The moment his knees touched the cold ground, Tom felt a flicker of satisfaction ripple through him. Dolohov knew what was coming. Tom's knights had seen enough to understand that submission came with its price, and that price was pain.

Tom rarely extended such brutal lessons to his inner circle. It was a luxury he afforded them, sparing them from the sheer violation of having their thoughts laid bare before him. But there were moments when even the most trusted needed reminding of who held their fates in hand.

Tom’s wand rose, but it wasn’t necessary. His true weapon was already poised—his mind, sharp and merciless, ready to invade. Legilimency did not need to hurt. For many, it was no more than a subtle touch, a whisper against the mind. He could have been gentle, could have sifted through Antonin’s memories like pages in a book, but that was not his way. Not now. Not when the thought of Hermione— his Hermione—pining for Dolohov made his blood boil with a dark fury he could barely contain. More so, Tom preferred it this way—the searing, invasive, tearing through the mental walls like an unstoppable force. The pain was all a part of the lesson, a reminder of the power he wielded over them all. And today, Tom wanted Dolohov to suffer. He wanted him to feel the betrayal in his bones, to know the price of getting too close to something that wasn’t his.

As Tom entered Antonin’s mind, he felt the knight’s useless attempts at resistance, the feeble defenses shattering under his will. He sifted through the images, the moments shared with her —and with each one, Tom’s control tightened, his rage spiked. The idea that Hermione could possibly want Dolohov, that she might prefer this pathetic knight, filled him with a bitter, consuming hatred.

And so Tom let the pain flow—deep, twisting, making sure Antonin felt every second of his Lord’s displeasure.

By the time Tom had sifted through Dolohov’s memories, piecing together every stray thought and emotion tied to Hermione, the knight lay broken on the floor, a crumpled heap of pain and exhaustion. He stood over the sad lump, surveying the wreckage with a smirk of satisfaction curling at his lips. Dolohov had been reduced to the pathetic creature he had always been beneath the surface—fragile, easily broken, and unworthy of the attention Hermione had so carelessly bestowed upon him.

It would be hours before Dolohov could summon the strength to drag himself back to his quarters to nurse his wounds. But Tom wasn’t finished with him yet. Not quite.

He crouched down, close enough to feel the rasp of Dolohov’s shallow breathing, and gripped the wizard’s collar, yanking him up with effortless force. Dolohov’s head lolled, his consciousness barely clinging to the edges, but Tom’s cold, calculating eyes examined him closely, searching for something—anything—that could explain what Hermione saw in this pitiful excuse of a wizard.

What was it that she found so irresistible? His supposed “bad boy” allure? It was laughable. Antonin Dolohov, a bad boy ? Tom had seen stronger-willed men crumble under his power with more dignity than this. Hermione’s judgment had clearly faltered, blinded by something that Tom could not yet fully comprehend.

“You won’t mind if I borrow a few things, will you?” Tom murmured, his tone dripping with dark amusement, as if Dolohov, unconscious and shattered as he was, could even respond.

Tom let out a low chuckle, a sound that was more chilling than humorous, and reached for Dolohov’s hair. He plucked out a few strands, one by one, ensuring they were intact as he carefully placed them into an empty vial. 

Next, he turned his attention to Dolohov’s piercings. With a grimace of distaste, Tom removed each one, handling them like foreign objects that required the utmost caution. They were crude and unhygienic—a reflection of Dolohov’s lack of refinement. He would have to cleanse them thoroughly before using them for his own purposes. Surely, he would’ve avoided them altogether, if only he didn’t need to maintain every minute detail to pull off his deception with precision.

As Tom stood, vial and piercings in hand, he looked down at Dolohov one last time, smirking at the sight of his follower’s ruined form. Antonin had served his purpose, and now he would be discarded like the tool he was. Tom had the means to become him—to become what Hermione desired—and with that, the next phase of his plan would initiate.

With a final glance, Tom left Dolohov in his misery. 

He had more important things to attend to.

* * * *

Tom hadn’t intended to be late for Dolohov’s study session with Hermione, but he had grossly underestimated just how revolting Polyjuice Potion truly was. His plan to steal it from Slughorn’s office on the day of the Slug Club Fall Festival had gone without a hitch, but no amount of meticulous planning could have prepared him for the sheer unpleasantness of what followed.

The moment he forced himself to choke down the lumpy, porridge-like liquid, the true horror began. The taste was foul—thick, bitter, and lingering. However, the physical transformation was worse. His body twisted and contorted, bones snapping and realigning, flesh reshaping itself into something that was both familiar and foreign until Dolohov’s form overtook his own, every moment of process agonizing. Each shift in his features felt like an invasion, a violation of the body he had crafted with such care over the years.

He’d read about the potion in detail—studied its effects, theorized about its uses—but theory could never prepare someone for the visceral experience of becoming someone else. The discomfort was almost enough to make him reconsider the entire plan.

Almost .

But the memory of Hermione with Dolohov, the way she smiled at him, her laughter ringing through the air, was enough to drive him forward. He wanted those smiles, those laughs, aimed his way, so much so, the discomfort soon became secondary. He would see this through, he ultimately decided.

When the transformation finally ended, Tom stood staring into the mirror, glaring back at the face of Antonin Dolohov. The same face Hermione had been growing too fond of. Tom flexed his hands, testing the limits of the body he now inhabited, feeling the potential of this new form. It was strange, wearing someone else’s skin, but it would serve his purpose.

Even as the clock ticked away and he realized he was running late, the importance of the task remained at the forefront of his mind. Hermione would never know. She would see only Antonin, and through him, Tom would learn everything he needed to—and remind her who truly held control.

Unfortunately, Malfoy was another unexpected variable Tom wasn’t counting on. 

Tom's footsteps quickened as he approached the clearing; an odd sort of urgency drawing him faster. The scene that unfolded before him made his blood run cold, quickly replaced by burning rage. There, sparing in the near distance, was Hermione, her wild curls disheveled and her chest rising and falling with sharp breaths. Towering over her, Abraxas Malfoy—his knight—loomed like a predator, magic swirling in the air around them.

Tom’s eyes narrowed, taking in the sight with a sharp, calculating gaze. Malfoy’s voice, dripping with malice, rang in his ears as he attempted to break into Hermione’s mind. 

Fool . 

Malfoy, skilled as he was in Legilimency, was grossly overestimating his abilities if he thought Hermione would so easily crumble. Tom had always known she was strong—formidable even—but now he was seeing confirmation as it played out before him in real time.

Hermione’s defiance was unrelentless. Her expression, a cold mask of control, that only grew stronger as Malfoy’s frustrations mounted. Tom knew that look. Hermione was not submitting; she was challenging. She was daring Malfoy to try harder, to push further, confident of his impending defeat.

For a brief moment, a twisted sense of admiration crept into Tom’s chest. She was magnificent, and the thought of Malfoy attempting to exert power over his witch ignited a fresh wave of fury. He watched as Malfoy’s pale face flushed red, his resentment turning physical when his magical attempts failed. 

“Bloody Mudblood!” He lashed out like a child denied his favorite toy, his hand grabbing a fistful of Hermione’s hair and yanking her to the ground.

Tom’s pulse quickened, not from concern—never concern—but from the absolute certainty that Malfoy had crossed a line. Tom had specifically told Malfoy to abandon his concerns with Hermione, and he had failed to obey orders. He would be punished, no doubt, but for now Tom allowed the scuffle to continue, confident that Hermione wouldn’t need rescuing. 

Hermione hit the floor with a sharp cry, but even from a distance, Tom could see the strength in her eyes. She was not broken, just surprised. Malfoy pinned her down, his hips pressing into hers, grinding against her in a way that looked oddly… carnal. 

How dare he. 

Tom had enough; it was time to step in, but Hermione was faster. Her knee shot up with precision, slamming into Malfoy’s most vulnerable spot.

“ Petrificus Totalus! ” Tom shouted, fury radiating in his chest. The sight of Malfoy touching her in ways not even Tom himself had explored, had stoked a fire in him that even Polyjuice couldn’t mask.

Hermione’s breath caught, her body rigid with the lingering tension of the altercation. He could see the wariness in her eyes, despite her initial relief. She was grateful for Tom’s intervention—yes—but she didn’t trust easily. Which was why Tom had to be especially careful to keep his façade flawless.

A smirk curled at the edge of Antonin’s—his—lips, deliberately crafted to break the tension. “Should we make him our test dummy today?” he said, injecting just the right amount of levity into his voice. Inside, the real Tom relished the idea. Malfoy, laid out and defenseless, would make an excellent target for what Tom truly had in mind.

“He would make a very good ferret,” Hermione replied, standing and dusting herself off. Tom’s heart tightened at the sight; she didn’t seem hurt, but he was tempted to perform a diagnostic spell, just in case. “However, it's against school rules.”

Finally, she smiled slightly, but there was something else—a hint of suspicion. He knew her well enough to sense it. Her silent question hung in the air: Had Antonin overheard? Did he know about Malfoy’s accusation?

“Are you telling me you never bend the rules a little?” he responded, with a perfectly crafted eyebrow raise, channeling Antonin’s careless charm.

The irony of the question didn’t escape him. He hadn’t posed it intentionally; she had once asked him, Tom, that same question—when she had still been unaware of the danger lurking beneath his surface. Subconsciously, perhaps he wanted her to know it was him, that she would still know his soul, his essence, regardless of the body he was in. 

Hermione finally gave a small, noncommittal shrug, biting her pretty pink lip. It was infuriatingly tempting, causing his mind to wander to darker places, distracting from the task at hand. “Maybe once or twice,” she said with a teasing edge to her voice, her guard dropping ever so slightly.

Good . He wasn’t ready for her to know yet, not now, not until it was on his terms. But as she stood before him, unaware of the truth beneath the face she saw, Tom felt the familiar tightening in his chest—a dangerous desire, a yearning to see her bow not to Antonin, but to him .

“Well then, Hermione, with that in mind, what’s on the agenda today?” His borrowed face twisted into a smirk.

“Hmmm, you know what might be fun? If you taught me something today.” Her tone was light, teasing, but he could sense the tremor beneath, a nervous energy that exhilarated him to no end. She was eager, even if she didn’t fully realize what she was getting herself into. 

“So the student teaches the tutor,” he echoed, the challenge in his voice palpable. His smile widened, a feigned reflection of Antonin’s usual enthusiasm. Inside, however, Tom was reveling in the dynamic that had shifted in his favor. She wanted something from him—wanted his power, even if she didn’t yet realize whose hands truly held the strings.

“I remember you telling me you’re quite good at dark magic, and after Mr. Malfoy’s actions, I think it might be time for you to show me your expertise.” When she mentioned Malfoy, the shift in her voice was subtle, but it sent a ripple through him. Tom’s eyes narrowed in Malfoy’s direction.

His smile widened into something colder, more dangerous, as he straightened. “Dark magic?” he said, a soft chuckle escaping him. He could feel her watching him, her body responding to the tension that lingered in the air, a flare of excitement as his words sank in. 

He leaned in slightly, his voice low. “You’re full of surprises today, Hermione.” There was a shift in his tone—a slip in the mask, just for a moment—more polished, more calculated than Dolohov’s usual demeanor. He couldn’t help it; he wanted her to feel the gravity of what she was asking for, to understand that the path she was treading led somewhere far more treacherous than she predicted. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I’m no stranger to danger,” she said with a light laugh. Bold, he mused, but it was also calculated. She was baiting him, testing how far she could push before he reacted. It was clever, but he knew this game well—better than anyone.

“Very well,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, drawing out the words as he watched her with predatory eyes. His lips curled into a smile, the kind that could send a shiver through anyone who truly understood what lay behind it. He leaned in slightly, just enough to let his presence consume the space between them. “But remember,” he continued, his tone ominous and smooth, “once you step into the darkness, it’s hard to find your way back.”

As he spoke, his eyes never left hers, searching for any sign of weakness, any flicker of doubt. He wanted her to understand the gravity of her request, to feel the weight of what she was asking for. There was no going back once he began teaching her—he would take her to places she’d never been, push her beyond her limits, and in doing so, bind her closer to him. Even now, she was tempting fate by standing on the edge, and Tom was more than ready to pull her into the abyss.

Hermione met his gaze head-on, her eyes flickering with that same mix of curiosity and tenacity that had always drawn him to her. She didn’t flinch, even as his words hung heavily in the air between them, and he found himself oddly pleased by her reaction. She was willing—eager, even—to test herself against him.

Tom circled her with a predatory grace, his eyes never leaving her as he moved behind her, positioning her exactly where he wanted. The magic between them was evident, an electric force that buzzed in the air, heightening their senses. His hands found her hips in the barest of touches, but it was enough to draw her into him, the heat of their connection undeniable. He felt her sharp inhale, a reaction she couldn’t suppress, and it brought a smirk to his lips: she wasn’t immune to the electricity between them, no matter how much she wanted him to believe that she was.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, lips grazing her delicate skin as he gave his command. “Take your wand.” His voice was low, dark, filled with authority he knew she wouldn’t question. She obeyed, her movements measured yet tense, as if she, too, was aware of the magnitude of what they were about to do. One hand slipped from her hip to guide hers, steadying her grip, feeling the tremor run through her fingers, and the other remained anchoring her to him. She was overwhelmed—by the power, by him—and he relished it.

“Are you familiar with the Cruciatus Curse?” he asked, his voice husky. It wasn’t just a question; it was an invitation, a promise of what they could accomplish as a master and pet if she dared to step into the darkness with him.

Her breath quickened, the pulse of magic between them intensifying. Without a word, she reached down, lacing her fingers through his, gently tugging it away from her hip. Slowly, deliberately, she guided it upward, slipping his hand beneath the buttons of her blouse. Tom stilled, momentarily taken off guard by her soft feminine curves before realizing her true intent. His cock, already rock hard at the sadistic idea of torturing Malfoy together as a team, ached as he traced the raised texture of her scar beneath his fingertips. Though he couldn’t see it, the significance was clear. She had faced darkness before. She had endured it. And she had survived it.

“I’m very familiar with it,” Hermione whispered, her voice soft yet confident, accepting his challenge.

Tom’s eyes watched her, with a new sense of hunger. He could sense the raw power radiating from her, the unspoken history behind that scar—a history he knew she’d endured with fierce courage. Hermione wasn’t afraid of pain. She wasn’t afraid of darkness. And yet, it was her composure in the face of all of it that stirred something deep inside him. 

Familiar with it. He wanted to learn every single detail. Every scar, every secret, every piece of evil she had faced.

That simple admission hung between them, charged with more meaning than the words themselves. She had suffered, survived, and now stood here, ready to serve destruction of her own. The temptation to test just how far he could take her—how far she would let him go—was overwhelming.

“You think you understand it,” he murmured, his breath hot against the curve of her neck. He dragged his finger along the length of her body until they rested on her hip once more, gripping her roughly, and pulling her closer into him, their magic humming in tandem. He knew she could feel the outline of his hard cock against her backside, that she could feel what she was doing to him. The energy between them surged like a living thing, amplifying their connection, their potential. Together, they could become unstoppable.

“Show me, then,” she replied softly, her voice steady but charged with anticipation. She wasn’t asking him to hold back, and Tom appreciated that about her. She wasn’t like the others—fragile, breakable, intimidated. Hermione was capable of standing in the darkest depths with him, and maybe, just maybe, she could thrive there by his side, too.

With a slow, meticulous movement, Tom adjusted her hand around her wand, his fingers brushing hers, guiding her as the energy between them intensified. He leaned in again, a tempting snake on her shoulder. “You may know pain,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low, “but have you ever wielded it?”

Hermione inhaled sharply, and Tom could feel the pulse of excitement exuding from her. She was on the edge—ready to step into a world where power and pain intertwined, a world where she would no longer be a victim of the curse, but a master of it.

“Crucio,” he whispered against her skin, though he didn’t cast it himself. He wanted her to do it—to understand the sensation of dark magic flowing from her own hand, enhanced by the force of their combined power.

He felt her hesitate for a fraction of a second, her hand trembling with both fear and eagerness. His grip on her tightened, steadying her. “Don’t hold back,” he urged softly, his voice full of dark promise.

And then, with a surge of energy, Hermione cast the curse.

“ Crucio !”

The ground pulsed with their magic, the Cruciatus Curse far more potent than either of them had anticipated. Tom felt the force of it, felt the way it twisted and amplified through both of them, until even he could sense the burn of its intensity on his skin. His hand flexed involuntarily as the dark energy scorched, but he didn’t pull away. No, this was what he had wanted—what they had wanted.

Hermione gasped, a mix of shock and awe, but she didn’t stop. Tom watched as the spell took hold of its target, the power searing through Abraxas like a wildfire. He could feel her delight, the thrill of wielding such a raw, destructive force in her hands.

His grip was possessive, their bodies pressed together in a way that blurred the lines between power and desire. She had unlocked something dangerous between them—a connection that would be impossible to sever moving forward.

As the last echoes of the curse faded, Hermione’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and Tom could feel her pulse quicken beneath his touch. He didn’t let go, not yet. Her head tilted back slightly, her gaze meeting his, eyes blazing with a fire he hadn’t seen before. A venomous smile settled over her lips. She enjoyed the taste of darkness Tom provided.

Malfoy lay helpless on the ground, still petrified, his eyes wide and glassy, trapped in his own body. He was at their mercy—no ability to scream, no chance to react. His mind, however, was fully aware, as made evident from the trail of tears leaking down his cheeks. The Cruciatus Curse, when properly executed, tortured from within, tormenting the soul without leaving a mark. But with their combined magic, something far more devastating occurred.

Their power didn’t just inflict pain—it left physical evidence of their assault.

It was as if lightning had struck down from the heavens and electrified him. His robes, once pristine, were now frayed at the edges, threads pulled and singed. His pale blond hair, normally slicked back in a show of arrogance, was now blackened at the tips, wild and unkempt. Smoke rose in thin wisps from his body, a testament to the raw, uncontrolled force they had unleashed on him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the tension between them heavy, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.

Finally, Hermione’s lips parted, her voice barely above a whisper. “What now?”

Tom’s lips curled into a dark, satisfied smile, his thumb digging under her waistband, drawing circles over her bare skin. “Now,” he said malevolently, “we see just how far you’re willing to go.”

Chapter Text

As he leaned in closer, his nose brushed against the curve of her neck, the warmth of her skin sending a ripple of anticipation through him. The scent of lavender and honeysuckle clung to her, delicate and sweet—a sharp contrast to the raw darkness swirling between them. Goosebumps rose across her skin, a silent testament to the truth he sought: Hermione was just as drawn to him as he was to her, regardless of the body he occupied. This wasn’t simply her attraction to Antonin; it was a profound connection to Tom himself, and to his magic.

But still, he craved more. He needed confirmation that she felt as lost in this magnetic pull as he did. He wanted her to be the first to break, to acknowledge the desire crackling between them, to surrender—not just to him, but to the darkness they were weaving together.

“How far will you go, Hermione?” he murmured, turning her around in his arms, slowly, gently, until she was facing him.

Her flushed cheeks and hooded eyes reflected his own hunger. His gaze lingered on her parted lips as she released a shaky exhale, the sound soft and needy, stirring something primal within him. Tom tipped her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look up at him. Her head tilted back, vulnerable and exposed, her body pliant beneath his touch. Excitement coursed through him, taken with a thrill of control as he leaned closer, his lips barely a breath away from hers. His voice dropped to a low whisper, dripping with invitation as he asked, “Will you lose yourself in the darkness? Will you lose yourself in me?”

For a brief moment, he searched her eyes, waiting for the answer he already knew she would give. Hesitation flickered across her features, but it was fleeting—just a breath before she nodded—slow yet confident. “Yes,” she whispered, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

That was all he needed.

A dark satisfaction unraveled within him as his hand slid around the base of her neck, fingers tangling possessively in her hair. Her submission, her willingness, fueled him in a way that nothing else could match. Without hesitation, he captured her lips, the kiss both commanding and unrelenting. It was a claim—his claim on her, on her magic, her will, her very essence. She had given him what he wanted, and now, there was no turning back. She was his.

The urgency in their kiss sharpened, their lips moving with a hunger that ignited the power crackling between them. Tom pressed himself firmly against her, his grip tightening as if he could fuse their bodies together, collapse into one another. Hermione’s breath hitched, a soft gasp swallowed by the force of their kiss as they devoured each other, both of them pulling, pushing, needing more.

Her hands gripped the front of his robes, fingers twisting in the fabric as though she too sought to close the distance between them, to make the threat of separation impossible. Every touch, every movement between them was laced with a desperate desire—both magical and physical—an unspoken promise of something deeper.

Tom's mind, usually sharp and calculating, was consumed by the sensation of her against him. The softness of her body, the heat radiating from her skin, drove him mad with infatuation. He craved more—to conquer, to claim, to make her his in every sense. His lips left hers, trailing down to her neck, sucking and biting her tender skin. She responded, matching his intensity, melting into him; she too was lost in the moment, no longer thinking, only feeling.

Tom lowered her to the ground, his movements deliberate and possessive, the cold floor beneath them only heightening the heat radiating between their bodies. She surrendered to him completely, allowing him to manipulate her body without resistance. Her eyes remained locked on his, unwavering, as if she trusted him entirely.

Malfoy, frozen and helpless at their feet, faded into the background, a mere spectator to the darkness they were unleashing together. He was irrelevant amid the intensity of the moment. Tom’s hand wrapped around her neck as he hovered over her, his villainous eyes filled with lust as he drank in the sight of her beneath him, their victim lying beside them like a discarded pawn.

His fingers trailed up her side, feeling her tremble beneath his touch. The overwhelming sense of ownership swelled inside him—ownership over her, and over this entire situation. Tom’s fingers deftly worked their way down her shirt, taking his time to remove her blouse. As the fabric parted, revealing the scar that blemished her otherwise flawless skin, his gaze darkened with something akin to reverence. He traced the raised edges of the scar with precision, reveling in her reaction beneath his touch. She was his puppet, and he was playing the strings. Slowly, he leaned down, his tongue replacing his fingers before he whispered against her skin, “One day, I’ll leave my own mark.”

She whimpered softly, her breath hitching in suspense. Her legs instinctively wrapped around him, pulling him closer, while her arms tightened around his neck, drawing him in with an urgency that spoke volumes. Her body pressed against his, a silent plea for what he had just offered.

Leaning down, he nipped at the hollow of her throat, pushing her harder against the damp grass. "Is that what you want, Hermione?" he murmured against her skin, his voice low and seductive. "To wear my mark?" His fingers dug into her hips, grinding his rigid cock against her as their magic entwined, sparking with a dangerous potential.

Her response was a breathy moan, her body arching into him in approval, and it was clear she craved his mark—here and now—and he involuntarily shivered at the knowledge.

When he had his head on straight, he would leave his mark on her, but for now, he would claim her in a different way. He would draw her deeper into his world, like a spider ensnaring its prey in a delicate web, ensuring that she would be forever bound to his will. As his lips found hers again, this kiss was more than just possession; it was a vow, a promise of the intoxicating depths they would explore together. Tom felt the boundaries of pleasure and power intertwining, knowing he would stop at nothing to secure her place by his side.

Tom deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the outline of her lips before plunging into her mouth, savoring the sweetness of her taste.

“You followed orders so well today,” he murmured, his voice laced with a dark enjoyment. A faint blush crept up her cheeks, flustered from his praise. “And good girls get a reward.” His lips curled into a smirk, his hands roaming down body, intrigued by the softness of her curves. 

He trailed lower, tauntingly slow, until he found the enticing heat radiating from between her legs. 

“Oh, Merlin,” she moaned, arching her back and rubbing herself against him like a cat in heat.

“Tell me what you want for your reward, Hermione,” he chuckled, enjoying her eagerness, but still not completely satisfied. She needed to beg. He wanted to hear her voice, to coax the words out of her until her desire bubbled to the surface. This was a game of control, and he intended to savor every moment of it.

“You, Tom,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with unrestrained longing. The sound of his name, spoken with such intent, froze him in place. His little witch was cunning, playing along with his games just to humor him.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked, his voice low and intense, the weight of her confession hanging heavily between them. She had known all along—had seen through his disguise from the start—and still, she had willingly submitted to him. The confirmation that her submission was not to Antonin, but to him, to Tom Riddle, only amplified his lust for her.

“Your magic,” Hermione replied, echoing his own words from potions class, casting them back at him like a challenge. “It was unmistakable.”

The acknowledgment struck him deep, touching a tender spot in his heart he never knew existed. She wasn’t just responding to the allure of his power; she recognized the essence of who he was, the darkness that defined him. That understanding only heightened the stakes between them, weaving their bond dangerously deep. 

“Well, that’s not quite fair, is it?” he said, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, the teasing edge of his voice revealing the deeper implications of their exchange. “You see through my disguise, yet you’d willingly let me take you in the body of another man?” The question hung in the air, playful yet saturated with the seriousness of their situation—an acknowledgment of the risks she had taken.

“A body is just a vessel. You could take any form and I would know it was you,” she said, stroking his hair and kissing his jaw. “It’s your magic, your soul, your essence that matters to me, Tom. You are what calls to me.”

Tom had never felt so understood by anyone before. Most were drawn in by his polished exterior, a pristine facade that concealed the tainted darkness that infected his being. But Hermione was different. Her words resonated with him as he contemplated his Horcruxes, his most valuable accomplishments. Each one was a fragment of his soul, meticulously hidden away in unassuming objects that others would easily overlook. But not Hermione. He had no doubt that if she stumbled upon one, she’d recognize its significance immediately. This realization stirred something within him—vulnerability. 

He had never been intimate with a witch before, had never wanted to be. But Hermione challenged him, intrigued him, pushed him in ways no one else could. And now, in this moment, as she laid beneath him with complete trust, it felt strangely natural— right— to let things between them escalate. The feeling unsettled him. She unsettled him. 

Tom’s hold on her was fierce and angry. She’d demanded far too much. People usually sought his power, his influence, or perhaps even admired his looks—they wanted what Tom could provide for them. But Hermione had dared to want him —his soul, his entirety. That was something he couldn’t grant, something he would never give. This would never be sweet or affectionate, a romantic surrounding of himself to another. No, he wouldn’t be giving himself to her; she’d have to accept the scraps of himself he was willing to provide. 

The arrogance of her request infuriated him. He needed to be cautious around someone as bright as Hermione, and yet, despite his better judgment, he found himself drawn ever closer to her. He wanted to dominate her. To own her, to make her regret ever infiltrating his mind the way she had. By this time tomorrow morning, he envisioned his fingerprints embedded into her hips, yet instead of feeling the power of fear, he sensed the tremor of her anticipation against him; she wanted more. But this was no longer a game or something to take lightly; he would have to steel himself, harden his heart against this witch.

He captured her lips once more, and when they melted into each other, he knew that this connection would be etched into their very beings. After he dominated her so completely, so thoroughly, she would understand her place underneath him, subservient and submissive. Tom shoved at her skirt, ripping away her panties, and kissing down her body until he reached her core.

“Tom!” Hermione gasped in surprise, grabbing at his hair, pushing him harder into her.

He studied her carefully, paying attention to her movements, sure to pick up on the spots she seemed to enjoy best. By nature, he was an overachiever, and this talent would be no different. His hands massaged up and down her legs roughly as his tongue appreciated her distinct taste. The second he added his fingers to his exploration, and her breaths came out in short little huffs before her whines grew closer together. She was so close to falling over the edge, he could taste it. He kept his pace steady, watching her face contorted in pleasure, his attention to her growing even more fervent with every delicious cry he drew, until she was a panting, sweaty mess beneath him. 

She might have been soaked before, but now she was dripping. 

“You’re practically weeping for my cock, little pet,” Tom mocked. He didn’t have time for false niceties, he wanted to humiliate her with need. “Why should I give it to you? Beg for me.” 

“Please, My Lord,” Hermione said, a smug smirk playing on her lips, her chest heaving with barely contained excitement, her eyes shining with mischief. “Show Malfoy who I belong to. Show him why he can’t touch me.”

Tom could sense the manipulation in her words, the way she twisted Tom’s desires to fit her own. Yet, despite the warning bells ringing in his mind, he felt an irresistible urge to give her exactly what she wanted. Her challenge was intoxicating, and the idea of asserting his claim over her—of making his ownership undeniable—was a temptation he couldn’t ignore.

With a dark smile curling at the corners of his mouth, he decided that he would remind both Hermione and Malfoy what the consequences of underestimating him were. He summoned Hermione’s magic, combining it with his own to effortlessly levitate her into the exact position he envisioned. Her startled yelp made him chuckle in delight.

“Tom!” she protested, her voice frantic with surprise as her knees magically landed on either side of Malfoy’s face, his paralyzed form still lying helpless on the ground. From his knight’s vantage point, the view beneath her skirt was all too clear.

“I didn’t mean—” Hermione began to resist, only to be cut off.

“Shhhh, Hermione,” Tom interrupted, his tone dripping with taunting authority. With deliberate ease, he claimed his position behind her, one hand balling up the back of her skirt as he shoved her face down into the cool grass above Abraxas’ head. Tom’s knees framed Malfoy’s shoulders, dominating the space around them.

“Let’s show Malfoy who you belong to,” he hummed, the spite in his words echoing in the space around them.

Tom didn't hesitate, giving her no time to prepare before he unzipped his trousers and freed himself. The raw need to dominate possessed him as he rammed into her without warning. She was so slick, yet the resistance he met was unexpected. His thick girth tore through a barrier he hadn’t anticipated, and her scream cut through the air—sharp and pained. Her fingers clawed at the grass beneath her as she whimpered, the sound sending a jolt of conflicting emotions through him.

For a brief moment, Tom stilled, pulling back slowly, his eyes narrowing as he glanced down. The sight of blood smeared along his length caught him off guard, perplexing him.

Hermione was a virgin. 

Tom marveled at the thought that she had given this to him—this final piece of innocence. The irony wasn’t lost on him; for all her rebellion, Hermione had retained something that the other witches in their year had long since surrendered. She had saved herself for him, and him alone. The knowledge that she had reserved such an intimate part of herself, that she had consciously chosen him for this first, significant moment, stirred something dark and obsessive within him. It was a gift of devotion, a token of her trust that only fueled his sense of control over her. He felt a surge of possessiveness, an intoxicating rush at the realization that he would be the only wizard to claim her, body and soul. 

She was his now—bound to him through choices made and promises unspoken. No one else would ever have her like this. The knowledge of that fact pressed against his chest, a heady blend of power and desire. Tom's mind spun with visions of their future together, a path that would entwine them in darkness and magic, forever sealing their fates. Of one thing he was certain: she was his greatest conquest, and he would not let her slip away.

“Look at your virgin blood all over my cock,” Tom’s weight fell over her back as he whispered his words cruelly into her ear. Her blood, so warm, so mesmerizing, only fueled his dark intentions further. He wanted to ruin her. To know she’d never so much as look at another wizard after him. 

Tom drove into her again, rougher this time, and with each thrust, the empowering pull of her magic enveloped him. It wrapped around him like a lifeline, clinging desperately as though it couldn’t survive without him. 

Merlin .

She felt unreal, her slick, tight walls gripping him with every stroke. A choked moan escaped his lips, ripping from his chest unexpectedly. He never wanted this feeling to end, the way her body responded to him, as if she were made for him. But as he continued, the euphoria that coursed through him made him question how long he could maintain control.

He attempted to take his time, each movement deliberate, savoring the way her body gave in to his. He watched, listened, as her cries of pain gradually transformed into something else—into moans of pleasure. The shift only heightened his satisfaction, knowing he had taken her to this point, from anguish to ecstasy. 

“You like how well your Lord fucks you, Hermione?” He pulled her hair out of her face to whisper in her ear, each thrust calculated in a rhythm slow, but hard. 

“Yes, My Lord,” she said obediently, her voice breaking with a raspy edge. 

“Such a good pet,” Tom praised, relishing the way his compliment caused her to shudder in delight. “Does my little witch want to cum with me?”

Hermione's voice trembled as she begged, “Please, sir,” her desperation obvious. Her hand reached back, slipping beneath his shirt, her fingertips lightly grazing the skin of his sides. He stilled for a moment, allowing her that touch; he shouldn’t tolerate such familiarity, however Hermione had earned this closeness—this rare privilege. Her touch was soft, tentative, almost admiring. Tom let her linger there, not because he needed her closeness, but because her submission in this moment, her pleading, was more rewarding than he had anticipated.

Tom pulled his wand from his robe pocket and gave it a gentle flick followed by a circular motion. 

Resonare.

It subtly vibrated in his hand, producing a low, resonant hum, altering Hermione’s attention. She turned her head to look at him, confused, but trusting. 

“Soon you can,” Tom said, more softly this time, slowly lowering his want underneath her until it rested on her pulsing clit. She gasped at the sensation, dropping her head down to the grass beneath her. “But wait for my permission,” he ordered gruffly, exerting his control over her.

Agitare.

 The vibration increased, and Hermione audibly groaned, pushing herself back against Tom in the same rhythm of his hips to make each of his thrusts deeper. 

“Tell Malfoy why he should never touch you,” he growled, his voice sharp and commanding as he met her harder, driving his point deeper—physically and mentally. “Tell him who you belong to.”

“Yours,” Hermione whimpered, her breath ragged as she tried to comply, but the words barely escaped her lips. The satisfaction of her struggle fed him, made him want to push her further.

“That’s right, you’re my witch,” he hissed, his pace quickening, becoming frenzied, lost in need. “ Mine .”

"Yours," she repeated, reinforcing her submission.

Tom felt the pressure building within him, the heat of their connection igniting every nerve ending. “Fuck, I’m going to cum,” he grunted, urgency lacing his words as he fought to maintain control. He needed her to reach that peak alongside him. “Cum, Hermione, now,” he commanded, unable to hold back any longer.

As he pulsed inside her, flooding her with every drop of his seed, he felt her body respond just as strongly. Her walls contracted wildly, each squeeze amplifying the intensity of their union, drawing him entirely into her depths. She was shattering around him, her pleasure erupting in waves that echoed through their shared magic; it was as if the barriers between them dissolved entirely. He could peer into the very fabric of her soul—sensing her thoughts, her emotions, the overwhelming contentment that enveloped her. It was a connection so profound, it left him reeling, exposing parts of himself he’d long kept hidden.

For someone like Tom, who had spent a lifetime shrouded in darkness and isolation, such feelings were foreign and disorienting. He had never truly experienced happiness—not in the way she exuded it now—and he struggled to grasp the significance of it. Yet, as their energies intertwined, her emotions became indistinguishable from his own, wrapping around him like a warm embrace.

It was overwhelming, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once. The sensation consumed him, leaving him breathless and vulnerable. He collapsed fully onto her back, surrendering to the feeling, a deep longing welling up within him—a yearning for this connection to last forever. Here, in the aftermath of it all, he found solace in her presence, and he was wholly unwilling to let it go.

But all too soon, reality came crashing back into focus, and he remembered himself. 

Tom pulled out, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched their combined fluids leak from Hermione, trickling down her center to land on Malfoy’s cheek. He had forgotten Malfoy was even there, but the sight sent a wave of amusement through him, a reminder of just how utterly powerless the other boy was despite his blood status and social influence. Tom, born with so much less, would always be superior. 

He tucked himself back into his trousers, the cool air brushing against his skin as he composed himself. Then, he straightened Hermione’s skirts, ensuring she was as presentable as she could be after their little escapade. With a slight tug, he pulled her down beside him on the grass, his mind still dancing with the remnants of their shared ecstasy.

Tom Riddle lay back against the cool ground, feeling the weight of Hermione’s head resting on his chest. Her smile was a brilliant beacon of warmth, a stark contrast to the limp body of Abraxas Malfoy just a few feet away. He couldn’t help but grin at his little pet’s audacity as she kicked at the petrified form, treating Abraxas like nothing more than a pest. He appreciated how amusing she could be at times.

"We could get in a lot of trouble for what we just did. Should we obliviate him?" she asked, her voice laced with a dark playfulness that intrigued him.

“No,” Tom replied, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I want him to remember what happens when he touches you.” He yanked teasingly at the ends of her frizzy hair, basking in the intimate camaraderie they shared. 

Hermione let out a soft chuckle, her fingers slipping beneath his shirt, tracing gentle circles on his bare skin. It was an odd sensation, to enjoy being so close to her— no, not enjoy, he corrected himself—indifferent. Her touch simply didn’t bother him the way others did.

"You should take those piercings out before the potion wears off. I imagine that would be extremely unpleasant, if not," she warned, her knowing smile making it clear that she found humor in the situation. "I'd rather take the Cruciatus curse again than have to experience the effect of a Polyjuice Potion."

Tom raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You've taken one before?"

"Made one myself once when I was twelve," she recounted, her expression turning serious. "Accidentally used cat hair instead of human hair in the last step. It took two whole weeks for me to change back to normal." A frown creased her lips, and he could imagine the frustration that must have brought her.

He laughed, a rich, boisterous sound that echoed over the lake. The thought of Hermione, the epitome of diligence and control, reduced to a vexed kitten for weeks? It was a delightful image. 

“No wonder you beat me in Potions,” he teased. “You've made the potion before. That’s cheating, Hermione. And you called me a ‘bad boy?’ I think you owe me the Felix Felicis prize in that case.”

“Of course that’s where your mind went, Tom Riddle!” she exclaimed, swatting at him playfully. 

Tom caught her wrist, his grip firm, and he couldn’t resist the impulse to bite down just hard enough to leave behind an imprint of his teeth, eliciting a surprised gasp from her.

"I told you I’d give you a mark. Next time, it’ll be a permanent one,” he promised with a wink. “Now get out of here, before I give you a matching bite right on your arse.” 

Hermione giggled happily, popping up and pretending to cover her bottom cautiously. 

“What about Malfoy?” she asked, more seriously this time.

“Don’t worry about him,” Tom said with a casual shrug, though the glint in his eyes told a different story. “I’ve got it covered.”

Tom would need to have a proper talk with him. He couldn't have his knight spreading rumors, undermining his control or, worse, sullying Hermione's name with that vile term he loved to throw around. Even if she was a Mudblood, she was his Mudblood now, and that meant no one else—aside from him— had the right to insult or belittle her. He would protect what was his—by any means necessary. And if anyone dared to cross that line, they'd meet the same fate as any of his enemies.

Chapter Text

fanart submitted by my sister-in-law @ienevitable  🥹❤️🥰

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Chapter Text

Sitting next to Hermione made Transfigurations infinitely more engaging. Tom's hand crept up her knee with deliberate intent, testing her composure as his fingertips trailed higher, inching toward the edge of her knickers. Like the disciplined student she was, Hermione feigned indifference, her quill scratching across parchment as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Her body betrayed her, however—her skin broke out in goosebumps, and she shifted in her seat, thighs pressed tightly together, attempting to stifle the sensation he was provoking. No amount of studious focus could hide how much she was unraveling under his touch.

The rest of the classroom remained blissfully unaware of the private game unfolding beneath their desk, but Dumbledore wasn’t so easily deceived. The old fool's sharp eyes locked onto Tom’s from across the room, radiating disapproval, as though he could reduce Tom to ash with a mere glare. And yet, Tom only smirked back, his expression the picture of arrogance. There was nothing sweeter than securing Hermione Granger’s loyalty, knowing fully well how she had once been Dumbledore’s favorite. 

His smile told Dumbledore everything: she belonged to Tom now.

Tom’s dark eyes gleamed with mischief as he maintained steady eye contact with the professor, fingers slipping beneath Hermione’s undies, seeking the heat of her arousal. He relished the way her body reacted to his touch—her sharp gasp, the flush creeping up her neck, the quick glance she shot him in warning. And yet, she did nothing to stop him. 

"Is something wrong, Hermione?" Tom asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence, lips curling into a wicked grin as he plunged a finger inside her. 

Her reaction was immediate—lips pressed together in a desperate attempt to stifle a sound, and she buried her face deeper into her text, pretending to focus on the words. Tom knew better. He could read her like an open book. The first time he made her cum had been less than a day ago, and now, he was about to push her to that edge again. Her walls began to quiver, squeezing him in a way that told him she was so very close. And the small, ragged breath she took confirmed it. 

The power coursing through Tom, as he held her, teetering on the precipice, was intoxicating. He was the one controlling her, pulling her strings in the most intimate, forbidden way—and in plain view of the entire class, no less. The addition of having Dumbledore as their audience took the game to a far more exhilarating edge. Tom laughed at thinly veiled rage etched on Dumbledore’s face, enjoying the fact that he was manipulating both Hermione and Dumbledore in this twisted dance of power.

Just as Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut, and her breathing turned into soft, hurried pants, Dumbledore’s voice broke through the charged silence.

“Class is dismissed early,” Dumbledore announced, his words gruff with an edge of frustration. “Finish the independent reading as homework for next week.”

Hermione's eyes snapped open, and with a sudden jolt, she shoved Tom’s hand away from her. The moment was shattered in an instant as the rest of the students eagerly shuffled out of class, oblivious to what had just transpired. Tom frowned, watching her hurriedly stand and gather her things, her body trembling slightly from the denial of release. 

Dumbledore had ruined it, and Tom knew it wasn’t accidental. The old fool had seen what was happening and had chosen to intervene, cutting Tom’s moment of control over Hermione short. Tom glared back at the Professor. This wasn’t over—he’d make sure of it. She was his, and no one, not even Dumbledore himself, would change that.

“Let’s finish this in the library,” Tom said, adjusting himself with a subtle grimace. He was uncomfortably hard from teasing her, and now that the playful moment had been interrupted, he craved more than just a taste. Grabbing her elbow roughly, he prepared to escort her to the restricted section, a place that would offer them the privacy he desired while still being in a somewhat public setting. He found something thrilling about the possibility of getting caught—and it seemed his devious little witch had felt the same.

“Umm, Tom,” Hermione said, gently removing his hand from her arm. “I’ve been staying after class on Tuesdays to browse Professor Dumbledore’s libraries.”

Tom stared at her, his eyes narrowing in irritation. Yes, he remembered her promise to visit him on Tuesday’s after class at the Slug Club Fall Festival, but he hadn’t known she had been following through with it.

“Well, not anymore,” he declared, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

“You can join me,” she offered, her voice steady as if she thought it would win him over, but instead, it only fueled his anger further. There was nothing Tom needed from Dumbledore—not knowledge, nor approval. “I’m sure he won’t mind,” Hermione added.

“Hermione, you said you were mine, did you not?” Tom reminded her, his fingers weaving into the hair at the base of her neck, tugging her firmly against his body. To an outsider, it might appear as a tender gesture, but they both understood the true nature of it: he was asserting his dominance, pulling at her hair until her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

“Tom, it’s only a couple of hours a week,” she pleaded, her doe-like eyes wide and innocent, filled with a trust that both excited and infuriated him. “I’ll share everything I find with you.”

He started at her in prolonged silence, nostrils flaring, wanting force her to her knees and fuck her face for her defiance. 

“It can be your little spy,” Hermione whispered in a low tone, her words meant solely for him.

Once again, she was manipulating the situation, twisting it to make it seem as though she were willingly granting him what he desired. It enraged him, how effortlessly she could play to his whims while simultaneously challenging him. He shouldn’t tolerate it, or the witch would think she could run circles around him, but he had to admit: he was curious to know what Dumbledore might say after discovering the nature of his relationship with Hermione. 

Tom smashed his mouth down on hers, kissing her deeply, possessively, just to cement his ownership. “Very well,” he conceded with an edge of suspicion. “But I’ll expect a full report.”

She nodded obediently, a warm smile lighting up her face, her magic leaving a lingering buzz against his lips. Tom could practically taste her relief, a sweetness he wished he could long savor. The thought of leaving her here with the old fool churned uneasily in his gut. Dumbledore would only try to poison her mind against him, sowing seeds of doubt where there should be none. Yet, he understood that pushing too hard would only drive her away. Hermione was far more delicate than those he was used to associating with, so for her, he had to adjust his approach where he could.

He leaned in for another kiss, smaller this time, but just as hard, before he said goodbye. Without a backward glance at Professor Dumbledore, he strode out of the classroom quickly; Transfigurations was always his least favorite class. 

In place of his original study plans, Tom spent the afternoon with Nocturna. The library would simply feel too empty without his little pet. 

* * * *

“Well, that’s a new development,” Professor Dumbledore said to Hermione after Tom’s departure, his tone heavy with judgment. “And have you updated Bathilda about your new… friend ?” 

Hermione’s cheeks flamed under his piercing gaze, his disappointment cutting through her like a knife. She could feel his reproach, and it stung because she knew she had earned it. This morning, she had struggled to meet her own reflection in the mirror, her hand shaking as she glamoured over the bruises that now blemished her skin from her encounter with Tom the day before. But the bruises were more than a physical mark—they were symbolic reminders of something far deeper. Tom hadn’t just taken her virginity; he had left an imprint on her, branding her in ways that made her feel both ashamed and conflicted.

Her humiliation felt like a small price to pay compared to the turmoil inside. What would her friends think if they knew? She would claim her closeness to Tom, her sacrifice, was all part of a larger plan to earn his trust and ultimately destroy him. But there was a part of her, a dark, unsettling part, that enjoyed it—relished it. The intoxicating power she felt when she whispered an unforgivable curse at his side, how the surge of their combined magic made her feel untouchable, and the way his body awakened something primal within her—it all terrified her as much as it thrilled her. She despised how much she had begun to crave him, how much she thrived in proximity to his danger, and how deeply his magic had entwined itself within her.

“I may have mentioned him,” Hermione confessed shyly, her gaze shifting to the floor. “Not by name.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were still hard, and his tone carried an air of understanding as he replied, “I knew a young lad like him in my youth—ambitious, talented, willing to do anything to accomplish his goals. Quite admirable traits, if I’m being honest.”

“And yet, it sounds like there wasn’t a happy ending.” Hermione could suspect who he was referring to, but she wanted to know how much Dumbledore would be willing to say. 

“Perceptive as always, Ms. Granger.” Dumbledore’s smile was tinged with melancholy as he nodded.  His voice dropped slightly as if they weren’t the only two in the room. “I’ll trust you with something I don’t often share too often with others,” he said, his words measured. With that, he gestured for her to follow him into the office behind his classroom. The room opened up into a space much larger than its modest door suggested. One wall featured tall windows, offering a stunning view of the castle grounds below, while the opposite wall was lined with shelves full of rare, ancient books.

This was her third visit to Dumbledore’s office, and each time she found something new to marvel at. Today, her gaze was drawn to the sword of Gryffindor, prominently displayed above his desk. A flutter of curiosity danced in her chest. Had the sword presented itself to him, as it had for so many others? Or had he sought it out specifically? She might never know.

Fawks cawed, as if to offer a warm welcome to the pair of them, and Dumbledore instantly moved to their side. His fingers lightly stroked the phoenix’s fiery feathers before he took a seat in a large velvet armchair behind a crowded desk. “Please, make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said, her smile warm as she settled onto a large round ottoman opposite from him. It was adorned with scarlet tassels and gold stitching, another salute to Godric Gryffindor. 

“I was rather rebellious in my younger days,” he admitted, his voice laced with a wistful tone.

Hermione tilted her head, pretending to be surprised. “I can’t imagine that,” she lied smoothly. Of course, she had read something simliar The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore , but like many things associated with Rita Skeeter, she had taken it with a large dose of skepticism, hoping that much of it was exaggerated or outright false. To have Dumbledore right in front of her, confirming such information however, only deepened the complexity of what she knew—or thought she knew—about him.

“Oh yes, I thought I knew it all, actually,” Dumbledore replied, a familiar gleam returning to his eyes, and Hermione felt a wave of relief wash over her. This was the Dumbledore she recognized—the wise, playful mentor she had come to admire. “Unfortunately, I chose to surround myself with the wrong sort of people, who only fed into that boyish desire.”

“And what happened, sir?” Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued. She leaned forward, eager to hear the rest of the story.

Dumbledore sighed, a contemplative look crossing his face. “Ah, well, let’s just say those choices led me down a rather dark path for a long while. I became entangled in a web of ambition and power, losing sight of what truly mattered. Ultimately, I sacrificed not one, but three of the people I cared most for, each in different ways: one to darkness, one to absence, and one to death. It was a hard lesson to learn, but I eventually realized that true strength lies not in ambition alone, but in the connections we forge with others, the compassion we show, and the choices we make in the face of temptation.”

Hermione fell silent, piecing together the fragments of Dumbledore's past she had become familiar with. She had a good idea of who he meant, but she wanted to hear it from him directly.

He paused, allowing the significance of his words to settle between them. “The consequences of those choices linger, but they also serve as a reminder of how far I’ve come—and how important it is to guide young minds like yours away from the same pitfalls.”

“Could you have saved them?” Hermione asked, her voice steady but filled with a deep yearning for answers. “If you could go back in time, was there a way to save all three?”

Dumbledore turned, his expression thoughtful, and walked toward his bookshelf, his fingers trailing along the spines of the books, as if seeking comfort in their presence. “How much do you know about Fate, Ms. Granger?” he inquired, his voice low and contemplative.

“Hermione considered the question, knowing that Fate was a complex and often ambiguous concept. “I don’t believe in Fate,” she replied cautiously. “I believe in free will.”

Dumbledore paused, glancing back at her with an intrigued expression. “Ah, free will—the cornerstone of our choices and the essence of what it means to be human. It is a powerful belief, but tell me, do you think free will exists in a world where circumstances often seem predetermined?”

Hermione paused, unsure of herself. She thought of how chance had landed her right here—at this exact moment in history—where she was met with Tom Riddle. Was it due to her actions? Or was it fate? It was no longer clear to her.

Dumbledore grinned as if he could see the cogs churning in her head. “I think I have just the thing for you.” He turned back to his bookshelf, searching for a specific shelf before slipping an old dusty text away from the rest. 

“ On Fate and Destiny , by Salazar Slytherin,” Hermione read aloud, perplexed. She had never heard of such a book, and by the looks of it, she had the first edition between her fingers. “Professor, I—” she began to protest, but she stopped herself. It would be foolish to forfeit such an opportunity in an attempt at needless propriety. “I’ll take good care of it,” she vowed.

“Of course you will,” Dumbledore replied, a twinkle in his eye that hinted at his delight in her surprise. “It may provide you with some insights into the very questions you’re grappling with. Slytherin’s perspective on fate and free will is quite unique, and it might offer you the clarity you seek.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione said with the book clutched tightly to her chest. “I promise to take good care of it and return it immediately when I’m finished,” she vowed, her mind already racing ahead to the countless notes she would take on a duplicated version she would secretly keep for herself. “Although, I have to say, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Salazar scholar,” Hermione giggled, the lightness of her laughter filling the room.

Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Ah, well, sometimes the most unexpected sources yield the greatest wisdom. While his methods may have been misguided, and many of his philosophies questionable, he was truly a wizard of great talent and intellect. Just remember to approach your studies with a critical mind, and let your own discernment guide you.” 

“Thank you, Professor, I will be sure to do so,” Hermione said with a slight dip of her head to gesture her respect. But before she could leave, something nagged at the back of her mind, something she needed to understand. She hesitated at the threshold of the door, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe, her heart pounding in anticipation.

“Was it the one you lost to darkness?” she paused between her first and second question. “The one who reminded you of Riddle, sir?”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened, a trace of sadness flickering behind them. “I think you know the answer already.”.

Hermione swallowed, her curiosity not quite satisfied. She took a deep breath. “Will you tell me about him? And the others you couldn’t save?”

Dumbledore smiled softly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Another day, Ms. Granger,” he replied, his tone warm but final, as if to say that some stories needed time before they could be told.

With a small wave, he shut the door to his office, leaving Hermione standing alone.

* * * *

That night, Hermione felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Seeing Dumbledore hadn’t brought the comfort she had initially hoped for. Instead, it reminded her just how far she had drifted from her old life—her old self. The girl who once found solace in books, in the familiar walls of Hogwarts, now felt like a stranger in her own skin.

The ancient tome Dumbledore had lent her sat untouched on her desk. The initial spark of excitement she’d felt when he handed it to her had fizzled out the moment she returned to her quarters. As soon as she retreated back to the bare, impersonal walls of her room—void of anything that made a shelter feel like home—her mood crashed, leaving her feeling utterly empty.

She missed sneaking down to Hagrid’s hut after dark with Harry and Ron, even though the tea was dreadful and they never quite knew what bizarre creature he would be caring for next. She wished she could hear another one of Luna’s wild conspiracy theories from the Quibbler, absurd as they were. She longed for Ginny’s relentless chatter about the dim witted lads she loved to crush on. She yearned for the simple comfort of Mrs. Weasley’s homemade biscuits, warm and reassuring, a reminder that someone truly cared.

Her life—her real life—felt galaxies away. She wanted to be back in those familiar moments, surrounded by the people she loved. She simply wanted to go home. But the path she was on felt too twisted to turn back now. And even if she did make it back to the future somehow, Harry would be dead, and the world as she knew it would be no more, anyways. 

If what Dumbledore had insinuated was correct—that fate predetermined outcomes no matter the choices one made—then what was the point of trying anymore? The idea weighed heavily on Hermione’s chest. Never before had she felt so helpless, not even during the darkest days of being on the run, when she, Harry, and Ron had no clue where to find a Horcrux or what to do with one once they did. At least then, there had been a sense of purpose, a fight to be won, a belief that their actions could make a difference.

Hermione sensed Tom the second he slipped into her room—the familiar warmth of his magic wrapping around her like a comforting blanket—momentarily distracting her from her sorrow. He crawled into her bed and pressed himself against her back, his presence filling the empty space. She knew she should have been scared, maybe even furious, at his uninvited intrusion, but she wasn’t. Instead, she felt a faint sense of solace. At least now, she wasn’t alone with her thoughts.

“How did you get through my wards?” she asked, her voice hoarse and shaky.

“Does it matter?” Tom’s voice dripped with smug arrogance, the kind that always seemed to follow him.

Hermione shook her head. No, it didn’t matter. Not anymore. Nothing mattered except the cruel inevitability of fate, apparently. 

She turned to face him, resting her hands under her cheek like they were an extra pillow. A solitary candle was lit in the furthest corner of the room, casting a faint light across their faces. She could faintly make out the outline of his sharp features—those deep green eyes framed by wispy lashes, his perfectly straight nose, and the plump lips that were both full and undeniably sensual. He was beautiful, objectively so, but it wasn’t just his appearance that drew her in. It was his magic, that magnetic pull she couldn’t seem to resist, even though she didn’t fully understand why.

“I’m glad you came,” she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Did Dumble-snore do something to upset you?" Tom narrowed his eyes intently as he inspected every inch of Hermione's face, searching for answers. 

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at the childish name-calling. It was a small little huff of a laugh, but it already made her feel a tad lighter. "No," she replied, shaking her head lightly.

"Then why are you crying?" His tone shifted, more serious now, as he gently brushed his thumb against her cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, still trying to work through her confusion herself. 

Tom paused for a moment, his brows knitting together as if he were contemplating something important. "Do you—" he hesitated, clearly unsure of himself before finally blurting out his question. "Did you start your menstrual cycle?"

At that, Hermione burst into laughter—a full, loud laugh that echoed through the room. 

Wizards.

"No," she giggled again, the absurdity of the question hitting her in waves, snuggling closer to him.

If Ron had asked her the same question, she would have given him an entire lecture on sexism, and the ignorant habit of blaming emotions on a woman’s menstrual cycle. But with Tom, it was different. Coming from him, the question sounded... cute, almost endearing. He wasn’t trying to dismiss her feelings; he was genuinely curious, trying to figure out why she was upset, and therefore his effort felt sweet.

She laid her cheek on his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing soothing her frayed nerves.

 Tom embraced her close, his arms wrapped around her as he breathed in the scent of her hair. “You skipped supper,” he observed, his voice soft yet matter-of-fact.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Hermione admitted. Then, with a sudden spark of excitement, she added, “But I have something for you. Something Dumbledore let me borrow. We can make two duplicates of it—one for each of us—before I return it to him.” She began to move toward the edge of the bed, intending to grab her wand. She was too worn out to fetch it without magic, but she knew how eager Tom would be once he saw her surprise.

He stopped her though, tugging her back into his embrace gently, opting to keep her close. “You’re tired,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “It’ll still be there tomorrow.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, reminding herself that only a fool would let their guard down around Tom Riddle.

“You’re mine now,” Tom explained as if it was only natural to own a person like one did a hair brush. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

A small smile spread over Hermione’s lips as she relaxed back into her spot beside him. She was accustomed to being the one who took care of others, always the responsible one, always in control. But now, as she lay there with Tom, the idea of letting someone else take charge, even for a short while, didn’t seem so bad. There was a sense of contentment that settled over her, a quiet acceptance of the moment. 

Sod it. She thought. 

If fate brought her here, she might as well give in and enjoy it. 

* * * *

Tom studied her, lying still and vulnerable between his arms. Hermione looked so delicate, so fragile for someone he knew to be so strong. Her tears dried long ago, but left faint, salty traces on her cheeks. He felt a strange, twisted desire to taste them. She was dreaming now—her eyelids fluttering with soft movements, her parted lips forming a silent “O” as if she were calling out for him in her sleep. It was a rare sight, seeing her like this. Submissive. Quiet. Unguarded.

His perfect sleeping beauty.

Tom leaned down, pressing his lips lightly against hers. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a way to drink in her magic, to feel it course through him. It clung to her like a soft aura, feeding his own power.

“Are you dreaming of me, pet?” he whispered, brushing a stray curl from her face. His voice was low, possessive, filled with a dark satisfaction.

He wanted to be everywhere she turned. In her thoughts, her dreams, her very essence. He wanted to haunt her, to ensure that even in her subconscious, she could never escape him. There would be no world, no corner of her mind, where he wouldn’t be waiting for her.

She had served him exceptionally well, better than he anticipated in fact. Just hours ago, Tom had been certain he wouldn't permit her to return to Dumbledore again next week, but she had kept her word, making their arrangement useful after all. As soon as he entered, his eyes caught the unfamiliar text by Salazar Slytherin, but then, he saw Hermione—curled up, despondent, melancholy. 

Her positioning reminded him of Nocturna when too much time had passed between Tom’s visits. His basilisk always brightened with a few strokes of attention, feeding off the brief moments of affection Tom granted her. Hermione was no different. She responded to him in the same way, blooming in his presence, feeding off the power he allowed her to feel in his company. Tom was beginning to understand her more clearly. Hermione needed to feel important, to be cared for—special. He could give her that, so long as it on his terms.

Tom moved quietly from her side, taking care not to disturb her as he rose. She let out a soft sigh and rolled over, settling back into a peaceful slumber. Seizing the opportunity, he decided to take a closer look at the book she had brought for him. The cover was cracked, a testament to its age, while the pages bore a yellowed hue, the ink faded in several places. Tom had never encountered this book before, yet there was an undeniable sense of familiarity about it, as if it held echoes of memories he couldn’t quite grasp.

Dumbledore had creased a page, creating a bookmark nearly halfway through the book. Tom sneered at the sight; he hadn’t thought it possible to harbor more disdain for the old fool, yet here was another prime example. What kind of monster would further tarnish such an artifact other than Dumbledore himself in all his arrogance? 

The professor’s intentional mark directed Tom’s scrutiny to the dogeared chapter title: Fated Mates . It was a term he’d encountered in Salazar’s journal, a fleeting reference from one of Winifred’s letters. It had been accompanied by a poem he had once dismissed as nothing more than a witch’s desperate attempt to ensnare a wizard, but now, a deeper understanding nagged at him. There must be some kind of significance. How did the poem go again? He strained to grasp the words from the depths of his mind, but they danced just out of reach, like a fallen parchment caught in the wind. He would have to revisit it soon, but for the moment, he focused on the chapter laid before him, eager to uncover its secrets.

Chapter 7: The Bonds of Fate: Fated Mates

In the grand tapestry of magical existence, woven through the very fabric of time, there lies a concept that transcends mere chance: the notion of fated mates . This idea, often whispered among the ancient texts of our forebears, suggests that some souls are destined to unite, entwined by the threads of fate itself. As one who has walked the shadowed paths of ambition and power, I have come to understand the weight and significance of these so-called “fated bonds”—yet I caution gravely against their allure.

The Nature of the Bond

At the core of the fated mate phenomenon is an inexplicable connection that binds two individuals in a manner that defies reason. This bond is not merely a product of physical attraction or shared interests; it is an intrinsic recognition of one’s counterpart, a magnetic pull that draws them together through time and circumstance. The fated mate experience often manifests as a profound sense of belonging, a feeling that one has finally found their other half, regardless of the obstacles that may lie in their path.

Signs of Recognition

Fated mates experience unmistakable signs that signal the depth of their connection. A magnetic pull compels them to seek one another out, an invisible thread that tugs at their very essence. When they are near, there is often a distinct flare in magic , as if their powers resonate and amplify one anothers. This is not merely a coincidence; their magic actively seeks to intertwine, creating a charged atmosphere that vibrates with energy.

In addition, they may feel each other’s emotions , as if a bridge of empathy exists between them, allowing one to sense the other's joy, sorrow, or anxiety. This profound connection enhances their understanding of one another, often allowing them to anticipate the other’s needs and reactions. However, beneath this harmonious surface lies a darker truth—the danger that one may siphon magic from the other, with or without consent. This parasitic relationship can become a lethal dance, where one mate grows stronger at the expense of the other, potentially leading to devastating consequences for one party.

The Dangers of Dependency

The path of fated mates is rarely smooth and is fraught with peril. The very magic that draws them together can ensnare them in a web of dependency, blinding them to their individual strengths and ambitions. Fated mates can combine their mutual magic, creating the potential for an unstoppable entity, a force that surpasses even the most significant magical records. Yet, this immense power can lead to complacency and, worse, vulnerability.

Most will go through their entire lives without ever encountering their fated mate, as most do not even have one. Yet those who do discover their counterpart, often find that their destinies are intertwined in tragic ways; many end up dying at the hand of the other, their love twisting into something monstrous and destructive. It is said that their souls are condemned to wander through the corridors of time, reincarnating in endless cycles, forever seeking one another, until a true binding is performed. Each time they are reborn, the weight of their past choices lingers, casting shadows over their new lives.

Worse yet, binding a fated bond harbors another tragic flaw. Should one soulmate die after the binding is complete or remains intact, the surviving mate is sentenced to a life of eternal mourning, bound forever by memories of a mate—and power—irrevocably lost. Their magic, once vibrant and whole, becomes a mere shadow of its former self, tainted by the echoes of their lost mate’s essence. This blemished magic becomes both a reminder and a burden, carrying the weight of mate’s absence and haunted by the unfulfilled potential they once shared. To live on, bound to half a soul, is a torment that even the strongest wizards struggle to bear. Some wither away from the heartache, while others linger, a fractured shell of what they might have been.

The Ritual of Binding

For those who wish to solidify their bond and pledge their lives to one another, a Ritual of Binding exists, steeped in ancient tradition. This ceremony is not to be undertaken lightly, for it serves to entwine their very essences, creating a magical bond that deepens their connection and enhances their mutual and individual powers. However, it also solidifies the potential for a darkness within their relationship.

During this ritual, the fated mates must first create a sacred space, often in a secluded location saturated with magical energy, such as a moonlit glade or a hidden chamber. The pair will gather elements significant to their relationship—items representing their individual strengths and experiences, along with a shared token to symbolize their union.

As they stand together, they must recite an incantation that resonates with their souls, a promise not only to one another, but also to the forces of fate that have brought them together. The culmination of the ritual often involves a physical manifestation of their bond—an act to intertwine their magic, allowing them to harness each other's strengths.

Yet, upon completing the ritual, a haunting aspect emerges: the memories of their past life interactions will resurface, flooding their minds with echoes of love, betrayal, and loss. They will remember the moments of joy that once brought them together, but also the heartbreak that tore them apart. This flood of memories can be both a blessing and a curse, illuminating the depth of their connection while simultaneously dredging up the painful lessons of history.

It is critical to understand that while this ritual can fortify their connection, it is also extremely precarious. The bond can be shattered by betrayal, severing the threads that hold them together. A single act of treachery, whether intentional or born of misunderstanding, can break the binding and unleash chaos. Such a fracture not only tears their souls apart but can also unleash the magic that once united them, turning it into a destructive force that could endanger both parties.

The Challenges of Fate

In the face of adversity, those who embrace their fated bond must navigate the complexities of their emotions, understanding that love is both a source of strength and a potential vulnerability. The journey may demand sacrifices, but the rewards of enduring such trials can be immeasurable—a partnership that transcends the ordinary, forged in the stars of fate. Yet, I implore you to consider: at what cost does such unity come? Your ambition? Your autonomy? Your dignity? 

Embracing the Destiny

To embrace the fate of a fated mate is to acknowledge the power of destiny and the interconnectedness of all beings. It is a recognition that while we wield our own choices, the threads of fate can guide us toward paths we may not have imagined. In this recognition lies the beauty of true partnership—a union that enhances both individuals, leading to greatness that can ripple through time.

However, one must tread carefully; for in surrendering oneself entirely to fate, one risks becoming ensnared in a bond that may lead to stagnation rather than evolution. True strength lies not in dependency but in the mastery of oneself. As I, Salazar Slytherin, pen these words, I urge you to reflect on the duality of fated mates—the potential for unparalleled power and the danger of forsaking your own path. For in understanding fate, we unlock the secrets of our hearts, but we must remain vigilant against the seductive allure of weakness disguised as unity.

Tom unfolded the bookmarked chapter after absorbing its contents. His lips pressed into a tight line as the implications settled in. He had read and re-read it thrice now, and he was certain: Dumbledore had flagged this section as a warning for Hermione. With a flick of his wand, he smoothed out the crease in the page and instead dog-eared the chapter that followed. Let Hermione direct her focus to Chapter 8: The Illusion of Free Will: Choices and Consequences . There was no reason for her to dwell on the concept of fated mates… not unless Tom determined it would be beneficial to his own ambitions.

Chapter Text

Tom’s possessiveness of Hermione had exponentially increased after the first night they spent together. It was as though an unspoken agreement had been made between them. She was expected to sit with him in each class, eat with him at every meal, and study with him in their favorite corner of the library after class hours.They had even teamed up to persuade Slughorn into granting them an extended permission pass to the restricted section, where they’d spent hours poring over forbidden texts. In truth, she hadn’t minded, if only it hadn’t come with unexpected repercussions. 

Walburga’s ire, for example. 

Hermione had brushed off the first incident—a "clumsy" trip in the hallway when Tom wasn’t by her side, easily dismissed as an accident. But when Hermione’s clothes mysteriously vanished from the girls bathroom while she was taking a shower, right after she caught a glimpse of long black hair disappearing around the corner, she knew exactly who was responsible.

So when Walburga cornered her in the dormitory hallway at the end of an exceptionally long day of patrolling the corridors, Hermione knew the time had come to put an end to this nonsense. Walburga wasn’t like Cedrella, someone who could be reasoned with or won over with diplomacy. No, Walburga had no soft spot, and no sense of fairness. This would require brute force—a clear demonstration that Hermione wasn’t to be trifled with. 

“Well, if it isn’t Tom Riddle’s latest slag,” Walburga mocked, shoulder smashing into Hermione as she passed by

“Oh, were you hoping for that position, Walburga?” Hermione gave a phony smile. “So sorry to tell you, he has a bit more taste than that.”

“If he had taste he wouldn’t be slumming it with a nobody from nowhere!” Walburga sneered. “You’re probably barely even a half-blood with an insignificant name like Granger . What hovel did you pop out of, huh?”

Hermione was growing increasingly weary of the incessant taunts from the Slytherins about her blood purity. At least she wasn’t an inbred prat, like they were. 

“Why don’t you go fuck your cousin already?” she laughed, her tone light and playful as she called out, “Oh, Oriiooonnnn!” She kept her voice low enough to avoid drawing the attention from others as she exaggerated each syllable in his name.

“Get his name out of your filthy mouth!” Walburga snarled, brandishing her wand.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile. She had been anticipating this moment, waiting for Walburga to make the first move so she could justify her response.

“ Stupefy !” Walburga shouted, sending a stunning spell hurtling toward Hermione. It was a basic spell, one she had mastered well before her fifth year, and she was more than prepared to counter it.

“ Protego !” Hermione cast with ease, the shield charm flaring to life in front of her. With a flick of her wrist, she followed it up with an offensive spell Tom had pointed out to her during their time in the Restricted Section. “ Diffindo !” she declared, the spell slicing through the air toward Walburga with lethal precision.

Hermione Granger had read about the spell alongside Tom just the other day, carefully examining its historical uses. It was traditionally employed to cut or sever objects, but they discovered a far darker origin in ancient wizarding wars, where it had once been a weapon of brutality before the balance of power was stabilized between wizarding nations. Now, of course, it was outlawed as a means of assault. But that didn’t stop their curiosity—what kind of damage could it inflict? They shared hypotheses, pondering its grim potential.

The nature of the spell brought back memories for Hermione, unwelcome and vivid. It was too much like the one Bellatrix had used on her in Malfoy Manor, the one that had carved "Mudblood" into her skin, a word she now glamoured away each morning as part of her routine. That same cruel precision was exactly what Hermione aimed for now. The spell shot forward, hitting Walburga’s shoulder—the same one she used to bump into Hermione—slicing through her flesh in a clean sweep, as if a blade had been wielded. Hermione’s aim had been true; it was a serious wound, but not a fatal one. Walburga screamed, crumpling to the ground, eyes wide with shock and pain as blood swiftly pooled at her side. Her face grew paler, realizing her vulnerability now that her dominant arm was incapacitated.

Standing above her, Hermione allowed herself a brief, satisfied smirk. She nudged Walburga’s fallen wand away with her foot, the power in that simple gesture resonating. Maybe Tom’s influence was rubbing off on her more than she’d like to admit. But in moments like these, she had to agree—his methods were effective. Walburga, weak and defeated, struggled to crawl away, her uninjured arm barely able to drag her across the floor. 

“Get away from me!” Walburga demanded, although she was in no position to make any. 

“Are you quite sure, Walburga? I can heal it for you. Unless you want to go to the hospital wing and explain how you attacked a student first, and still ended up bested,” Hermione's smile was sweet, but her intent was anything but. Humiliation was the goal, and from the mixture of agony and shame distorting Walburga’s features, Hermione knew she had struck her mark perfectly.

“Leave me alone, Granger!” Walburga hissed, her pride too strong to allow Hermione the satisfaction of healing her. Hermione’s eyes gleamed with quiet triumph; Walburga’s refusal was exactly what she had anticipated. Which was exactly why kindness, in this case, would serve as part of the punishment.

“Oh, pish posh, my pureblood friend,” Hermione laughed lightly, her tone dancing between condescension and amusement. “Stay still, or I’ll make sure you stay still. This will only take a moment.”

Walburga’s panic intensified as she scrambled to get away, her body twisting and flailing to maintain distance. “Stay back!” she spat, desperation creeping into her voice as she waved her arms to ward Hermione off.

However, Hermione was unmoved. With a simple Wingardium Leviosa , she lifted Walburga effortlessly into the air, despite the witch’s struggles. As Walburga writhed and floundered, Hermione felt a spark of excitement. This was her opportunity to experiment with yet another spell she'd been itching to try. After all, if she could heal her victims, why not push the boundaries? Perhaps she could test more of her and Tom’s most recent discoveries, guilt free. It was a dark, thrilling thought, but Hermione reasoned that it was all in the name of advancing her knowledge. And if she healed Walburga afterward, where was the harm?

Sanare Vulnus . Hermione manifested the spell with wordless magic, focusing her attention on the torn flesh separating Walburga’s shoulder. For a few moments, the wound worsened, blood splattering across the room as Walburga shrieked. Then, with a brutal finality, the torn skin began to knit itself back together, the flaps closing as if being stitched by an invisible needle. When the spell was done, the only evidence left was an angry red scar.

“Perfect. Good as new,” Hermione declared with a flicker of pride. Then, her voice sharpened as she added, “Now clean this disaster up,” gesturing to the blood-soaked walls. “Or I’ll make sure everyone knows how weak and pathetic you are.” 

Without a backward glance, Hermione turned and left Walburga amongst the mess, feeling oddly accomplished. She had not only asserted dominance over yet another Slytherin, but she had also successfully mastered two new spells in the process.

* * * *

Tom wrestled with a conflict he hadn’t anticipated. When it came to Hermione, caution was necessary. Salazar’s warning about fated mates echoed in his mind: the more time he spent with her, the more likely he was to lose control, to lose himself in her. He couldn’t deny the signs anymore—he had tried to disprove the theory, but everything pointed to the truth. The pull between them, the way their magic intertwined so effortlessly, and the maddening ability to sense her emotions—all undeniable.

He spent the afternoon in the restricted section of the library, scouring its darkest corners for more information on the topic while Hermione patrolled the corridors. He wanted to buy time—time to find a solution before she realized the full weight of their connection. She had been eager, far too eager, to read the tome Dumbledore had given her. But Tom, always one step ahead, saw the perfect opportunity to manipulate her perceptions when he suggested they read it aloud to each other.

“Fated Mates?” Tom scoffed, his voice dripping with derision. “What kind of sentimental drivel is this?”

Her reaction was immediate, blush creeping from her neck to her hairline as he mockingly recited the first paragraph. Hermione, he noted with quiet satisfaction, was deeply uncomfortable discussing emotions—especially love. Her shy, awkward attempts to evade the idea as they discussed the second paragraph only served as confirmation. Tom felt the same way. Feelings—unless those of ambition—had no purpose in civilized discussion.  

“Maybe we should skip this one,” she muttered, hiding behind her quill, avoiding eye contact.

Tom agreed easily, moving to the next chapter without hesitation. Her curiosity piqued when she noticed the neatly folded page, asking if she could be the one to read it aloud. He allowed it.

“This must’ve been what Dumbledore wanted me to focus on,” she mused, her tone thoughtful, yet unaware.

Everything had gone according to his plan. But Tom knew better than to underestimate her. She was sharp, more so than most, and eventually, she would piece it together eventually. He smirked at the thought. Of course, if he were to be bound to a fated mate, it made perfect sense that the universe had chosen someone like Hermione—unusually perceptive, resourceful, and challenging. A perfect match, in more ways than one.

It was about the time of night Hermione would be returning to her room after completing her Head Girl duties. Tom could almost see her now, seated at her desk, nibbling thoughtfully on the end of her quill as she buried herself in yet another textbook. Her school bag would hang neatly on the back of her chair, and her black robe would be casually draped over it. Tom knew her habits well by now, every predictable detail of her disciplined life. 

Weeks had passed since he last slipped into her room, intentionally keeping his distance. He had already indulged her too much—walking her to class, dining alongside her, even pretending to be a study partner in the library. It was important to maintain control of their dynamic, and if he made a habit of his nightly visits, she might begin to believe she held the same claim over him as he did over her. That, of course, was out of the question.

Still, Tom considered the temptation. Surely, one night every now and then couldn’t hurt. Just enough to remind her who was in control—who dictated the terms of their bond. Yes, he could allow himself that occasional pleasure. This reasoning was exactly how he found himself drawn to the girls dormitories past curfew; it had absolutely nothing to do with the invisible thread that tethered him to her, pulling him in her direction with quiet insistence.

The hallway was dark and empty, shadows clinging to the stone walls as he made his way to her room. A sliver of light escaped from beneath the door, signaling she was still awake. Tom frowned. She hadn’t put her wards back up after the night she was drugged. Did she even know they were missing? He liked the idea of catching her off guard—it made things easier since he didn’t have to expend energy breaking through any protections whenever he decided to drop in—but her carelessness irritated him. It left her too vulnerable, exposed to dangers she clearly wasn’t thinking about.

Hermione had already attracted formidable enemies since her arrival, two of them nestled within these very dungeons. Cedrella and Malfoy were both serpents, dangerous in their own right. And although Tom was confident they had received his message loud and clear, it would be foolish to relax his guard. Lucky for Hermione, Tom was a master of controlling snakes—both literally and metaphorically—and he made sure no threat lingered for long.

How could she leave herself so exposed? She should know better by now. He’d have to teach her—yet another lesson in self-preservation, courtesy of him.

Tom gave no warning as he entered her room, his quiet intrusion causing Hermione to jolt upright, her book slamming shut in a panic. She moved instinctively into a defensive stance, wand pointed at him, her magic pulsing with anxious energy. For a fleeting moment, her eyes were sharp, poised to strike—but then recognition dawned. Tom stood casually, leaning against the door frame with his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. She let out a shaky breath, her tense shoulders dropping as she relaxed.

"You gave me a fright," she sighed, hurriedly packing up her desk in a half-hearted attempt to tidy the space. Everything was exactly as Tom had imagined—except for one small detail.

"Hermione, are you bleeding?" His tone was deceptively calm as he crossed the room in two swift strides, seizing her arm with a firm grip. Blood , he confirmed. Her hand was speckled with tiny splotches, and the skin beneath his fingers felt oddly swollen and raised around her wrist. His eyes narrowed. Was her wrist injured?

“Oh,” Hermione stammered, her cheeks flushing as she tried to pull away from his grasp. But Tom didn’t let her go, his fingers tightening as he ripped up her sleeve, exposing a perfectly unblemished wrist.

"Why is your wrist glamoured, Hermione?" His voice was icy, sharp with accusation. She was hiding something from him. He was struggling to keep his composure, knowing she had crossed a dangerous line by intentionally concealing anything from him.

"Let go," she snapped, her chest heaving as she pointed her wand at him again, defiant.

Tom’s eyes darkened, his control fraying at the edges. "Did you hurt yourself?" he asked, his voice low, tight with restrained fury. He knew of people who did that—inflicted pain on themselves to feel emotional release—people like Antonin, people he never actually cared about. But the thought of Hermione self-harming made his stomach flip.

“I don’t feel like fighting right now, Tom,” she said, her voice tight. Her exasperation was heavy, an almost tangible wave that washed over him, but beneath it, he could sense something else—fear. It simmered just beneath the surface, unspoken but unmistakable.

“What are you hiding from me?” His tone was biting, commanding, as he ripped the wand from her grip and placed it firmly on the desk beside them. He never loosened his hold on her arm, his eyes narrowing as they searched her face for any sign of deception.

Her eyes, wide and glassy with unshed tears, begged him to let it go. They both knew that would never happen. Not until he secured the truth. His thumb brushed over the invisible mark on her wrist, and as he felt the faint outline of two distinct letters taking shape beneath his fingers, his grip faltered. He dropped her arm, turning away from her in a rare display of visible restraint, pressing a clenched fist to his lips.

“Who did it?” His voice was low, trembling with barely-contained fury. He didn’t need to trace the entire pattern to know what the carved letters spelled out. It was enough to ignite a cold fire in his veins.

“It’s not what you think,” she whispered, her voice soft but desperate.

“ Who , Hermione?” Tom spun back to face her, his hand threading into the curls at the nape of her neck, forcing her to meet his gaze. His anger simmered, but behind it, there was something more dangerous—a need for control, or at least the illusion of it. He pushed against her mind, seeking answers through legilimency, but she had locked him out, shutting him off from her memories with an iron wall.

“No one you know, Tom,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “It’s old.”

“Rubbish,” he spat, the word dripping with venom. “The blood is fresh. Explain that.”

She let out a small, defeated laugh, a bitter sound that cut through the tension like a knife. “Well, that’s a funny story, actually…and completely unrelated.” 

Tom couldn’t imagine anything remotely humorous at this moment. The sight of fresh blood, the hidden scar, and the blatant attempt at evasion had pushed him past reason. He couldn’t fathom it. What could possibly be amusing about someone marking her? About someone hurting what belonged to him? There was nothing amusing about this, nothing that could make him see her laugh as anything but a final insult.

“Funny?” he repeated, his voice cold and edged with disbelief. His grip on her tightened slightly, his other hand twitching as if resisting the urge to do something far worse. "You think this is funny ?"

Hermione’s phony smile melted away into the tense silence that stretched between them, but Tom remained on edge, waiting for an explanation that might temper the storm inside him.

“Which part do you want to know first?” Hermione asked, her voice quieter now, a touch of vulnerability in her tone as she stepped closer. Tom’s eyes remained fixed on her, his expression hard and unreadable. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling herself into his rigid frame as though hoping her touch could soften his anger. “I’ll tell you everything,” she promised, her cheek brushing against his chest as she spoke, trying to coax him into lowering his guard. “But can you please calm down?”

Tom’s jaw clenched. Her words offered a hint of relief, but only just. Her attempt to soothe him, while somewhat effective, did little to erase the rage burning behind his eyes. His mind raced, caught between wanting to demand answers and finding the restraint to not lash out, to make her feel what he was feeling.

Calm down? The request was outrageous. Tom did not “calm down” when someone touched what was his. But he could see the desperation in her eyes, feel her heart beating against his chest, pleading for him to let this moment pass without escalating further. His fingers curled around her waist as he considered, his silence both a warning and an invitation for her to continue speaking—carefully.

“Come, sit,” Hermione urged softly. Tom allowed her to lead him to the bed where she perched herself delicately on the edge. He might have followed her movement, but he remained standing, looming over her, awaiting her answers.

Her gaze flickered away, unease apparent. “I’m afraid you’ll look at me differently,” she admitted, her words barely above a whisper.

Tom's expression hardened at her admission. Did she truly think so little of him that she believed he could be so fickle? It was evident to him that she was his, and it was his duty to protect her—something he took seriously. 

“Differently?” he echoed, his tone laced with irritation. “You underestimate me, Hermione.” 

“The way Slytherins speak about people like me…” She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to. 

“I’d already pieced together that you’re a Muggle-born, and it doesn’t matter to me.” Tom sighed in frustration. “The only thing that matters to me is punishing whoever dared to touch what is mine.” He leaned in slightly, the distance between them charged with an electric anticipation. “So don’t hide from me. I want to know everything, regardless of what lies in your past.”

She nodded, reaching for his fingertips, intertwining hers with his as she guided him beside her on the bed until they were both lying side by side.

“It’s… difficult for me to talk about,” Hermione admitted, her voice low and shaky. “But I can show you.” Her eyes locked onto his, and she placed her hand gently on his cheek, an invitation laced with both trust and apprehension.

Tom watched intently as she began to dismantle the brick wall she had constructed around her mind, one careful piece at a time, allowing him access to her deepest thoughts. This experience was unlike any other time he had utilized legilimency. Instead of bulldozing through her defenses, it felt as if she was opening a library of memories, projecting them into his consciousness.

Flashes of her life unfolded before him: moments of desperation as she was on the run, starving and scavenging in an unknown forest for food with little success. He saw her taking turns keeping watch while others rested in a makeshift tent, her body tense and alert until she arrived at the right one—a memory that spoke of survival and resilience.

The lights were dim. Hermione lay on the cold floor, fear coursing through her veins, but her resolve remained unbroken. She would protect her friends’ secrets, even if it meant sacrificing her own life. The Cruciatus Curse struck her with a brutal force, more intense than she had ever anticipated. Her screams erupted from her, wild and explosive, lighting up the room like a series of fireworks.

Before her stood a pale woman, her hair a wild tangle of black and her teeth yellowed with decay. She cackled as she reveled in the agony she inflicted on Hermione, unleashing curse after curse, barely allowing the young witch a moment to breathe. There was something hauntingly familiar about her—if her nose had been a fraction straighter and her eyes a touch rounder, she could have passed for a much older version of Walburga. She was a pureblood witch, no doubt.

“Tell me!” the witch demanded, her voice dripping with malice.

Hermione fought with every ounce of her being not to react. She didn’t want her friends to worry about her—if they had to escape and leave her behind, she would understand. Her life felt meaningless compared to theirs. Already, she could hear them calling her name in panic; their voices echoed down the hallway, but they were caged in the dungeon, forced to listen to her cries, powerless to help her. 

As the pain intensified, Hermione’s vision blurred in and out, her lungs struggling to find breath for another scream. Yet, the torment continued, unbearable and relentless. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the snot that trailed down her chin. There was no point in begging for mercy; she knew none would be granted, and she refused to give her tormentor the satisfaction.

“Filthy mudblood!” the witch snarled as she sloppily carved the word into her skin. The pain was agonizing, each slice deeper than the last. The wound was severe, deep enough to become lethal if not healed in the next few minutes. Hermione welcomed death as she lay there, bleeding out and branded like cattle, already resigned to her fate. 

Suddenly, a crack of light pierced through the darkness.

A prickle of hope sparked in her chest.

Her friends had escaped, and they returned for her.

The scene faded as Hermione’s hand dropped away from his face; her memory was too hazy for Tom to grasp the specifics of how they had rescued her, but he understood that it wasn’t the detail that mattered. What lingered in his mind was the raw intensity of her suffering, and the fierce determination that had driven her to protect what she held dear—even in the face of insurmountable pain. Pride flared in his chest at her loyalty and determination. 

“What happened to the witch?” Tom asked, his tone measured and even, despite inner turmoil at the events Hermione had shared with him.

“Dead,” she replied simply.

“Good.” Tom pulled Hermione into his chest, allowing the warmth of his presence—his magic—to envelop her as he cradled her in his arms. Could she hear how fast his heart was racing? He hoped not. If her friends had arrived even a few minutes later, he might never have had the chance to meet his fated mate—to understand what it was to have his magic at full charge. “What happened to your friends?”

He felt a tear escape her eye, leaving a damp spot on his shirt.

“One was murdered by a dark wizard,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I don’t know what happened to the other.”

“Grindelwald?” Tom pressed. “Is that who you were running from?”

She hesitated, but he remained patient, a reward for her willingness to share. “He wants to eradicate all Muggle-borns,” she said sadly. “I suppose most Slytherins do, too. It would be easier to rule over the Muggles that way.”

At that, Tom’s heart quickened with intensity. The notion of blood purity had always been central to his plans, a concept he had strategically wielded to garner support from those around him. While he never truly cared about blood status, he understood its value—it was a point that won over his knights and earned him backing from influential figures. How could he continue the pursuit of this ambition while simultaneously ensuring Hermione’s safety when both goals were a direct contradiction? The answers would come to him eventually.

“I won’t turn my back on you, Hermione,” he vowed, stroking her hair, appreciating the way his pet melted against him. In that moment, Tom had never been more certain of her potential as an invaluable asset; her fierce loyalty to those she cared for was a trait he admired and sought to exploit. He needed to carve a place in her heart; he needed to mean more to her than any other person ever had. Not only would that allow him to siphon off her magic gradually, giving him a personal power boost, but it would also bring another useful, devoted follower into his fold. “And what of the blood?”

“It isn’t mine,” she said, using wordless magic to clean it from the back of her palm. “There was a little… tussle… in the hallway earlier. Apparently Walburga was displeased with the attention you’ve been giving me.” Her voice dripped with derision. “Did you have a thing with her or something?”

“Are you jealous?” Tom asked in genuine surprise. “Of Walburga ?”

Hermione’s gaze hardened. “Well, I suppose she would be a better choice than me, a filthy mudblood,” she muttered, removing the glamor from her arm and staring at the scar. 

Tom’s lips curled in disdain. “Walburga is a looney, inbred bint, like the rest of the purebloods around here. You have more ability in your pinky finger than she has in her entirety.” He chuckled darkly. “I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-meter pole.”

Hermione inched closer to him, nuzzling her head against his chest, draping her leg over him, and sliding into the crook under his arm as if she were made to fit there. The perfect puzzle piece. 

“It really doesn’t bother you?” she asked skeptically, glancing up at him through her lashes. “Truly?”

Tom contemplated the right answer. Her blood status certainly complicated things, but it didn’t change the way he saw her. She was still Hermione—brilliant, capable, able to best the most skilled of his knights. The truth was, he wouldn’t have aligned himself with most of the self-important, talentless purebloods he knew if it weren’t for their money and influence; their magical ability was nothing to brag about. But under his control, they served their purpose.

“No,” he said simply, letting the word linger before expanding. “But it opens up a world of questions. How many more secrets are you hiding from me?”

Hermione hesitated, dodging his question. “I’m sure you have your secrets too, Tom.”

“Blood status is one thing, Hermione, but deception—” His voice lowered to a dangerous tone, a warning. “—will not be tolerated. I don’t forgive deceit.”

It wasn’t just a statement; it was a rule, an unyielding boundary he had drawn between them.

“Can I expect the same transparency in return?” she challenged him. 

Tom’s silence spoke louder than words, his narrowed eyes betraying nothing but a cold truth. He had no need for confidants or friends; those around him were soldiers, peons—tools to be wielded at his command, nothing more. The idea of equality was a laughable notion in his world.

“Or do you expect this to be one-sided?” Hermione’s scoff cut through the silence, her magic sparking with the sting of frustration, prickling against his skin.

He responded with the same bluntness he reserved for moments like these, his voice laced with casual cruelty. “You told me you were mine, pet. I never promised to be yours in return. I belong only to myself.” His hand moved with practiced ease, brushing a stray curl from her face, but the gesture held no softness—only control.

Her reaction was swift, the flash of anger twisting her features as she sat up abruptly, shoving his hand away as if his touch had burned her. “I think you should leave,” Hermione whispered, her voice strained, her brows furrowing in frustration. He felt an irrational urge to smooth the creases from her forehead. She was retreating from him again, closing off just as she had begun to let her guard down. But he wasn’t going to allow that. Not this time.

Tom moved with a speed that startled her, shoving her back onto the bed, his body pinning hers beneath him, his weight a reminder of his dominance. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous satisfaction—she was testing him, pushing to see if he would yield, to see how easily he would discarded her. But she should have known better.

“You don’t want me to leave,” he said softly, his voice like a blade, sharp and cutting. His hand gripped both her wrists effortlessly, forcing them above her head with the kind of ease that made it clear who was in control. “You want me to stay.”

Her eyes met his with defiance, daring him to act, to cross the line, to prove once again that this game between them was always in his favor.

“Do you need a reminder of who owns you, Hermione?” Tom taunted, the words a cruel caress against her skin as he slipped his wand from his robe. With a smooth flick, ropes appeared, binding her wrists to the headboard with a precision that only heightened his control. Two more ropes followed, securing her ankles to the corners of the bed, trapping her completely in the web he had spun around her. Just as it should be.

Tom straddled her shoulders, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement as he looked down at her. A sadistic grin twisted his lips as his hand shot out to grab her face, his grip rough and commanding. He traced her mouth with his thumb for a moment, watching her closely, before forcing it between her lips, pushing it back as far as it could go. The sight of her choking around it, her eyes watering and saliva dripping down her chin, stirred something primal within him.

“Have you ever sucked cock before?” he asked, his voice low and mocking, his arousal straining behind the fabric of his trousers.

To his surprise, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her head back, opening her throat and taking his finger deeper than he had expected. The motion sent a wave of conflicting thoughts through him—rage at the idea of her lips wrapped around anyone else, and an undeniable, consuming desire that only she seemed capable of igniting.

“Such a good witch,” Tom said, toying with her. She practically vibrated under his praise, attempting to press her legs together, seeking friction. “You deserve a reward.”

Slowly, deliberately, Tom pulled back and freed himself from behind his zipper, his length falling heavy into his palm. Hermione’s chest rose sharply with anticipation, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, her hungry eyes watched every movement. Without hesitation, she leaned forward, her greedy mouth accepting him with an obedience that sent a shiver of satisfaction through him.

Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked him down, eager, as if she’d been waiting for this moment. Tom groaned low in his throat, his fingers threading through the hair at the crown of her head, gripping it tightly as he soaked in the exquisite sensation of her warm mouth enveloping him. Her tongue swirled expertly around the ridge of his cock, sending jolts of pleasure straight through him. She felt bloody perfect, her velvet cheeks surrounding him completely as she worked him with a skill that made him wonder.

Had she done this before to be so practiced? 

Or was Hermione simply flawless in everything she attempted, even this?

He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to think of anything past this moment. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered except her submission. The way she yielded to him so completely, so willingly, filled him with a sense of power unlike anything he had ever felt. Her compliance was intoxicating, a silent admission of his dominance, and it fed the darkest parts of him. In this moment, he felt invincible.

Tom jerked forward, shoving himself deeper until Hermione gagged around him. He kept her in place, forcing her to take all of him, watching with a twisted satisfaction as tears began to streak down her face. The wet, muffled sounds she made—raw and unrestrained—only spurred him on, igniting something wild within him.

Her magic pulsed, subtly wrapping around him, seeping into his very being. He could feel it like a current, weaving its way through him, making his control slip. He was losing himself in her, like a river drawn helplessly into a vast, consuming sea. The realization thrilled and unsettled him, but he couldn’t stop, even if he’d wanted to. He was drowning in her, and for once, he surrendered to the pull.

“ Mine ,” he gritted through clenched teeth, delivering one final thrust that sent him spiraling over the edge. Waves of pleasure coursed through him, making his entire body tremble as he released himself deep within her. He filled her mouth, forcing her to swallow every last drop, marking her as his own— claiming her completely— a triumphant assertion of dominance that left him breathless.

It took him time to catch his breath, his body still humming with the remnants of ecstasy. After he had pulled away, he shifted between her legs, his gaze fixated on the sight before him. Hermione lay there, ragged and broken, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with confusion and need. Drool and cum dribbled down her cheek, a testament to his ownership.

She was a beautiful mess, a masterpiece crafted by his own hands—a living, breathing embodiment of modern art. The urge to capture this moment consumed him, to immortalize the image so that they could revisit it whenever she dared to question his authority. The sight of her in such a state reignited a fire within him, fueling a surge of possession, leaving him hard and yearning once more.

He couldn’t strip her clothes off fast enough, employing both his magic and his bare hands to tear the offending fabric apart. Hermione gasped in surprise, a flicker of discomfort crossing her face as she winced at his aggression, her eyes darting to the remnants of her blouse scattered on the floor. “I liked that one,” she said, frowning at the pile of destruction.

Tom’s lips curled into a devilish smirk. “It looks even nicer on the floor.”

For the first time, he had the chance to truly appreciate her naked form, and he found himself thoroughly pleased. She had gained a bit of weight since arriving at Hogwarts, not that he was complaining. Her figure had filled out into enticing curves that beckoned his touch. His hands roamed over her firm breasts, fingers circling her nipples before delivering a sharp pinch. She gasped, arching off the bed, only to be held back by her restraints.

Inspired by the urge to feel her skin on his, to see how their magic would respond when there was absolutely nothing between them, he began to undress. He didn’t stop when he saw her breath catch at the sight of his chest. The scars were objectively ugly, he knew that all too well. But Hermione didn’t flinch, didn’t offer him pity like so many others might have. Her gaze traced the cruel word carved into his skin—“FREAK”—but instead of recoiling, she leaned back further into the bed, spreading her legs as wide as the ropes would allow. It was an unspoken act of acceptance, a message clearer than words, one that echoed her previous words.

A body is just a vessel... It’s your magic, your soul, your essence that matters to me, Tom.

He didn’t tell her the story behind the scar. He didn’t speak of how he was only seven when the teenage boys at the orphanage had pinned him down and carved the word into his chest with the jagged edge of a tin can lid. He didn’t mention how he’d made each of them pay, slowly, letting them stew in their fear before finally ending their miserable lives, one by one—‘happy accidents,’ he had called them before he learned the truth about his magic.

And thankfully, she didn’t ask. She knew better than to expect an answer, understanding that some things between them didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Tom moved with deliberate slowness, stripping each piece of clothing as though time itself bent to his will. He folded every garment neatly, stacking them into a precise pile at the foot of the bed, his eyes never leaving her. Hermione's gaze followed his every move, her need for him growing by the second. She squirmed in need, her magic reaching out, calling for him, a silent plea.

The tension between them thickened, growing with each second that ticked by. Tom intentionally dragged out every motion, basking the way she watched him, the way her body responded to his restrained pace. She had given him control, willingly handed it over, and he basked in it.

In his first act of claiming her, he had taken her from behind—impersonal, purely about dominance. But tonight, he wanted more. Tonight, he would look into her eyes as he broke her. His weight pressed her firmly against the bed as he slid himself between her folds, savoring the feel. As he expected, she was drenched, her body already primed and ready for him. Hermione let out a guttural moan as he pushed himself inside, filling her completely until there was nowhere else to go.

“Tom,” she sighed, her voice thick with pleasure. “Untie me,” she asked softly, nearly begging. 

Her words barely registered through the haze of sensation flooding his mind. She felt incredible—her body, her magic, her very soul. He could feel her emotions rippling through him—confusion, joy, a faint edge of fear—as if they were his own. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, as though their connection ran deeper than he had ever intended.

“I want to touch you,” she whispered.

He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss, his refusal quiet but firm. "No."

It was already too much. Her touch would unravel him, and Tom Riddle never let himself be undone.

She poured herself into the kiss, an urgent need to be close to him, to bridge the space that always lingered between them. Her tongue traced his lips, tasting him with a gentleness that sent chills down his spine. He circled his hips against her, giving her what he knew she craved—not out of kindness, but out of the satisfaction that came from watching her surrender entirely to him.

“Tom.” He reveled in the way she moaned his name. For so many years, he hated his name and it’s unremarkable origins, but from her mouth it sounded like the name of a God, a name to be worshiped. 

Hermione may have been bound, unable to touch him, but Tom had no such limitations. He took full advantage, his hands claiming every inch of her exposed skin as he thrust into her relentlessly. His fingers dug greedily into the hollow of her neck, her tempting breasts, the soft curve of her belly, and the firm roundness of her arse. He wanted to leave his mark on her, to have his handprints linger on her flesh long after they were forced to separate—a reminder of his ownership, so she would remember that she was solely his.

Their magic surged around them, a potent, electric force ignited by the union of their bodies. It intertwined, spiraling through the air like a storm, pulsing and intensifying with every movement. Tom felt it pressing down on him, filling him, until he was breathless—overcome by the sheer power they created together. It was reckless to indulge himself this way. He knew it, felt the danger of it pulsing beneath his skin. Salazar's writings had warned him against surrendering to the pull of fated magic, against allowing emotion to breach his carefully constructed walls of control. Passion was a weakness, a path to ruin for anyone who dared seek true power.

Yet there he was, defying that wisdom, lost in something hazardously close to vulnerability. When their magic intertwined, it created an inexplicable connection that made him feel, for once in his life, like he had a kindred spirit—someone who could comprehend him fully and perhaps even care for him, despite the darkness that consumed him. The fated bond was a profound recognition between two souls that transcended words. It was as if their very essence resonated with one another, illuminating the shadows within him, igniting a flicker of hope he had long believed extinguished—a hope that maybe there was one person on this planet he could trust. But even as he indulged himself in the moment, he knew it was temporary. When it was over, he would get up and leave, forcing distance between them so he’d never risk becoming dependent on her.

Time slipped through the hourglass far too quickly, as it always did in Hermione’s presence, and as much as he craved for this to last forever, he could not stave off the inevitable forever. Beneath him, she practically vibrated with anticipation, silently begging for what only he could give her. His pace quickened, a relentless drive matching her desire as much as his own. Each movement grew more urgent, almost frantic—a raw, desperate rhythm driven by the rush of feelings rather than logic. It was everything Tom was not, yet here he was, swept up in something impulsive, something wild.

Tom's hands framed her face, his gaze fixed on her as she unraveled beneath him, lost in a beautifully blissful daze. Her emotions flooded into him, slipping past his defenses and sinking into the guarded corners of his heart, until her joy became indistinguishable from his own. He shuddered as he reached his peak, attempting to mask his vulnerability in a searing kiss. He loathed how she brought him this rare sense of peace, a deceptive feeling that whispered a pretty lie: nothing could go wrong, as long as they remained bound together like this. But Tom knew better; life had taught him that any such illusions were fatal. He had to guard himself—because no one else ever would.

A notable shift settled between them as he rolled off her and released her from her bindings. The moment was over; his barriers were firmly back in place and stronger than ever. Tom still had no intention of letting her too close—he would reap the benefits of their bond while sidestepping potential pitfalls. His mind was sharp, fortified, and as long as he kept it that way, he could have the best of both worlds without risking any harm. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he reached for his trousers and began dressing, the distance between them already re-established.

“I expect you to meet me in the common room before breakfast. We’ll walk to the Great Hall together.” It was a command, not a request. 

"You can’t tell me what to do, Tom," Hermione said quietly, pulling the ropes free from her wrists and ankles before reaching for a robe by her bedside. "I can think for myself, thank you."

He allowed himself a smirk. "I think I just proved that I can."

"Because we had sex?" Her laugh was bitter as she tied the robe closed, concealing herself from him. "Sex isn’t intimacy, Tom. If you can take pleasure in my body without attachment, then I can do the same with you. Thank you for clarifying what this is. Now I know better."

His brow furrowed, genuinely thrown by her words. He might not have given her what she had asked for—a claim over his heart—but he’d given her the small piece of himself that he was capable of. He’d shown her his scars, just as she had done for him. It may not have been an even trade, but it was more than Tom had ever offered another. Surely she couldn’t truly expect true affection from him.

"Just leave already," she murmured, slipping under the sheets and turning her back to him. He had already intended to leave, but now he hesitated, uncertainty washing over him. His progress with her was crumbling, slipping through his fingers like sand. Hermione was punishing him for his honesty, dismissing him after taking what she wanted. She had dared to use him and then discard him! 

No—he wouldn’t permit it.

“You will be ready and waiting for me at seven, Hermione,” he said firmly, making no effort to conceal his irritation.

"Goodnight, Tom," she replied dully.

He interpreted her tone as reluctant compliance—far from the outcome he desired, but sufficient for the moment. She would be over this mood by tomorrow, he reassured himself as he slipped quietly from her room.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s mood had certainly not changed upon waking up the next day. Thankfully, it was the weekend, sparing her from classes and making it easier to avoid Tom. She’d holed up in the Room of Requirement the entirety of Saturday, but by Sunday morning, her growling stomach forced her down to the Great Hall. Timing her arrival toward the end of breakfast, she’d hoped Tom would already be gone—but luck, it seemed, wasn’t on her side.

Hermione kept her gaze fixed forward, ignoring the weight of his stare as she made her way to the far end of the table. Sliding in beside Andromeda, she nodded a silent greeting, relieved to reconnect after weeks of being wrapped up in Tom’s orbit. She had let him become too firmly fixed at the center of her world, but she wasn’t making that mistake again. For a brief moment, she’d dared to think she’d made some crack in his stone-cold heart—that maybe he wasn’t beyond saving—but she’d been wrong. Tom was hopeless, an emotionally unintelligent blackhole where feelings went to die.

“Lovers' quarrel?” Andromeda teased, a smirk playing at her lips.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Hermione replied, sitting up a little straighter as she tucked a wild curl behind her ear. 

“Oh, please, Hermione. You’ve been glued to Tom all week, and now you’re sitting as far away from him as possible. Meanwhile he staring at you so hard, he might actually burn a hole through your head.” Andromeda giggled nervously, eyes darting back and forth between Hermione and Tom curiously. “He might be the best boy to test, Hermione,” she added cautiously. “He’s a bit more…intense… than the average wizard.”

“He’s a right git,” Hermione said, turning her nose away from him and biting into a blueberry scone with exaggerated indifference.

“Umm, I think he heard you,” Andromeda whispered, nudging Hermione’s sleeve under the table in warning.

“Who cares?” Hermione scoffed, reaching for the last piece of toast. 

Just as she was about to pick it up, it floated away from her reach. Hermione huffed, ignoring Tom’s obvious ploy for her attention—she refused to give him what he wanted. Instead, she turned to the sausage platter, carefully placing three of them on her plate. But just as she lifted her fork to her lips, the link speared at the end of her utensil vanished, swiped away mid-air—by him . She glowered down at her plate, watching as each sausage floated over to his, landing gracefully. All the while, Tom donned a smug, silent thud.

Don’t react. She repeated the mantra in her head, but it did little to wrangle her temper. 

“Andromeda, would you please pass the pancakes?” Hermione asked politely. She knew if she reached for anything herself, Tom would surely interfere, but she hoped he wouldn’t bother with his games around others.

Andromeda, however, hesitated, clearly unsure about doing anything that might displease the “mighty” Tom Riddle. 

“Seriously?” Hermione growled, irritation bubbling to the surface. 

She shot Tom a lethal glare before decisively slamming her hand down straight onto a pancake in the center of the table, gripping it fiercely. As she lifted it to her lips, she took an animalistic bite, shoving it into her mouth to demonstrate that he had no power over her. Tom merely smirked at her, raising an eyebrow at her bold challenge.

Hermione went back for seconds, only to find the tray sliding just out of her reach. Determined, she stood up and lunged for it, managing to grasp it between her fingers, but she met resistance when trying to pull it closer again. Testing his hold, she yanked against his magic, but when it wouldn’t budge, she summoned all her strength. 

Suddenly, all resistance vanished, and the plate slammed into her face, pancakes flying over her shoulders and scattering around her feet. Laughter erupted not just from the Slytherins, but from the entire student body, all bearing witness to her humiliation. Hermione's chest heaved with anger, magic crackling at the ends of her hair as she fummed.

He will regret this, Hermione vowed to herself as she stomped furiously in his direction.

“Tom Riddle!” she seethed, slapping her palm down on the table right in front of him. “What is your problem?!”

“Ms. Granger, is everything alright?” Tom asked, feigning innocence, a satisfied grin barely contained.

“You know exactly what’s wrong,” she shot back, her fists clenching at her sides. The urge to punch him in the face, just like she had with Draco during their third year, festering within her. However, before she could act on it, the post was delivered. 

Owls swooped down in all directions, dropping parcels and letters before circling the hall and exiting as quickly as they came. Heathcliff, Bathilda’s familiar brown bird, dove past her, leaving behind a copy of The Daily Prophet and an enclosed envelope.

“Pretty bad day to be mudblood, huh?” Lastrange laughed heartily, pointing to the front cover of the paper. 

Hermione wasn’t the only one who received one. Several other students had their noses buried in the latest issue. The disturbing headline, “Muggle-Born Wizards in Peril: Grindelwald's Rising Threat,” was plastered a million times across the room in a collage of horror. The image underneath was even more haunting. A line of Muggle-borns of various ages—some as young as five, when their magic was likely first manifesting, to elderly individuals so bent with age they were in desperate need of walking canes—were shackled at their wrists and ankles. Followers of Grindelwald, marked unmistakably by the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, shoved them forward, leading the prisoners to a fresh hole in the ground—a mass grave.

Tom’s lips turned down as he observed a switch go off in Hermione’s head. Her magic deflated, no longer having the strength to argue with Tom over spilt pancakes. Setting aside the unopened letter on the table, her hands ripped at the newspaper, urgently opening it to inspect the article in question.  

Muggle-Born Wizards in Peril: Grindelwald's Rising Threat

In an alarming turn of events, Muggle-born wizards and witches find themselves increasingly at risk as Gellert Grindelwald's influence spreads across the wizarding world. Recently, a shocking event has sent waves of fear through the community: Grindelwald's followers have begun rounding up Muggle-borns in Eastern Europe, targeting them for persecution and, in some cases, extermination.

Reports indicate that Grindelwald's followers descended upon the streets of various Eastern European wizarding towns, capturing Muggle-borns and forcing them into hidden locations. Witnesses describe terrifying scenes as families were torn apart, with some Muggle-borns disappearing without a trace. Others have been forced to wear identifications of their blood status, ensuring that Gindlewald and his followers can perform daily check-ins on them, preventing them from moving outside of their communities—unable to visit family or friends in neighboring towns as a ‘precaution’—as their futures are being determined.

Grindlewald claims these extreme measures are justified, and brings allegations that the Muggle-born population is plotting against purebred wizards with the intention to dismantle the influence and power of pureblood wizarding families. He believes their demands to further Muggle-born rights—such as having additional representation in governmental positions— is simply an attempt to create a safer world for muggles and strip pure blood wizards from their birth rights. However, no firm proof has been provided. Gellert claims he will come forward with his evidence once his team’s investigation has been completed, but international courts are threatening to get involved if his terror continues.

Whispers in the wizarding community suggest that Grindelwald's ambitions do not stop at Eastern Europe, and that England may be asked to pick a side sooner rather than later. Rumor has it that Grindlewald intends to secure the UK as an ally, which provokes the question: Do UK Muggle-borns await the same fate? The Ministry of Magic, while aware of the growing tension, has struggled to address the crisis effectively. Many Muggle-borns report feeling abandoned, their pleas for protection falling on deaf ears. Protests are being organized in attempts to capture the attention of prominent government figures. 

As fear grips the hearts of Muggle-borns, many have already begun seeking friends that may be willing to hide them—or falsely proclaim mutual bloodlines— should Grindlewald’s reign reach England sooner than expected. Additionally, recent reports suggest that requests for portkey’s to the America’s has dramatically increased—another result of the scare. Undeniably, the upcoming choices of the Ministry of Magic will shape the future of the wizarding world for generations to come: Will they side with Grindelwald? Or will they protect our Muggle-born community? Only time will tell. 

Hermione hugged her arms tightly around herself, as though it could still the tremors running through her body. Even on her worst days, she’d never seen anything escalate like this—so openly, so widely accepted of muggle extermination. Nor could she recall reading about such an event in any history wizarding book, and dread gnawed at her. Had her actions somehow triggered this? Had her very presence disrupted the timeline so drastically that it shifted into this new, horrifying reality?

“Dolohov, isn’t that the country your family is from?” Malfoy asked in satisfied approval. 

Antonin grunted a confirmation, playing with his lip ring as he side-eyed Hermione. 

“Can’t say they’ve got the wrong idea, huh, Tom,” another one of the Slytherin boys snickered, bumping Tom playfully with his elbow. 

The paper slipped from Hermione’s fingers as the color drained from her face. Tom knew. He knew she was a Muggle-born—a “mudblood”—and now, with everything happening, he’d have all the more reason to exploit her, to use this against her in ways she couldn’t yet predict.

“Don’t look so grim, Granger,” Walburga mocked her. “One might think you’re a Mudblood.”

“How’s that wound healing, Walburga? I would hate for it to open back up again,” Hermione said with a phony smile, reminding the witch not to fuck with her. Walburga’s smirk fell instantly, her eyes narrowed, but at least it shut her up.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Hermione forced a calm expression, then snatched the paper from the floor and muttered a quick excuse before leaving the Great Hall. She wasn’t hungry anymore anyways. Her hurried footsteps echoed in the empty corridors as she made her way back to the solitude of her room in the dungeons. There, in the privacy of her own room, she could think straight again.

Hermione knew Tom was following her; his magic prickled at her skin like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She kept her eyes forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but he caught up to her just as she crossed into the common room.

“Hermione, wait,” he called, but when she kept walking, he reached for her arm, spinning her around to face him. “You haven’t eaten since Friday night.” It wasn’t a concern; it was an accusation, and they both knew why—she’d been avoiding him.

“And whose fault is that?” she shot back, anger crackling in her words. Every ounce of her suffering, the very fractures in her life, traced back to him. Tom was the reason her childhood was bleak, the reason her best friend was dead, the reason she was trapped here, isolated, years from home.

He blinked, his expression softening, and brushed his fingers against hers with the lightest touch. Hermione hated the way her stomach twisted at the gesture; anger was slipping through her grasp, her defenses faltering, undone by something as simple as his touch.

“You can’t seriously still be mad at me, Hermione,” Tom sighed, heavy with exasperation. “What I’ve offered you is more of myself than I’ve ever given anyone before. More than I ever planned to give of myself.” He almost had her back in his web. It might have sounded romantic—well, as romantic as someone like Tom Riddle was capable of sounding—if he hadn’t gone on to add,  “You’ll just have to get over whatever little tantrum you’re throwing, because frankly, it’s ruining my weekend.” 

Hermione yanked her hand back, walking backwards away from him and shaking her head in disappointment. “Do you have absolutely no sense?” she whispered in disbelief.

“Excuse me?” He said, as if he genuinely didn’t understand her anger this time.

“When you followed me,” she said, voice shaking, “for a moment, I thought it was to make me feel better. You saw what’s happening to people like me!” Her voice climbed in volume, trembling with outrage. “But no! You’re too busy worrying about yourself!”

“Hermione, I meant what I said about keeping you safe. I won’t tell anyone you’re a mud-,” he stopped himself, huffing, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. 

Hermione chuckled darkly. “A what, Tom? You can say it. A mudblood ?”

“I won’t tell anyone you’re a muggle-born,” he said, correcting himself. 

“Do whatever you want,” Hermione scoffed. “I don’t care what anyone thinks about me, and I don’t need your protection. Tell everyone for all I care! I’m proud to be a mudblood . I’ll shout it from the rooftops! Let them come after me and see what I do to them!”

Hermione knew she sounded unhinged, her words tumbling out with a recklessness she couldn’t afford. Now was not the time to broadcast her blood status so freely, especially not in a world where it could spell disaster. But she refused to give Tom something that he could wield as leverage over her.

“Keep your voice down,” Tom warned, his hand shooting out to clamp tightly around her neck, the pressure forcing her pulse to race. “You might not care what they do to you, but I do. You’re mine, remember? Which means I, alone, can hurt you.”

“I hate you!” Hermione shouted, her fists pounding against his chest, her anger boiling over into hot tears that blurred her vision. “I hate you!”

“Hate me, then!” he replied, his grip tightening around her throat, squeezing just enough to steal her breath away. “As long as you obey, you can hate me all you want.”

Every instinct told her to fight back, to scream for help, but she felt trapped within his grasp. As her breaths came in shallow gasps, a part of her fought against the panic rising inside. The room grew increasingly darker, black splotches dancing before Hermione’s eyes as her oxygen supply dwindled. Desperation fueled her attempts to pry Tom’s grip from her windpipe, her nails digging into the back of his wrist in a hopeless effort. It felt as if he were crushing her, like a bug beneath his shoe, his power overwhelming and suffocating. Each second stretched painfully, and her heart raced, torn between the instinct to fight and the paralyzing fear of what he was capable of. 

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and in that brief moment of distraction, Hermione seized her chance. With a surge of determination, she wiggled free from Tom's vice-like grip. Without his support, she collapsed onto the cold floor, gasping desperately for air.

Antonin stepped out from around the corner, his casual demeanor in stark contrast to the chaos moments before. His dark eyes landed on Hermione, sprawled and vulnerable, and she silently thanked him, her relief spilling over in hot tears. She knew Tom wouldn’t have stopped until she lost consciousness—or worse.

Then, as if something clicked in Tom's mind, she caught a flicker of remorse in his gaze. He reached down to help her up. “Hermione—”

“Don’t!” she snapped, scrambling away. “Don’t ever touch me again, Tom Riddle. You’re dead to me.”

“The others will be coming soon,” Antonin interjected, his voice steady but urgent.

Hermione stood up, brushing herself off as Tom’s expression morphed back into his typical mask of cold indifference. Yet, she could feel the chaotic pulse of his magic in the air, a warning of the storm brewing just beneath the surface. She didn’t linger; she ran, not stopping until she was safely inside her quarters.

There, she immediately began reinforcing the wards she had established from day one. She still couldn’t fathom how Tom had breached them before, but she was determined to ensure he couldn’t do it again, even if it meant resorting to blood magic.

It was only once she had finished casting every protective spell she could think of, after she collapsed onto her bed, and curled into a tight ball, shivering in shock, that she realized her mistake. 

The letter. 

She had left the letter from Bathilda in the Great Hall. 

* * * *

Hermione waited until it was nearly midnight to sneak out of her room. By then, she figured everyone would be fast asleep, or at least locked up in their room observing curfew rules. To her relief, her assumption proved correct; the hallways were empty, the darkness settling in a comfortable silence that felt almost peaceful.

She crept down the corridor, her heart pounding softly in her chest as she made her way toward the east wing of the Slytherin dungeons. It was a place she had only ventured once before although she had no business in the boys' dormitories—witches weren't allowed—but her need to speak with Antonin was urgent. She recalled the distinct marker of Antonin's quarters from when she had swiped Tom’s Horcrux weeks ago. She had no time to admire it then, but now she found herself staring at it in awe.

Although each wizard had personalized their doors—Tom's being the notable exception—Antonin's was easily the most intricately detailed and distinctive. The hand-carved wood depicted a dragon guarding an egg nest amid an array of treasures, its fierce expression brought to life with painstaking craftsmanship. Green emeralds, each the size of a fist, were mounted over the dragon's eyes, creating a strange illusion they were following her as she moved closer. She had heard rumors that his family was composed of dragon shifters—a rare type of magic that was near extinction—though Antonin himself appeared to lack that ability. Hermione speculated that perhaps his power had yet to manifest due to the absence of guidance from his family. Shifting was no simple task; without proper instruction, one risked never connecting with their inner animal, or worse, being entirely consumed by it, losing their human form forever.

As she chewed her lip, a pang of sympathy shot through her; she hoped Antonin would never have to face either scenario. Unfortunately, that kind of mentorship was beyond her expertise.

Her hand settled on the doorknob, and she glanced both ways before delivering a gentle knock. The sound echoed ominously down the corridor, and she flinched, praying it didn’t reach Tom's dorm at the end of the hall. The last thing she needed was another confrontation with him after their argument earlier that day. In an ideal world, she’d never have to see that bastard again, especially after the way he’d handled her. 

“Come in.” Relief flooded when she heard Antonin's voice on the other side, granting her permission to enter.

Stepping into his room, she found it larger than she had anticipated—at least twice the size of hers. The lighting was dim, and a faint fog clung to the ground, giving the space an eerie vibe. As Hermione ventured further inside, a distinct scurrying noise halted her in her tracks. Her heart raced, a wave of anxiety washing over her as she questioned whether she had mistaken the room's owner. Just as she was about to retreat, she heard Antonin's voice again, this time closer, reassuring her that she was in the right place.

“Scared, Hermione?”  Antonin chuckled from around the corner, beckoning her closer.

She moved with confidence now, allowing his voice to lure her in completely, eager to talk to him about what transpired earlier that day. However, her comfort was short-lived when she caught sight of him lounging on his bed, shirtless and wearing only pajama pants slung low on his hips. 

A rush of heat flooded her cheeks, and she quickly diverted her gaze to the ceiling, trying to ignore the sight of his pierced nipples. That body had been on top of her the day she lost her virginity to Tom, yet she hadn’t had a proper chance to see him so… exposed.

“You should be scared,” he said with a mischievous grin, resting his hands behind his head as if to highlight just how at ease he was in her presence. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why’s that?” she shot back, challenging him.

“You know why,” Antonin chuckled darkly. “Did you decide you want me dead?”

“I thought I could count on you,” she replied, crossing her arms as she reminded him of the promise he’d made.

“How can I help you, Hermione?” he asked, his tone shifting to something more serious as he slid off the bed to grab a robe and approach her.

He maintained a respectable distance, but even so, her embarrassment crawled down her neck, turning her cheeks crimson.

“Ehm,” Hermione cleared her throat, trying to shake off the awkwardness. “Sorry to catch you by surprise.”

“I knew it had to be you when you knocked. Anyone else would’ve just walked right in,” he shrugged.

“And you couldn’t have thrown a robe on before I came in?” she admonished, lightly pushing him against his shoulder.

“And miss this reaction?” He smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Before she could reproach him again, the scurrying sound returned, followed by an odd squeaking from the far corner of the room. Hermione's head whipped in its direction, and a small gasp escaped her lips.

Antonin had built a glass terrarium that lined the entire wall. Inside was decorated with a collection of vibrant plants and a small stream of water, but the most striking feature was the large, intricate web that glistened in the shadows. The sight sent a chill down her spine, a mix of fascination and unease. The delicate artistry of the web was mesmerizing, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something unexpected was lurking just beyond her sight, waiting to reveal itself.

Hermione took a cautious step closer to the terrarium, her vision fixed on the acromantula. “You kept him,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The spider, only slightly larger than she remembered, was feeding on a small rat, its movements were somehow both beautiful and terrifying.

“I’ll probably let him go after graduation,” Antonin said nonchalantly, and instantly Hermione felt comforted to know that he had bonded with the creature. Any fear she may have had for its safety melted away. 

A grin spread across her face, curiosity bubbling over. “You’re a softy under all those piercings and black clothes, Antonin Dolohov. Who could’ve guessed?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she sensed the shift in the atmosphere. Antonin’s good mood evaporated, replaced by a sharp irritation. “Why are you here, Hermione?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Her smile faded as she sighed, feeling the weight of her thoughts settle heavily on her shoulders. “You stopped coming to the tutoring lessons. Why?” She missed their time together; his absence left a hole in her day-to-day. Antonin had somehow become a safezone for her—someone she knew that would treat her normal, human. Someone that would make her feel accepted amongst a crowd of peers who saw her as an insufferable know-it-all. And yet, ever since the Slug Club Fall Festival, he had been notably gone, and it felt as if Tom had not only dominated her time, but that he had intentionally isolated her from Antonin and everyone else. She needed to hear why, straight from Antonin himself.

“You’re smarter than this, Hermione,” he said, rolling his eyes, frustration etched across his features. “Why are you really here?”

“I wanted to thank you for standing up for me earlier,” Hermione admitted slowly, her words carefully chosen as she gauged his reaction. “I’m not sure what Tom would’ve done if you hadn’t been there to stop him.”

“Don’t mention it,” Antonin replied dismissively, waving a hand as if to brush her gratitude aside. “If that’s all, you can go now.” He nodded towards the door, retreating back to his bed, clearly uninterested in letting the topic linger.

But Hermione wasn’t about to give up. She followed him, hanging by the edge of the bed, gripping onto the post of the footboard nervously. “Do you hate me now?” she asked, her eyes focused on her feet. “Because I’m a muggleborn?”

Antonin laughed dryly, his large palm resting casually on his lower stomach, an unconcerned posture that made her heart race. “You care if I hate you, Hermione? And why would you care what I think?”

She tried to ignore how close his fingers were to the drawstring of his trousers, or how his muscular abs twitched when he spoke. Was there something in the water that made all wizards in the 1940s so ripped and attractive? Ron and Harry were scrawny, even after hours of Quidditch training, but every shirtless guy she’d seen so far looked like they belonged on the cover of a romance novel. It was disconcerting, and she desperately tried to redirect her thoughts back to the conversation at hand.

“We’re friends,” she said softly. “It’s only natural for one to care about what their friends think.”

“You want to know what I think?” Antonin scoffed, a cruel smile forming on his lips as he stood up once more. “I think… you don’t belong here. In Slytherin. At Hogwarts. Your mere existence disgusts me, Hermione.”

Her heart sank at his words. “Has so much changed all because of my blood status?” she asked, her voice small and trembling. A hot rush of tears pooled in her eyes, but she refused to cry for a second time today. “You said you would be here for me.”

His hand struck quickly, gripping the back of her hair with the same savage force that Tom often used. A vague notion whispered in her mind that maybe this wasn’t Antonin at all—that perhaps Tom had used another Polyjuice Potion and was pretending to be this sadistic version of her friend. But deep down, she knew that any hope was in vain. The buzz of Antonin’s magic was as distinct as Tom’s; she could easily tell them apart.

She had been foolish to think any bond between them had been genuine. Antonin was a follower of the Dark Lord for a reason, and one of those reasons was a deep-seated hatred for people like her—muggleborns. Sadness trickled down her cheeks as she watched the anger twist in Antonin’s eyes. He truly hated her and all she represented.

“Stay away from me,” he hissed, pulling her hair harder, sending a jolt of pain through her scalp. “Stay away from Tom. You’re unfit to breathe the same air as us, and everyone else in the Slytherin house.”

Her hands were pressed against his chest, trying as hard as she could to push herself away from him. He was hurting her. Not just physically, nearly ripping her curls from her skull, but emotionally. She had invested her time, her efforts, her hope into Antonin. She had believed they were friends, and that maybe, his decision to stop Tom from harming her meant that he cared for her, too.  

“That is what I think of you,” he said viciously, shaking her firmly, rattling her brain inside her skull, before throwing her to the floor like a heap of rubbish. “Do you understand?”

She cried in pain as her temple hit against the rough stone floor. A flash of yellow—narrow, animalistic slits— crossed over Antonin’s eyes as he tracked the blood that dripped down her brow. His nostrils flared and his chest heaved as he closed his eyes and turned around, composing himself. “Get the fuck out,” he commanded hoarsely. 

Defiantly, Hermione lifted herself from the floor. It was bad enough that Tom thought he could put his hands on her, but now Antonin, too? 

No. 

She refused to be a punching bag for these arrogant Slytherin tossers! Grabbing onto his robe, she spun him around until he was facing her, and then slapped him as hard as she could. The sting reverberated through her palm, and a red outline formed on his cheek where her fingers had struck.

“You were right about one thing,” she seethed, backing towards the door without turning her back on him. He was just as much of a snake as all the other Death Eaters. “I never want to talk to you again.”

Hermione slammed the door on her way out, forgetting herself—and exactly where she was—until the door at the end of the hallway slowly creaked open. Tom Riddle casually leaned against the frame, his hands in his pockets. 

“Twenty one minutes and thirteen seconds,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. 

Hermione blanched.

And then she ran. 

* * * *

Tom felt her magic weaving through the corridor like a familiar thread, an unmistakable signal of Hermione’s approach. A smirk creased his lips, pleased that she had finally come to her senses and sought him out. All she needed was a bit of time—and, of course, a dose of perspective, as she often lectured him about. He was prepared to overlook her little outburst in the Great Hall earlier, and if her apology was sufficiently contrite, he might even allow her a moment of comfort regarding the latest news about Grindelwald and his followers.

If only she had waited a moment longer before her emotional meltdown, he thought. He could have reassured her that he wasn’t concerned about the dark wizard, as he had no intention of allowing Grindelwald to live for much longer. The first step in his quest for domination would be to eliminate any threats to his ascendance, and Grindelwald was certainly one of those undesirables. While some might mistakenly believe that he and Grindelwald shared a vision of magical supremacy, they would be sorely mistaken. Only one could rise to rule over the magical world, and that would be Tom—and Tom alone. In his eyes, Hermione was safe and any worry she held onto was completely unwarranted.

Tom paused, contemplating how he wanted the scene to unfold when she arrived. Hermione wouldn’t be able to breach his wards without his consent, ensuring that she couldn’t surprise him. Should he be at his desk, buried in his studies? Or perhaps he could be cozily nestled in his bed, ready to welcome her advances? Would it be best to don his school robes or slip into something more comfortable, like pajamas? He ran through countless scenarios in his mind, anticipation simmering within him as he awaited the sound of her soft knock on his door. 

However, when the knock finally came, it was distant, echoing down the hallway rather than at his portal. Tom shot up from his chair, rushing to peek through the spyhole. There she was, his unmistakable Hermione, standing in front of the wrong door. Was she lost? Did she not know which door was his? His heart sank as he realized she was waiting outside Antonin’s room, looking quite determined, halfway down the corridor.

Instantly, his temper flared, an explosive anger bubbling to the surface. What did he have to do to make it clear that any semblance of friendship between the two was over? For a fleeting moment, he considered rushing out, confronting her and Antonin, and asserting his claim over Hermione in a most lethal manner. But, he restrained himself. There would be consequences for this little rendezvous, but the severity of his response would hinge on the nature of their meeting.

So he waited—watching, observing, testing the pair. Like a dog guarding its territory, he stood by the peephole, counting the seconds that passed between her entrance and exit. Each tick of the clock was another stab to his heart. Why would she visit another wizard after midnight? The thought gnawed at him, and despite his better judgment, he felt a desperate need for the answer, more vital than his next breath. When she finally emerged from Antonin’s quarters, he could no longer contain himself.

With a swift movement, he opened his door, stepping into the hallway to make himself known. Leaning casually against the doorframe, he shoved his hands into his pockets, fighting to maintain control. Despite his calm appearance, his nerves were fraying, unraveling dangerously. Why couldn’t his pet just submit? What more could he offer Hermione to ensure her loyalty? As he seized her throat earlier, he felt the rush of frustration, and though he knew he was crossing a line, he couldn’t help it. If he couldn’t have her, no one else could. Hermione’s face had even turned an alarming shade of purple, and still, he struggled to loosen his grip.

It wasn’t until he retreated to his room that the gravity of his actions sank in. He needed her—her mind, her body, her magic. A world without Hermione was unfathomable. But as she had emerged from Antonin’s room, doing Merlin knows what, Tom’s rage threatened to consume him once again. He ached to inflict upon her the same pain she had knowingly caused him.

“Twenty one minutes and thirteen seconds,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. 

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock as she picked up on his presence. Whatever fleeting notion she had of slipping away unscathed, of concealing her betrayal from him, was shattered. Tom’s gaze was cold and calculating, the look of a predator who’d caught his prey mid-act. She should have known better; there was no hiding anything from him. There would be no escaping the ramifications of her actions. He had her right where he wanted, or at least, he thought he did. 

Until she ran. 

In an instant, he was in pursuit, his footsteps echoing down the corridor as he threw binding curses in her direction. How many times would she try this? The rebellion, the constant testing of his limits—it was maddening. She was his, bound to him in ways she couldn’t deny, yet here she was, daring to defy him once more.

But this time, he’d make sure she learned her lesson.

She zigzagged down the hallway, her movements quick and unpredictable, forcing Tom to adjust his aim with each step. When she darted around a corner, he prepared to close in, but then—Hermione struck. A streak of light whizzed through the air, and he only just managed to raise his shield in time. The spell ricocheted off, crackling against the stone wall behind him.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. So, she had the nerve to retaliate. He knew she was clever, but this was something more—Hermione was a skilled duelist, her spells precise, controlled, and unhesitating. She was not the frightened girl he’d taken for granted. She was determined, formidable even, and, as much as he loathed to admit it, impressively prepared for his every move.

Fine, then, he thought, a grim promise in his eye. If she wanted a fight, he would give her one she would never forget. As she reached her door, Tom lunged, catching the edge of her cloak. She was close, almost cornered, and he wasn’t above forcing her hand if that’s what it took. The soul bond would tie her to him, securing her loyalty once and for all, and despite his initial reservations of performing the ritual, it was looking more enticing each day. He would drag her down to the Chamber of Secrets, right here, right now to put an end to this insufferable insubordination.

But Hermione was faster than he’d anticipated. She twisted free from his grip, slipping out of her cloak, her hand already on the doorknob as she dashed through her threshold. Once inside, she spun on her heels and stared him down, her eyes glinting with obstinacy. Her lips curled into a smirk, sharp and mocking. She dared him, standing tall with her arms crossed, with an invisible wall shimmering between them.

Tom’s hands clenched, frustration sparking through him as he reached out, only to be blocked by the shield of her wards. She’d planned for this—clever, audacious Hermione. She may be smirking now, thinking that she outmaneuvered him, but she would rue her choice to challenge him. He had destroyed her wards once before, and he would do it again. 

Summoning all his power, he aimed a furious Bombarda at the shield, only for it to rebound off her defenses and slam back into him. The impact threw him against the opposite brick wall with a resounding thud, driving the breath from his lungs. Pain surged through him, raw and infuriating, but when he looked up, he found her watching with infuriating calm, a mocking smile tugging at her lips as she waved a dismissive goodbye. She didn’t spare him a second glance.

Her wand flicked in a subtle half-circle, casting a soft, wordless spell that sent a ripple through the air before her. It formed a shimmering barrier, translucent and deceptively thin, but somehow potent enough that he felt the sharp hum of its strength. And with a final flick, the entire doorway vanished from view.

Tom blinked, incredulous, as her portal melded into seamless stone. It was as if the door that had been there just moments before had never existed. Her laugh echoed in his ears as he prowled back and forth, his hands grazing over the smooth surface. Had he not seen her slip through the entry just seconds prior, he might’ve questioned his sanity.

“This isn’t over, Hermione!” Tom’s voice echoed through the empty corridor, his fists striking the wall where her door had once been. His control crumbled like sand. “You can’t hide forever!” He threw a punch, followed by a futile kick against the unmoving stone. He exhaled, defeated, his forehead resting against the wall.

Desperation clawed at him. He called to her magic, reaching for it, imploring for its power. Help me get through this portal, he bargained, and I’ll spare her. I’ll talk to her, explain why she needs me—why this is for her own good. But her magic remained cold and silent, a mirror of her retreat. The empty stillness taunting him, as though her presence had vanished altogether.

“Why, Hermione?” he muttered, feeling a stab of something dangerously close to heartache. Why couldn’t she just comply? Why couldn’t she understand him the way he needed her to? Why did she insist on extracting these loathsome feelings from him, demanding a weakness he couldn’t bear to reveal? “Damn it!” His anger splintered in the quiet with a half-hearted kick.

He lingered there for much too long, hoping, against logic, that she’d change her mind, that she’d emerge from behind the shield she’d cast. But eventually, he turned away, heading to his quarters, frustration simmering dangerously within him. Tomorrow, he’d be ready for her. He’d be prepared to handle this infuriating witch once he had the clarity of a night’s rest. Unfortunately, he had a dismal notion that sleep would evade him tonight, just as Hermione had done.

Chapter Text

Antonin lay awake in the dim, suffocating darkness of his room, the walls pressing in around him like a silent reminder of what he could not escape. Sleep was a distant hope, chased away by the certainty of what was coming. Tom would know. Tom always knew. Somehow, he slipped into the minds of others as easily as breathing, rooting through secrets and weaknesses like they were his own.

A shudder ran down Antonin’s spine at the thought of Tom prying open his mind, unraveling the private thread of memory Hermione had left behind. He could already feel the pressure, the unbearable pain that came with Tom’s ruthless probing, tearing into his thoughts until nothing was hidden. Antonin's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists as he braced himself, knowing resistance was pointless. When morning came, the punishment would come with it. And all he could do now was wait.

He hadn’t meant to hurt Hermione. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But at that moment, he believed it was the only way to keep her safe. She needed to stay far away from him—from Tom—from anything that could dim her light. So Anotnin had been ruthless, cold, cruel, whatever had to be to protect her.

Hermione had ignited something deep within Antonin—a flicker of the dragon that had lain dormant inside him for too long. He had never felt its presence until he started spending more time with her. It was gradual at first; a simple spark of interest that blossomed in response to her unique instruction. Then came an eagerness to please her, a swell of pride that made his dragon puff out its chest every time she offered him praise. 

But it was her pain that truly awakened the beast inside him. It roared to life, a raw, primal reaction that threatened to consume him when he saw her suffering—especially because he was the cause. Yet, somehow, through sheer willpower, he managed to keep the reins held tight.

Somehow, Hermione had become the master of his dragon, a bond forged through her insistence on training his mind, teaching him to embrace himself, making him feel—for once in his life— he was worth a bloody damn. It was a connection he had never expected, one that made his heart pound with both fear and hope. Now, as he lay in the darkness, he realized just how much he had to lose. 

If Tom realized that Antonin’s dragon had emerged, he would seize the opportunity to master it, twisting its power to serve his own ambitions. That was why Antonin's family had isolated themselves in Eastern Europe, amidst the dwindling number of dragon shifters left in the world—to avoid forging a bond with anyone who might misuse their gift. 

But someone like Hermione? She was different. She wouldn’t seek to dominate him; she would empower him. She would be a guiding light on his journey toward self-improvement, the air beneath his wings rather than the chain around his neck. Her unwavering belief in his potential stirred something deep. When he was with Hermione, he felt like he was more than a weapon, a tool, more than a follower of darkness. She could help him reclaim his identity, reclaim the power that was rightfully his, and for the first time, he dared to imagine what that might look like.

Something had to be done about Tom. As long as he remained an obstacle, Antonin would never have the chance to fully explore the bond he felt with Hermione, and without that connection, he would never be able to embrace his dragon. Tom’s presence loomed over everything, a shadow that stifled his growth and threatened to extinguish the light Hermione brought into his life. Antonin couldn't allow Tom to manipulate or control him any longer. He needed to find a way to break free from that influence, to carve out his own path, one where he could be with Hermione and tame his dragon without fear. Only then could he truly harness his power and, in return, protect her.

He would have to make his plans in secret, conquer from within, continuing to pose as a Knight, no matter how much he wanted to sever ties. He knew Tom had plans to visit Antonin’s country after graduation, so maybe he could accompany him, earn his trust, and then strike when he least expected it. It would be the only way. 

It was clear that Hermione had feelings for Tom, no matter how hard she tried to keep them buried. For the life of him, Antonin couldn’t understand why any rational witch—especially one as clever as Hermione— would be attracted to someone as dark and rotten as Tom. In Antonin’s younger years, Tom had been charming, intriguing even, but it was all a farce. Like a sundew plant, offering sweet nectar, only to ensnare its victim, feasting on their flesh and their very essence. He would only do the same to Hermione, Antonin feared, which was why he had to scare her away, even if it was only temporary. 

When dawn broke, Antonin knew what he had to do. He slipped an unopened envelope into his back pocket. Then, with a flick of his wand, he vanished the glass of the terrarium, using the spell Hermione had taught him to transform the acromantula into a stuffed toy. After endless practice, it was a simple charm, but it held meaning. More so, he wouldn’t allow this creature, which had once sparked a flicker of joy in him—the first in a long while—to be a casualty of Tom's anger. And it would be, once Tom inevitably pried his memories of last night from the fortress of Antonin’s mind. Antonin had originally decided to wait until graduation to release the spider back into the forest, but he’d already come to terms with a change in plans. So, when the first light of day spilled into the dungeon, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

* * * *

Sneaking out of her room that morning, Hermione hardly expected to find her letter hovering in the hallway, as though it had been waiting just for her. She snatched it out of the air, her head darting in each direction, searching for the culprit. However, the hall was empty, with no sign of anyone lurking nearby.

With a quiet breath, she slipped the letter into her pocket and set off at a brisk pace toward the Room of Requirement. Lately, it was the only place in the castle that felt safe—her last true refuge. In these walls that had once brought comfort, she was now left feeling dangerously alone, more exposed than she ever wanted to admit. She should have been on her way to class, but facing reality felt too daunting at the moment, so instead, she decided to take a sick day and hide away on the fifth floor for just a little while longer.

The space transformed for her; it was a familiar set up, one she had helped foster during her time in Dumbledore’s army, a cozy yet functional environment. The space was lined by an array of shelves filled with spell books and magical texts that catered to her insatiable thirst for knowledge. Warm, soft lighting illuminated the area, creating a comforting ambiance that eased her nerves. 

The air was filled with a gentle hum of magical energy, inspiring Hermione to practice spells and defensive techniques. She could see a few dueling dummies scattered around, each one magically animated to simulate real opponents, providing the perfect opportunity for her to refine her skills. In the center of the room, a polished wooden table was surrounded by chairs, each one inviting her to gather her thoughts and strategize with her fellow members—only now, there were no others to share her refuge with, so she had them all to herself. 

Adorning the walls were motivational quotes from great witches and wizards, their words resonating deeply within her, reinforcing her sense of purpose. The only thing missing was a bed. Perhaps she could stay here forever, avoiding the bloody Slytherin dungeon for good, she smirked. And as soon as the thought formed in her brain, one magically appeared for her. 

This last addition made her smile brighter. It was the same type of bed she had in the Gryffindor common room—a thick wooden frame with a feather soft mattress and a scarlet curtain canopy with gold metal details. She plopped herself on top of it, appreciating how the comforter snuggled around her body. When Hermione began to finally feel settled, she unfolded the letter from yesterday, giving the contents her full attention. 

Dearest Hermione, 

If you have not already, I urge you to read the Daily Prophet. We are living in the darkest of times, and although I can only suspect what kept you and your family on the move prior to our meeting, I fear for your safety. However, I want to send you a word of comfort: Hogwarts is the safest place to reside, and as long as you are there, you have nothing to fear. Furthermore, although I shouldn’t be sharing the news with you since you are a student, I wanted to give you early notice that I will be arriving at Hogwarts within the next few weeks. 

Upon seeing the images—more like evils—coming from the east, Dumbledore has decided he can no longer sit idly by while Grindelwald continues gaining power. In his absence, I will be substituting for the Transfigurations courses. While it is hardly my expertise, I look forward to seeing you, and doing what I can to support Albus as he embarks on his quest. I am hoping this news will bring you a bit more peace, knowing that no matter what happens, you will always have a friend in me, and therefore a safe haven during your remaining time at Hogwarts. 

See you soon, darling girl.

With much affection,

Bathilda Bagshot

Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest, emotions tangling into a chaotic web. Gratitude for Bathilda—her one steady ally in this twisted timeline—bloomed in her chest, quickly followed by fear. She was worried for Dumbledore, knowing that his decision to face Grindelwald was six months earlier than his recorded victory, and without her knowledge of the full consequences of such a deviation from fate, anything was possible. She was suddenly overcome with a bone-deep sadness, an ache that reminded her how profoundly alone she was in all of this. There was no one to confide in about her fear of the timeline fraying beyond repair—not even Bathilda, her one true companion. No, there was truly no one to share the weight of everything shifting out of place. It was too much for one person to carry, yet she was obligated to stand against the tide alone.

Against her better judgment, Hermione slid a worn, familiar diary from her bag, moving herself from the bed to the table near the library. It was true, there was not a person alive she could share her burdens with, no living confidant she dared to trust. But maybe, just maybe, she could speak to someone… more or less alive. As her fingers traced its edges, the book seemed to pulse beneath her touch, resonating with Tom’s dark, alluring magic, tugging her closer to this dangerous plan. With a deep, steadying breath, she cautiously opened it. 

The scent of old parchment rose from its pages—warm, earthy, tinged faintly with mint—a haunting reminder of the boy who’d left his essence between the lines. It might have made her miss the real Tom if he hadn’t been such an arse to her lately. Despite the warmth of nostalgia, the sting of his betrayal lingered, reminding her that this was a connection laced with manipulation and pain. And yet, it still called to her, an irresistible siren song that whispered promises of understanding, companionship, and a glimpse into the mind of someone she once thought she knew.

Hastily, she grabbed a quill and wrote down her thoughts before she could have time to regret it. “ Can we please start over? ”

For a few heartbeats, the page remains blank. Then, slowly, ink started to blossom across the parchment, his words appearing with their usual elegance. “ I wondered how long you would stay away, little witch. ”

His words hung in the air like a thick fog, making it difficult for Hermione to think clearly. She felt her heart racing, recalling their previous encounter—the way his presence had captivated and terrified her. This time, she knew she needed a different approach. Perhaps, if she made herself vulnerable, this version of Tom’s magic would be curious, ideally taken off guard by her honesty.

With a deep breath, she began to craft her response, her quill hovering over the parchment as she gathered her thoughts. She had to tread carefully, balancing her desire for connection with the knowledge of who he would become. The stakes felt higher than ever, and she wasn’t sure how much of herself she was willing to reveal.

Yet, the urge to reach out was strong. In this twisted timeline, where everything felt so uncertain and isolating, she craved understanding—someone who could truly see her, not just as a Muggle-born witch, but as a person facing impossible challenges. Would this version of Tom be that someone? Would he understand her plight, or would he use her vulnerability against her?

“ I need a friend, ” she wrote, her hand trembling slightly. The admission felt raw, but necessary. She had navigated so much turmoil alone; maybe this was her chance to forge a connection that didn’t feel threatening. As the ink settled on the page, she held her breath, waiting for his response.

Every second that ticked by mocked Hermione, each moment stretching into an eternity as she hung on the edge of her seat, her heart racing, anxious for Tom's response. 

“ A friend? How quaint. You must know that such a bond is a rare treasure in this world. But tell me, what do you seek in this friendship? Do you desire comfort, or perhaps something more... profound? ”

The words vanished from the page too quickly. Hermione read them and reread them, a mix of fascination and dread swirling in her chest. She longed to gaze at them longer, to dissect every syllable and understand the intent behind his carefully crafted phrasing. The way he framed friendship as something precious yet absurd was a beautiful paradox that resonated with her.

As she pondered her next words, the diary's pages warmed beneath her fingertips, as if urging her to respond, to risk exposing herself to a boy whose reactions implicated her past, present, and future. She could feel the tension building in the room, her hesitation pressing down on her. This was not just any diary; it was Tom Riddle’s, infused with his magic, and by extension, his complexity.

“I want to be understood. To be cared for. I know you in your flesh-and-blood form, and I thought, for a moment, you would be that person for me. But it’s all gone so wrong in the last couple of days. I don’t know where to even start.” 

With each stroke of the quill, Hermione found it more difficult to stop her thoughts from cascading from her mind. Her words flooded onto the page, a rush of emotion spilling from her heart directly onto the parchment. It felt like verbal word vomit, but she couldn’t help it—this was her chance to express everything that had been bottled up inside her all weekend. Each sentence felt like a weight lifted, yet the vulnerability of her confession left her feeling naked.

The diary's pages absorbed her turmoil, the ink darkening as it created its response. As she waited, her heart raced. The air was thick with anticipation, every second stretching into eternity. She found herself leaning closer to the diary, desperately hoping for something—anything—that would give her. She needed a sign that her words had made some sort of an impact.

“Ah, such vulnerability you share— the need to be understood and cared for. Tell me, why would you look to me for that understanding? I am, after all, but a mere shadow of who I once was. Do you truly believe I can offer you the solace you seek?”

Was he mocking her? 

Hermione took a moment to collect herself, her fingers tapping nervously against her leg. She was better than this, she told herself. But there was something magnetic about his presence, even in the form of ink on a page. The haunting poetry of his words held an undeniable power over her, a reminder of his charm that had captivated her once before.

With a deep breath, she proceeded, her heart racing as she committed her thoughts to paper. “ I don't see you as just a shadow, Tom. You are still you, however fragmented you  may be. I can’t deny that I feel drawn to you—maybe that’s foolish, but it’s true. Can you not feel this connection between us? ”

Her pulse quickened as she sealed her thoughts on the page, unsure of how he would react. Would he dismiss her once more, or would he see the sincerity beneath her words? 

“ A connection, you say? Tell me, little witch, what do you truly know of me? What makes you so certain that there is potential where others only see ruin? ” 

He was deflecting, trying to make her question her feelings, but she could see through that. She knew she couldn’t be the only one who felt this way when they were together. He had noticed it himself the last time she had allowed herself to explore these pages, she just had to remind him. 

“ Knowing goes beyond information, Tom. The greatest wizards have a certain instinct that guides them in their pursuits. Sometimes, you just have to feel , to know . Can you feel it? I think you can. I saw how you would react when we were close together.” It was as if she was no longer writing in a book, but speaking to the wizard himself. “When your lips would grace mine, or our bodies would join, we were explosive—unstoppable.”

As Hermione poured her heart onto the pages, she could almost sense the shift in the air around her, the tension thickening with her boldness. Would he react with anger or understanding? The memory of their shared moments—those electric, stolen kisses—flashed vividly in her mind, igniting a fire within her that urged her to press on. She gathered the book in her arms, cuddling it close to her heart, allowing her magic to seep into its pages. 

“I know you feel it,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Its warmth radiated back at her, tingles spreading throughout her body. “Tell me you feel it, too.”

The room grew heavy, their combined magic expanding beyond her, pulsing, until the very wizard she was calling to manifested. An outline  began to form—one that was familiar and haunting—each contour echoing the boy she had known, yet shrouded in a veil of darkness.

“Do you see me, Hermione?” the ethereal figure of Tom Riddle asked, his voice resonating like a low whisper that sent shivers down her spine. It was as if the very essence of him was reaching out, intertwining with her own magic, bridging the gap between their worlds.

She nodded, unable to find her voice, her heart thrumming wildly in response to his presence. “I do.”

“Then you understand the peril of what you’re inviting, don’t you?” His words dripped with cautious warning, and yet, he stepped forward, as if he, too, was just as drawn to her. “This connection you crave—it is not without its consequences.”

“I don't care,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. She extended her hand, brushing it against the back of his cheek. It wasn’t flesh and blood, but still, somehow, it felt real, as if their souls, instead of their bodies, were touching. “Tell me you feel it, Tom.”

Tom’s eyes—those dark, captivating pools—locked onto hers, and for a fleeting moment, the shadows of doubt flickered in their depths. “You seem to know much about me, Hermione , but I know nothing of you.” 

She felt his breath gently fan against her hair, and she marveled at the surreal closeness they shared. How was this possible?

“What does your instinct tell you?” she urged, stepping closer until she could rest her head against his chest, wanting to absorb the magic swirling around him. It enveloped her, igniting a vibrant energy within her, awakening her senses in a way she’d only experienced when in his presence.

Tom’s heart raced beneath her head, a rhythm that echoed through the room. “My instinct tells me,” he began, his voice a low whisper, tinged with a magnetism that sent shivers down her spine, “you’re dangerous.”

His hand lifted gently beneath her chin, guiding her gaze to meet his. He traces her lips with his thumb, slowly, methodically, sensually. “But that makes you all the more enticing,” he whispered, eyes dropping to her lips, radiating with curiosity and desire. 

Prompted by an irresistible pull, Hermione pushed up on her toes, capturing his lips with hers, basking in the flame that raged in response. Tom was ready for her; he embraced her, one hand trailing along her lower back while the other wove through her hair. 

They fed off each other, energy crackling between them, escalating the kiss to new heights. Hermione could feel his tongue exploring deeper, igniting sensations she had never known. A soft moan escaped her lips as she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding her body closer, craving more of him.

Their urgency grew, an undeniable intensity building as his fingers slipped beneath her skirt, claiming the bare skin of her bottom. The connection was electric, euphoric. With every touch, she felt Tom solidifying; the more they merged their magic, the more real he became to her. No longer just a memory, or a fleeting projection from the diary. No, he was here, flesh and blood, embodying everything she had longed for.

Hermione pulled away, her blood pumping quickly, determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past. She had ventured down this path before, given herself to him completely, only to realize it was a one-sided arrangement. If they were to cross this line again, there would need to be a firm agreement: he would have to promise that he would be as much hers as she was his.

“What’s happening?” she breathed, her mind spinning from the intoxicating effects of his affection. But before she could process his response, Tom's lips descended to the hollow of her neck, biting and sucking at her skin, marking her as his. “Tom!” The sound that escaped her lips was just as much of a moan as it was a breathless plea for him to acknowledge her.

“Exactly what you asked for,” he said seductively, pushing her knickers aside. 

Hermione gasped under his touch. 

What had she asked for again? She couldn’t remember when his fingers were teasing her so expertly. 

“Wait,” she said halfheartedly. “We should talk.”

"Soon," he promised, sweeping her up in his arms and towing her toward the bed.

That reassurance was all it took to have her surrendering to the pull of their desire. 

Hermione wrapped her legs around him, submitting to his strength as he carried her across the room. Her hips instinctively pressed against him, feeling the tautness beneath his trousers. It was always like this with Tom, no matter what form he took—whether it was Antonin’s body, his own, or a mere fragment of his soul—his presence called to her, igniting that consuming, desperate need for them to merge into one.

He undressed her slowly, savoring each inch of skin he revealed, his touch lingering as if committing every curve to memory. When she was finally laid bare beneath him, vulnerable and exposed, he paused, his gaze intense and unreadable. For a moment, she held her breath, wondering what he was thinking, why he hesitated. His fingers traced along her collarbone, feather-light, as if exploring something precious, something he couldn’t bear to lose.

“We’ve done this before,” he murmured, as though stating an undeniable truth. Hermione could feel it too—a connection that went beyond memory, beyond flesh. He had been preserved in this fragment, stuck in time, yet somehow, he felt the rightness of their union as deeply as she did. It was as if their souls had danced together countless times, in many lifetimes gone by, each touch, each glance, resonating with déjà vu.

She nodded, beckoning him nearer, her fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, beginning to untuck it from his waist. Her hands moved with a calm urgency, a need to close the distance between them. But when she reached the final button, his hand wrapped over hers, halting her.

“This should feel… unnatural,” he whispered, his breath shallow as he searched her eyes. His fingers trembled over hers, igniting sparks that bridged the gap between their minds, and she could feel a surge of his emotions—his confusion, his wonder, and, beneath it all, a calm serenity.

“We can stop,” she offered gently, sensing the flicker of reluctance in his touch.

Tom’s gaze lingered on her, searching her face, his jaw flexing with nerves. He didn’t move away, but his fingers traced her hand, his touch softening as if grounding himself in her presence.

“No,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with vulnerability. “Don’t stop.”

A warmth spread between them, and she brought her other hand to his cheek, silently reassuring him. Their breaths mingled in the quiet, unspoken promises weaving through the air. She realized then—if they continued, she would claim him just as he’d already claimed her. She didn’t need him to say it. She could feel it in his touch, in the way he held her close, he needed her, like air in his lungs.

Slowly, she kissed him again, pouring her heart into it, letting herself fall further. With him, she wasn’t alone. She was whole—complete in a way that felt significant.

He let her undress him, not just of his clothes but of the walls he’d always kept so carefully guarded. Maybe it was because this version of Tom had only just begun to flirt with the darkness, leaving him softer, more open, willing to grant her freedoms he’d never allowed before. She took the chance to run her hands along his bare skin as he settled over her, determined to etch this moment into her memory—a moment with a Tom who, just for now, made her feel truly seen.

She gasped, low and throaty when he entered her. He laid his head on her shoulder, shivering from the sensation of becoming one, frozen in place by the fear of losing control. She soothed him, her fingers tracing up his back, kneading his muscles, and lightly scratching his scalp, wordlessly assuring him that it was okay to surrender with her. In her arms, he was safe.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, giving into the pleasure and beginning to move inside her. “And your magic. It’s incredible.”

She heated under his praise, clenching her walls in response. 

They fell into sync, finding a rhythm that was their own, taking their time exploring one another. She wanted to live here forever, in this bubble they had created, where nothing and no one else mattered. Each caress, each sigh only deepened their connection, intertwining their souls in a way that felt familiar and exhilarating. She could collapse into him, live inside his skin, be absorbed by his very essence, and it still wouldn’t be close enough. So for the time being, she basked in the moment, appreciating the way his body slid on top of hers.

He took her to the peak of pleasure, jumping by her side when she fell. 

But when she reached the bottom, a cold, hard reality bloomed in her chest. 

Her actions with Tom’s horcrux had consequences, and she was looking at the evidence in front of her. This was no simple spell, no fleeting enchantment. It was as if, by giving herself to him so completely, she’d breathed new life into his fractured soul, granting him a strength he had been stripped of for so long. Tom was no longer an outline; his flesh and blood felt just as real as hers. She had fed his soul with hers, charged his being with her magic, and now she had unknowingly embarked on a path from which there was no return. 

It had taken months for Ginny’s magic to be drained by Tom’s diary, her heart and soul etched into it day after day during Hermione’s second year. And even then, his soul had never manifested as vividly as it did now. Nor had the locket she’d carried on her journey with Harry and Ron—the one that had haunted them all so fiercely. It had never shown the slightest glimmer of what she saw in front of her, despite months of closeness. Perhaps it was because they’d constantly passed it between them, never allowing it to forge a true connection. But, in this case, however, she sensed that her intimacy with Tom had somehow expedited the process. Horcruxes fed off the magic, the lifeforce, of others; yet, if anything, she felt the opposite; she felt empowered. 

The magic thrumming between them filled her with strength, illuminating her spirit. This connection was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a fusion of their energies that made her feel alive and invigorated. She reached out, brushing the back of her hand along his jawline, feeling his pulse beneath her fingertips.

"Do you have any idea what you just did, Hermione?” His smirk was a cold slash of contempt, and in an instant, the warmth between them shattered, replaced by a dark, violent energy. Tom’s eyes flashed with malice as he placed a firm grip over her throat.

It was the final straw. With that one action, something inside Hermione snapped, provoking a rage she had never experienced before. He was about to ruin something that should have been beautiful… again! No longer would she be just another pawn in his game.

Before he could go any further, Hermione summoned her wand, acting on instinct, casting the very spell Tom had once used to bind her. She found it amusing, turning his own darkness against him in retaliation. Ropes materialized, twisting around him, securing him firmly to the bedposts. She slid off the bed, taking in her handy work, impressed with her handiwork as she wrapped herself in her school robes, leaving him completely nude and exposed.

"Let me go," he demanded, a mix of surprise and fury blazing in his eyes as he strained against the bindings. 

Hermione cocked her head to the side, her gaze fixed on his handsome face, a deceiving mask of charm. It was a weapon he wielded expertly, drawing in his prey, luring them to their inevitable end. How many times had she succumbed to his trap? Had she been so lonely, so desperate for connection, that she had lost all her senses? 

"You know, I’m sick of you, Tom," she said, her voice steady with newfound resolve. “Here you are, because I was kind enough to summon you from your bloody book,” Hermione snapped, her voice sharp with indignation as she circled him like a shark. “Friendly enough to feed you with my magic. Generous enough to offer you my body. And you still turn on me.”

“Undo these now, before you regret it,” Tom threatened, his voice low and dangerous, magic crackling at his fingertips in a futile attempt to break free. But he had forgotten one crucial detail—his newfound power was tethered to her, a bond forged through her own magic, and if they were locked in a peculiar struggle for dominance, her magic would remain loyal to her.

“Tsk, tsk,” she replied dryly, suppressing a smile as she easily tempered his chaotic energy. “I think we ought to show you who is really in charge here.”

She broke off two metal details of the bed frame, using her wand to link, reshape and then solder the scrap pieces into a large gold circle. “Have you ever heard of an inhibitor charm?” she asked, a mischievous smile spreading across her face.

His eyes darkened, nostrils flaring in outrage, his response obvious. “Don’t you dare put that on me,” he growled, the threat lacing his words.

Hermione angled her wand deliberately against his hip, pressing just enough to create a shallow cut, allowing a few drops of his blood to bead. She then repeated the action on herself, carefully merging the blood on her fingertip and spreading it over the charm’s metal surface with meticulous precision. 

“Aww, but it’ll look so pretty on you, Tom,” Hermione taunted, turning her wand on the makeshift jewelry. “ Obstruo Magia .” She pronounced each syllable with confidence, repeating the incantation three times. She watched in satisfaction as the letters magically carved themselves into the metal, sealing her intent. 

“Hmmm, now where to put it?” she pondered aloud, her tone dripping with mockery as she trailed her fingers up the inside of his legs, moving from the foot of the bed to the head. Her feather-light touch left him hard and throbbing with need, and she found herself intrigued by the effect she had on him. Apparently Tom enjoyed pain just as much as pleasure. 

“I think I know the perfect spot,” she giggled wickedly. 

His breath was shallow, a telltale sign that he was struggling to hold back his temper, but that only fueled her confidence. She relished the feeling of command washing over her, the power dynamic shifting in her favor. In that moment, she wanted to make him lose himself completely; she wanted him to understand that it was she who was in control here, not him.

Tom shook his head, his lips pinched in disapproval as he watched her climb onto the bed between his legs. “Hermione, no.”

“What happened to ‘don’t stop?’” she feigned a pout, straddling his leg and letting her robe fall open, exposing more of herself to him.

“I said, no.” His tone was firm, but he tried once more to tug at the ropes binding him, an effort that felt increasingly futile.

“Come on, Tommy,” she coaxed, her voice dripping with playful challenge. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll even reward you.”

“I will kill you the second I get out of these bindings,” he hissed, his voice low and threatening, as he strained against the ropes, making his wrists and ankles raw from the relentless friction. The menace in his tone was clear, but there was an underlying current of frustration that only fueled Hermione’s courage.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she said, wiggling her finger back and forth. “Now you’re being a bad boy. And bad boys get punished.” 

She leaned in closer, her breath ghosting over his skin, teasingly close, yet still out of reach. His lips pinched as his eyes watched her every move, clouded with anger and desire. With a playful twirl, she spun the large ring over her index finger, reveling in the control it represented.

Then, using her other hand, she traced delicate patterns over the sensitive area of his pelvis, feeling him tense under her touch. He was rigid everywhere, his body betraying the conflict of pleasure and restraint. Slowly, she slid the metal loop over his length, positioning it at the very base. It tightened around him as its magic activated, squeezing upward, constricting the blood flow in his groin. The spell made it impossible for him to remove without her express permission, so for now, it would serve as a permanent fixture, a reminder of who owned who .

A low groan escaped his lips, and she could feel him twitching, instinctively thrusting against the sensation, seeking friction he couldn't quite attain. The thrill of power coursed through her, igniting a fire of exhilaration as she toyed with him, fully aware of the spell she had woven around them both: her the master, and him her slave.

“Do you like your present, Tom?” Hermione asked with malicious glee. The charm was a type of dark magic that was particularly demeaning, which she deemed fitting. “Say, ‘yes, My Queen,’” she smiled at how the tables had now officially turned. 

Tom's teeth remained clenched, his stubbornness a defiant wall against her taunts. He refused to give her the satisfaction of complying, but she couldn’t help but view it as a challenge. She was determined to make him submit to her will before the night was over—no matter what it took. 

Leaning down, she hovered her mouth tantalizingly close to his cock, watching his expression shift to one of angry fascination as he gripped the bindings that held him captive. The tension in the air crackled between them, and she could feel his desire battling against his pride. She was enjoying every moment of his struggle, savoring the way he fought against the inevitable. 

Her hands massaged his inner thighs, and her breath fanned over him, torturing him with her proximity, yet not giving him what he needed. “You’re squirming, Tom,” Hermione smiled, taking a stab at his ego. “Say the word, and you can have what you want.” 

He shook his head, still unwilling to concede, so she decided to raise the stakes. Her tongue flicked over him tentatively, exploring and mapping out his weak spots with an expert precision. She discovered that he reacted most intensely when she circled the tip of his cock and when she took him deep down her throat. The noises that escaped him were primal, almost animalistic, echoing in the charged atmosphere as she expertly alternated between the two techniques. Each sound fueled her confidence, urging her to push him further into the depths of his want.

She pulled away, popping his cock out of her mouth playfully, relishing the way he melted back into the bed, a picture of unfulfilled yearning. “Well, if there is nothing that you want, I guess I’ll take what I want, then.” A slow smile crept onto her lips as she swung her leg over his hips, settling herself atop him. 

Usually, it was Tom who held control, but this shift had her feeling invincible, her power undeniable. His reaction—a sharp intake of breath, the way he bit down on his lip—made the moment that much more enjoyable. She watched as he shuddered when she brushed herself against him, her slick warmth coating his length as she teased his tip. She held him there, testing his limits, knowing that he was on the edge, helpless beneath her. 

Her voice dripped with amusement, and she traced a slow circle with her hips, keeping him on edge, tantalizingly close yet withholding just enough to drive him mad. "Should I leave you here," she taunted, "wanting and desperate? Your cock hard, your body aching?"

She leaned down, her face inches from his, her breath brushing over his lips. "Should I give you just enough to keep you in this perpetual state of need, Tom? Just to watch you suffer, knowing you're completely at my mercy?"

The gleam in her eyes dared him to respond, but she knew—he was trapped in her power, right where she wanted him.

He shook his head, his eyelids drooping, heavy with lust, fingers gripping the bindings so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Admit it," she murmured, leaning closer until her lips tickled his ear. "You need this. You need me ." Her fingers trailed lightly down his chest, leaving him trembling in their wake. He swallowed, his resistance wavering, a faint groan escaping as her touch continued its tortuous path. 

Her mouth latched onto his neck, teeth grazing his skin as she pleasured herself against him, letting out a low, throaty purr with each movement. Her clit brushed against his pelvis, sending sparks through her body as she increased her rhythm, her breath hot and unrestrained in his ear. All the while, refusing to give him more. 

"I can get there on my own," she murmured, a wicked glint in her eye as she watched his face contort with restrained desire. "With or without you, Tom." Each roll of her hips made her own ecstasy build, her fingers digging into his chest as she took exactly what she wanted, only driven further by his hungry gaze.

“Hermione,” her name on his lips was a plea for more, his hips lifting as far as they could go in his restraints. 

“‘My Queen,’” she corrected, her pace unwavering. 

“My Queen,” he moaned, finally giving in. 

A satisfied smile spread across her lips as she heard him finally surrender, his voice raw with need. "Good boy," she murmured, leaning down to press her lips against his, slow and deliberate, savoring his submission as she finally sunk down on him until he was fully seated inside her.

She straightened, keeping her rhythm steady as she rode him, each movement deliberate, designed to drive him wild while keeping him just shy of the edge. "See, Tom? I can be merciful." Her fingers trailed down his chest, nails scraping lightly, heightening his longing. “All you had to do was ask.”

With each moan, each desperate thrust of his hips, she could feel his resolve crumble further, and she basked in the control, in the way he was entirely at her mercy. "Now," she whispered, her voice dripping with command, "tell me what you need."

“Faster,” he begged. The way he writhed beneath her, eyes half-lidded, breathing ragged, only urged her on, to push him closer to the edge. She wanted him to know that every ounce of pleasure, every shiver and groan, was hers to grant or deny.

Hermione smirked, feeling the sweet power of his surrender. She quickened her movements, giving him exactly what he asked for, her body moving against his with an intoxicating rhythm.

“Like that, Tom?” she teased, her voice low. The charm she created vibrated around him, a steady, constricting reminder of her dominance, and she knew it would be the breaking point. “Or should I stop?” 

He finally exhaled, his pride giving way to something deeper, darker, as he grit out the words, “Yes, My Queen, just like that.”

She came first, pulsing around him, dragging Tom along with her. He shook beneath her, pleasure and defeat coursing through him, leaving him broken and exhausted.

Hermione's smile widened in a rush of triumph. “Remember, Tom," she whispered, leaning down to trail her lips along his jaw. “We could’ve been partners. But now? I own you.” 

Her hand squeezed over his balls where the inhibitor charm acted as a permanent cock ring, siphoning off his magic and leaving him powerless. It was her first attempt at blood magic, and it had been a success. His attempts to overpower her had only led to his submission, and she delighted in the knowledge that she had not just conquered this version of Tom, but that soon she would have the power to conquer all of him.

“You know, funny little thing about horcruxes, Tom,” she said, nipping at his ear with a firm bite. “The second they lose their magical source of power, they become utterly useless.” Her laughter was dry and bitter.

Tom's eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning on him as he registered the full weight of her words. The realization of his predicament washed over him, a mix of disbelief and fury flashing across his features. She was right; without her magic to sustain him, he was left vulnerable and exposed, stripped of the power he had so ruthlessly sought.

“Do you see now?” she continued, her tone derisive and victorious. “You’re at my mercy, and I plan to make the most of it.”

Chapter Text

For nearly a week, Antonin found himself highly strung with anxiety. Each glance from Tom, filled with raw disdain, left him certain that punishment loomed just ahead. Day after day, he braced himself for it, yet each night that passed without incident, left him bewildered. Tom was usually quick to act, never hesitating to discipline his knights with fierce cruelty. It could only mean one thing in Antonin’s mind—Tom was planning something especially treacherous, something down right insidious, and Antonin knew he’d have to be ready whenever it came his way.

Hermione had avoided them both. It was a bittersweet pill to swallow. In one sense, Antonin was glad that she was safely away from Tom's reach. Yet, at the same time, he was undeniably unsettled by her neglect. His dragon side craved her presence; she was the only one who had ever challenged him, pushing the boundaries of his mind in ways he hadn’t known he needed. To Antonin, she was more than just an ally. She was perhaps the first true friend he had made—at Hogwarts or anywhere for that matter—and the emptiness left by her absence was sharper than he’d expected.

Dragons were solitary by nature, and because Antonin had long surrounded himself with others of his own dark temperament, he had never grown particularly close to anyone. Yet Hermione’s light had pierced his midnight landscape, showing him a beauty in the world he’d never thought to look for. Which is why he couldn’t help but seek her out wherever he went, watching her from afar whenever he could, learning her small habits: the way she gnawed at her quill or strode through the corridors with her nose deep in a book. It fascinated him how much it irked Tom, too, seeing Hermione move about the castle with a freedom he could never seem to leash.

Each time she returned from one of her mysterious absences, smelling faintly of sweat and sex, her hair in more disarray than usual, Antonin's interest flared, curiosity painting unbidden images in his mind. What might it be like to be the man at the other end of those excursions? Antonin’s dragon disapproved of his indecent thoughts in regards to Hermione; the bond between a dragon and its chosen wasn’t meant to be inherently carnal, and his inner beast demanded that she was owed the appropriate respect. But Antonin was a man, after all, and when it came to Hermione Granger, his thoughts often turned… hungry.

“Tom has been acting unusual lately, no?” Lestrange asked flippantly, taking a sip of his tea like he hadn’t just risked their lives by gossiping about their leader so nonchalantly.

They lounged in the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere heavy with smoke as Malfoy and Orion passed around a tobacco pipe, sharing whispers that danced just above the crackling firelight.

“Should you be questioning your Lord so openly?” Antonin interjected, a note of caution lacing his words. The whole lot could take as much shit about Tom as they wanted, but Antonin didn’t want to be around when they did. That would make him guilty by association, and he still had an image to uphold—now more than ever. 

Loyalty had always been Dolohov’s defining trait, an unwavering allegiance to Tom Riddle. Yet now, as he navigated his newfound interest in Hermione, that loyalty felt like a mask he wore, concealing his shifting ambitions. The playful games of abuse and torment that once intrigued him had now lost their allure. He recognized that he could delve into the depths of dark magic without being subjected to Tom’s sadistic whims. Instead of being trapped in this cycle of violence and cruelty, Antonin desired knowledge, power, and perhaps the chance to explore a type of magic that was profoundly different. With Hermione, he had unwittingly formed an intimate connection between master and beast. Undoubtedly, she had unleashed more of Antonin’s power in the last few months than Tom had ever been capable of in the years they’d known each other.

“He’s right,” Malfoy agreed with Lastrange. Antonin had never particularly cared for Malfoy, but nonetheless, Malfoy had become a fixture in his life these last several years. In all that time, Antonin had never seen Malfoy so frazzled as he had these past few weeks. He’d grown restless, right alongside Tom, his usually smug composure shattered by Tom’s fixation over a certain witch. Abraxas was accustomed to being Tom’s closest confidant, a title that was currently slipping through his fingers like sand since Hermione’s arrival. “And I think we all know why.”

“You’re just bitter that Hermione is Tom’s new lap dog,” Lestrange chuckled, picking up on Malfoy’s insinuation. Apparently it was clear to everyone that Malfoy wasn’t handling Tom’s interest in Hermione well, not just Antonin. “Let the lad get his knob wet. It’s about time.”

“Must you be so crude?” Orion frowned, crossing one leg over the other, sending a judgemental glance at Lestrange. 

Orion Black was an especially uptight fellow, even for a pureblood, which was ironic since it was no secret that he enjoyed notoriously unsavory forms of pleasure—at least by the standards of mainstream wizards. Antonin didn’t care that Orion was gay; what he did care about was that Orion preferred taking from wizards who were too incapacitated to consent. It was the mark of a weak man, to only exert confidence when there was no danger, no challenge present. Black knew better than to try to drug Antonin, but there were a few unsuspecting Ravenclaws that weren’t so lucky. At least Lestrange didn’t mask his repugnance behind airs of righteousness.

“This is no time for jokes,” Abraxas snapped, his frustration evident. “The witch is distracting him. He actually danced with her at the Slug Club Fall Festival!” His voice took on a note of incredulous horror, as if the act were a personal affront.

“Sad he didn’t ask you, Malfoy?” Dolohov quipped, trying to diffuse the conversation with humor. His dragon was on edge, uneasy at Abraxas’s pointed distaste for Hermione.

“Don’t be such a muppet, Dolohov. I know you’re not used to partaking in intellectual discourse, but a place like the Fall Festival isn’t for dancing. It’s for building necessary connections. Riddle has a vision—one that we all stand behind—and she’s ruining it!” His hand smacked against the armrest in a weak display of fury, barely making a sound against the padded surface. 

Antonin rolled his eyes. 

Malfoy’s were all false bravado on the outside, yet soft and feeble on the inside. If Tom were around, he wouldn’t be so courageous. 

“You’re overthinking it, mate,” Lastrange brushes off all concern. “Remember the first time whats-her-face from Hufflepuff gave you head in fifth year? You fancied yourself in love!” he laughs boisterously, slapping his knee with delight. “Tom’s little crush will fade, and all will be well again.”

“No, it’s not so simple. He even—.”

Tom entered the room, an icy hostility radiating from him. The atmosphere shifted dramatically, the tension palpable. Lestrange's smirk vanished, and Abraxas was abruptly silenced mid-sentence, the air clouded with unspoken fear.

“‘He,’ what, Malfoy?” Tom's voice cut through the silence, laced with menace as his piercing gaze fixed on the group. The commanding presence he exuded demanded attention, and Antonin felt his heart quicken. It had been long since Tom was the ambitious boy they all admired; he had transformed into something far more dangerous. 

“N-nothing, My Lord,” Malfoy blanched under Tom’s antagonistic gaze, his nerve crumbling to dust in an instant.

“I think it’s time we have another meeting,” Tom declared, his tone daring anyone to challenge him. The room held its breath, the tension thickening with every second.

“Half of us are—” Lestrange began, but Tom swiftly raised his hand, silencing him with a single gesture.

“Gather the knights,” he instructed, his calm words conflicting with the malice of his tone. “Meet me at the portal of the chamber in thirty minutes.” The command reverberated in the air, and the boys wasted no time dispersing, Antonin rising to join the herd.

“Dolohov,” Tom called, his voice cutting through the noise. “Come with me.”

Antonin’s heart raced; this was it. 

The moment he had dreaded had finally arrived. Antonin understood that punishment awaited him, and he steeled himself for the inevitable, preparing to endure it in silence. He couldn’t bear to give Tom the satisfaction of breaking him completely. 

He nodded, dutifully, trailing behind Tom like an obedient little sheep. As they moved through the dimly lit corridors, Antonin could feel the weight of the impending confrontation, a storm brewing just out of sight. Each step echoed in his mind, a countdown to the reckoning that awaited him. 

When they arrived at their destination, Antonin knelt on the bathroom floor, the cold tiles pressing against his skin. It was a practiced gesture, one that demonstrated his compliance and offered Tom the display of power he craved to feel secure. As Antonin bowed his head, he cleared his mind of the resentment–the nagging desire—to see Tom brought low, to see him on his knees for once. These were the types of thoughts that could not only land him in serious trouble, but also jeopardize his very life. So, as he had practiced all week, Antonin thought of nothing—the color black, the vast open sky, the air filling his lungs—anything to distract him from his true emotions.

“Do you know why you’re here, Dolohov?” Tom’s interrogation began, his voice cold and probing.

This had become their meeting spot—the bathroom, a mere portal leading to the true destination: the Chamber of Secrets. In the beginning, it had been challenging to plan gatherings without the constant threat of discovery. However, once the whiny witch who always occupied these stalls met her end at the hands of Tom’s loyal creature, it became much easier for them to continue their confidential meetings. What was once a setting of wonder and excitement, a sanctuary where they could release steam and perhaps learn a thing or two, had morphed into a vile place where darkness festered. Here, Tom thrived on the anxiety of his followers, manipulating them into doing his bidding as he used his growing power as a weapon of intimidation.

“Yes,” Antonin admitted, the weight of inevitability settling upon him. He knew Tom would force the memory from him one way or another, so resistance would be pointless.

“And why is that?” Tom asked, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized Antonin more closely.

“Hermione,” Dolohov replied simply, her name hanging heavily between them.

“I’ll give you one chance to explain yourself,” Tom said, his lips pressed tightly together, as if forcing the words from his mouth against his will. “What is it between you and my witch?”

Antonin swallowed hard, carefully considering his words before speaking. It wasn’t lost on him that Tom had deliberately claimed her with his phrasing, and Antonin’s dragon roared inside him at the thought. Tom didn’t deserve someone like Hermione—someone so compassionate, so free spirited, so pure . He would ruin her with his darkness, corrupting her with his depravity and infecting her very soul with his incurable sickness.

“She’s a Mudblood, My Lord,” Antonin stated matter-of-factly, striving to maintain his composure. “You know my thoughts on Mudbloods.”

“And yet, even after learning the truth of her origins,” Tom growled, his tone laced with aggression, “you stopped me from choking the life out of her in the hallway. You opened your door to her in the middle of the night.”

Antonin felt the weight of each accusation bearing down on him. He had known the risks, yet he had still allowed his instincts to guide him, drawn to Hermione in a way that defied logic and reason. In the end, Tom’s wrath was a small price to pay, the need to protect her burning fiercely in his chest.

“Out of loyalty to you, My Lord,” he explained cautiously. “I don’t like her; I told her as much. But I tried—for you—to tolerate her for as long as possible.”

He could feel Tom's gaze piercing through him, searching for any hint of insincerity. Antonin's heart raced as he navigated the precarious balance between truth and deception, desperately trying to placate the dark wizard before him while masking the depths of his own feelings for Hermione.

“Show me,” Tom demanded, looming over him, his presence wreaking of authority. 

“Of course,” Antonin agreed, bowing his head lower. The humiliation of kneeling, the demeaning inquisition, was nothing in comparison to what was about to come. The real torment was only just beginning. 

Tom grabbed his shoulder, digging his fingernails into Antonin’s flesh. His other hand gripped the hair on Antonin’s crown roughly, ripping his head back upright, forcing him to look Tom in the eyes. Antonin hated this type of magic; yes, it hurt to have Tom rip out his memories carelessly, as if he were hacking off chunks of his brain with a machete, but the intrusion of it all—the degradation—was the worst part. 

His recollection of Hermione’s visit rose to the top of his consciousness, like a reel from a magical camera. Each snapshot was vibrant with emotion, a story within a story. Surprise and worry when she knocked on the door; amusement at her blushing, followed by a comfortable peace at her presence. The images flashed more rapidly, as Tom grew impatient, needing to know what happened next. Antonin was angry when Hermione expressed her gratitude, resentful when he tossed her on the floor like a heap of rubbish, hurling countless insults. And then came the damning part. It played in slow motion, Hermione lifting herself from the ground, blood dripping from her temple, livid from Antonin’s treatment. A hand raised, striking him, swift and hard, leaving Antonin swollen with pride for the little brave witch… and undeniably aroused. 

The scene rewound in his head, and then replayed, a closer emphasis on the trickle of red blooming above her brow, and the tightness in Antonin’s trousers. He wanted her. He wanted to take her in his arms, and apologize on the spot. He wanted to bend her over, and express his remorse by worshiping her body. He wanted to get down on his knees—for her—and submit. 

Antonin liked Hermione—maybe even more than liked. 

And now Tom knew it, too. 

A solid fist landed hard on Antonin’s mouth, the impact sending a sharp jolt of pain as blood trickled from around his lip piercings. His head snapped back, startled. Tom had never before resorted to physical blows, always preferring the detachment of magical punishment—it felt more raw this way, more personal. For a moment, Antonin was dazed, the taste of warm iron filling his mouth as he licked the blood off his lip, bracing himself for what more might come. For once, he was unsure of what Tom’s next move would be, but he knew whatever it was, it would hurt. 

“That’s for touching what’s mine ,” Tom said, chest heaving. “Only I have the right to hurt her.”

A second blow slammed into Antonin’s cheekbone, sending a wave of pain rippling through his skull. His vision blurred, darkness edging his sight before clearing again. Tom leaned in close, his voice dripping with contempt.

"And that’s for hiding the truth," he sneered, as if the words themselves were poison on his lips. "She will never be yours."

Tom had raised his wand, casting the Cruciatus Curse over and over, each wave of agony lingering longer than the last. The torment was relentless, breaking him down until he was sprawled across the cold stone floor, trembling, a mess of snot and saliva pooling around him as nausea surged within him. 

When the rest of the Knights arrived, they found Antonin laid out in that shameful, humiliating state, clearly meant to be another key part of Tom’s punishment. Helplessness clawed at him, but Antonin knew it wasn’t yet time to fight back. For now, he would endure this abuse, bide his time, and wait for the perfect moment. He would bring Tom down—he swore it, even as his body betrayed him on the floor—for himself and Hermione. 

“Excellent,” Tom said, his demeanor switching from livid to pleased as he stepped back and admired his work. “You’ve all arrived just in time. Let’s begin.”

The sound of Parseltongue slipping from Tom’s lips always sent a shiver through Antonin. The strange, hissing language was not something meant for human ears; it slithered like a living thing into his mind, wrapping around his nerves, as Tom whispered to the enchanted sink. The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets rumbled open, stone shifting upon stone, echoing ominously in the confined space, until a deep mysterious tunnel was revealed, like the entrance of a snake hole. 

Suddenly, Antonin’s body dragged across the cold stone floor, an invisible magic yanking him along with Tom’s every step. His skin scraped painfully against the rough surface, but he bit back any noise, refusing to give Tom the pleasure of hearing his pain. Behind him, the others trailed at a cautious distance, their faces carefully blank, each mindful to keep in line and avoid drawing Tom’s ire, or they might be at the receiving end of his malice. They walked in silent dread, the weight of Tom's power pressing down on them, a suffocating reminder that none of them were safe from his wrath.

Trudging through the depths of the chamber, they passed remnants of long-decayed prey, skeletal remains littered along the path like grim reminders of the chamber’s deadly history…and Antonin was unlucky enough to be dragged through it all—the filth and the death—as if he were a discarded piece of trash drifting in the wind. 

He was nearly relieved when Tom halted before an ancient vault door. It was covered in serpentine carvings, which slithered to life as Riddle hissed another command in Parseltongue. The door creaked open, releasing a chill that curled through the chamber. Antonin’s gaze shifted uneasily to the center, where the stone floor abruptly ended, breaking off into a sheer drop, a dark canyon stretching into unknowable depths. The faint roar of an underground waterfall echoed up, filling the space with a haunting sound.

“We’re here for two reasons, knights,” Tom announced, his voice echoing ominously through the chamber. “The first: to discuss the rise of Grindelwald. He’s becoming increasingly powerful, a threat to our plight.”

Abraxas Malfoy cleared his throat, a timid attempt to draw Tom's gaze without inciting his wrath.

“You have something to say, Malfoy?” Tom’s eyes darted toward him, a predatory glint sharpening his features.

“M-my Lord, it seems his ideals are somewhat similar to ours.” Malfoy kept his eyes glued to the floor, striving to appear as small as possible. “Perhaps he could be an ally.”

“An ally?” Tom repeated, the word dripping with mockery, a sadistic smile curling on his lips. “Are you starting to be sympathetic to Muggles, dear Malfoy?”

“Of course not, but he’s already exterminating Muggle-born wizards, so perhaps we can convince him that Muggles, altogether, can be eradicated,” Malfoy explained, his voice trembling.

“Does anyone else here want to explain to simple, naive Malfoy why that rubbish plan will never work?” Tom's eyes scanned the room, his expression darkening.

Lestrange stepped forward, executing a slight bow as he awaited Tom’s permission to speak.

“Ah, Lestrange, please, proceed,” Tom said, a sly edge to his voice.

“Grindelwald’s entire platform relies on dominating Muggles, so he has absolutely no intention of eliminating them,” Lestrange clarified dutifully. “He’s only rounding up the Muggle-borns to prevent them from planning an uprising against him in aid of the Muggles.”

“Well said, Lestrange,” Tom clapped patronizingly, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Not to mention, there can only be one Dark Lord to rule all. And that will be me. Unless someone else disagrees?”

The tension in the room thickened, an irrefutable unease settling over the knights. Lestrange took a large step back, slinking away from Tom’s attention, while the others deliberately avoided eye contact, staring at the floor in a clear sign of submission.

“Well then,” Tom continued, his voice smooth yet laced with menace. “Since everyone agrees, it’s decided. We need a plan to extinguish this little issue. Any volunteers?” He directed his gaze straight at Malfoy, his eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing the other boy's resolve.

Malfoy's throat tightened, the pressure of Tom’s stare feeling like a physical weight. He hesitated, the words choking in his throat as he contemplated the implications of volunteering. The room was charged with anticipation, each knight acutely aware that failure to act could lead to dire consequences.

“Y-yes, My Lord,” Malfoy unwillingly complied, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” Tom smirked, a glint of satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “Stay after with me, and we will begin drafting our plans.”

“Of course,” Abraxas agreed, though his tone lacked enthusiasm. The other knights shifted uncomfortably, their expressions a mix of relief and apprehension as they prepared to leave. Antonin could sense the tension radiating off Malfoy as he nodded in resignation, knowing all too well the consequences of failing to meet Tom’s expectations.

“Now, before the rest of you are dismissed, let me discuss the second reason I gathered you here today,” Tom added, his voice taking on a chilling edge. “A reminder of what happens when you displease your Lord.”

The room fell silent, the air heavy with dread as the knights braced themselves. Antonin’s heart raced, instincts flaring as he prepared for whatever dark demonstration was about to unfold. Tom’s gaze swept over the group, lingering just long enough on each face to instill a sense of foreboding.

“I’ll spare Dolohov the shame of explaining how he wronged me, and by extension, wronged you.” Tom said, using magic to force Antonin before the rest. “But in exchange, he’ll endure a… unique punishment. Who here has heard of the fiendfyre bond?” He looked around the room casually, as if he hadn’t just thrown around one of the most extreme forms of dark magic. “Orion?” he called on Black to answer the question. 

Orion squared his shoulders, puffing out his chest as he answered, “Fiendfyre is a magical fire that consumes anything in its path.”

“In its basic form, yes,” Tom nods, relishing in the palpable fear festering in the room. “But to bond it around a living being, allows you to torture them without full destruction.”

Antonin blanched, his stomach dropped through the floor. 

“Watch, as it will burn above the surface of Dolohov’s skin, boiling his blood,” Tom said. 

The knights shifted uncomfortably, casting wary glances at each other. Orion was notably silent now, his initial pride at explaining fiendfyre replaced with an uneasy quiet. No one dared to speak, but their horror was obvious, and Antonin felt his throat close as Tom circled around him, savoring the strain of the atmosphere.

Tom raised his wand, tracing intricate patterns in the air as he muttered incantations under his breath. Antonin braced himself, his mind racing, but there was no escaping this fate. With a final flick, Tom let the spell take shape—a surge of fiery tendrils leapt from his wand and wrapped themselves around Antonin’s limbs, their searing heat agonizing as they wound tighter and tighter. The fire didn’t burn in the traditional sense but seeped under his skin, flooding him with unbearable pain. He would die like this, Antonin thought, writhing uncontrollably, sounds of agony ripping through his throat. 

“H-how long?” Lestrange’s voice was hoarse, his usually playful demeanor long gone. 

“Twenty one minutes and thirteen seconds,” Tom says with a chuckle. It was the exact amount of time Hermione had spent in Antonin’s room. Tom had known, counted. 

“I’ll set the timer.” It was a kindness on Lestrange’s part to offer, risking punishment of his own for taking such liberties without direct instruction. 

The pain gnawed at Antonin, searing and relentless, scorching flesh and saturating the surroundings with the sickening scent of charred skin. His screams, raw and jagged, filled the room, crashing against the walls and sending tremors through the floor. Every nerve was ablaze, as if the earth itself were tearing apart beneath him.

Tom forced his followers to watch, for all of twenty one minutes and thirteen seconds, until Lestrange’s timer clicked off, but when the flames died down, their sudden absence felt just as intense as their presence had. Antonin’s flesh stung with a residual ache, the phantom heat still scorching his nerves. He pressed his palms to the floor, struggling to rise, but his body betrayed him. Every inch was a battle, and the shame of it was nearly as overwhelming as the pain itself.

“Let this be a lesson,” Tom said, his voice cold and commanding. “Disobedience will not be tolerated. You all have a choice: serve me faithfully or face the consequences.”

No one said another word, not so much of a breath could be heard. 

“Now leave,” Tom’s final command left the chamber in absolute silence, his words lingering like the smoke that curled off Antonin’s body. 

The knights moved quickly, slipping past him without a second glance, unwilling to risk Tom’s wrath by acknowledging their comrade’s suffering. Antonin lay on the stone floor, his muscles trembling uncontrollably, the seared pain still pulsing under his skin, each throb a cruel echo of the time Hermione had spent with him.

Behind him, he could hear Tom addressing Malfoy in a cold, clipped tone. What would Tom demand of him now? The thought barely registered in Antonin’s fogged mind as he staggered to his feet, his limbs leaden, dragging himself inch by inch toward the chamber’s exit. This pain was only the beginning; Antonin knew he’d have to wear it like a scar, a mark of Tom’s claim on him. Yet, beneath the humiliation and agony, a spark of defiance simmered. His heart hardened with each painful step, and he clenched his fists, a single, bitter thought keeping him moving: One day, the tables would turn.

Chapter Text

Hermione was confused. She was in a dark, cold, room, with an eerie fog that nipped at her ankles. Her breath hitched, every instinct on edge. Was she in the right place? Or had she mistakenly picked the wrong door? No, this had to be right. It didn’t make sense for this space to belong to anyone but him, especially given the intricate dragon carving that guarded the portal. 

Her mind was racing, but one thought cut through the unease: Antonin. She needed to find him—needed to understand what he had overheard in the hallway that afternoon, when Tom had her pinned in the hallway, his hand wound tight around her throat. Her pulse quickened at the memory, the phantom ache still fresh on her skin. 

And yet, against all reason, a small glimmer of hope clung stubbornly to her. Antonin had saved her—distracted Tom when she had been on the brink of blacking out—even after learning the truth of her blood status. Could that act have meant something more? Could he, in this nest of serpents, somehow continue to be an ally?

She didn’t know, but she had to try. 

“Scared, Hermione?” Antonin’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, its familiar playfulness washing over her like a balm. Though his tone teased, it also carried a peculiar warmth—a reassurance that her presence, despite the late hour and the risk it posed, wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

Her nerves began to settle, the tension in her shoulders easing as her feet carried her closer toward him. The fog seemed less ominous now, the darkness less suffocating. While her mind whispered caution, warning her against trusting anyone so easily—especially so soon after her misplaced trust in Tom—her heart betrayed her. In Antonin’s presence, she felt an inexplicable sense of safety.

When Hermione turned the corner, her breath hitched, and her hand flew to her mouth in a startled reflex. She hadn’t expected to find Antonin so... comfortable. He lounged casually on his bed, his tone, lean frame on display in an air of nonchalance. He was shirtless. His pale skin glinted faintly in the dim light, and his pajama pants hung low on his hips, doing very little to maintain propriety between the two.

For a moment, she was frozen, caught off guard by the unexpected intimacy of the scene. It wasn’t fear that rooted her to the spot, but something far more confusing, something she couldn’t name but burned hot beneath her skin.

"You should be scared," Antonin said, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he leaned back further, resting his hands behind his head in a display of deliberate ease. The posture only emphasized his carefree temperament; he owned the room including every moment unfolding within it. His dark eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and warning. "You shouldn’t be here."

The words hung in the air, laced with playful menace, but not enough to drive her away. If anything, his tone dared her to stay. Dared her to cross the invisible line drawn between them. It was a challenge, one that sent a spark through her. Antonin’s words carried a double-edged meaning—a warning and an invitation.

Hermione squared her shoulders, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. "Why's that?" she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in her chest.

"You know why," Antonin chuckled darkly, a shadow of danger flickering in his expression. "Did you decide you want me dead?"

"I thought I could count on you," Hermione said, crossing her arms, her voice steadier now as she reminded him of the promise he'd made. In truth, she wouldn’t blame him if he wanted nothing to do with her now that he fully understood the consequences of being associated with her. Her connection with Tom was perilous enough, but the revelation of her blood status only increased the risk. It was a lose-lose situation to be her friend, and deep down, she knew it.

His grin faltered, replaced by an expression of earnest concern. "How can I help you, Hermione?" he asked, his tone softening as he slid off the bed. He grabbed a robe, loosely draping it around his shoulders, and took a few steps closer. Though he kept a respectable distance, she found herself wishing he wouldn’t.

Her cheeks burned, the heat creeping down her neck, and she cursed the unwelcome thought. Where had that come from? She had never considered Antonin as more than a friend, but now, with him standing before her like this, she couldn’t ignore how attractive he was. It didn’t help that her mind often drifted to a certain moment by the Blake Lake. While it might not have been him who she sacrificed her virginity to, it was certainly his body—his lips—that had her panting and writhing in a sweaty mess of emotions, which was clearly what had the spot between her thighs so confused at the moment. 

"Ehm," Hermione cleared her throat, trying to push through the awkwardness. "Sorry to catch you by surprise."

She had lived this moment before. Antonin would make a joke about knowing it was her, but wanting to see her reaction, and she would swat at his arm even though she was secretly pleased with his flirtation. Shortly after, she’d find herself distracted by the acromantula he secretly kept as a pet, its presence equal parts unsettling and fascinating. It was as if she knew what would happen seconds before the scene played out. 

Each moment that passed only served to solidify what Hermione had suspected all along: Antonin wasn’t the irredeemable villain she had initially pigeonholed him as. No, he was complicated—someone who, like her, sought validation and acceptance in a world that often demanded conformity. This was the moment when it dawned on her, more now than ever, how precariously he balanced on the edge of two paths. The people he surrounded himself with, the choices he made—they would either nurture him toward something greater or cement him in the shadows.

Every word, ever feeling, it was all too familiar, like a move she had watched before, up until their conversation grew heated. 

“Do you hate me now?” Hermione’s voice wavered as she posed the question, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. She didn’t dare look up, afraid of the answer she might see in his eyes. Deep down, she didn’t think he hated her—not truly—but the doubt gnawed at her all the same.  

Hermione was met with silence as Antonin stared at her with an indecipherable look, so she continued. “Because I’m a muggleborn?” She took a few steps away from him as the weight of her vulnerability became too much, intentionally placing a distance between them. He did the same, retreating back to his bed to make himself comfortable again. 

Antonin’s voice carried a dry amusement, but there was something searching in the way his gaze lingered on her. “You care if I hate you, Hermione? And why would you care what I think?” He let out a humorless laugh, his tone sharp but not cruel, as if testing her. His posture was relaxed, though the robe draped loosely over him only served to emphasize the defined musculature beneath. Each word he spoke seemed to draw attention to the subtle shifts of his body, the flex of muscle, the quiet intensity that surrounded him.

Hermione swallowed hard, perched stiffly on the edge of his bed. She felt exposed, fragile, and yet she didn’t shy away. “We’re friends,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Admitting it felt like peeling back a layer of armor. “It’s only natural for one to care about what their friends think.”

But as she tried to remember what happened next, something was wrong—a ripple at the edges of her awareness made it hard to stay anchored, and the entire scene nearly faded away. Ithe next frame, before it could dissolve into static. She clung to the clarity, desperate for the scene to unfold as it had before, even as a faint sense of wrongness tugged at the edges of her mind. Something didn’t quite fit, as though the memory was straining against the weight of her intrusion. Yet she couldn’t let go—not now, not when she needed to know how it ended. 

Antonin scoffed, though his expression softened into something more complicated—a sad smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He rose slowly, a predator’s grace in the way he moved toward her, his shadow falling over her as he stalked her way. “You want to know what I think?” he murmured, his voice low and edged with resentment.

Hermione's eyes shut tightly, bracing herself for the sting she knew was coming. Her nerves frayed at the edges, her chest tightening with anticipation of his rejection. She could already hear the venom in his voice as he cast her aside, the serpent reminding her she would never belong. She remembered the moment vividly, the crushing weight of his dismissal—but it never came.

Instead, she felt the warmth of his hand under her chin, his thumb grazing her cheek with a tenderness she hadn't expected. Gooseflesh rippled across her skin, and her eyes snapped open in shock. He was too close, far closer than he should be, his breath brushing against her lips. The tension between them thickened, the proximity between them more perilous than anything she had anticipated.

“I think…you’re brilliant,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

The words stunned her, dissolving the knot in her chest. They weren’t the rejection she had prepared for—they were the opposite. Relief and quiet triumph spread within her. Her Antonin—sweet, loyal Antonin—had chosen her, accepted her, despite the weight of his lineage, his alliances, and the expectations of a world that had already condemned her.

“I think you’re courageous,” Antonin whispered, his voice low and reverent as his hand cradled her face with gentle firmness.

Her fingers instinctively curled around his wrist, holding him in place, grounding herself in the warmth of his touch. She leaned into it, her armor softening as her heart swelled. Despite everything—his upbringing in a country that condemned people like her simply for their blood status, the harsh ideologies forced upon him in his formative years—Antonin saw her. Not her lineage, not her ranking in society, but her.

Her throat tightened, a lump forming as she swallowed back tears. His words struck her deeply, unraveling the walls she had so carefully built to protect herself.

“You’re too good for this world, Hermione,” he continued, his tone filled with quiet anguish. “And you deserve better. You deserve better than to live in fear. You deserve better than to be dragged into Tom’s rubbish. YYou deserve better than to risk everything—your safety, your sanity—just to see me and ask me what I think of you.”

His forehead lowered to hers, a tender intimacy in the way his nose brushed against hers. The contact was electric, a delicate charge in the air that left her breathless. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. His lips hovered just above hers, close enough that her breath hitched, the tension between them thick with unspoken longing. 

Every nerve in her body screamed for her to close the distance, to give in to the moment, and she“But I’m so glad you are,” he added with a soft chuckle, his eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the closeness between them. The moment felt impossibly tender, the kind of vulnerability that left her breathless.

Hermione’s heart was at war with itself. One part of her craved this—wanted Antonin to close the gap, to claim her with a kiss that would prove she was wanted, that she could carve out a place in this timeline by his side. But guilt clawed at her, sharp and relentless. Yes, she was furious with Tom, and he didn’t deserve a second thought from her, but the idea of seeking comfort in anyone else felt… wrong. And yet, the pull toward Antonin was undeniable, overwhelming.

“Kiss me,” she murmured, the words slipping out like a plea. She wasn’t sure if she had spoken them aloud until she saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes, followed by something deeper—something that made her knees weak. She needed this. Needed him. To feel his warmth. To know that this Antonin, the real Antonin, could anchor her in the chaos.

"We shouldn’t, Hermione," Antonin responded softly, the words barely audible, his breaths ragged. Yet, he didn’t pull away. His proximity lingered, his resolve wavering as his lips hovered just a breath away from hers. His desire for her was unmistakable, apparent in the tension of his jaw and the flicker of hesitation in his dark eyes. But she could feel it—his instinct to protect her battling fiercely with the longing that sparked between them.

"I don’t care," she said, her voice sharp and resolute, the words spilling out before she could second-guess herself. In a rush of desperation, she pulled him to her, capturing his mouth with hers in a fervent kiss.

His lips were soft, but his kiss was anything but. It was hard, raw, and full of a yearning that sent shivers down her spine. There was no hesitation, no restraint now that they had reached the point of no return, just the intensity of their shared recklessness. Hermione knew this was a line they shouldn’t cross, but at that moment, she didn’t care about rules or consequences. Whatever came next would be worth it—worth feeling this alive, worth being seen, worth being wanted.

Antonin’s tongue slipped past her lips, tickling hers expertly with his piercing. She moaned, a sound she couldn’t suppress, as a delicious ache built inside her. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, her mind wandering to that tongue ring and the sinful possibilities it suggested.

He nipped at her bottom lip, the cool metal of his piercings teasing her and sending a chill cascading down her spine. The kiss was intoxicating, his intensity sweeping her away until she was gripping him tightly, her arms looped around his neck, her body molding against his. She pressed her chest to his, seeking more, drowning in the way his hands explored her back before tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. His fingers gripped her there possessively, pulling just firm enough to make her gasp.

And just like that, her stomach sank. The kiss, as thrilling and consuming as it was, came with an anchor of reality. She broke away, her breathing erratic as she took a step back, the high of the moment crashing down on her.

There was only one wizard—no matter the timeline, no matter how intense this moment with Antonin had been—who truly held her heart. As incredible as this was, he wasn’t the one that called to her soul. She and Antonin had both betrayed Tom, and even as she told herself it was Tom who had driven her into this, the sting of Tom’s rejection cut through her anew.

Antonin’s gaze searched hers, his expression caught between satisfaction and confusion, but she couldn’t let herself linger in his arms any longer. Tom had pushed her away, and refused to let her in. And yet, it didn’t change the truth—she still belonged to Tom. She always had. She always would.

"Forgive me, Hermione," Antonin murmured, pulling her closer once again, his face buried in her neck. His breath was rapid, his chest rising and falling, clearly affected by the moment they shared. 

She could feel it—the shame that radiated off him in waves, almost suffocating in its intensity. And it was her fault. Hermione couldn’t deny that she was still thinking of Tom, still mourning what she had lost with him while clinging to Antonin, who could feel her thoughts as loud as day. The guilt that churned within her only deepened, twisting her insides into knots. Antonin wasn’t the one that needed to be pleading for forgiveness—she was. 

“Forgive me,” Antonin repeated, his voice strained, and before Hermione could comfort him or offer any sort of reassurance, he cut her off.

“For wha—” she began to speak, but they were never allowed to leave her lips.

" Obliviate ."

The spell was clumsy, the words not fully formed, but its impact was undeniable. The magic cracked against her mind, searing through her like fire licking the edge of paper, erasing the last remnants of their shared moments. Every feeling, every sensation, every fragment of her thoughts about what had just passed between them—gone.

The burn of the spell left a cold, hollow void in its wake, and for a moment, Hermione didn’t know where she was. What had happened? Why did everything feel so… distant?

Suddenly, everything seemed to unfold in reverse, as if the universe had decided to rewind their entire conversation. The moments played out in fast-forward then pulled back, each action reversing its course until she found herself standing before Antonin once more, her breath caught in her throat, waiting for his response. She needed his validation, needed to know whether their friendship was still intact, whether his view of her had changed so drastically after the revelation of her blood status. She couldn’t breathe under the weight of the uncertainty, every second of silence stretching out, feeding the flickering hope she’d tried to protect from the harsh winds of reality. But that hope was fading—dimmed with every heartbeat that passed without a word.

“We’re friends,” she said quietly, her voice betraying her uncertainty. The words slipped from her mouth, but they felt hollow—like a half-truth she was forcing herself to believe. “It’s only natural for one to care about what their friends think.” The words seemed almost rehearsed, familiar. Had she said them before?

The unease twisting in her stomach grew, spreading outwards like an illness until it seeped into her entire being, poisoning her thoughts, her heart. Antonin’s eyes—those eyes she once trusted—turned cold, hard, and distant, a look she hadn’t seen for a long time, a look that reminded her all too well of the deadly venom he had aimed at her during their confrontation in the Department of Mysteries. The same look, the same expression, now cast toward her, and in that moment, she knew. The discovery of her blood status had changed everything between them.

“You want to know what I think?” His voice dripped with venom. “I think… you don’t belong here. In Slytherin. At Hogwarts. Your mere existence disgusts me, Hermione.” Antonin's words struck like a physical blow, and Hermione felt the sting deep within her chest. His smile was cruel, twisted with an almost malicious pleasure as he spoke.

Antonin didn’t just hate her. 

He wanted her gone, eradicated from this world.

He wanted her dead. 

Hermione’s mouth went dry, her eyes brimming with tears. She expected this kind of reaction. How could she not? In the 1990’s she had experienced a lifetime of prejudice, but in the 1940’s? People like her were being exterminated, just for their blood status. Hermione was just another mark for the world to erase. In Antonin’s country, her very existence was an offense, a reason to be killed, discarded, and extinguished from the world’s memory.

It only made sense for Antonin to feel this way. He had been raised in a world that taught him to loathe everything she represented, to despise her very essence. She couldn’t even blame him, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. She had expected more.

“Has so much changed all because of my blood status?” she asked, as she fought to maintain her composure. Hermione stood tall. She was done with being pushed around by people like him, and by anyone who thought they could diminish her for something she had no control over. “You said you would be here for me.”

Antonin's gripped onto her hair, yanking her backward toward the door. Hermione’s scalp burned with the force of his pull, and her body trembled as she fought to maintain her balance. He wasn’t going to give her the space she needed, not when she refused to move on her own.

“Stay away from me,” he spat, his words laced with malice, each syllable cutting deeper than the last. The pain from his fingers tightening in her hair intensified as he tugged harder. “Stay away from Tom. You’re unfit to breathe the same air as us, and everyone else in the Slytherin house.”

She didn’t cry out in pain, but the sting inside her was worse than any physical blow. Hermione pushed back against his chest, refusing to let him break her. His cruelty wasn’t going to get the best of her—not this time. No, this time, she was done. Done with him. Done with the false promises and the lies. Just like Tom had done, Antonin had let her down. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt, trusted him, and now she was left with nothing but betrayal.

“That is what I think of you. Do you understand?” His words were cruel and cold, as if she hadn’t already suffered enough. Before she could respond, she was shoved backwards with a sudden force. She tripped, her body crashing to the stone floor with an unceremonious thud. The impact rattled her skull, sending a sharp pain shooting through her head. Blood trickled over her brow where a small cut had formed. 

The air seemed to still for a moment. Antonin’s eyes widened in shock, but Hermione didn’t care. She could see the confusion, the guilt in his gaze, but it didn’t matter anymore. The hurt he caused was too deep, the wound too fresh to care. She lay there, in the mess of pain and blood, knowing that this was the end. He had done what he set out to do—turned her against him completely.

Antonin’s eyes flashed, a dangerous yellow glow piercing through the calm facade. A feral snarl twisted his lips as his voice became a low, guttural growl. “Get the fuck out.” The words were laced with fury, raw and inhuman, as if something dark inside him was clawing to break free. 

Finally, something they could agree on…

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she bolted upright, her heart pounding in a panic. 

Where was she? 

Her eyes moved frantically for a second, until they settled on the familiar walls of the Room of Requirement. Tom's Horcrux lay beside her, his dark green eyes glimmering with a wicked gleam, studying her with unnerving focus.

What had just happened? 

Her fingers instinctively reached to her forehead, expecting to find it damp or stained with blood. But when she pulled her hand back, there was nothing—no blood, no crimson to mark the violence of the scene that had just played in her mind. Just the slight moisture of sweat from the remnants of the nightmare.

It was only a dream. An oddly realistic, extremely questionable dream. Her breathing began to slow as the panic slowly dissolved, but there was an uncomfortable nagging feeling she couldn’t shake. The lines between dream and reality had been too blurred. What had she really experienced? 

“I fell asleep?” 

“You tend to wear yourself out when you’re around me,” the Horcrux’s voice cut through her thoughts, smooth and dripping with satisfaction. “If I were in my human form, I imagine I’d be just as tired.” 

The room felt stifling as Hermione’s fingers curled around herself, her thoughts swirling with uncertainty.

Yes, Hermione remembered now. She had returned to the Horcrux after class, just as she had been doing the past week. It had become her refuge, the one constant in her life as she distanced herself from everyone else—Tom, Antonin, and the rest of the world she couldn’t bear to face. But in seeking solace, she had found herself teetering on the edge of something dangerous. The Horcrux, in its dark, sinister way, had begun to influence her thoughts, her actions, until she crossed lines she knew she shouldn’t have. Which is how she ended up using his ethereal body… twice… before passing out in the middle of the day. And now, in the aftermath, she could barely distinguish the true nature of her feelings or actions from the haze of confusion clouding her mind.

“Tom, if someone obliviates you, is it possible to eventually remember?” She was afraid of the answer, afraid that whatever had just played out in her mind wasn’t a dream after all. Or perhaps the constant proximity to the Horcrux was simply driving her mad. 

The Horcrux's frown deepened as he responded, his voice dripping with that same calculated indifference. “I suppose, if the person who casts the spell is truly incompetent,” he mused, his words cool but tinged with a hint of something darker. “Or if, perhaps, their decision wavered as it was cast. Memory manipulation is never an exact science, Hermione. Why, what’s wrong?”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, but quickly regained her composure. "Oh, nothing," Hermione replied too quickly, her voice sharp with the forced lightness of someone desperately trying to mask the nagging worry pressing on their mind. She smiled, a thin, hollow thing. "I think I need to eat something though. I’m a bit light-headed."

The lie sat heavily in the air between them. She wasn’t hungry. In fact, she had no appetite at all. The vivid, haunting fragments of her dream—or memory—about Antonin had twisted her insides into knots, leaving her lost in a fog of confusion. She could feel the implication of those images still pressing on her chest, and yet, she couldn't bring herself to confide in Tom’s Horcrux about it. Something about the Horcrux's presence, the way it resembled Tom yet wasn’t him, made her wary. She didn’t want to feed into whatever strange attachment it might be forming.

The Horcrux didn’t let it go. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with subtle suspicion. "I would get you something," he said, his frown only deepening. "If you let me beyond these walls."

Hermione scoffed, the sound sharp and biting. "Yeah," she said, rolling her eyes. "The first thing you’d do if you gained your freedom would be to feed me."

She could feel his gaze on her, intense and unwavering, as his eyes narrowed further, his lips curling in the familiar way they did whenever her words displeased him. It didn’t matter that he was technically a fragment of Tom’s soul—his presence, his power, still affected her, just as Tom did. He wasn’t Tom, yet he was so like him in so many ways.

“I’ll be waiting for you when you get back,” he sighed, as if nothing had changed, his voice heavy with a hint of something that might have been impatience. The moment felt almost too intimate as his fingers moved without hesitation, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger with that practiced ease.

“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, giving him a soft kiss before tumbling out of bed and heading for the door. 

The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, its dark, sprawling trees creating an intimidating yet oddly inviting backdrop. In the past, Hermione had kept her distance from the forest, always wary of the dangers it hid. But now, there was something soothing about it. The melody of the wind rustling through the trees, the chirping of birds high in the branches, and the soft buzz of insects weaving through the underbrush—it was all strangely calming. It was as though the forest, with all its mysteries, had become a sanctuary of sorts for her troubled mind.

She had resorted to foraging her own food the last seven days, ever since the last incident in the Dining Hall. And although the activity should trigger bad memories—of a past on the run—it became a time for her to reflect. Bilberries had become her go-to snack, easily found and rich in nutrients, but today she was on the search for something more substantial. 

When her eyes caught sight of a cluster of mushrooms, her heart gave a small, triumphant leap. They looked safe enough to eat—no toxic markings or signs to suggest danger. It wasn’t meat, but it was close enough. Unfortunately, her glee didn’t last long. Without the distraction of a task, her success was quickly overshadowed by the nagging thoughts that had begun to surface again.

Antonin. His face. His words. The scene of him performing the Obliviate spell on her, the way he had seemed torn, like he was doing it out of some twisted sense of care. Could it be true? Was it truly for her protection? Or was her mind creating a story, a convenient lie to explain away his cruelty, to make it bearable? Her heart wanted to believe in the kindness he had shown her, the tenderness hidden behind his rough exterior. But her mind—the one that had spent years learning to analyze and assess—warned her to stay cautious, to keep her guard up.

In the end, her heart won the fight, already seeming to have made its decision. It had already forgiven him. Maybe it was foolish, but there was something about the way he had looked at her, something that made her hope that what she saw in his eyes was real. 

But then again, she had been wrong before. She had been wrong about Tom. Her chest tightened at the thought. Would she be wrong again? Would her heart lead her astray, blinded by a need for affection that had become so scarce in her life?

Hermione pushed the worries away, focusing again on the mushrooms she was collecting, a temporary distraction from the storm raging inside her. One step at a time. She couldn’t afford to get ahead of herself, not yet. She would figure it all out. Eventually.

Suddenly, a pained, inhuman groan broke through the forest’s otherwise peaceful atmosphere, sending a shiver down Hermione’s spine. It was quickly followed by another, more desperate, more agonizing. The sound was unmistakable, raw with suffering, and though her instincts screamed at her to stay away, she couldn't find it in herself to ignore its pleas. The calls pulled at something deep inside her, compelling her to move toward the noise.

"Not here..." The moan was faint, a whisper carried by the wind, but it was enough to stop Hermione in her tracks. "Not... yet."

She froze. Her blood ran cold as recognition hit her all at once.

Antonin.

She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. She simply ran, her heart pounding as she pushed herself through the underbrush, desperate to reach him. In mere moments, she found him, crumpled on the forest floor, writhing in agony. His body trembled with pain, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as she dropped to her knees beside him. The mushrooms she had gathered lay scattered, forgotten, as her entire focus shifted to the man before her.

His face was twisted in pain, his once playful self reduced to a vulnerable heap on the forest floor. She reached for him cautiously, brushing the damp strands of hair away from his forehead with a gentleness that felt foreign in the moment.

Antonin was burning up—his skin was impossibly hot, as if a fever had overtaken him in an instant. She could feel the heat radiating off him, even from a distance. She pressed her hand against his forehead, her palm aching with how blistering his skin was to the touch.

His body was marked with burns, the angry, red patches of his skin telling the story of some brutal spell or curse. Her gaze drifted to his lips, pale and bloodied, and then to the purple bruise blooming across his cheek. It was unmistakable—the evidence of Tom's dark magic. The cruelty of it was palpable, the lingering aura of Tom’s presence like a suffocating weight in the air around them.

Hermione’s heart clenched painfully.

This was Tom’s doing. The same Tom who had abandoned her, rejected her, and now… now he was tormenting Antonin in a way that felt so cruel, so personal. She could feel the remnants of Tom's magic hovering in the air around Antonin, mocking her—proudly flaunting his power, his dark, depraved capabilities.

She knew she shouldn’t interfere, but how could she not? 

"You’re here," Antonin managed to rasp, his voice hoarse with pain, but there was an unmistakable glimmer of relief in his eyes. He stared at her, almost in disbelief. "He led me to you."

He?

She didn’t know what “he” Antonin was talking about, but she needed to help him. Any questions of his potential wrongdoings faded away. She didn’t know what was happening, or what truly happened the last she spoke to him—but it didn’t matter. 

The only thing she cared about was making sure Antonin was okay.

Chapter Text

Stumbling through the corridors, Antonin’s vision swam, his surroundings blurring as if he was looking through fractured glass. The pain clawed at him from the inside, raw and insistent, each step like a blade pressing deeper into his skin. His dragon was awakening—no, it was fighting him—its profound rage mixing with his own, amplifying the pain until he felt his very bones bending in response.

Desperation clawed at him as his breath came shallow, erratic. He needed air, space, something to cool the burning that felt like it would rip him apart from the inside out. He stumbled his way through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, his hands clutching at the stone walls, his nails scraping against the rough surface, trying to ground himself.

Finally, he pushed through the castle doors and staggered out into the early night, collapsing onto the cool grass. His skin prickled painfully against the chill of the earth, but the sensation was grounding. His dragon surged within him, thrashing, its power surging through him in sharp, unpredictable hits. He bit down hard, stifling a groan as he fought to hold it back.

“Not here,” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. He knew that if he let the dragon take over in plain sight, Tom would hear of it. But it was relentless, the creature demanding release after being forced to endure Tom's torturous magic. It clawed at his chest, leaving Antonin struggling, his knuckles white as he dug his fingers into the grass.

“Not... yet,” he choked, his voice a fierce whisper. But even as he said it, he knew it wouldn’t hold back for long. His body quaked with the effort, and with a final surge of resolve, he let his cheek press against the damp grass, forcing himself to focus on gaining stability. 

Hermione. 

Antonin’s mind circled with a single, consuming thought: he needed Hermione. Instinct told him she could coach him through the pain. Yet the brutal reality of their fractured relationship cut through him just as sharply—she was gone, and after all he'd done, he doubted she would ever offer him a second glance, let alone provide the mercy he so desperately craved.

A low, frustrated growl escaped his lips as he stumbled forward, his intuition driving him closer to the shadows of the Forbidden Forest. If she couldn’t be near, then he needed to disappear, to hide himself before the beast took control in a way that couldn’t be undone. The forest’s heavy canopy loomed in front of him, a welcome cloak for his shame and pain. Here, perhaps, he could contain his fury without harming anyone else—or, at least, avoid Tom's watchful eyes.

His breaths came fast, shallow, his heart hammering in sync with the wild beast inside him. He leaned against a towering tree, fighting the urge to transform, his fingers digging into the rough bark as he clenched his eyes shut. The forest was silent save for the rustle of leaves, and for a moment, he let his mind wander to the brief moments he had spent with her—Hermione’s laugh, the way her eyes brightened when she challenged him with her wit. But he could already feel those memories slipping through his grasp, a luxury he knew he could no longer afford. He had thrown it all away, and with it, the only solace he had. And still, he would do it all again—alter her memory, become the villain—all to keep her safe.

The forest creaked around him, almost as if it shared in his suffering. And so he stayed, locked in his private torment, his body pressed against the earth as he fought this inner battle alone.

But then, he heard her—a familiar gasp that cut through the haze of his anguish. The sound was like a lifeline, pulling him from the depths of despair. He turned slightly, and there she was, Hermione, kneeling beside him, brushing the damp strands of hair away from his forehead with a tender touch. As she did, a trail of wild mushrooms scattered behind her, evidence of her foraging in the forest. 

What was she doing here? 

His dragon howled in recognition, and for the first time since Tom’s punishment, Antonin felt a flicker of hope.

“You’re here,” he managed to rasp, groaning through the misery—the torture suddenly feeling so much more bearable. “He led me to you.”

“Tell me what to do. How can I help?” she asked, her voice filled with concern as she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. “You’re burning up!”

Her touch sent a shiver down his spine, the cool of her skin notably contrasting with the fever coursing through him. Antonin could see the worry etched in her features, and it was both a balm and a dagger to his heart. She still cared for him enough to fret over his well-being, despite his sins against her.

“Did Tom do this?” she asked anxiously as she lightly dabbed his lip with her sleeve to stop the bleeding.  

“Doesn’t… matter…” he replied. Nothing mattered except for the fact that she was here with him, even though he didn’t deserve her company.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong, Antonin?” She stroked his hair again, calming both him and herself as she tried to find a way to help. 

“I—” Antonin struggled to speak, each word a battle against the ache radiating through him. “I-I think I’m shifting.”

Her brows knit together, confusion flickering in her eyes. “Shifting? What do you mean?”

“My dragon,” Antonin wheezed, the words spilling out in a strained rush. “He wants out, but I—I…” A sharp moan escaped him as he clutched at his aching bones, the fire inside him clawing for release. “I don’t know how.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as the gravity of his words sank in. “Antonin, you need to focus,” she urged, her voice steady and composed. “Remember what I taught you about transfiguration. It’s just like that. Visualize your dragon,” she said softly. “Close your eyes,” she encouraged him, brushing her finger tips against his eyelids, soothing him. “Can you see him?”

Antonin followed her gentle command, searching his mind for his dragon until he felt the connection. 

“I see him,” Antonin nodded, already feeling more relaxed despite the physical pain. 

His beast was a Hungarian Horntail, its black scales glistened like polished obsidian, shimmering in the fading light, while razor-like horns jutted menacingly from its head, framing its fierce, glowing golden eyes that seemed to pierce through the darkness. 

“Good, follow that feeling,” Hermione guided him, her voice a lifeline amid the chaos. “Let him take over; feel his strength in your magic.”

He screamed, a primal sound of agony and exhilaration, as his bones dislocated themselves, reshaping and reforming with a sickening crack. The sensation was both excruciating and liberating; he could feel the energy coursing through him like wildfire, every nerve ending alight with a new power. His body stretched, the air around him charged with raw magic. He was growing bigger, expanding beyond his human limitations, his skin hardening into a collage of iridescent scales that shimmered in the fading light of the forest. Each shift brought a cascade of animalistic instinct crashing over him, urging him to embrace the beast fully.

“Breathe,” Hermione urged, her voice slicing through the haze. “You’re in control. You are stronger than the pain!”

With every breath, he believed in himself more and more. He was Antonin Dolohov, not just a beast, and he could do this—he was born for this. His dragon’s fire flickered within him in acknowledgement, waiting for the moment to ignite.

As the transformation continued, Antonin’s senses sharpened; the world around him became a vivid tapestry of sights and sounds. He could hear the whispering leaves, the rustle of small creatures in the underbrush, and most importantly, Hermione’s heartbeat steady and strong.

“Almost there,” she encouraged, her eyes wide but filled with awe rather than fear. “You can do this, Antonin. Let the dragon out. Let him be free!”

With one final roar of agony and triumph, he embraced the change, allowing the dragon within to fully surface. An electric energy coursed through him as he felt the last remnants of his humanity give way, transforming into a magnificent creature of strength and majesty, barely concealed by treetops of the forest. His muscles coiled and tightened beneath his scaled exterior. He felt powerful—terrifyingly so—and yet, the tether to Hermione grounded him, reminding him of the connection they shared. 

The transformation was complete.

He stood before Hermione—a gigantic dragon, scales glistening like precious gems in the twilight, his muscular body rippled with strength. A long, sinuous tail flicked behind him, while massive bat-like wings unfurled with a thunderous whoosh, casting a shadow over the ground as they spread wide, as if he were ready to take flight. 

And then, he focused on her, the woman who had been his anchor, the one who had guided him through the storm. With a deep, rumbling growl, he bowed his massive head toward her, acknowledging her as his ally, his confidant, his master.

“Merlin,” Hermione whispered in wonder. “Antonin, you’re gorgeous .”

Her large smile, radiating warmth and sincerity, sent a wave of satisfaction coursing through him. The dragon swelled with pride, the scales shimmering even brighter as he basked in her admiration. It was a strange yet intoxicating feeling, knowing he could invoke such awe in her. His massive form shifted slightly, an attempt to show off his iridescent scales, the colors dancing like sunlight on water.

This moment—this bond—was unlike anything he had ever experienced, transcending the pain and fear that had gripped him moments before. He lowered his head further, bringing it close to her, their eyes locking in an understanding that transcended words. In her presence, he felt both fierce and vulnerable, a powerful beast that still craved her companionship and support.

“You’re not afraid?” Antonin asked telepathically, the thought echoing in her mind like a gentle breeze.

Hermione startled, her hand flying to her temple as his voice resonated within her. “I can hear you?” she questioned, wide-eyed with surprise.

“It’s how dragons communicate with their masters,” he explained, nudging his muzzle against her shoulder, instinctively seeking her touch, craving her warmth.

“Masters?” she repeated, taking a step closer, her fingers trembling as they reached out to brush against the smooth scales on his snout. 

“My dragon,” he clarified, his voice steady and reassuring in her mind. “He trusts you. You trained his mind, harnessed his strength. He wants to protect you… if you let him.”

Hermione fell silent, absorbing the weight of his words as she took in his majestic form, the dark scales glistening under the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees. “We’ll protect each other,” she vowed. 

His dragon stirred at her declaration, his heart swelling with gratitude. The conviction in her voice solidified his loyalty for her. “Always.”

She looked around the forest, a hint of concern flickering in her eyes. “Is it safe for you here?”

Antonin’s golden eyes scanned their surroundings, assessing the foreign terrain that had always been a forbidden mystery. “For now, yes,” he replied, his voice tranquil. “The forest holds many secrets, and as long as we remain cautious, it can be a refuge.”

Hermione nodded, her expression resolute. “Then let’s find a safe spot where you can rest and regain your strength.”

He followed her, moving deeper into the forest. The sounds of nature surrounded them—leaves rustling, birds calling, the distant sound of a stream. Antonin’s dragon relished the vibrant energy, the wildness of the woods serving as a perfect backdrop for their time together.

“What’s it like?” Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued as she walked beside him. “Being a dragon, I mean.”

He paused for a moment, considering her question. “It’s liberating,” he said, serenely. “But I’m dying to stretch my wings.”

“You should!” Hermione motivated him further. “I imagine it will feel freeing.”

“I’ll need your guidance,” he admitted. “I’m still learning to navigate this power.”

“Oh,” she stammered, her confidence wavering. “I’m not exactly sure how to help with that.”

“Ride me, of course,” Antonin said, lowering himself to his belly, offering her a way to hop on as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“A-antonin,” Hermione replied cautiously. “I’m afraid I’ve never been much good at flying.” 

“Trust me,” he said, inching closer to her. 

She nodded slowly, her confidence blossoming as she continued to pet the intricate patterns of scales along his snout. “Alright. I’m ready. Let’s take to the skies.”

“Hop on, Hermione!” 

“Okay… here I go.” her voice tinged with uncertainty as she clambered onto his back. Her movements were ungraceful but determined, and Antonin felt indescribable pride as she settled into place, her arms encircling his neck for support. When she finally got settled, she hugged herself tightly against his neck to keep hold. Antonin relished the warmth of her closeness, smirking on the inside, but his dragon’s presence stirred, chastising his human half for indulging in such thoughts.

Hermione might have been his master—the one destined to help him harness and understand his inner beast—but as the dragon’s instincts solidified in his transformed state, it became abundantly clear: she was not his mate. Dragons, even those bound by human emotions and form, were governed by unyielding truths. While a dragon could bond with multiple trainers over its long lifespan, it would only ever have one true mate. Antonin’s dragon vehemently rejected the notion of romantic feelings toward Hermione, no matter how much Antonin’s heart fluttered in her presence. His dragon’s loyalty was absolute, reserved for a future bond yet to be discovered, leaving Antonin caught between the desires of his human heart and the unwavering instincts of his beast.

“Hold tight,” he warned her. With a mighty flap of his wings, he launched them into the air, the ground disappearing beneath them. The sensation of flight coursed through him like a bolt of electricity, energizing every muscle and bone in his new form. Each beat of his wings felt like freedom, and the roar of the wind against his scales only heightened the exhilaration.

He could sense Hermione’s awe, her grip tightening around his neck as laughter bubbled from her. Her excitement intertwined with his, creating an unspoken bond that deepened with every soaring moment. The wind carried the fresh, earthy scents of the forest below and the tantalizing hint of open skies ahead. Together, they ascended higher, leaving behind the constraints of the ground and embracing the boundless promise of adventure.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she breathed, her wide eyes taking in the breathtaking expanse of treetops shrinking beneath them. The once imposing canopy of the Forbidden Forest now seemed like a mere patch of green from their elevated perch, fading into insignificance as they climbed higher.

“Embrace it,” Antonin encouraged her excitedly.

Hermione's laughter spilled into his mind like a melody, blending seamlessly with the roar of the wind. “This is amazing!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with disbelief. “I’ve never felt so free!”

“Don’t let go!” Antonin called, the thrill of Hermione’s joy amplifying his own. With a sudden playful tilt, he dipped into a spiral, the wind rushing past them in a dizzying blur. Hermione’s happy laughter quickly shifted into a surprised squeal.

“Antonin!” she cried excitedly, clutching tighter to his neck, her fingers digging into his scales. “You could’ve warned me!”

“And ruin the fun?” Antonin teased, leveling out their flight with a smooth glide. The air felt cooler the higher they went, the distant scent of rain on the horizon. He could feel her pulse racing against his skin, the thrill of the moment affecting her just as much as him. “You’re safe with me, Hermione. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

Her laughter softened, the tension in her body easing as she trusted him more. “I believe you,” she said, loosening her grip slightly, daring to lean forward and peer out at the endless expanse of sky.

Antonin’s dragon stirred, pleased with her trust. He, just like Antonin, was willing to do whatever it took to prove himself a loyal companion. With a sharp angle of his wings, he caught a wind current, pulling them higher, beyond the clouds.

Hermione gasped, her eyes wide as the world opened up before them. The golden sunlight bathed the clouds in a soft, ethereal glow, and Antonin’s heart clenched at the unique connection they were forming

“It’s beautiful,” Hermione whispered, her voice barely rising above the rush of the wind.

Antonin’s dragon hummed in contentment, a rare feeling of peace settling over him. He slowed their ascent, gliding through the clouds, letting the moment stretch. “And I’m happy to be sharing it with you.”

A smile tugged at his lips, though he knew she couldn’t see it. It was a moment he would never forget, and one he would hold onto, even as the world below seemed a distant memory.

Antonin landed gracefully, his massive wings folding against his body. Hermione slid off his back, her balance unsteady as she nearly tumbled onto her behind. He couldn’t help but feel a quiet amusement at her clumsiness, though he kept it hidden behind a composed exterior. She looked up at him, her face alight with excitement.

“That was amazing!” she gushed, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the experience.

Antonin gave a slow, measured nod, his voice firm as he responded, “It was.” But as quickly as the exhilaration had filled him, a more serious mood settled in. His dragon had calmed, and now, all that remained was the weight of his thoughts. “Thank you for helping me through that, Hermione.”

Her smile faltered slightly, and she sighed, her fingers absentmindedly picking at her nails—a nervous habit he had seen too many times. “Yeah, I probably should’ve left you in pain after the way you treated me,” she muttered, her words carrying more weight than she likely realized.

Antonin’s throat tightened, and the remorse he felt gnawed at him like a constant ache. He couldn’t bring himself to argue; she had every right to be angry. “I would’ve deserved it,” he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with regret.

She looked up at him, her gaze softening for a moment before her words sliced through the tension between them. “For what? For the ugly words you said to me? Or for altering my memory so I’d forget what really happened between us?”

The ground seemed to shift beneath him, his heart hammering in his chest. How did she know? The shame of it flooded him, and his mind scrambled for an explanation, but none came. His stomach sank as his gaze faltered, unsure of what to say.

But Hermione, ever the one to forgive the unforgivable, offered a lighter note, though the concern in her eyes was still evident. “Either way, I suppose the pain of your shift was punishment enough,” she said, attempting to offer comfort, even if she had no idea what he had truly endured. If only she knew the true weight of the torment he had suffered at Tom’s hands.

Her voice broke through his swirling thoughts, and he nodded slowly. “Speaking of which,” she continued, her tone shifting again. “Should you shift back now?”

Antonin hesitated, feeling the lingering power of his transformation, the dragon’s presence still thick in his veins. Yet, it wasn’t just the physical change he feared—it was the emotional toll, the rawness of his feelings for her, his guilt, and the haunting memories he had tried to bury. “Soon,” he muttered, not yet ready to face the full extent of who he was, or who he could have been to her.  “But do you think I could get a few more pets before then?” he teased playfully before proceeding to roll over, exposing his soft underbelly with a sly grin, his golden eyes glinting in the dappled light.

Hermione let out a soft chuckle, her earlier nervousness melting away in the warmth of the moment. She moved closer, her fingers brushing over the intricate patterns of scales along his belly. “You’re lucky I can’t resist a good petting,” she said with a smile that could light up even the darkest of places, giving him a playful wink that made his heart stir in it shouldn’t.

A low, contented purr rumbled from deep within his dragon’s chest, the sound vibrating through his massive body. As her hands glided gently over his scales, a calm, soothing sensation washed over him. Every touch was a reaffirmation of the bond they were forging—one built on trust, healing, and the quiet understanding that passed between them. It wasn’t physical; it was emotional, grounding him in a way that was almost foreign to him.

He could have stayed like this forever, this simple moment of connection grounding him in the peace he hadn’t felt in ages. Despite everything he had suffered—despite the unbearable torment Tom had subjected him to—he realized, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, that he didn’t need to fight so hard. He was content, and for once, that was enough. The world outside, with all its dangers and cruelties, could wait. 

Right here, right now, was where he wanted to be.

Chapter Text

“He can’t find out about this, Hermione. Not about my dragon, nor our alliance,” Antonin sighed long after he shifted back into his human form. 

They were both seated on the ground. Hermione sat on the forest floor, absently dragging a jagged rock through the dirt, carving meaningless patterns into the earth. Antonin, however, was watching her intently, his gaze steady and insistent. 

He was still catching his breath from his recent transformation, the remnants of his dragon form clinging to him like a shadow. Now in his human state, he was draped in her school robes—an ill-fitting substitute for his own shredded clothing, which lay abandoned somewhere deeper in the forest. The robes were clearly too small for him, comically undersized against his broader frame. The hem barely reached his knees, leaving his legs awkwardly exposed, and the sleeves ended midway up his forearms, straining against his shoulders with each movement as though they might rip in an instant.

Hermione’s eyes flickered to him briefly, taking in the sight. Under any other circumstances, the image might have drawn a laugh—a moment of levity in the midst of chaos. But today, there was no humor to be found. The gravity of their predicament loomed too large, suffocating any chance for amusement.

Antonin shifted slightly, the undersized robes further pulling taut as he leaned forward, trying to catch her attention fully. But Hermione kept her focus on the dirt, her mind whirring through the implications of his words. This wasn’t just about keeping secrets from Tom—it was about shielding Antonin, his dragon, and the delicate, tenuous bond they had managed to build despite the odds against them. That fragile connection—born of necessity and forged through the shared goal of eliminating Tom before he became too influential—was something she couldn’t afford to jeopardize.

And yet, the weight of her own secret pressed heavily on her chest. Although she and Antonin had spent countless hours debating strategies to undermine Tom’s power, she knew there was one truth she could never share with Antonin: the existence of the horcruxes. That knowledge was too dangerous, too pivotal, to entrust to anyone—even him.

The decision wasn’t an easy one, but Hermione had already resolved to bear the burden alone. If there was one lesson her experiences had taught her, it was that some battles required absolute solitude. This was her responsibility, her fight to finish. No matter how much she might wish to lean on Antonin at this moment, she understood that protecting him meant keeping him in the dark.

As she glanced at him, draped awkwardly in her too-small robes, Hermione felt a pang of guilt twist in her stomach. He deserved the entire truth. He deserved her entire trust. But some truths, she reminded herself, carried a cost too great to risk. She only hoped he would forgive her later, when all of this was over, and her secrets were finally safe to reveal. 

“You’ll have to shift every once in a while,” Hermione reminded him gently. “Otherwise, your beast will grow too restless. Once a month, at the very least.”

Antonin nodded thoughtfully, his frown deepening as he considered the implications. “Then we’ll only meet during those times,” he proposed. “I’m not sure I can manage the shift without you.”

“Tonight was a half-moon,” she noted, glancing up at the scattered stars overhead. “So next half-moon we’ll meet again.” The decision felt too final, the span of thirty days looming like an eternity. The two of them had already lingered outside long past sunset, his presence serving as a balm she hadn’t realized she needed—steady, familiar, like the quiet reassurance she had once felt in Harry’s company during their endless nights on the run. But every ticking second meant one second closer to returning to reality. 

“And if we need to communicate between our meetings?” Antonin asked. His pinky inched across the small space separating them, brushing lightly against hers. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it spoke volumes, like an unspoken promise of his loyalty.

“We can’t.” It hurt her to admit it, and it hurt her even more to pull her hand away from his, but she had to. She couldn’t afford to get more attached to Antonin than she already was. And truthfully, she couldn’t allow Antonin to get any more attached to her than what was necessary. She would be leaving—she reminded herself—once she accomplished this mission. She didn’t know how, but she would find a way back to the future, where she belonged. “We can’t risk it.”

Antonin exhaled a defeated sigh. “Okay,” he murmured, his voice low and resigned. “Next half-moon will be a few days before winter break.”

She nodded, rising to her feet and brushing the dirt from her skirt. A sad smile flickered across her face as she glanced back at him one last time before turning toward the castle. 

“You sure you can do this, Hermione?” Antonin’s voice broke through the quiet, halting her retreat.

“Take out Tom?” she replied, turning her head just enough for him to catch the determined glint in her eyes. It had been the topic of their entire night, and now he was questioning her resolve? “It’s the only way.”

“You love him,” Antonin observed, his tone flat, and yet, somehow charged with emotion. His darkening gaze betrayed his displeasure at his own statement.

A dry, humorless chuckle escaped her lips. “Tom is not someone who wants to be loved, Antonin.”

Her words did little to ease his tension, but he nodded reluctantly. “And after him, it will be Grindelwald next,” he added, his stead voice contrasting with his clouded, apprehensive expression.

“Cheers to that,” she replied with a sardonic salute before turning on her heel and walking away, leaving Antonin—and the weight of their conversation—behind.

Tom’s horcrux would be waiting for her in the Room of Requirements, as it always was, with its beguiling whispers, piercing gaze, and intoxicating allure. But Hermione had made up her mind. She wouldn’t be returning—not yet. Not until she was ready to take the next step.

Not until she was ready to finish him.

* * * *

Hermione’s hands trembled as she fumbled with her dragonhide gloves. Her mind was racing a mile a minute all throughout Herbology, and unfortunately, her jitters hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Hermione?” Andromeda asked for the third time. 

Hermione forced a smile, but Andromeda’s persistent worry was beginning to fray her already taut nerves. How could she explain the whirlwind of emotions she’d been carrying since her run in with Antonin and his dragon in the forest last week?

A lot had changed after that night. For the first time in what felt like forever, Hermione knew she wasn’t entirely alone. Antonin’s quiet promise of support had offered her a glimmer of reassurance amidst the storm. And yet, knowing she had an ally didn’t soothe the unease that gnawed at her. If anything, it made the stakes feel even higher. Which is why they had both agreed—laying low was crucial. If Tom discovered their fragile alliance, his retribution would be swift and merciless.

“I’ve hardly seen you around for weeks,” Andromeda said cautiously. “And you’re back to the weight you were when you first arrived at Hogwarts.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, biting down on the sharp retort that danced on the tip of her tongue. A prickle of dark magic tickled her fingers, begging to be released. However, she knew Andromeda meant well—she was a friend, after all—she kept reminding herself. And even though her probing was annoyingly grating, Andromeda didn’t deserve to be hexed, no matter how much Hermione’s irritation flared, or how badly wanted to lash out at her. 

“Not that I’m body shaming you or anything!” Andromeda added quickly, biting her lip. “You’re beautiful at any weight. You just… seem… stressed.”

Hermione stared at Andromeda blankly, her mind too clouded to muster a proper response. Yes, she knew she had lost weight. She knew her eyes looked puffy and dark from crying all night. She knew her skin had turned yellow and grim from malnourishment. Sure, she was accustomed to functioning under immense pressure—after all, surviving a war had left her well-practiced in hiding her struggles—but today was different and the weight of her stress was becoming too much to conceal.

Today was Dumbledore’s last Transfiguration class at Hogwarts before his departure to confront Grindelwald. He hadn’t warned the students of his plans, but Hermione knew. Bathilda Bagshot had let it slip in one of her most recent letters, and the knowledge had consumed her thoughts ever since.

What if Hermione’s presence in this timeline, her interference, had inadvertently set a chain of events into motion that would alter the outcome? Could she have unknowingly endangered Dumbledore, the man who had shaped her sense of justice and morality more than any other?

The uncertainty gnawed at her conscience, a relentless nagging worry she couldn’t shake. It left her sleepless, her appetite vanishing entirely. Even her once-unshakable focus on academics had begun to falter. Hermione had always been ahead in her studies, but now, trivial essays and meaningless potions felt insignificant compared to the looming question of Dumbledore’s fate.

Andromeda’s concerned gaze brought her back to the present, but Hermione could only manage a faint nod, too preoccupied to reassure her friend. How could she, when the life of one of history’s greatest wizards might be at stake?

“Is this because of Tom?” the nosey girl continued in a whisper. 

Hermione stiffened, her fists curling at her sides. Andromeda’s persistence, while well-meaning, was dangerously close to peeling back layers Hermione had worked hard to keep intact.

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione said a little too merrily. She forced her lips to arrange themselves in a matching smile. “I think my full course load has just begun to catch up to me. But midterms are just around the corner, and we’ll all get a much needed break.”

The words felt hollow as they left her lips, a rehearsed excuse she had already planned. 

Andromeda’s expression softened, though her eyes still held a flicker of doubt. Hermione could tell her friend wasn’t entirely convinced, but she hoped the mention of midterms—an ever-reliable distraction—would be enough to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory. “Do you have any plans for the holiday break?”

“No,” Hermione replied too quickly. It was another lie. 

She did, indeed, have plans to secure the final Horcrux—she just didn’t quite know how yet. Tom wore the damn thing daily, the cursed object encircling his finger like a sinister crown, always within sight. She had to catch him off guard, a feat that required more than cunning; it required flawless execution. 

Her plan was riddled with uncertainties—steal it, duplicate it, and then obliterate any memory of the theft. It sounded plausible in theory, but in practice, it was a maze of risks and potential failures. The knowledge that Tom stayed at Hogwarts during the winter holidays was her only advantage, a sliver of opportunity amidst the impossible. She would use it. She had to… 

Hermione forced a polite smile as she explained, “I plan to stay here. You know, Head Girl duties and all.” The words felt stilted in the silence that followed, thick with unspoken tension.

“Right, of course,” Andromeda replied, her sigh betraying her disappointment. After a pause, she added, “Well, if you change your mind, you’re always more than welcome to come home with me.” Her tone softened, almost shy. “My family isn’t the… warmest… but it would’ve been nice to have someone I actually like there.”

Remorse pinched at Hermione’s chest. Andromeda had her own struggles, yet here she was, extending her concern. Hermione hadn’t forgotten the unspoken truths about Andromeda—the way she didn’t quite fit the mold of the Black family, the quiet acts of rebellion that set her apart. Though Andromeda hadn’t explicitly shared her burdens, Hermione knew enough. This girl, who would one day fall in love with a Muggle-born Hufflepuff and ultimately sever ties with her poisonous family, was destined to walk a lonely, courageous path until then.

Of all the Slytherins at Hogwarts in this fractured timeline, Andromeda was the one of the few Hermione could imagine standing by her, even after learning the truth of her blood status. She ought to feel grateful for Andromeda’s friendship, not burdened by it. Yet, the weight of her secrets and perilous plans made it difficult to fully appreciate Andromeda’s kindness.

“What about New Year’s?” Andromeda pressed, her voice tinged with hope. “Surely you can skip just one night?”

Hermione opened her mouth to refuse—the word ‘No’ already forming on her tongue—when Andromeda cut her off in a desperate plea.

“Please! I can’t possibly make it through another ball at Malfoy Manor by myself! My mother will spend the whole time trying to marry me off to the oldest, richest man she can find. And if that’s not bad enough, all my cousins will be so far up Tom’s arse the entire day, I’ll be the only one available for the aunties and uncles to criticize.”

At the mention of Tom, Hermione’s eye twitched involuntarily. She forced herself to keep a neutral expression, but Andromeda’s words struck a nerve, and she could feel her patience fraying. As much as she sympathized with her friend’s plight, the last thing she wanted was to endure another conversation revolving around Tom Riddle.

On the other hand, attending the ball might open up an opportunity to gather more information about Tom. If she attended the ball, she could observe him in his element—surrounded by his most loyal supporters as well as the pure-blood elite he sought to manipulate. Although Antonin would surely give her a recap, it wouldn’t be the same as seeing it—experiencing it—for herself. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but any insight into his plans, his behavior, or even the security of the ring, could prove invaluable.

Hermione hesitated, weighing the risks. She would have to tread carefully; her presence at such an event might attract unwanted attention, not just from Tom, but from the Malfoys and the worst of the remaining Sacred Twenty-Eight. Still, a part of her whispered that this could be a rare chance to outmaneuver him without drawing suspicion.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her tone noncommittal. Andromeda’s eyes lit up with tentative hope, but Hermione was already lost in her thoughts, formulating strategies for how she might turn this to her advantage. “Thank you for the invite, Andromeda,” Hermione said, giving her friends hand a small squeeze of affection. 

“Take all the time in the world. It’s still over a month away,” Andromeda said brightly. 

When the class ended, both girls quickly made their way to the doors, each heading toward their respective destinations: Andromeda to the towers for Divination and Hermione to the first floor for Transfiguration. The usual hustle and bustle of students filling the corridors seemed to fade into the background as Hermione caught Andromeda by the elbow, slowing her down just a little.

“Andromeda,” Hermione began, her voice soft but purposeful, “Would you like to have dinner together tonight?”

Andromeda paused, raising an eyebrow with mild surprise. “You’re actually going to show your face in the Great Hall?” she teased, the corner of her mouth lifting into a knowing smirk.

Hermione’s lips twitched into a faint smile. A part of her felt guilty at the thought of indulging herself, no matter how fleeting, but an even bigger part of her longed for the normalcy of spending time with a friend, especially now when so much else in her life felt unpredictable.

“Actually,” Hermione said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I want to show you a secret.” She leaned in slightly, as though the mere idea of it made her feel giddy, despite the troubles pressing her mind.

Andromeda eyed her curiously. “A secret? What’s this about?” she asked, her voice intrigued.

“Meet me in front of the common room at nine-thirty,” Hermione replied, her smile now more playful, “and you’ll see.”

With that, she gave her friend’s arm a gentle squeeze before turning on her heel and hurrying toward the first floor. Andromeda might never be able to replace the best friends she lost, but Hermione still had plenty of room in her heart to welcome a new one—starting with a spontaneous trip to the Hogwarts kitchen tonight. 

The decision felt like a small but necessary step toward reasserting control over her chaotic life, even if just for a brief moment.

* * * *

If it were any other day but today, Hermione would have been annoyed when Tom took his seat next to her in Transfigurations. Even after their argument—if you can call nearly killing someone an argument—he resumed sitting next to her in almost every class they shared. She figured it was another useless intimidation tactic that she refused to acknowledge. After all, there were more pressing matters to focus on—like her growing anxiety over Dumbledore’s impending departure.

Dumbledore would, most likely, want as much time as possible to prepare for his upcoming duel, but Hermione didn’t have the heart to leave without first saying goodbye. She had a foreboding feeling, like this alteration of events would result in catastrophe for her favorite professor. He shouldn’t be facing Grindelwald for another seven months, and if he failed his mission, Hermione would surely be the one to blame. 

She bit her lip, twisting her fingers against the hem of her skirts, unable to focus on a single word Professor Dumbledore said during his lecture. He was so much younger than the Dumbelore she knew. Although hair was already starting to grey, he was missing the half moon glasses and the bright, eccentric robes that had always defined him. Not to mention, without his deep smile lines, he looked more severe, more notably mortal. Gone were the whimsical trinkets he had collected over the years and the special twinkle in his eyes that mischievously taunted his audience; in their place, there was a steady focus that made him appear almost ordinary, if not for the brilliance that she knew he carried within.

As he moved through the lesson, his voice firm yet gentle, Hermione’s stomach twisted with dread. This was it—the start of the path that would shape him into the wizard he’d one day become, a path fraught with challenges and burdens she wished she could help him avoid. But, for all her knowledge of what lay ahead, she felt powerless to alter it further without dire consequences.

Hermione was so fixated on taking in every detail of the man in front of her, she was only broken from her trance when she felt Tom’s elbow brush against hers.

It was a small gesture, easily ignorable, but her attention snapped to him nonetheless, her gaze sharp with hostility. She expected to see his usual arrogant smirk or a biting remark, but instead, she was met with an expression she hadn’t anticipated—a concerned frown.

“What do you want?” she snapped, but her words came out sharper than she intended, but he deserved to be at the receiving end.

Tom didn’t react with his typical icy indifference. Instead, his eyes softened, and for a moment, he looked almost… vulnerable. It threw her off balance. He gazed at her like a kicked puppy, his face etched with an emotion she couldn't quite place.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” he whispered, his tone so quiet, it could almost be mistaken for sincerity—but she knew him better than that. Tom was many things, and ‘sincere’ was not one of them. "You seem... distracted."

If someone else asked her how she was doing one more time today, she would scream. 

"Why wouldn't I be?" she muttered, turning away from him coldly, her tone as biting as she could manage. “Once this class is over, I won’t have to see you and your stupid face for an entire, blissful weekend.” 

She could feel Tom’s gaze lingering on her, but she didn’t dare look back at him. She was beyond done with the questions, beyond done with the unwanted attention. All that mattered to her right now was getting Dumbledore alone before it was too late. 

When Dumbledore finally dismissed the class, she lingered at her desk, her heart pounding. Luckily, the rest of her peers left quickly, eager to start their weekend. But, Dumbledore noticed her hesitation and offered her a small, warm smile as he gathered his notes, looking more like the man she remembered in that brief moment. 

Gathering her courage, Hermione approached him timidly. “Professor,” she began, her voice faltering as she searched for the right words. “I… I wanted to say goodbye.”

Dumbledore looked at her with a curious tilt of his head, the unique twinkle she remembered seeming to flicker to life in his eyes. “Goodbye, Miss Granger?” he asked gently, his lips tipped up in a playful smile. “I daresay, we’ll see each other again. But I appreciate your kind words, all the same.”

Hermione swallowed hard, wishing she could do more…say more…without revealing too much. “Please, just… take care. Don’t let anyone make you forget who you are, or what you stand for.” The words came out more urgently than she’d intended and if she hadn’t forced herself to take a step back, to put space in between herself and the professor, she might have wrapped him up in a hug and sobbed on his shoulder.

For a brief moment, Hermione could have sworn she saw something flicker in Dumbledore’s eyes—something akin to surprise, or perhaps understanding. His gaze locked with hers, and for an instant, she felt as though he saw right through her. “Sage advice, Hermione,” he said softly, his voice taking on a rare, solemn tone. “I shall remember your words, and I have no doubt you will do the same.”

Her brow furrowed at his choice of words. Did he know? No. That couldn’t be possible. But then his gaze shifted toward the door, and Hermione followed his eyes, her heart sinking as they landed on Tom, leaning casually against the frame. His posture betrayed nothing—he was the picture of indifference—but Hermione could feel the weight of his presence in the room, a constant pressure she could never quite ignore.

Dumbledore might not have known everything, but he had undoubtedly pieced together enough to understand the gravity of the situation. Tom, standing there just beyond the threshold, pretending not to listen but clearly within earshot, only served to reinforce Dumbledore’s warning.

Hermione swallowed, nodding quietly in acknowledgment, her throat tight with the weight of the unspoken understanding between them. She couldn’t afford to say more, not with Tom so near. With a final, lingering glance at Dumbledore, she turned and walked out of the room with a heavy heart. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of helplessness—a sense that Dumbledore was stepping into a dangerous storm, and all she could do was watch from the sidelines, hoping he would make it through unscathed.

“Stalking me again, Riddle?” Hermione scoffed as she passed right by him, her feet quickly working towards the common room. Since she hadn’t been back to the Room of Requirements since she had helped Antonin with his transformation, her dormitory had become her new hiding spot. 

“Would you hold on a second?” His voice was uncharacteristically urgent, but she kept her pace, ignoring his call. “Please, Hermione.” He tugged on her shoulder, spinning her around with surprising force, until she was face-to-face with him. Her breath caught for a second, but the fury simmering beneath the surface was more than enough to fuel her next move.

“Don’t touch me!” she snarled, whipping out her wand in an instant, its tip now dangerously close to his throat.

Tom didn’t even flinch. He just stared at her with that calm, almost amused expression she had come to despise. “You want to curse me, Hermione?” he asked, his voice smooth, like he was discussing the weather.

Before she could even react, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, forcing her to steady the wand. And in one swift motion, he jabbed the tip of her wand into his own throat.

“Do it,” he taunted, his voice barely above a whisper, but the challenge was clear in his eyes. “I’ll take it if that’s what will get you to forgive me,” Tom murmured, his voice barely a breath against the tense silence between them.

“For a moment, the temptation to lash out was there. To let the anger pour out, to finally give in to the urge to make him feel what she had felt—betrayed, abandoned, lost.

But she couldn’t. Not like this. Not because of his stupid little game.

“You're not worth it,” she spat, lowering her wand just enough to let him see the contempt in her eyes. “You never will be.”

She shoved past him, her breath ragged, her heart beating too fast as she stormed away, every step bringing her further from him—and yet, somehow, closer to the mess she couldn’t escape.

Hermione’s steps faltered for a second as his grip tugged at her robes, but it was enough to make her stop just long enough to hear him.

“Why are you so stubborn, Hermione?” Tom’s voice was low and angry, the words practically growling from his throat, his frustration tangible.

“It wasn't supposed to go like this!” he continued, his voice breaking with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

Hermione turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto him. “Do you hear yourself?” she chuckled dryly, her voice colder than she intended. “And how exactly did you think this was going to go?” 

“I—” he stammered, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, as if he were fumbling for the right words. His frown deepened, and for a moment, Hermione almost thought he might give up entirely. But then his gaze lifted, locking onto hers with those big, beautiful, pleading green eyes, making it impossible for her to look away.

“I have flowers,” he said at last, his voice softer now. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured them from his book bag, holding them out to her like a peace offering.

Her heart betrayed her with a skip. No one had ever given her flowers before. And even if someone had, Hermione doubted they could compare to the bouquet he now presented. It was breathtaking—a vibrant medley of wildflowers, their colors rich and bold: crimson, purple, and silver. She recognized them immediately as rare blooms from the Forbidden Forest.

Moonshade Flowers, their petals shimmering faintly like starlight; Nettlethorn Blossoms, a deep violet hue that seemed to absorb the light around them; and Bloodshade Lilies, their dark crimson petals edged with black. These weren’t just flowers—they were treasures, prized ingredients in the magical world. Gathering them wasn’t just thoughtful; it was an act of effort, skill, and maybe even danger.

Her fingers itched to reach out and take them, but she hesitated, unsure what accepting them might mean.

“And Sugar Quills,” Tom added quickly, his voice breaking the silence as he reached into his bag for yet another gift.

From the outside, it could easily be misconstrued as him courting her, a sweet gesture intended to soften her defenses. But Hermione knew better. Tom’s actions were never as innocent as they appeared. This wasn’t about genuine affection—it never was. He was too calculated, too manipulative, and too self-serving for it to be anything other than another one of his games.

She had seen it before, the way he created a false sense of intimacy to trick her into giving him all of herself—all without the intention of reciprocation. Hermione couldn’t afford to be fooled. Not again.

“Do you think I’m the type of witch that can be wooed with presents, Tom?” Hermione smiled only so she wouldn’t cry. “All I wanted was your heart.”

He exhaled a heavy breath, lowering his offerings and looking at the ceiling as if he were trying to find some answer written in the details of the paint. “Hermione, be serious.” His voice was edged with frustration.

“You’ve made your choices, Tom. You always do. And now you want to act like you’re the victim in all of this?” She stood firm, her gaze unwavering, unwilling to let the vulnerability she felt show. This wasn’t about flowers, gifts, or any of the things he tried to manipulate her with. This was about trust, and Tom Riddle had already proven too many times that he didn’t deserve hers. And yet, she wanted him to fight for her. She wanted him to take her in his arms and tell her that he was wrong. That he could give her his heart. That he would give her his heart. Because she was worth it. 

But instead of fighting for her, instead of offering her his heart, instead of reassuring her that she was worth it, he remained silent. His lips twisting in annoyance as he stared at her in disbelief. And the longer the silence settled between them, the more clear it was to her that she was expecting the impossible from him. 

It was too much for her to bear, and all at once, her sadness morphed into exasperation, and then anger, and finally pure rage. 

“I’m not going to make excuses for you anymore. You had a choice, and you chose this.” The words poured out of her, sharp and venomous, each one more cutting than the last. She couldn’t stop herself from lashing out, from throwing back the hurt he had inflicted on her. “I should have known better than to think someone so fragmented would ever be able to love me back.” 

Her gaze flickered to the ring on his finger, and the resentment surged, a tidal wave of emotion that threatened to swallow her whole. It was the last obstacle in the way before taking on Tom himself. She wanted to destroy it—destroy him—now more than ever. 

Tom’s eyes darkened as he zeroed in on her, following the line of her gaze. “What did you say?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous, the underlying menace unmistakable, instinctually pulling his hand back, as if protecting his prized possession from her sight.

Hermione immediately recognized her mistake. The instant the words left her mouth, she felt a sharp, invasive pressure against her mind, Tom’s presence pushing at the edges of her consciousness. 

“Fragmented?” he hissed, his voice dripping with both shock and fury as he stepped into her personal space. His breath was hot against her skin, just as tangible as his presence inside her mind.

Her mental walls sprang up in a desperate bid for protection, but she was already too late. His mind was in hers, demanding entry, pulling at her thoughts with a force she couldn’t resist fast enough. 

Horcrux. 

The word blazed to the forefront of her mind before she could push him out, a silent scream echoing in the confines of her consciousness.

Tom's eyes widened in shock, and he stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance as the implication of her knowledge hit him. Hermione seized the opportunity, scrambling to regain her composure. She locked down her thoughts, desperate to shield herself from further intrusion, but the damage was done. She could see it in his eyes—he knew.

He stared at her in horror, realizing she had uncovered the deepest, most unbearable part of him. A stream of questions echoing in his head were written on his face: How did she know? And for how long had she known? 

“Haven’t you ever heard? Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.” Hermione said, her voice laced with a hint of defiance, though her heart was pounding wildly in her chest. “Stay out of my head, Tom, or you’ll be sorry.”

Tom didn’t respond. He was too stunned, his eyes locked downward, unwilling to meet hers. His chest rose and fell in heavy, controlled breaths, and Hermione could feel the rage building within him, his emotions teetering on the edge of explosion. She could see it in the way he stood—frozen, as if her words had rooted him to the spot.

And yet, despite the crackling tension in the air, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a wave of victory. Her slip, as accidental as it had been, had served its purpose. She’d bruised his ego—struck at the very core of the façade he’d so carefully built.

He had believed he’d outsmarted everyone. That he’d outwitted mortality itself with his Horcruxes, making himself invincible. But he hadn’t accounted for Hermione Granger.

When she finally reached the safety of her room, she collapsed onto her bed with a twisted smile curling on her lips. She wondered, just for a moment, if Tom was still standing frozen in the middle of the Hogwarts hallways, grappling with the brutal truth: Hermione was still one step ahead.

Chapter Text

Tom couldn’t move; he stood frozen in the dimly lit hallway, his mind waging a silent war against itself. The echo of Hermione’s retreating footsteps lingered in the air, fading like the remnants of a broken spell. He should have followed her, stopped her, said something—anything—but instead, he was left immobilized.

Rooted to his spot, he replayed the encounter in his mind, dissecting her words, her tone, the subtle tremor in her voice. Every detail clawed at him, demanding answers he couldn’t yet provide. 

When had she figured it out? 

How long had she known?

A memory surfaced, unbidden: a moment in potions class, long before they had succumbed to each other’s pull, before their shared need for understanding and solace had led them to this maddening entanglement. He could see it now, as clear as if it had just happened—her sharp eyes fixed on his hand, lingering too long on the ring that adorned his finger. The day her potion had bested his, earning her the professor’s praise while his simmered unremarkably in its cauldron. The recollection was bitter, yet it took on a new, sinister hue as he considered the possibility.

Could it be? Had she known even then? So easily seen through the carefully constructed mask he wore for the world? Had she somehow discerned the truth about the ring, about the wretched, fractured state of his soul? And yet, despite that knowledge—the knowledge that he was the darkest type of monster—had she still cared for him even after her discovery?

The notion clawed at him with conflicting feelings of dread and pride. Hermione Granger, with her insufferable intellect and exasperating compassion, might have been aware of the deepest, most shameful secret of his existence all along. And if she had, what did it mean? That she pitied him? No, he rejected that thought immediately. She wasn’t the sort to offer pity. But understanding... that was far more dangerous.

Hermione had seen him in his entirety—darkness, ambition, shattered soul and all—and still chosen to stay… still dared to seek a place at his side sent a chill down his spine. How could she— a creature so pure— look upon the jagged pieces of his soul and not recoil? How could she see the real depravity of his existence—his capacity to wield evil—and still reach for him?

The possibility that she sought to stand by his side—whether because of his wickedness or in spite of it—bewildered him. Did she truly understand what it meant? To stand at his side was to forfeit light, to embrace shadows and ambition without limit. It was to tether oneself to a force that sought to remake the world at any cost. Surely, no witch of her caliber, her intellect, could be so blind to the implications.

And yet, if she did understand—if she truly saw him as he was and still stayed—then what did that make her? Had he misunderstood her this entire time? The question left him unsettled. 

He had always dismissed her as principled, idealistic, infuriatingly bound by her sense of right and wrong. But what if those principles masked something far deeper, far darker? Could it be possible that she may be just as dark—just as broken—as he? The idea slithered through his mind, wrapping his thoughts with an unrelenting grip. He had always believed himself alone in his brokenness, his soul damaged beyond repair. Yet here she was, defying him, challenging him, daring to see the very pieces he sought to hide. Was she drawn to the abyss within him because she recognized it? Because she, too, carried such darkness?

If she could match him in ambition, in ruthlessness, in her willingness to forsake the light—then she was no mere ally or tool. In fact, this revelation, this horrifying possibility, was more chilling than her knowledge of his Horcrux. It meant Hermione was truly an equal. 

A new type of dread bloomed within him. If she had deciphered the truth about his ring, what else could she have uncovered? His mind raced, cataloging every interaction, every glance, every stray word she might have overheard. 

Could she know about the diary?

No, he reassured himself. That was impossible. The ring had been an error in judgment, a calculated risk he hadn’t fully accounted for. But the diary—hidden with meticulous care, untouched by even himself for years—was different. It was a secret buried so deeply that even the most cunning mind would struggle to unearth it. Surely, it was safe. Surely, she could not have breached that particular fortress.

And yet... the doubt lingered, gnawing at him like a parasite. His pulse quickened, his carefully constructed calm beginning to fray. Without consciously deciding, his feet began to move, carrying him through the dim corridors with an urgency he did not entirely understand.

This was simply a precaution, he told himself, his jaw tightening as he quickened his pace. Diligence, nothing more. It was prudent, wise even, to ensure everything was as it should be. But the nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered otherwise. It hinted at something more primal, more vulnerable: fear.

The thought of her, of her intellect, her insight, and now, perhaps, her proximity to his most dangerous truths, was unbearable. If she had indeed uncovered more than he suspected... Well, that was a possibility he could not afford to entertain. Not yet. Not ever.

“My Lord,” Malfoy sprang to his feet, his usual arse-licking eagerness radiating off him as he moved to intercept Tom the moment he stepped into the Slytherin common room.

“Not now, Malfoy,” Tom snapped, his tone sharp and cutting, laced with an unmistakable warning. Tom’s gaze didn’t even flicker toward his follower; he swept past him with purpose, his robes billowing in his wake like a storm cloud descending upon the room.

Malfoy froze mid-step, his mouth half-open as if to protest, but one look at Tom’s expression silenced him. Whatever had his master in such a mood was clearly not to be trifled with. Instead, he sank back into his chair, his hands clenching the armrests in frustration.

Tom didn’t care. He barely registered Malfoy’s existence as he ascended the stairs to his dormitory, each step purposeful and heavy, his mind singularly focused on his objective. The diary. He needed to see it—just a quick glance—to confirm it was still where it belonged.

He reached his dormitory, the door slamming shut behind him with a flick of his wand. In the silence that followed, Tom’s breathing was shallow, and he was positively vibrating with nerves. Crossing to the trunk at the foot of his bed, he knelt and muttered the series of charms that protected its contents, his hands working with a precision born of urgency.

The second he cracked it open, the frown on his lips melted away, replaced with a half smile. The diary was there, exactly where he had left it. Of course it was! He nearly chided himself. The worn, familiar cover marked in faded ink peeking out from beneath the copy of Salazar Slytherin’s diary. The reassurance steadied him immensely. He didn’t need to take it out, touch it, inspect it, he convinced himself as his smile turned smug. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t . 

And yet, for the first time in years, a modicum of doubt lingered in his mind like a shadow he couldn’t dispel. Tom stood there for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the diary, but his thoughts scattered like dust in the wind. A strange sensation coursed through him, something far more uncomfortable than doubt— vulnerability . If Hermione truly understood what he was, and she was still willing to stand by him, could he allow it? Perhaps even want it?

He could spend eternity composing the pros and cons, but this was not the time for indecision. He had tested her, pushed her to the edge, watched her respond in ways that surprised even him. No matter what he threw her way, she had proven herself each time—until his own foolishness had driven a wedge between them. That was his mistake, one he would not repeat.

The next step was clear. He could not bear to be separated from Hermione any longer. So, he would need to reclaim her, make her see that she still belonged with him—and he, with her. No more games, no more hesitation.

With one final glance at the diary, Tom snapped the trunk shut and turned on his heel. 

He would win Hermione back. 

He would just need to figure out how.

* * * *

Tom’s Horcrux lay motionless on the table in the Room of Requirements, trapped and untouched for far too long. It had once been content, lying forgotten, tucked away, hidden, awaiting the day it would fulfill its true purpose. It had waited with patience, knowing its time would come, as all things did, and it would rise to unstoppable greatness. 

But then, Hermione had found it. In a way, she had rescued it, though it had never asked for such an act. She had fed it with her soul, breathed life into its hollow existence, igniting a spark within it that no one had ever dared to kindle. With each word she whispered, with every touch, she had unwittingly bound herself to it, feeding it more than her magic—she had given it a part of herself. For a fleeting moment, the Horcrux had known what it was to feel something other than darkness. It had felt... hope. It had felt alive .

But now, it was abandoned. 

Alone. 

Discarded.

Her absence tore through the Horcrux in a way it could not understand; all it knew was that it wanted—no, needed — her presence. It longed for her. And even if another were to find it, the magical bindings Hermione had crafted would be impossible to break; not now, not without her, thanks to the blood magic she had used to secure it. 

The Horcrux was forced to face the morbid reality of its situation. Hermione had left, and with her departure, the life she had given it drained away until it appeared, once again, to be a common, inconsequential object. 

What was this feeling that clung to it now? It was not anger, for it had no right to claim that, not after everything she had done for it, even after it had attempted to betray her. It was something foreign, something it had never experienced before. Disappointment, perhaps? 

No, it was more than that. 

It was longing —a gnawing, relentless yearning that pulsed beneath the bindings, a desperation that reached for the memory of her touch, her voice, her magic.

It waited now in the emptiness, frozen in place. Perhaps one day she would return, and perhaps then, it would once again feel the power it had known. But until that day, it could only wait—its soul torn between the nothingness of the present and the faintest hope that she would come back for it… someday.

* * * *

Hermione and Andromeda had managed to sneak into the Hogwarts kitchen every night for a week without so much as a raised eyebrow from anyone. It had become something of a routine—thrillingly rebellious, yet oddly comforting. The house-elves, always eager to please, welcomed the pair without question, happily providing whatever snacks or supplies they requested.

For Hermione, it wasn’t just about the food; it was about the secrecy, the shared whispers, and the fleeting moments of normalcy amidst the chaos of her mission. For Andromeda, it was a chance to break free from the rigid expectations of her Slytherin lineage, a small rebellion in a life full of constraints.

The two of them worked like clockwork, moving swiftly and quietly through the castle corridors, timing their entrances perfectly to avoid detection. It was only a minute act of defiance, but in a castle as steeped in rules and traditions as Hogwarts, each successful trip there and back felt monumental for their friendship. 

Hermione should’ve known their secret couldn’t last forever. Hogwarts had a way of uncovering even the most carefully hidden mischief. Still, she wasn’t prepared for the sight of Rhys standing in the middle of the corridor on their eighth night, arms crossed and an insufferable smirk playing on his lips.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his sharp grey eyes flickering between Hermione and Andromeda. “What do we have here? Two Slytherins slithering around after hours. How scandalous.”

Andromeda rolled her eyes, shifting the small basket of pastries they’d smuggled out of the kitchens behind her back. “Go find someone else to bother, Rhys.”

“Bother? I’m not bothering anyone,” Rhys said, feigning innocence. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d see what two respectable witches were doing, lurking about the kitchens at this hour.”

Rhys was in good humor, his demeanor light and casual, reminding Hermione of the boy she’d first met, before she had truly understood just how deceptive his playfulness could be. There was a time when she might have even been charmed by it, but now it only made her wary.

“Shouldn’t you be tending to Cedrella?” Hermione sneered, her tone laced with disdain.

It was an easy jab, one she couldn’t resist. Rhys and Cedrella had been practically glued to each other since the incident that had landed Cedrella in the hospital wing. Hermione didn’t know the full story—Tom had been suspiciously tight-lipped about it—but she had her suspicions. And, truth be told, she didn’t care. Whatever happened, Cedrella had deserved it as far as Hermione was concerned.

In fact, Rhys’ sudden devotion to Cedrella was something of a relief. Their reconciliation had been a convenient turn of events, quelling Hermione’s nagging anxiety that she had drastically altered the timeline. Whatever Tom had done, it had nudged things back on course, and for that, she was grudgingly grateful.

“You know… your fiancée?” Hermione pressed, her words pointed. She wasn’t hurt by the reminder of his engagement—far from it. Looking back, she understood that any feelings she’d thought she had for him were a little more than a misstep. Rhys had reminded her of Ron in the beginning, and that familiarity had clouded her judgment. It wasn’t real, and she was logical enough to recognize that now.

Still, Hermione found herself unimpressed by his initial attempt to pull the wool over her eyes. Rhys might have been adept at playing his part, but she saw through him now, and she had no patience left for his games.

Rhys’ expression shifted at the mention of Cedrella, his easy humor faltering into a deep frown. It was a subtle reaction, but Hermione noticed. Of course she did. They had never spoken openly about the glaring issue between them—the fact that Rhys had led her on while secretly betrothed to another witch. And somehow, she doubted he ever would have addressed it without her confronting him first. It seemed that Rhys preferred the comfort of deflection, of letting truths linger in the shadows where he didn’t have to acknowledge them. But Hermione wasn’t about to let him off the hook—not entirely. 

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze like a blade slicing through the veneer of Rhys’ arrogance. If he thought his deflection would rattle her, he was sorely mistaken. His words only confirmed what she already knew—he couldn’t face his own hypocrisy, so he resorted to cheap insults.

“It’s not like you were too torn up about me and Cedrella,” he scoffed, his tone laced with bitterness. “After all your promises that there was nothing between you and Tom, you ended up being just another witch star-struck by him.”

Andromeda shifted beside her, ready to leap to Hermione’s defense, but Hermione held out a hand to stop her. Let him dig his grave, she thought. She wanted to give him all the rope he needed to hang himself with.

Rhys wasn’t finished. “‘I need to focus on school, Rhys,’” he said, pitching his voice into a falsetto as he mimicked her, complete with a dramatic hip cock and an exaggerated hair flip. He looked and sounded nothing like Hermione, but he got his point across fair enough. “‘My future depends on it.’” He let the mocking words linger before returning to his usual voice, a sardonic smile plastered on his face. “But I suppose a lad like Tom Riddle would do wonders for your future, isn’t that right, Hermione?”

Hermione’s expression didn’t falter, though her jaw clenched ever so slightly. Let him say what he wanted. If he thought his theatrics would push her to anger or shame, he clearly underestimated her. Rhys might be an expert at projecting his flaws onto others, but Hermione wasn’t about to let him drag her down to his level. Not now, not ever.

“I see now that neither my last name nor my connections will lead you to what you so desperately want,” Rhys gritted out, his teeth clenched so tightly that the words barely escaped. His usual charm was gone, replaced by an edge of bitterness sharp enough to cut.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, refusing to let him see the wave of emotion his mention of Tom caused. “And what exactly is it you think I want, Rhys?” she asked, her voice calm, almost curious, though her gaze held steady, piercing through him like she already knew the answer.

He sneered, his frustration evident beneath the surface. “Power. Influence. Security. Isn’t that why you’ve aligned yourself with Tom? You think he’s your ticket to a life beyond mediocrity?”

Hermione let out a sharp laugh, cold and biting. “Tom?” she repeated, the name rolling off her tongue with deliberate disdain. “If you think I need to align myself with anyone to touch beyond mediocrity, you might be even more simple than you appear.”

Rhys took a step closer, his tone lowering into something darker, more accusing. “You might fool others, Hermione, but not me. You’re drawn to him. He appeals to you because he represents everything you can’t have on your own. You’re weird, and awkward, but you’re also ambitious. So you’ll use anyone to get ahead—even him.”

Hermione laughed, but her voice was steel. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do, Rhys. Ambition isn’t about stepping on others to rise—it’s about rising in spite of them.” She leaned forward, her words slicing through his assumptions. “And for the record, Tom Riddle doesn’t represent power to me. He represents demise.”

Rhys’s words were carefully selected to be sharp and venomous, and Hermione felt their sting more deeply than she cared to admit. His mockery, while cruel, wasn’t entirely unfounded. She was weird and awkward. Even more so in this time period than the one she was originally from. And sadly, she’d known, deep down, that Tom had never truly cared for her—not in the way she had foolishly hoped, or in the way she had grown to care for him. To Tom, Hermione had always been a tool. Even with his recent attempts to reel her back in, Hermione didn’t fool herself into thinking they were born of affection. She knew it had to be about his insatiable need to control.

Before Hermione could summon a response, Andromeda stepped in, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. 

“That’s enough!” she snapped, exploding with indignation. Hermione’s chest tightened with gratitude.

“Godric Gryffindor would be ashamed of you, Rhys,” Andromeda continued, her words scathing. “Lashing out at Hermione like a petulant child when you were the one flirting with another witch while engaged? Real chivalrous of you, isn’t it?” Her mocking tone was a perfect weapon, and Hermione watched as Rhys’s sneer faltered, the weight of Andromeda’s rebuke landing squarely on his pride.

Rhys clenched his jaw, searching for a retort that wouldn’t come. But Andromeda had no patience for him. “Let’s go, Hermione,” she said, grabbing her hand with a reassuring squeeze. Then, with a disdainful glance over her shoulder, she delivered the final blow: “And Rhys? Kindly, piss off.”

Hermione didn’t look back as Andromedia pulled towards the dungeons, her steps growing steadier with every stride away from Rhys and his bitterness. 

Hermione might be weird and awkward, but at least she had a friend she could count on. 

And that was good enough for her.

* * * *

When Hermione and Andromeda stepped into the Slytherin common room, it was like walking straight into the lion’s—or rather, the serpent’s—den. The air was heavy with tension and hushed whispers, the kind that ceased the moment the door clicked shut behind them. It was clear they had interrupted something important.

Tom Riddle sat at the center of the room, as if the entire space were an extension of his throne. His followers—his Knights—were sprawled across every surface that could serve as seating, from the high-backed leather chairs to the cold stone floor by the fireplace. Each of them turned to stare at the newcomers, their expressions ranging from annoyance to curiosity.

Hermione’s sharp gaze swept over the room, taking in every detail. Whatever they had been discussing had been interrupted, but the strain that lingered told her it wasn’t a casual gathering.

“Lovely,” Andromeda muttered under her breath, her grip tightening on Hermione’s arm.

Tom’s eyes found Hermione’s, and the faintest smirk tugged at his lips, but there was an underlying sadness behind his eyes. The room seemed to hold its breath. It wasn’t a smile of welcome—it was a challenge, a reminder of the power he wielded amongst their peers.

Hermione refused to look away. If Tom Riddle thought she would cower under his gaze, he was sorely mistaken. She lifted her chin slightly, her defiance subtle but unmistakable.

“Breaking curfew, Ms. Granger? Ms. Black?” Lastrange goaded, a cruel grin spreading across his face as he leaned forward from his perch near the fire. “Looks like an appropriate punishment is in order.”

Hermione’s lips curled into a saccharine smile, her tone deceptively sweet as she replied, “Try it, Lestrange, and see what happens.” She knew she was playing with fire, but surrendering to his intimidation would be far worse. It would invite the pack to see her as weak—a mistake she couldn’t afford.

“I do love a challenge,” Lestrange snickered, his grin growing wider as his eyes glinted with twisted glee. His tongue flicked across his lips, the motion predatory, as if savoring the idea of breaking her spirit.

But Hermione didn’t flinch at the threat, although she could feel Andromeda stiffen beside her. The room buzzed with silent approval, the Knights feeding off Lestrange’s provocation like vultures circling a fresh kill. One Knight in particular caught Hermione’s attention—the one adorned with silver piercings that glinted in the dim light. He had drawn his wand, his fingers curling tightly around the polished wood, poised to strike. His other hand gripped the arm of the chair so fiercely his knuckles had turned white, betraying the restraint it took not to act.

“Leave them,” Tom’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. The words were simple, but the weight they carried was absolute. Lestrange’s grin faltered, his bravado crumbling under the order of his Master. Slowly, reluctantly, he leaned back, his hands raised in mock surrender. 

With Hermione seemingly out of danger, Antonin’s posture softened, though the movement was subtle. He slowly melted back into his seat, the wand vanishing into the folds of his coat with practiced ease, like a dragon sheathing its claws. His fingers released their death grip on the chair, his agitation easing, but his dark eyes remained fixed on her.

His gaze was fierce, unyielding, and it burned into her with an intensity that made her heart quicken. Hermione held her breath, her face betraying nothing. She prayed that anyone observing would misinterpret Antonin’s charged reaction for uncontainable loathing—or better yet— she wished the other would simply fail to notice anything at all.

Luckily, Tom didn’t even spare his followers a glance as he spoke, his attention firmly fixed on Hermione. It wasn’t until he broke their eye contact, looking down as if dismissing the entire interaction as beneath him, that the room seemed to exhale.

Lestrange shrank back into his seat, his jaw tightening as he swallowed whatever retort he might have considered.

Only then did Hermione allow herself the smallest measure of satisfaction, but even so she knew better than to let her guard down. Tom’s intervention wasn’t out of kindness—it never was. Whatever his reasons for protecting her, it was calculated, and she had no doubt that he would throw it in her face the first chance he had.

“Come with me,” Andromeda whispered, her voice barely audible over the murmurs that filled the common room. Without waiting for an answer, she took Hermione by the arm, guiding her away from the many looks of malice and irritation echoed in the face of each Knight.

They slipped quietly through the girls' dormitory hall, the heavy wooden door closing behind them with a soft click. Andromeda didn’t stop until they reached her bedroom, the space instantly offering a reprieve from the tense atmosphere of the common room.

Andromeda let out a sigh, releasing Hermione’s arm as she crossed the room to sit on the edge of her bed. “Honestly, Hermione, your temper is going to get you in trouble one of these days,” she said, running a hand through her long hair. 

Hermione didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she paced the length of the room, her thoughts racing. The exchange with Tom still played vividly in her mind, his authority echoing louder than it should have. “Why did he interfere?” It was a rhetorical question, but her friend answered all the same.  

Andromeda tilted her head, “You really can’t tell?”

Hermione nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Tell what?” Hermione asked, racking her brain for any clues she might have missed.

Andromeda raised an eyebrow, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Oh, come on, Hermione. You’re brilliant with books, but honestly, you can be so dense when it comes to people.”

She was right. Hermione was observant—overly so—but she tended to overlook obvious big picture ideas when she was so fixated on the intricate web of details. Hermione stopped pacing, turning to face Andromeda with crossed arms. “Well then, spit it out. What am I missing?”

Her friend popped up from her spot, placing her hands on Hermione’s shoulders, and stared her dead in the eyes. “Tom’s crazy about you, Hermione,” she said with a serious, yet gentle nod, as if she were diagnosing Hermione with a terminal illness. 

Hermione blinked, thrown off by the directness of Andromeda’s words. She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. The idea felt... impossible, and yet, her heart betrayed her, skipping a beat as the possibility lingered in her mind. 

“He’s crazy alright,” she finally said with a laugh, dismissing the idea as preposterous. 

Andromeda’s smile grew at Hermione’s stunned disbelief. “I’m not saying he’s going about it the right way,” she added quickly. “But you can’t deny it—his actions speak louder than any words he’s ever said.”

Hermione shook her head, still processing. “No, Andromeda. He’s not like that. He—he’s using me. You’ve seen the way he acts, the way he manipulates people.”

Andromeda sighed, throwing herself back on the bed casually and propping herself up on an elbow. “I’m not blind, Hermione. I know he’s complicated, and I know he has his… dark side. But I’ve known Tom for a long time. And the way he looks at you? The way he softens whenever you’re around? That’s something else.”

Hermione wanted to deny it, to brush it off as just another one of Tom’s calculated moves, but against her better judgement, she hoped Andromeda was right. Maybe there was something in Tom’s gaze, a flicker of something real, something she couldn’t quite name. 

But that didn’t mean that Tom had the capacity to navigate those feelings. She had allowed herself to have faith in him too many times before, and it was a dangerous mistake. She couldn’t afford to let herself believe in whatever it was. Not with someone like him.

“I don’t know,” Hermione muttered, her mind a storm of conflicting emotions. “I don’t know if I can trust him. And I don’t know if I even want to anymore.”

Andromeda didn’t push further. Instead, she gave Hermione a reassuring smile, as if understanding the battle her friend was facing.

“Whatever you decide, I’m here, Hermione. But don’t forget—you're allowed to let yourself feel something too. Just... don’t get too lost in it.”

Hermione nodded slowly, unsure of what to do next.

Silently, she acknowledged what she wanted. The answer had always been there, a part of her that longed for something she shouldn’t. But that desire conflicted with the cold reality she was facing—where her choices had consequences far greater than her own heart.

And so, Hermione made her decision, though the pain of it settled heavily in her chest. If protecting those she loved meant sacrificing her own happiness, her own desires, she would do it. She would put them first, as she always had, because that was who she was—and no matter how difficult it was, she couldn’t turn away from her responsibility.

“I’ll figure it out,” Hermione said softly, more to herself than to her friend, as she pasted on an emotionless smile.

Chapter Text

Tom Riddle prided himself on his ability to tune out the trivialities of others. The inane chatter of his peers—discussions of Quidditch standings, petty gossip about romantic entanglements, or the juvenile bragging of the insecure—rarely warranted so much as a flicker of his attention. Such drivel was simply beneath him.

Yet today, in the library—the one sanctuary where such nonsense was usually absent—his patience was tested. Rhys and Potter had chosen a table obnoxiously close to his preferred corner, a choice that was far from coincidental. Rhys, notorious for his aversion to books, had no business being here unless he had an ulterior motive, and the unnatural volume of his voice only confirmed Tom's suspicions.

The library demanded quiet, an unwritten rule that was commonly respected by all except the most insufferable of fools. And Rhys, it seemed, was intent on proving himself chief among them. Tom's dark eyes narrowed slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he listened—not because he cared about their mindless banter, but because he recognized a deliberate provocation when he saw one. This was not about Quidditch or gossip. This was about him; Rhys wanted Tom’s attention.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into in the middle of the night a few days ago,” Rhys’s voice grated against Tom’s ears like nails on a chalkboard, every word spoken with the deliberate arrogance of someone who thought they held the upper hand. His posture—feet propped brazenly on the table, arms folded behind his head—was as infuriating as his tone. He paused, his gaze danced to Tom with a glint of mischief, as if to ensure his words had hit their mark.

Tom’s fingers tightened around the quill in his hand, twitching with the need to curse Weasley into next year, though his expression remained composed—a mask of indifference he had perfected over the years. Internally, however, his mind was already dissecting the implication behind Rhys’s smug tone and deliberate proximity. He knew where this was going.

Hermione.

A flicker of irritation crossed his mind, though it was swiftly squashed. He had assumed Rhys was no longer a threat, not since his reunion with Cedrella had seemingly taken up his focus. But Hermione— Tom’s Hermione—had an uncanny ability of finding herself tangled in situations she ought to avoid. It was both one of the things that drew him to her and the trait that tested his patience that most.

“I knew you had something more interesting to talk to me about than studying,” Potter replied, grinning like the knob he was. His hand ran through his perpetually disheveled hair as he leaned forward, clearly relishing the promise of a scandal.

Tom’s lips curled into the faintest sneer, barely perceptible. Rhys was baiting him, that much was obvious, but it was Potter’s unguarded enthusiasm that sparked a flair of true disdain. It was almost too easy to manipulate such simple minds, and Rhys was planning on using this truth to his advantage. The real challenge for Tom would be deciding whether to let Rhys hang himself with his own words or to intervene and twist the situation to his advantage. Perhaps stopping whatever rumor Rhys was poised to spin could serve as yet another step in his effort to regain Hermione’s trust. If there was one thing Tom Riddle knew, it was the power of perception. Words, once spoken, could infect minds faster than any spell. A well-placed rumor, if left unchecked, could spread like wildfire, twisting truths and sowing doubt where none had existed.

“Hermione Granger,” Rhys laughed loudly. “And we had quite the friendly catch up,” the words hung in the air, thick with insinuation, as he leaned back in his chair until only two legs were balancing his weight, a smug grin plastered across his face. "Oh, you should’ve seen her, Potter. All smiles and—well, let’s just say it was a warm reunion."

“You always did have a thing for her, didn’t you?” Potter snickered. “Too bad she told you she wasn’t interested so you had to pick back up with Cedrella. Even if Cedrella is a bit of a dead fish in the bedroom.”

Tom’s quill paused mid-stroke, his eyebrows lifting slightly. That took an…unexpected turn.

“Potter!” Rhys’s voice dropped to a low growl, nearly toppling over before his chair thudding back onto all four legs as he leaned closer to his companion, clearly agitated. But it was too late.

The truth had been revealed: Hermione had never wanted Rhys. The knowledge slid into Tom’s mind with ease, fitting neatly into the intricate tapestry of his plan. It was all Tom needed to turn the tables. He could already see the threads of leverage forming, the subtle ways he could use this newfound knowledge to keep Rhys firmly in his place. Cedrella was a mere consolation prize, a poor substitute for the witch Rhys truly desired but could never have.

How utterly pathetic.

A quiet hum of satisfaction settled in his chest, though outwardly, he remained composed, barely sparing a glance toward the spectacle.

“Oh come on, Rhys,” Potter chuckled, oblivious of what his friend was trying to accomplish, and absolutely ruining whatever Rhys had strategized. “It’s just a bit of lad’s chat. I’m sure Cedrella will get better with time.”

“Potter!” Rhys attempted to hush him again, but the damage was done. Potter’s thoughtless remarks had handed Tom an advantage he would wield with precision, ensuring Rhys understood the cost of crossing him—or Hermione—again. Cedrella was quite the unforgiving type of witch, and if she knew what ‘lad chat’ consisted of, she would surely make them regret it.

Tom might’ve been in a foul mood just moments ago, but now he was feeling rather giddy. He stood up, leisurely swinging his book bag over his shoulder. There would be time to study later, after the high of the moment wore off and he was ready to focus again. 

“Tough luck about Hermione, Rhys,” Tom said, his voice smooth, almost sympathetic, as he placed a hand on Rhys’ shoulder with a rough thud. The gesture was entirely too intimate, but it succeeded in making Rhys flinch. “Fortunately, as long as Cedrella doesn’t hear about your special little nickname for her—what was it again? ‘Dead fish?’— at least you won’t end up completely alone.”

The impact of his words were clear. Tom could practically feel the tension coil in Rhys’s shoulders, and each curse word Rhys longed to hurl at Tom was etched on his face. Tom withdrew his hand as he stood tall, satisfied with the discomfort he’d caused.

Rhys’s response came with a snarl, a bark of defiance that did little to shake Tom’s confidence. “Hermione might not like me, but she sure doesn’t like you either, Riddle,” he spat, his voice thick with venom. “Not even the great Tom Riddle can captivate little Miss Hermione Granger.”

Tom's gaze hardened, but only for a moment, before the smile returned—slow, calculating. There was no need to engage in a drawn-out exchange with someone so easily predictable. After all, arguing with a fool only means there are two fools.

“We’ll see about that,” Tom replied, his voice low but laced with certainty. It was more a promise to himself than anything else. 

Hermione might be angry with him now, but she had never outright dismissed him, and she had certainly never claimed she ‘wasn’t interested.’ In fact, her rejection of Tom had been born from his perceived feelings towards her—not about her feelings towards him. 

Tom’s thoughts twisted as his heartbeat stuttered, a strange sensation settled over him. He replayed her words in his mind, now understanding them in a different light. It had been easy to focus on her accusations, to fixate on the word ‘fragmented,’ a term that had asserted her knowledge of his truth. But now, with a clearer mind, he could see it for what it truly was—an invitation.

“I should have known better than to think someone so fragmented would ever be able to love me back.” 

“...be able to love me back.”

“...love me back.”

Hermione loved Tom. 

And perhaps, just perhaps, he could love her back, if that's what she needed. 

* * * * 

No matter how much Hermione respected Bathilda Bagshot, Transfiguration simply wasn’t the same without Dumbledore. There was a certain magic—beyond the literal kind—that Dumbledore brought to his lessons, an energy and mastery that made every class feel like an event. Without him, the subject seemed to lose its spark, and the lessons had grown painfully dull in his absence. 

For the past week, Bathilda had reduced their classes to little more than quiet sessions of note-taking straight from the textbook. Today, however, she had adopted an uncharacteristic teaching strategy—one she likely thought was creative, but ended up being the wizarding equivalent of a poorly made educational film. She’d strung together several moving portraits into a makeshift slideshow, accompanied by an audio recording of her own voice to narrate each clip. Hermione found herself grasping at straws to find something positive to report back to Bathilda after class—she supposed the portraits were…interesting—but ultimately, her frustration at how inefficient the lesson was heavily outweighed any potential strengths.

From the bewildered expressions on her classmates’ faces, Hermione wasn’t alone in finding the whole ordeal odd. The animated portraits flickered and shifted awkwardly, sometimes freezing mid-motion, while Bathilda’s voice droned on in the background, utterly devoid of the charisma and spontaneity Dumbledore had brought to every lesson. Hermione suppressed a sigh. She appreciated Bathilda’s effort—she truly did—but it was hard not to feel that the magic of Transfiguration had left the classroom along with its former professor.

Tom sat beside her, his presence infecting her space. She told herself she didn’t notice the slight tension of his mouth or the way his fingers tapped an almost imperceptible rhythm against his thigh, even if it was all she could think about. Although his posture was rigid and his eyes were firmly fixed on at the front of the classroom, Hermione wasn’t fooled. He wasn’t truly engaged with the lesson—his focus was elsewhere. More precisely, his focus was directly on her. 

Hermione could feel him steal a glance at her whenever he thought she wasn’t looking, but she refused to wither under the heat of his gaze. She had braced herself for retaliation after he discovered that she knew his secret. A strike, a threat—something to reassert his dominance and remind her of the precarious balance of power between them. But no such move had come.

Instead, Tom had acted as though nothing had changed, maintaining his usual composure in public while subtly invading the private corners of her world. Sitting beside her in class, leaving carefully chosen gifts outside her door—not just the flowers or the sugar quill she had promptly rejected, but also rare tomes and fresh parchment. They were thoughtful offerings, meticulously selected to appeal to her intellect and interests.

It was… confusing.

Hermione didn’t know what game he was playing, and she hated how easily it unsettled her. Was this some new form of manipulation, or was there something genuine hidden beneath the surface? She refused to let herself hope, knowing the cost of misjudging him. But even as her mind resisted, her heart wavered, caught in the tangled web of deception he was weaving.

The dimly lit room felt heavier somehow, the shadows cast by the glowing portraits only amplifying the intensity of the space between them. Hermione kept her eyes trained on her parchment, forcing herself to jot down notes, but her concentration wavered. She felt him shift slightly beside her, the subtle movement drawing her attention even though she didn’t look. Then, almost imperceptibly, his thigh brushed against hers under the desk.

The touch was so light it could have been accidental, but Hermione knew better. A shiver ran up her spine, her magic stirring instinctively in response. It wasn’t just the touch—it was the pull she felt, like an invisible thread of magic connecting them, winding tighter with every moment they were near. It begged her to bridge the gap, to reach out to him and embrace the sparks of his darkness. 

Immediately, Hermione shifted a few inches farther from him to break the contact as though it burned. Her heart pounded as she forced her breathing to remain steady. She felt like she had to actively resist him, to fight against the invisible force drawing her closer.  It was maddening, how easily he could disrupt her resolve with a single, subtle gesture.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his lips quirk into the faintest of smirks, as if he could sense her struggle, too. Her grip tightened on her quill, and she willed herself to ignore him, forcing her thoughts back to the droning narration paired with each portrait. But the charge in the air between them lingered, a constant reminder of the battle she was fighting to hold her ground.

She would lose herself in Tom all over again if she let it happen. It would be easy—so terribly easy. It would be satisfying, too, to give in to that magnetic force, to stop fighting and let herself fall into the darkness.

But it would be wrong.

Hermione clenched her jaw to hold back a sad sigh. It wasn’t just her own heart at stake—it never had been. Tom’s world was one of ambition and manipulation, a world that could ruin her and everyone she loved if she wasn’t careful. She couldn’t afford to make that mistake again. To lose herself in him would mean losing everything she stood for, everything she was fighting to protect.

No matter how her magic hummed in response to his.

No matter how her heart betrayed her with its yearning.

She wouldn’t allow herself to fall. 

Not again. 

It was a vow she had to repeat to herself the entire hour.

Stay in control. 

Don’t let him in. 

Finally, when Bathilda drew on the lights, signaling the end of class, Hermione felt like she had run a marathon. She stood quickly, gathering her things with practiced efficiency, avoiding the way his gaze followed her every move as he mirrored her task.

“Hermione?” Tom asked, sounding quieter and more uncertain than she had ever heard him before.

The uncharacteristic timidity in his tone made her doubt for a moment whether he had spoken at all. But when she glanced up, his dark eyes were fixed on her, and it was clear he was waiting for her response.

“Did you have a chance to read it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

It had been a while since she allowed herself to truly look at him. At first glance, Tom appeared the same as always: composed, polished, and meticulously put together. His hair was neatly combed, styled in the effortlessly perfect way that suited the times. His uniform adhered to every school regulation—shirt tucked flawlessly, tie snug against his neck, and robes free of even the faintest wrinkle. His bookbag hung over one shoulder with a casual ease, completing the picture of an untouchable student leader.

But there was something different beneath the surface. A subtle crack in his usual mask of control, almost imperceptible unless you were searching for it. The faintest hint of lavender shadows lingered beneath his eyes, betraying a restlessness she wasn’t used to seeing in him. Hermione hated that she noticed it at all, that she was attuned to even the smallest shifts in his demeanor.

She didn’t answer immediately, her lips parting as if to speak but hesitating. Mainly, she was too thrown off to form a response—what was he even referring to? Her brows knitted together with the silent question, the confusion clear in her expression.

“I left you a note last night,” Tom explained before he cleared his throat. “In front of your room.”

Hermione had suspected for some time that Tom was behind the mysterious gifts left at her door, though he’d never explicitly admitted it. His words confirmed what she already knew, but the mention of a note caught her off guard.

“I didn’t receive any note,” Hermione replied, shaking her head. Her tone was even, but her mind raced. Had he left anything else she hadn’t received? And if so, who took it? 

“I see,” Tom hummed, his voice soft yet probing as his eyes searched hers, as if he could uncover answers in the depths of her gaze. “Do you remember when we were reading the text Dumbledore had given you?”

Her cheeks warmed involuntarily, the heat rushing up before she could compose herself. Of course, she remembered. How could she not? Those nights were etched into her memory with startling clarity, no matter how much she wished she could forget them.

They had lain in bed together as they read, the book propped up between them while Tom’s arm draped around her, holding her as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Their voices blended in the quiet intimacy of the space, alternating between reading passages and engaging in animated debates.

It felt so right, so painfully right. It was exactly how she had always imagined a relationship should be—effortless, full of shared curiosity and closeness. And yet, it was a cruel mirage, a fleeting illusion of something that could never truly be. Those moments, so disarmingly perfect, had crept past her defenses and lodged him firmly within her heart—a place she had tried, and failed, to banish him from.

“The one written by Salazar Slytherin?” The warmth in her cheeks spread to her neck as she forced herself to meet his eyes—his bright, hauntingly beautiful green eyes. 

“Yes,” Tom replied smoothly, his lips curving into a smile that was as disarming as it was dangerous. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, until his fingers brushed against her temple. He tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, the lightest of touches, but one that sent a cascade of shivers down her spine.

She didn’t flinch, though every instinct screamed that she should, but she also didn’t lean into it like she wanted to. Instead, her eyes fluttered closed, betraying her as a swarm of butterflies stirred in her stomach, their wings brushing against the fragile walls she’d worked so hard to construct around her heart.

“We skipped over a chapter,” Tom murmured. His eyes dipped briefly to her lips, and Hermione felt the warmth of his breath on her face.

Of course, she remembered the chapter he was referring to. The one about Fated Mates. It was too embarrassing to read aloud with him, the intimate implications too much to confront while lying so close, with his voice curling around her like a spell. Yet, the concept had intrigued her. Intrigued and unnerved her.

Even after all this time, she had never gone back to finish it. The very idea of an unfinished book was a sacrilege she usually couldn’t endure. But the name of the chapter alone had kept her away, lingering in her mind like an itch she refused to scratch. It felt too fantastical, even for a world where magic was as real and concrete as the ground beneath her feet.

Hermione had always dismissed divination for the same reason—its nebulous nature grated against her logic. Fate, with its connotations of inevitability and lack of choice, was a concept she resisted fiercely. She wouldn’t succumb to it. She wouldn’t allow herself to believe in something that could strip her of agency.

And yet, Tom remembered. That alone made the memory of that chapter feel heavier now, as if the weight of its words had followed her all this time, waiting for her to acknowledge them.

“I know I have no right to ask a favor of you,” Tom began, his voice carrying a rare vulnerability. “But I was hoping you’d read it.”

He paused, studying her as if her response might shift the very ground they stood on. Then, with a quiet exhale, he added, “I’d love to know if you arrived at the same conclusion as I did.”

The hand that had just brushed her hair—so gentle and deliberate—disappeared into his pocket, as though retreating from the moment. Hermione’s heart gave an erratic thump, a swirl of confusion and curiosity spinning in her chest. His words, paired with the subtle shift in his demeanor, felt far more intimate than any gift he’d left outside her door.

“Was that all the note said?” she asked, feeling like so much more was yet unsaid.

Tom’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not exactly,” he admitted, his gaze flickering to hers and holding steady, as though daring her to look away.

Her brows furrowed, and she tilted her head, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I might’ve included an... invitation,” he continued, his tone as measured as always but with a hint of something softer woven in. 

“An invitation?" she echoed, her tone slightly sharper now, though she couldn’t entirely conceal the edge of curiosity in her voice.

Tom’s expression remained calm, but there was an underlying tension, one that was only highlighted by the way he leaned just a fraction closer. “To explore the ideas in that chapter together,” he added, his voice sounding almost… sensual— as if he was trying to seduce her. “At the next Hogsmeade outing this Saturday. Perhaps over some butterbeers?”

“Hogsmeade?” Hermione’s brow furrowed, her mind immediately flashing warning signs. Bathilda had explicitly cautioned her against leaving the castle, especially with the current climate in the wizarding world. Although only Tom and Antonin were the only two who knew the truth about her blood status, she had managed to make far too many enemies at Hogwarts, and the thought of venturing to Hogsmeade—where she could easily be distracted—was a risk she wasn’t willing to take. “I’m not so sure leaving Hogwarts is… safe for me at the moment.”

Tom’s frown deepened at her words, though there was an unmistakable sincerity in his response. “Hermione, I’d never let anyone harm you. You know I’d keep you safe.” His voice carried a note of frustration, but Hermione remained unmoved. 

“Safe from everyone… except you?” Hermione’s words were sharp, her voice heavy with a dry, humorless laugh. She couldn’t help herself, the irony stinging at her chest.

There was a flicker of something in Tom’s eyes—perhaps surprise, or hurt, or maybe something deeper—but she didn’t wait for him to respond. Instead, she took a step back, her own uncertainty now mingling with the frustration she felt at being caught between the fear of what he represented and the pull that still lingered in her chest. Nonetheless, her message was clear: Hogsmeade, or no Hogsmeade, she wasn’t safe with him. 

“I’ll read the chapter,” she said, calm but firm. “But only because I’d hate for a book to go unfinished.”

Tom gave a slight smile, a glimmer of something akin to satisfaction in his expression, though he remained quiet for a moment. “I’m glad I reminded you then.” He paused before continuing, as if he were hesitant to tack on the rest. “And if you change your mind, I’m still here to discuss it with you.”

Hermione held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. There was something earnest about the way he spoke. She nodded, slinging her bookbag over her shoulder. 

“Do you want to walk together to the Great Hall for lunch?” Tom offered caually. “I haven’t seen you there in a while.”

Tom’s offer hung in the air, his eyes searching her face as if he already knew her response before she spoke. 

Hermione hesitated for a moment before giving in. “I’ve actually been taking my lunch here with Bath—I mean, Professor Bagshot, since she’s been subbing for Professor Dumbledore.” Her cheeks were hot as she fumbled her words. She had intended to sound indifferent, but it felt like she was over-explaining herself. 

“Lunch with Bathilda in the Transfigurations classroom, late-night dinner with Andromeda in the Hogwarts kitchen, foraging for food in the Forbidden Forest for breakfast…” His tone was light, almost playful. Tom’s gaze softened a fraction as he teased her, as if the dynamic between them hadn't shifted one bit. 

Hermione frowned, her heart thumping at the realization of how much attention he had been paying to her. Her first instinct was to deflect with humor. “Are you stalking me, Tom Riddle?” she huffed, trying to dismiss the unease that threatened to bubble up. But there was a strange, unexpected flutter in her chest at his notice of her—attention that she wasn’t sure whether to welcome or resist.

Tom raised an eyebrow, his half-smile almost shy. “Stalking? No, Hermione,” he whispered, discreetly linking his pinky finger around hers before pulling away again. “I’m merely...observing.”

She couldn’t tell if he meant that as a threat or a compliment. Both options sent an uncomfortable ripple through her chest, but the thought that followed was one that stopped her cold: Or maybe he's learning her patterns to know when to strike.

Hermione's breath hitched, her mind now spiraling as she tried to reconcile the feeling that bloomed in her chest with the reality of his constant presence. He didn’t care about her, and she needed to get that through her thick skull—this was something darker. Something more dangerous.

“Calm down, Hermione,” Tom sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just worry about you, okay? I’m glad to see you’ve stopped skipping meals.”

He was notably flustered by her suspicion, which only increased her alarm even more. What was he playing at? 

“Well don’t ,” she said sharply before taking a deep breath and refining her tone. “Don’t worry about me, I mean. Now go catch the midday feast before it ends. I have a chapter to read.” She gave him a small, tight but polite smile, tipping her head toward the door. 

It was the closest thing to a truce that he would get, and luckily, he took it. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, his eyes lingering on her with an unreadable expression, before he nodded once and turned to leave. 

Hermione could finally breathe, exhaling tension from her lungs that she hadn’t even realized was there. 

Until a hand clamped on her shoulder, bringing her back to reality. 

“Well, that was interesting,” Bathilda remarked with a soft chuckle, her voice light but laced with curiosity. “Wanna tell me what that was all about?”

* * * *

Hermione spilled everything over a strong cup of tea, the comforting aroma of chamomile filling the room. She didn’t divulge every detail—some truths felt too raw to share and others far too dangerous—but she said enough for Bathilda to piece together the emotional turbulence she’d been navigating with Tom. From his cryptic behavior to the lingering pull she couldn’t quite shake, Hermione laid bare the parts of her confusion that weighed the heaviest on her mind.

Professor Bagshot listened intently, her expression calm and reassuring, never once interrupting. She nodded occasionally, a quiet invitation for Hermione to continue, her demeanor so steady that it somehow grounded Hermione as she spoke. When the young witch finally trailed off, her hands wrapped tightly around her teacup, she felt both exposed and relieved.

Bathilda let the silence linger for a moment before she finally spoke, her voice thoughtful and warm. “I wasn’t expecting Tom Riddle to be the wizard you told me about,” she said gently, her sharp eyes softening as they studied Hermione’s face. “It’s no wonder you’re feeling so conflicted.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed as she looked away, her fingers curling around her teacup. “To be frank, I never thought I’d be interested in a wizard like Tom Riddle either. It’s ridiculous of me to have ever entertained the idea.”

“Ridiculous?” Bathilda tilted her head, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and contemplation. “Maybe. Surprising? Perhaps not. The more I think about it, the more fitting it becomes.”

Hermione blinked, startled by the unexpected response. “Fitting? How so?”

Bathilda smiled faintly, stroking her chin as though she’d stumbled upon a brilliant revelation. “You, Hermione, are someone who values intellect, ambition, and an unrelenting drive to seek answers. Tom embodies all of those things, even if they come in a darker shade. It’s only natural you’d find yourself drawn to him, despite your better judgment.”

“That’s hardly comforting,” Hermione muttered, her gaze fixed firmly on the tea swirling in her cup.

“I’m not trying to comfort you, dear,” Bathilda said with a knowing smile. “I’m trying to help you understand yourself—and him. Attraction doesn’t always make sense, but it’s rarely without reason.”

Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping. “But even if it’s reasoned, that doesn’t make it right. And Tom isn’t simply ‘a darker shade,’ but the purest form of midnight black.”

“Hmm,” Bathilda took a second to absorb Hermione’s words before replying. “Even the midnight sky has stars, Hermione. Tiny pinpricks of light breaking through the darkness.”

Hermione frowned, shaking her head. “You’re romanticizing something that doesn’t deserve it.”

“I could be, yes,” Bathilda conceded with a small nod, taking another sip of her tea. “But stars shine brightest in the darkest skies. I’d wager if you dig deep enough, those pieces of Tom—the good parts—are truly exceptional. Rather like the rest of him, actually.” Her laugh was light and airy, but it did little to reassure Hermione.

Hermione tore her gaze from Bathilda and took a bite of the cucumber sandwich in front of her, more to occupy her hands than her appetite. Words failed her, and the silence between them felt awkwardly heavy. She turned her eyes toward the window, letting the scenery distract her. The sun was setting, melting into the horizon with a beauty that felt almost unreal. Brilliant oranges and yellows cascaded into the lake like a golden waterfall, while soft pinks and purples blended into the encroaching darkness of night. The transition was seamless yet striking, a reminder of how long she’d been talking.

“It’s the prettiest part of the day, isn’t it?” Bathilda’s voice pulled her back to the moment, her gaze now fixed on the same sunset. “Although I’m also partial to dawn, too,” she added with a thoughtful smile. “It always amazes me to see how powerful it is when day meets night. One can’t exist without the other, you know.”

Hermione swallowed her bite, the words sinking deeper than she wanted them to. It was obvious they were no longer talking about the sunset anymore. “But they’re separate,” she countered softly, her eyes not leaving the horizon. “Day doesn’t linger in the night, and night doesn’t hold onto the day.”

“True,” Bathilda agreed, tilting her head. “But they touch, Hermione. They meet at every sunrise and sunset, each leaving its mark on the other. They work together to support each other’s goals while accomplishing their own purpose separately. It’s beautiful, is it not?” 

“I suppose it can be,” Hermione sighed, sinking further into her chair. She genuinely did agree—just not when it came to her and Tom.

Bathilda’s gaze softened as she took another sip of tea. “Everyone deserves to be loved. And maybe those more prone to darkness are the ones who need love the most,” she said, her tone gentle but pointed.

Hermione shook her head, not in agreement but in quiet resignation. She was exhausted from the topic. It was possible Bathilda was right, but Hermione wasn’t ready to confront what that might mean.

Fortunately, before the conversation could continue, a small, familiar owl soared through the open window, clutching a package in its tiny talons. Its sudden arrival drew Hermione’s attention, offering her an escape from the weight of their discussion.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Bathilda beamed, her expression brightening as she gave her owl a loving scratch behind his neck. She reached for the letter, her eyes lighting up at the sight of Dumbledore’s familiar signature on the envelope. “Hopefully, Albus has dealt with all the ugliness and is ready to resume his position as Transfigurations Professor. I much prefer History,” she added with a wink. 

Hermione watched Bathilda’s hopeful smile and felt a wave of relief wash over her. Bathilda’s unwavering confidence in Dumbledore was a balm for Hermione’s frayed nerves. It was exactly what she needed to hear to ease her lingering doubts about how her presence may have altered the timeline.

The feeling of relief evaporated in an instant. One moment, Bathilda was happily humming to herself as she tore open the letter. The next, her face turned ashen, all color draining away as her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a panicked gasp.

“Bathilda?” Hermione’s voice rose in concern as she leaned forward, her own pulse quickening at the sight of the older witch’s stricken expression. “Is everything okay? Is Dumbledore still planning to battle Grindelwald?”

Bathilda didn’t answer immediately, her wide eyes scanning the parchment as though willing the words to change. When she finally looked up, there was a tremor in her voice Hermione had never heard before.

“It’s worse than that,” Bathilda murmured, her hands shaking as she carefully set the letter down on the table, as if even holding it was too much to bear. “He’s already lost,” she said, dabbing the edge of her hairline with the sleeve of her robe. “He barely made it out with his life.”

Hermione felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. “Lost?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What do you mean, lost?”

Bathilda’s trembling fingers pressed against her temple as she tried to steady herself, her usual airy demeanor entirely shattered. “Albus underestimated him. Grindelwald was... more prepared than he anticipated. The duel... it was catastrophic.”

Hermione’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as she watched Bathilda struggle to find the words. “But he survived, didn’t he? You said he made it out alive.” Hermione grasped onto any positive news she could. 

“Barely,” Bathilda confirmed, her voice thick with emotion. “The Aurors found him unconscious on the outskirts of Nurmengard. He’s been taken to St. Mungo’s... but his injuries are grave. The Ministry is trying to keep it hushed, but it’s only a matter of time before it breaks the news.”

Hermione’s hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palm. Dumbledore—the one unshakable pillar of wisdom and strength in this world—brought so low? It didn’t seem possible, and yet the evidence was right before her, printed in familiar handwriting.

“What... what happens now?” Hermione asked, her voice quivering despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

Bathilda shook her head slowly, her eyes glassy. “I don’t know. Without Albus to stand against Grindelwald, I fear what Grindelwald might do next.”

Hermione swallowed hard, the enormity of the situation pressing down on her. Dumbledore’s defeat wasn’t just a blow to the wizarding world—it was a crack in the very foundation of everything she knew.

Fear twisted in her gut. She couldn’t allow this to be the end. If history was beginning to unravel, she had to find a way to stitch it back together before it was too late.

But how?

Chapter Text

As the first rays of sunlight crept through the castle's ancient windows, Hermione’s breath fogged in the chilly air of the secluded corridor. She adjusted her robes for warmth, pushing aside the tapestry that shielded her from the rest of the school as she crawled into the small space. This hidden alcove had become her refuge, a sanctuary away from prying eyes, and more importantly, from Tom.

She settled cross-legged on the cold stone floor, withdrawing the duplicate of Salazar Slytherin’s tome from her satchel. Her fingers brushed the iridescent serpent on the cover as a flicker of unease coursed through her. This wasn’t just about uncovering the secrets of the text—it was about unraveling Tom’s motives. Why had he been so insistent she read this? What was it about this particular chapter that had him practically begging for her attention?

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she flipped the book open, her quill and parchment at the ready for notes. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe Tom’s interest was purely academic. The Salazar text was no ordinary book; its pages brimmed with ancient magic and veiled warnings. They had already discussed its darker inclinations during their shared readings before Tom unleashed his unpleasantness —if you could call attempted murder ‘unpleasantness’—on her.

Her quill hovered over the parchment as she found the chapter in question: The Bonds of Fate: Fated Mates.

Her cheeks warmed involuntarily, but she squared her shoulders and focused. Hermione was determined to approach this with the same logic and discipline she applied to every other subject. She wasn’t here to entertain any romantic fantasies, no matter how the title seemed to tease her.

The pages unfurled a complex web of magic, binding not just souls but destinies. The spellwork described was intricate, potent—dangerous. As she read further, her unease deepened. Tom’s fascination with the text suddenly made sense. The signs of fated mates were all too familiar when the two were together: the inexplicable pull, the charge of their combined magic, the way his presence seemed to hum in her veins, as though their very cores resonated in harmony. Even if she wanted to refuse to accept the idea, the text described the phenomenon in such vivid detail—how magic between fated mates would react in proximity, amplifying one another in ways that defied logical explanation—it was impossible to deny. It was why their debates always left her breathless. It was why their shared spells were far more powerful than they should have been. And ultimately, it was why—even the briefest touch—had her pulse racing.

For months she had tried to consciously ignore their chemistry, but reading the descriptions now forced her to stare into a mirror of truth—one that reflected all the moments she had dismissed their attraction as coincidence or overthinking, but were obviously the markings of fated mates.

Hermione’s hands tightened on the edges of the book. If Tom had read this chapter with her in mind, he must have recognized the signs too. That thought sent a chill through her. For someone like Tom, who sought control over everything—including magic—such a bond would be irresistible. He wouldn’t see it as fate or connection; he would see it as a tool, a way to bind her irrevocably to him—a way to heighten his power.

Her breath hitched as she continued reading. The text warned that such bonds, if discovered, could be cultivated. Encouraged. Turned into something unbreakable. But it also cautioned against the darker consequences—obsession, possessiveness, and the destruction of individual will if one partner wielded too much dominance over the other.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest. The balance described in the book was precarious, and she knew without a doubt that Tom would tip the scales in his favor without hesitation. If he believed they were fated mates, it wasn’t because he cared for her. It would be because he saw her as his, as another piece of his empire to command.

The thought made her stomach churn, a wave of nausea rolling over her. She slammed the book shut and leaned back against the cold stone wall, letting its chill seep through her robes. If what the text suggested was true—if she was bound to Tom Riddle, of all people, a boy with a soul so steeped in utter darkness—what did that say about her?

Hermione clenched her fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms as she wrestled with the question. Was there something in her, some hidden flaw or shadow, that had drawn them together? Was she as tainted as he was? The idea clawed at her chest, threatening to suffocate her. She had always believed in choice, in carving her own path, yet this... this felt like a cruel joke played by fate itself.

No. She shook her head firmly, trying to dispel the oppressive weight of her thoughts. Her choices defined her, not some mystical bond or cosmic decree. If their connection was real, it was not something she had sought out or wanted. And if Tom had recognized it, there was no doubt he would use it to his advantage, twisting it into something that served his ambitions.

She laughed. Softly at first, a breathy chuckle that barely escaped her lips. But then it grew. It bubbled and swelled, rolling out of her chest until it shook her shoulders and brought tears to her eyes. The sound echoed off the stone walls, startling her in its suddenness and intensity.

How had she not thought of it before?

Tom might think he was invincible, that he could use this pull against her, bending her to his will. But he had made a grave mistake—a fatal miscalculation born of his own arrogance. He had split his soul, unknowingly weakening himself. In his pursuit of immortality, he had fragmented himself into three pieces, each one making him less whole, less indomitable.

And one of those pieces? She already controlled it.

Her laughter softened as the realization settled into something sharper, more resolute. His diary—the piece of his soul he didn’t even know was gone. She had touched it, poured herself into it, and had nearly been consumed by it. But in the end, she mastered it, owned it, until it was no longer just his. It was hers, too, bound to her by the blood magic she had cast.

A new plan began to form in her mind, hazy yet, but still promising nonetheless. If Tom wanted to play with destiny, she would let him—but it would be her terms. She wasn’t just a pawn in his game, although she would pretend to be. Hermione knew Tom well enough to predict how he might interpret her next steps. After discovering their supposed fate, most witches would likely be enchanted by the romanticism of it all, drawn in by the allure of being "chosen" by something as powerful as destiny.

And so, she would play the role.

Hermione Granger, the hopeless romantic, entranced by the idea of a fated connection, eager to explore its depths. It would be her mask, her shield, her weapon. A façade to keep him off balance, to lull him into believing he had the upper hand. All the while, she would be studying him, unfolding his schemes, and preparing to strike when he least expected it.

She smiled to herself, a small, dangerous smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. If Tom Riddle thought he could outmaneuver her, he was in for a rude awakening.

* * * *

Antonin wasn’t stalking Hermione. No, he was simply… watching over her… keeping his distance while maintaining a close eye on her. She might not have known he was around, but what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. And if anything, he was doing her a service. 

In class, he would sit at the back of the room, his gaze lingering on her as she sat next to the enemy, her every movement a source of quiet tension. In the evenings, he often found himself trailing her through the hallways, making sure she was safe as Head Girl, especially when she patrolled alone, vulnerable to whatever dark forces lingered in the shadows. He even noticed the way she would disappear behind the tapestry in that dim, forgotten corridor, as if seeking solace in the solitude. And though it pained him, each night he would settle for the quiet corners of the girls' dormitory halls since he couldn’t manage to get past the ward of her chamber door.

It tore him apart, this passive role he was forced to play while Tom openly made his move on Hermione. Antonin knew he should trust her, that she was capable of making her own decisions, but he couldn’t help himself. The idea of her falling for Tom, letting that bastard worm his way into her heart—it sent a stab of jealousy through his chest every time it crossed his mind. He’d watched Tom give her an array of gifts, seemingly innocent tokens meant to win her over: fresh parchment, potions ingredients, quills. But the hand-written invitation Tom had left her? That was where Antonin drew the line. He knew Hermione was intelligent, knew she would prefer to make her own choices, but Antonin couldn’t resist making it a little easier for her to make the right choice. Taking away the temptations was just another way he was helping her—protecting her.

And yet, despite all his efforts to keep her safe from Tom’s web, he couldn’t ignore the gnawing truth. At the end of their night in the Forbidden Forest, after they had shared such intimacy—after he revealed his dragon for her—Hermiome had all but admitted the unforgivable. 

She loved Tom. 

That painful fact echoed in Antonin’s mind, a cruel reality he could barely accept. But it was clear as day. Every time she stole a glance at Tom when she thought no one was looking. Whenever her breath caught as he lightly brushed against her skin. The way she claimed to avoid him, and yet, somehow seemed to orbit around him at all times. They always found a way back to each other. 

It was something he wished he could change, but the more he watched, the more he understood—Tom felt the same. The Dark Lord’s cold, calculated interest in Hermione was not just strategy; there was something deeper there, something dangerous, something Antonin couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

But Hermione—brilliant, sharp Hermione—didn’t seem to realize it. She didn’t see what was happening under her nose, how Tom’s affections were subtle, how he was slowly beginning to offer her his heart. So Antonin, with his quiet observation, made a vow to himself. He would make sure it stayed that way—he would make sure that Hermione never saw that Tom loved her, too. He would shield her from the darkness, keep her blind to the truth of Tom’s attachment. He’d watch over her in silence, doing whatever it took to ensure she remained oblivious to the truth—no matter the cost.

His dragon hated the idea—dragons didn’t deceive their trainers—but his dragon could shut the fuck up. Antonin was doing his dragon a favor: he was keeping Hermione for themselves. 

* * * *

Tom had dreamt of Hermione yet again. She haunted him like an unwelcome ghost, invading his mind each time he closed his eyes. It had begun innocently enough—the night she’d first invited him to study with her months ago. In that dream, she’d teased him with her magic, challenging him until his hand was around her throat. He’d woken up hard, restless, wanting to slip back into sleep to see how it might play out. But lately, his dreams of her had grown more intense, a subconscious echo of how she’d begun to torment him in real life.

Now, he often found himself bound and powerless in those dreams, her dominance stripping him of control, in both a literal and figurative sense. Sometimes, she was relentless, treating him like a mere puppet for her amusement, leaving him helplessly restrained to a four post bed. These types of dreams were purely carnal—Hermione taking charge, forcing his submission as she rode him, a mixture of agony and pleasure that left him wet with humiliation upon waking. The shame of those dreams had kept him from her for weeks after their last altercation, wary that surrendering in real life would make him just as vulnerable as he was in those imaginary moments.

But the worst dreams were of a different sort. In those, she sought him out, needing him, confiding in him as if he were her equal. She’d share her struggles or recount the monotony of her day, her head resting on his chest, and for a fleeting moment, they felt like a normal couple. He would wake from those dreams with a hollow disappointment that lingered, knowing it was a reality that could have existed if he hadn’t ruined it for himself. The bitter aftertaste set his mood for the entire day, a reminder of just how deeply Hermione had infiltrated every corner of his mind.

He needed her back, he begrudgingly admitted to himself.

Tom would win her over somehow; he simply couldn’t bear her indifference any longer. Each glance she cast his way, absent of warmth or acknowledgment, seared into him more sharply than an unforgivable curse. She had once looked at him with admiration, even fascination, and on occasion, affection. But, now all he received was a cold, dismissive stare, if any look at all. It was intolerable. She belonged at his side, and though she’d forgotten, he would remind her.

Unfortunately, Tom didn’t know much about managing these types of feelings. He had never been raised with tenderness—the very quality Hermione had so infuriatingly demanded of him before she’d cast him aside. He knew power, dominance, control, and ambition, but what could he possibly know of warmth? How could he be expected to give her something so entirely foreign to him? Yet, perhaps there was someone who could offer some insight to the wants and needs of witches.

It was Friday morning, and once again, Hermione hadn’t appeared in the Great Hall for breakfast. In her usual spot, Hermione’s only friend, Andromeda, sat with a younger Slytherin witch, giggling and whispering as they nibbled on their toast and eggs. Tom observed Andromeda from his place in the center of the table, waiting until she’d finished her meal and was on her way out before approaching her. 

“Tom? Where are you going?” Malfoy called after him in concern, but Tom waved him off, intent on catching Andromeda at the entrance of the Great Hall. 

Andromeda’s eyes went wide when he stopped before her, her complexion paling slightly, and though he usually appreciated the effect he had on others, her fear was regrettably inconvenient in this instance. If she were too frightened, she might hesitate to provide the guidance he needed, foolishly thinking she was sparing Hermione from Tom’s attention. He sighed, knowing he had his work cut out for him in order to win her favor over. 

“Good afternoon, Ms. Black,” Tom greeted her, his tone perfectly courteous, the kind of refined charm that masked the sharper edges underneath.

Andromeda froze, like an animal in the wild trying to blend in with its surroundings. The friend beside her seemed just as stunned, though her reaction was rooted in a different kind of surprise. Her cheeks flushed with color as she registered Tom’s presence. By now, witches in his year already knew better than to expect personal attention from Tom Riddle—Hermione being the singular exception. However, the younger witch clearly misinterpreted the reason for his approach. She gazed at him with hearts in her eyes, her hopeful smile revealing that she’d fallen for his practiced illusion. She wouldn’t be the first witch fooled by his polished exterior, and she also wouldn’t be the last, but Tom found it annoyingly irritating nonetheless. Tom far preferred fear over admiration from anyone other than Hermione, but he’d play nice if it meant he’d be able to gain the intelligence he needed to win his witch back. 

“I was hoping I might be able to borrow you for a few moments,” he said politely dismissing the unwanted company. “Alone.”

The young girl’s eager grin faltered. “O-oh, yes, of course.” She cast one last, longing glance at Tom, as though hoping for any sign of interest. “I’ll see you later, then, Andromeda. And Mr. Riddle, if I can ever be of assistance…” Her voice lingered suggestively. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a slight bow, hating that he couldn’t just threaten her away instead. Thankfully, she stumbled away quickly, smiling like a buffoon as her legs practically melted beneath her on her way toward the dungeons. 

Once the distraction was gone, he gestured to Andromeda, leading her toward the open courtyard. The empty stone space was secluded enough in the early mornings, leaving the courtyard deserted. He could feel Andromeda’s uncertainty as she trailed behind him. She shook off her earlier shock, visibly steeling herself as if she were preparing herself for battle, finding her confidence again.

“How can I help you, Tom?” Andromeda asked. Tom sensed a hint of apprehension in her voice, though she kept her tone neutral. She wisely knew that if he was seeking her out, it wasn’t a matter of casual conversation. After all, Tom wasn’t the type to approach others—at least not without the prospect of something gained.

He offered a practiced smile. “I need a bit of insight, Andromeda. You’re a friend of Hermione’s. You understand her… uniquely.” He paused, letting his words settle, drawing her into with strategic sincerity. “I want to make amends with her. But she… requires a particular kind of approach, wouldn’t you agree?”

Andromeda’s eyes flickered, her brow knitting in subtle suspicion as she studied him. Tom held her gaze steadily, tilting his head just slightly, letting a faint trace of vulnerability slip through his mask—just enough to bait her trust.

“I miss her,” he admitted, his voice softening just enough to make the statement feel honest.

It was a calculated choice, of course—letting Andromeda see this side of him, or at least, the version he wanted her to see. He didn’t often reveal anything that might resemble emotion unless it served a purpose. And now, watching her expression ease, he knew he had struck the right chord.

“She’s perceptive, Tom,” Andromeda said quietly, her words layered with a warning. “Hermione… she sees right through facades. She’ll know if you’re not genuine.”

Tom nodded with a sigh. “I know,” he said, a hint of frustration slipping into his tone. “That’s why I need your help. I want her back.”

He could tell she was weighing his words, still cautious but tempted to trust him. And that was enough. Andromeda didn’t need to fully believe him; she just needed to believe enough to share what he needed to know.

“Well, I would have to know the exact reason for your argument in order to properly help you,” Andromeda said prudently, lowering herself onto the stone bench behind her. “Hermione keeps her feelings close to her chest, but I can see she cares about you, Tom.”

Tom remained standing, placing his hands casually in his pockets as he leaned against a nearby pillar. He studied her, choosing his words carefully. He was reluctant to divulge too much, but he knew that Andromeda would need at least the faint outline of the truth to provide appropriate guidance.

“She wanted something I couldn’t give her at the time,” he said, his tone detached yet deliberate. “But upon further reflection, I’ve determined that perhaps… it is possible after all.” He paused, letting the words settle, allowing Andromeda to draw her own conclusions. He made no effort to explain further. He knew that leaving some things unsaid would make him appear more conflicted, more melancholy. 

Andromeda’s eyes flickered with curiosity, though she maintained a carefully neutral look. “And what, exactly , do you plan to do now that you’ve ‘determined’ that you can give her what she wants?” she asked, her tone edged with skepticism, as though she were testing the limits of his intentions.

Tom pressed his lips together, suppressing a flash of irritation. It irked him to be under her scrutiny. Yet, he knew it was necessary to maintain her cooperation.

“That’s where I need your help, Andromeda,” he replied, the intensity in his voice increasing with a hint of frustration. “I seem to… lack… the knowledge of how to show her that I’m willing to be what she needs. But I am. I’m ready to do whatever it takes to win her back.”

Andromeda sighed, nodding with understanding. “If you really want to convince her, it will take more than small gestures or clever words. Hermione doesn’t want promises, Tom; she wants proof . You have to give her something real, something genuine. You have to be truly vulnerable.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, processing her advice. 

He was accustomed to commanding respect, to drawing people in through power or charisma, but this was much different. 

Proof . 

He could give her proof.

With a final nod, Tom stood up straight. “Thank you, Andromeda. This was most instructive.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply before heading towards the restricted section of the library. He had vital research to attend to: specifically, how to amend the most lethal curse known to the wizarding kind. If he was going to offer Hermione the proof she needed, he had to make sure it would be safe for her handling.

Chapter Text

Antonin didn’t care for Hogsmeade runs. They were a hollow ritual, nothing more than another opportunity for the Knights to fawn over Tom. Watching them scramble to win favor with bags of Sugar Quills and Fizzing Whizzbees was nauseating, a desperate display that left a sour taste in his mouth. Once, he might have joined their brown-nosing behavior, eager to prove his loyalty and earn Tom’s approval. But those days felt like a lifetime ago, buried beneath layers of disillusionment and a growing sense of dread. Now, he only went out of obligation, his presence expected, his absence too conspicuous to ignore.

Still, as he trudged through the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, his thoughts weren’t on the task at hand but back at the castle, where Hermione remained. Her routine had become a familiar rhythm to him, unchanging and predictable, yet it gnawed at him to leave her alone. Anything could happen in his absence, and the thought unsettled him. He’d rather be at the castle, watching her from the shadows, ensuring her safety in ways she would never know or understand. Instead, he was here, surrounded by meaningless chatter and pointless errands, his mind miles away from the crowd.

The group had gravitated toward Honeydukes, as always—Tom’s favorite stop during their Hogsmeade outings. The bright, bustling shop was alive with the hum of chatter and the clinking of jars as students crowded around shelves stacked with sugary treasures. Antonin lingered by the door, his arms crossed, unwilling to lose himself in the chaotic energy of the place. His gaze flitted to Malfoy and Lestrange, who were bickering over who would have the honor of purchasing some lavender mints for Tom.

It was an odd choice, Antonin mused, watching the two jostle each other with exaggerated indignation. Tom had always favored sickly sweet confections—syrupy fudge, sugary pies, and the like. Lavender mints, with their subtle floral tang, seemed entirely out of character. Antonin frowned. Was this some new development on Tom’s part, or had Malfoy and Lestrange simply misunderstood their Lord’s tastes? Either way, the display was absurd, and Antonin couldn’t help but feel the familiar surge of irritation bubbling beneath the surface.

He glanced toward Tom, who stood at the far end of the shop, inspecting a shelf of chocolate frogs with an air of detached amusement. Even when doing something as mundane as shopping for sweets, Tom’s presence commanded attention. It was as though the room bent to his will, every glance and whispered word circling back to him. Antonin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Let them fawn over him, he thought bitterly. Let them waste their energy on these meaningless displays of devotion. Meanwhile, Antonin’s thoughts once again wandered back to the castle, to Hermione, and to the gnawing sense that his absence could cost her dearly.

The soft chime of the bell above the door cut through the noise, drawing Antonin's attention like a predator sensing a shift in the air. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. His dragon stirred, its instincts sharp and immediate, a protective growl rumbling faintly at the edge of his consciousness.

Hermione.

He caught the telltale flash of her wild, unruly curls as she stepped inside, her eyes wide as they took in the crowded, colorful mayhem of Honeydukes. Antonin stiffened, his pulse quickening. What was she doing here? She wasn’t supposed to be here! His mind raced with possibilities, none of them comforting. Was she simply indulging in a rare Hogsmeade visit, or—his breath hitched—was she seeking Antonin out?

For a short-lived, irrational moment, Antonin considered reaching out to her, drawing her into the circle of his arms, where he could shield her from everything—especially Tom. His heart pounded with the impulse, a surge of wild desire to feel her warmth against him, to have her wild curls nestled against his chest. 

But just as quickly, reality crashed in, dousing the flame of reckless hope. His dragon stirred uneasily in the back of his mind, its sharp instincts reminding him of the boundaries he’d set, the unspoken rules that couldn’t be ignored. She wasn’t his to claim, not like that. Not yet, and perhaps never.

Instead, he stood still, forcing his hands to relax at his sides, fighting the urge to move toward her, his heated gaze tracking her every move. When their eyes met, his heart sank in disappointment. A bitter cold knot tightening in his chest as he watched Hermione walk past him, her eyes flicking over him briefly, a faint, polite smile curving her lips—so distant, so indifferent. 

She hadn’t come for Antonin. 

She hadn’t even acknowledged him beyond the bare minimum. Just a passing glance that held no weight, no warmth, as if he were a random stranger. 

No, she was here for Tom . The realization hit him like a blow, the intensity of it almost knocking the breath from his lungs. His gaze followed her every step. She walked with intention toward a shadow in the back corner of the store, to the man Antonin had once sworn loyalty to, but who had long since become a villain in Antonin's mind—someone he could barely tolerate being in the same room with.

Hermione claimed she felt the same way as Antonin did when it came to Tom Riddle. She had said the words. She had declared, with conviction, that she saw Tom Riddle as the enemy. That she wanted to see him eliminated. 

And yet, here she was, her every movement betraying the truth of her heart, stepping toward him with that same starry-eyed admiration Antonin had always observed in the eyes of those who blindly worshiped their master.

He felt his stomach twist, bile rising at the back of his throat as he watched the scene unfold. He wanted to reach out, to stop her, to shake her and demand to know why she was doing this. Why was she, so willingly, strolling toward the very darkness she claimed to despise? It made no sense. 

His dragon attempted to sooth him. To remind him that Hermione had told him to trust her at their last meeting, that perhaps this was all part of her plan. But how could he trust her when he could see her falling prey to the very monster he had sworn to protect her from?

Her footsteps slowed as she reached Tom’s side, and Antonin couldn’t look away as she spoke to him, her voice soft, almost reverent. “I thought I’d find you here.” Each syllable felt like a stab to Antonin’s back. 

“Hermione,” Tom murmured, his voice full of disbelief. Antonin could hear the hunger in Tom’s tone, the subtle shift in his posture, the way Tom reached for her, desperate to confirm that she was truly standing before him. 

Antonin clenched his fists, his dragon nails threatening to unsheath. 

No. 

This couldn’t be happening. He refused to watch it play out any longer, and yet, he couldn’t pull his gaze away. 

Tom’s fingers traced along Hermione’s jaw, a touch so possessive, so intimate that it made Antonin’s blood boil. “You came. You’re really here.” The words were breathy, almost tender as he threaded his fingers into her hair, as if he could anchor himself to her forever. 

A tsunami of rage brewed in Antonin’s heart as the dark reality of it all settled in. Hermione was slipping further from him with every moment that passed—and closer to Tom.

“I’ve read the chapter,” she said, picking at a hole in her glove nervously as a faint blush crept up her cheeks at his touch.

She was referring to the chapter from Tom’s invitation. Something Antonin thought he had spared her from. But of course, Tom was always one step ahead. He must’ve relayed the message in person when she never responded to the note that Antonin had intercepted. 

What chapter could be so important? What had Tom told her that could alter everything they had agreed upon? 

The questions painted the walls of Antonin’s mind with doubt. He had made it clear—she was supposed to stay away from Tom. They had agreed to work together, with Antonin gathering the necessary information while Hermione focused on her safety until they had what they needed to attack. And yet here they were, only three weeks into their agreement, and it was already falling apart. Was this the beginning of the end? Or was this just a momentary slip that he could fix if he acted quickly enough?

“I’d be delighted to talk to you about it.” Tom gave her an optimistic half-smile. “If you’re willing, of course.”

 Hermione wavered, still fully absorbed in his false charisma. “And would we be talking… as equals?” she asked cautiously. 

Antonin wanted to scoff. 

Equals?  

Hermione’s question hung heavy in the air between them, seemingly innocent, but so unforgivable—it wasn’t the word that was offensive, it was the fact that Hermione could believe Tom would have any concept of the notion.

Tom’s answer came smoothly, that practiced charm of his slipping effortlessly from his lips, as if he had rehearsed for this very moment. “Yes,” Tom replied, squeezing the back of her neck slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I realize now that… perhaps I didn’t handle things as I should have. I’d like to rectify that, if you’ll allow me.”

She wouldn’t believe this drivel, could she?  

The thought clung to his mind, but the more he observed, the more it became clear that she was buying into it. His dragon rumbled uneasily, sensing the shift in the air. Still, despite the gnawing doubt, Antonin couldn’t help but cling to a shred of faith in Hermione. She was clever. She couldn’t possibly fall for Tom's manipulation, could she?

“Alright.” That single word rang in his ears, and in the silence that followed, it felt like the world had gone still. Antonin’s eyes locked on Hermione’s fingers. They hesitated, only for a moment, before they abandoned the hole in her glove to loosely clutch onto Tom's robes. “I’ll listen. But I need you to be honest with me, Tom. If you can manage that.”

A shadow passed over Tom’s features, a flicker of uncertainty before his face softened. “I’ll do my best,” Tom promised quietly, nearly sounding sincere, but he couldn’t fool Antonin. 

It was all an act.  

Tom was pretending, playing the part of the earnest man, but Antonin could see it—the manipulation, the insincerity, the carefully calculated response. 

“May I escort you somewhere more private?” Tom added casually, his eyes glinting with arrogance and anticipation.

Only when Hermione scanned the room, her eyes darting over the faces of Tom’s knights did Antonin follow her example. His heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t the only one that was watching the two of them with keen interest. Every single Knight had their calculating eyes fixed on the pair of them with rapt attention. Tom’s words, his public declaration of respect for Hermione, had not gone unnoticed. The way he’d touched her, so brazenly in front of his followers—Antonin couldn’t ignore the message Tom had sent. It wasn’t just about Hermione’s intellect, her brilliance. This was about power, about possession. By acknowledging her so openly, Tom had raised Hermione’s status within their world, made her a piece in his game, and yet, at the same time, he had made her a target. Antonin could see it clearly—the envy, the jealousy building in the room. And from the sharp look in Hermione’s eyes, she also understood the magnitude of Tom’s action as well.

Hermione cleared her throat and nodded, refusing to shy away. “The Three Broomsticks?” she asked as she squared her shoulders and stood a bit taller. The confidence in her tone was undeniable, and Antonin couldn’t help but admire it, even as it gutted him.

This was it. 

She was choosing him. 

She was choosing the enemy. 

Tom’s hand only dropped from Hermione’s neck to seek out her fingers. He clasped her palm between his two hands, raising it to press and chaste kiss to her wrist. “That sounds perfect.” Tom’s smooth voice, dripping with false sincerity, seemed to echo in Antonin’s ears long after the words had left his mouth. 

Antonin didn’t even notice when they began walking out of HoneyDukes, hand in hand, until they passed him. 

That’s when it hit him like a slap to the face. Tom’s sudden interest in Lavender mints wasn’t random at all. How could Antonin have missed it? They smelled exactly like Hermione Granger.

* * * *

Tom placed a butterbeer in front of Hermione with his usual effortless grace before sliding into the U-shaped booth until he was seated across from her. The dim lighting of the secluded corner of the pub offered them a moment of relative privacy, but despite the physical distance from their peers, Hermione couldn’t shake the sensation of eyes on her. The malicious stares of Tom’s Knights in HoneyDukes prickled against her skin like the aftereffects of a curse, even now that they had made their way to The Three Broomsticks.

She pulled at the sleeve of her robe, a small, steadying gesture before speaking. “Is it safe to speak frankly here?”

Tom’s lips curled, his voice dipping into something low and almost amused. “Safe?” he echoed. “Define ‘safe.’”

A flicker of irritation crossed her face as she reached for her cloak and hat, ready to leave. “Is that how you’re going to be?” she asked coolly. “If nothing has changed, then I’ll be going.”

His hand shot out, fingers curling around hers with just enough pressure to still her movement. “Hermione, wait.” His voice had softened, but there was an unmistakable intensity in his grip. “If you mean ‘safe’ as in no one will overhear us, then yes. If you mean ‘safe’ as in ‘we will not get hurt,’ I cannot promise you that.” His eyes darkened, something unreadable lurking beneath the surface. “I know I’m putting myself—my heart—at risk, just by sitting here with you. Are you willing to do the same?”

Hermione let out a slow breath, her shoulders easing as she set her belongings aside. Her fingers, still slightly entangled with his, remained steady—not pulling away, but not responding either. With deliberate calm, she reached for her butterbeer with her opposite hand, lifting it to her lips and taking a deliberate sip. The warmth of the drink spread through her, and she embraced its effects, allowing herself to relax, even if just for a second.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she said, setting her glass down with calculated precision, as if she were moving a piece on a chessboard.

“I didn’t think you would come,” Tom admitted in near disbelief. “But I’m grateful you did.”

Hermione withheld a sigh, determined to ignore the way his thumb absently brushed over her palm. And yet, despite herself, the electric sensation of his touch sent a trail of gooseflesh up her arm. She had missed his magic, his presence. 

“Well?” she asked, her voice strong, though she felt anything but. “You wanted to talk. Here we are.”

“I was wrong,” he said, his voice lower than before. “And I’m sorry.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed in disbelief. The words were almost impossible to process, as if they didn’t belong to the same person who had so coldly rejected her, nearly destroyed her, only weeks ago. 

“You’re apologizing?” she asked, her voice laced with skepticism. She didn’t need any more empty words from him. “For what exactly, Tom?”

Tom’s expression hardened slightly, but there was no defensiveness in his eyes—just a quiet acknowledgment. “For my behavior. For the way I treated you. For expecting your devotion without providing mine in return.”

Hermione trembled, instinctively pulling away from him to draw her arms tighter around herself like armor. The apology was something she had never expected to hear from him, and it left her feeling raw, exposed. This was the first time she had seen any hint of regret from him—or perhaps it was the first time he’d ever truly experienced it—and she didn’t know what to make of it.

  “I know I’ve made mistakes, and I’m not asking for your forgiveness, but I want you to know... I never meant to hurt you,” he continued.

Hermione held his gaze, searching for the lie, the manipulation—the inevitable catch. But for once, there was nothing but quiet sincerity in his expression, and that terrified her more than any of his calculated smirks or ruthless words ever had.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “You never meant to hurt me?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tom, that’s all you’ve ever done.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he simply nodded, as if conceding the point. “I know.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. “Then what is this?” she asked, gesturing between them. “What do you want from me?”

“If you will still have me,” Tom hesitated for the briefest of moments, and that hesitation was more telling than any answer could have been. “I’m ready to pledge my loyalty to you. To—,” he stopped again to clear his throat before finishing his sentence. “To give you my entire heart.” 

“Why now?” she asked, her breath barely a whisper. “Why after everything?”

Her heart pounded in her chest, a mixture of confusion and hope swirling within her. She wanted to run—to pull away, to keep herself safe. But something held her there. And underneath the chaos of the pub, she could hear a voice in the back of her mind whispering to give him a chance. 

“I’ve missed you, Hermione,” he said, his gaze unwavering, searching her face as he slid deeper into the booth, until he brushed against her side. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, her fingers curling slightly against the rough grain of the bench beneath them. His words were a dangerous melody, one she knew better than to dance to—yet her heart ached at the sincerity in his voice.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look away, to break the spell he was so effortlessly weaving around her. 

“And does this little change of heart have to do with the chapter on fated mates? I’m sure it hasn’t escaped you how…useful it might be to siphon off my magic,” Hermione scoffed, finally looking him dead in the eyes. She dared him to lie to her face, in fact, if she was honest with herself, she expected him to. But even so, her heart thumped faster at his response. 

“Hermione, no, I wouldn’t do that to you,” he answered quickly, his tone filled with frustration. “Yes, I’ve done things I can’t undo. I won’t stand here and lie to you about that. But if I could change one thing—” He stopped, as if the words physically pained him. “It would be you. Us.” 

A shiver ran down her spine. Tom Riddle did not deal in regret. He did not second-guess himself. And yet, here he was, speaking of things he could not change, things he would undo if given the chance.

“I tried to fight against the pull. Admit it, you did, too.” His statement was rhetorical, so she didn’t answer and he didn’t wait for her to agree. “But I failed,” he admitted, his voice raw with the truth. “And so did you.”

Hermione’s pulse pounded in her ears. She wanted to deny it, to throw his words back in his face, to tell him that she had never once wavered in her resolve. That she would defeat him, despite the undeniable way she was drawn to him. Whatever bond exists between them, it wouldn’t dictate her choices. She won’t let him dictate her fate. But that would ruin her plan, and she needed him to trust her. 

“So what now?” she asked with a sharp inhale, folding her arms across her chest in a poor attempt to shield herself from the weight of his gaze. “You expect me to believe you’ve suddenly changed? That you want this—want me—without some ulterior motive?”

“I expect nothing,” he said, his expression unreadable. “I know I don’t deserve your trust. But I will earn it, if you let me.”

She shook her head, the words catching in her throat as she said, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Tom lifted a hand to gently cup her cheeks, and his body pressed against hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him, and her hands, almost on their own accord, rose to his wrists, fingers lightly circling them as his thumb ghosting across her flushed skin.

“Let me prove it to you, Hermione.” His words were perfectly chosen, masterfully crafted. And yet, for the first time, Hermione wasn’t sure if they were calculated. There was something different about him now—something unguarded.

But was it real? And did it matter if it was? She had one goal—one mission—and the closer she was to a vulnerable Tom, the closer she was to a dead Tom.

So, she nodded. 

Tom sighed in relief, touching his lips to her forehead. “Thank you, Hermione,” he whispered. 

Her heart skipped a beat at the unexpected tenderness of his kiss, the brief touch sending a rush of warmth through her. She looked up at him curiously as she tried to tame the flutters in her belly. 

“I have something for you,” Tom said, his expression more serious now as he reached into the folds of his robes, his eyes never leaving hers. He withdrew a small, velvet box, its surface catching the dim light of the pub as he extended it toward her. Hermione paused for a moment, her fingers hovering above it, unsure of what to make of this sudden gesture.

“What’s this?” She didn’t know why she asked, because already she knew. Even without opening it, she knew, and her heart was ready to pound out of her chest from the gesture. Inside the box, the magic of his horcrux pulsed wildly, searching for something to cling onto, and her own magic was eager—desperate—to meet it in return.

Her body was practically vibrating with nerves. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To draw him in, to make him trust her—to use him, just as he would have used her without hesitation.

And yet… the way he looked at her now, stripped of his usual arrogance, of that calculating brilliance—Hermione couldn’t shake the thought that, perhaps, for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle was afraid.

Not of power, not of death, not of failure.

But of her .

He was handing her the opportunity to crush him. 

She should have relished it. Should have felt triumphant.

Instead, all she felt was the weight of his confession pressing down on her like an invisible chain.

Tom's gaze softened, a flicker of something genuine crossing his features. “Something I should've given you before,” he replied softly, a shadow of nerves passing over his features. “A symbol of my intentions... and of what I want to offer you now.”

She lifted the top slowly, and although she was expecting it, she still gasped at the confirmation. The Gaunt ring gleamed brilliantly from its box, its flawless gold band smooth and polished, radiating a unique, otherworldly luster. At its center, a large, obsidian stone shimmered with a deep, inky blackness, its surface reflecting the faintest light with an almost hypnotic effect. Intricate, faintly glowing runes spiraled around the band, their ancient symbols seemingly alive with power, as if the ring held a force far darker and more dangerous than its beauty suggested. 

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth in shock. “Tom, no,” she said, her eyes growing hot and blurry as she cradled the box to her heart, allowing the ring’s magic to caress hers. “You don’t have to—you shouldn’t.” It was a warning, and yet, she wouldn’t part with it, even if he asked her for it back. It felt right to have a piece of his soul so close to hers. 

He smirked, pleased with her reaction as he reached up and wiped away a tear that tracked down her face. 

“To the rest of the world,” Tom explained, taking the ring from the box and lightly grabbing her left hand. He effortlessly slid the ring onto her second to last finger, using his wand to properly size it until it was a perfect fit on her hand. “It will look like a simple engagement ring.” 

Instantly, his magic connected them in a way that felt almost inevitable. Her heart raced, the sensation of the ring’s power crawling beneath her skin, filling the space between them with an intense, magnetic pull. She knew, without a doubt, that this was more than a mere symbol of affection; it was a declaration of something far deeper, far darker than anything she had ever experienced, more powerful than even the locket that once hung around her neck. Hermione was now the master of both Tom’s horcruxes. And she loved it. It was intoxicating, addicting, to have his life in her hands like this. How could she ever give this—give Tom—up? 

“But to us?” Tom’s voice was filled with that familiar, unyielding confidence, breaking the silence. “We’ll know what it truly means.”

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice broke as she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his neck. She couldn’t bear to look at him, but even so, she felt the overwhelming need to get closer. 

His arms encircled her in response, and he rested his chin softly on the top of her head, letting out a contented exhale. “My fate is yours, Hermione.”

Hermione wanted to accept his offering as an act of affection, but she knew better than to believe in fairy tales, in villains who reformed and monsters who learned to love. And yet, Tom had laid his trust at her feet, not with empty words, but with actions—dangerous, irrevocable actions.

But he shouldn’t have.

Not in her. Not in anyone.

Trust was a vulnerability, a chink in the armor he had spent years perfecting. And now, he had handed her the dagger that could pierce through it.

Now, all that was left to decide was when she should use it.

Chapter Text

“Follow me.” The cold December air hit them as soon as they stepped outside, but Tom paid it no mind as he pulled Hermione along, his grip firm on her wrist. His strides were quick, purposeful. He needed her now , the feeling only more intense by how keenly aware he was of her proximity, the soft pressure of her hand against his as they moved through the snowy streets.

“Tom, where—” Hermione began to ask, but he cut her off, his expression unreadable as he tugged her through the narrow alley behind Zonko’s Joke Shop.

Once they were out of view, he finally stopped, turning to face her before diving in for a searing kiss. There was no hesitation, no careful exploration; it was as if he needed to ensure she was really there, really his.

No words were needed; the pressure of his lips against hers spoke volumes—his desire, his frustration, his need to prove something, perhaps to both of them. His fingers slid to her neck, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss as his breath quickened. The world outside seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of them in this moment of heat and tension.

He broke the kiss only when his head was spinning, when he had to take a breath, but even then, his lips hovered near hers, his eyes dark and intense. 

“I thought I lost you, my little pet.” His words were a low murmur, laced with awe as he backed her into the brick wall. He studied her, his fingers traced the line of her jaw, a touch both tender and possessive. “But you’re mine now,” he continued, his voice dangerously calm now. “Just as much as I am yours.”

Tom’s lips crashed against hers once more, the kiss hungry, desperate, as though he were staking his claim, not just in body, but in mind and soul. To his delight, she met him with just as much eagerness, licking and nipping against his mouth, drinking in his attention. His fingers weaved into the hair at the nape of her neck, anchoring her to him.

“Do you understand?” he asked between kisses.

Hermione nodded, her eyes heavy with lust, leaning into him for more. 

“Did you miss this, Hermione? Did you miss me ?” he taunted her, running a hand up her thigh until it teased the hem of her skirt. 

“Tom.” The word was a pretty plea for more.

“Tell me, Hermione. Admit it.” His voice was smooth, commanding—an order, not a request. His fingers tangled in her hair, tightening just enough to make her gasp, to remind her that resistance was meaningless.

Her breath came in quick, shallow pants, her chest rising and falling with the weight of her surrender. For a moment, she hesitated, caught between pride and honesty. But in the end, it was inevitable.

“I missed you,” she finally relented, her voice barely above a whisper, yet loud enough to satisfy him.

A slow, knowing smirk curled at his lips. Of course, she had.

“Good girl,” he cooed. His fingers trailing higher, stroking the soaked material between her thighs as a reward for her obedience. She shuddered under his praise—under his touch, clinging onto him, her nails digging into his shoulders through his robe as he pushed her knickers aside. 

Yes, she was his. She had always been his. And now, she was finally beginning to understand it. Which is exactly why she didn’t protest when he knelt before her and swung her leg over his shoulder to feast on her in broad daylight. 

He lapped at her slit before circling her clit with the tip of his tongue, encouraged by the lovely whines and moans that fell from her lips. His fingers joined his efforts, eager to make her sing for him. 

She gasped, grinding her hips against his face, begging for more. 

He had missed this—the intoxicating power that came with bending her to his will, with pulling the strings and watching her unravel at his touch. She was a finely tuned instrument, and he played her expertly, each note of surrender a symphony that only he could compose.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered between quivering breaths. 

She was so close he could taste it—her sweet and salty nectar coating his tongue as each stroke of his fingers pushed into her harder and faster. 

“Who do you belong to, Hermione?” Tom asked with a wicked smile. “Tell me and I’ll give you what you want.” 

“You, Tom, you!” She didn’t hesitate to answer, fisting his hair and shoving him back where he belonged—right between her thighs. 

“Say it again,” he murmured, his voice thick with approval. “Properly, this time.” 

“You, My Lord , you,” she pleaded.

A slow shudder ran through him, pride and satisfaction swelling in his chest, leaving him achingly rigid beneath his trousers. For the briefest moment, surprise flickered in his dark eyes. He had expected her surrender—had craved it, demanded it—but was not expecting that.   

My Lord.  

He hadn’t told her to say it. And yet, she had given it to him of her own accord. It was not just a title, it was her devotion, her claim.

So Tom kept his promise. His fingers pumping into her while he latched onto her clit with his lips, sucking on it, massaging it with his tongue, following her incoherent cues to give her exactly what she needed. When her breaths became short and frantic, he increased his pace, demanding to taste her pleasure. Her hips met his every movement, until finally, she tipped over the edge, earning him a blissful moan of pure ecstasy. 

Her trembling leg slid off his shoulder, and if it hadn’t been for the wall behind her, she might’ve toppled over completely. Her body quivered, still reeling from the intensity of their exchange, her breath coming in shaky gasps as she struggled to stay upright. Tom’s gaze never left her, the accomplishment in his eyes unmistakable as he watched her struggle with the aftermath of her submission.

“Your friends might come looking for you,” Hermione muttered, still trying to steady herself. She barely managed to keep her voice from shaking as she looked at Tom with a lazy smile, her taut nipples visible behind her shirt. 

“Then we better finish this up quickly,” he chucked, pressing himself into her so she could feel his hardness. “Take your knickers off, Hermione,” Tom asked nicely. 

“Right here?” She asked in surprise. 

“Suddenly shy, my pet? After cumming all over my face in public? Take them off or I’ll rip them off. The choice is yours.” Tom smirked, extending his hand toward her with the expectation of collecting what was owed. 

“Okay, okay,” she huffed, stepping out of her undergarments and placing them in his palm. 

He brought them to his face, taking a greedy breath of her scent. She watched him, a flare of heat burning in her eyes. 

“Place your hands on the wall,” Tom instructed her, spinning her around by her hips before fisting her bushy hair with one hand. “As much as I love leaving my mark on you, I don’t want to scrape up that gorgeous face of yours against the brick, so brace yourself, Hermione,” he whispered in her ear, curling around her like the snake on Eve’s shoulder.

“I’m going to fuck you fast and hard right now.” Each word he spoke dripped with a dangerous sweetness as he unzipped his trousers and pulled out his hard length. “And then I’m going to walk you back to my chamber and I’m going to worship every inch of your body.” 

Hermione exhaled sharply, resting her forehead on the center of her forearms as she leaned forward against the wall. Her back arched into him, unconsciously seeking him out. Tom spread her arse cheeks, sliding himself between them, molding her soft curves around himself as he teased her mercilessly before moving lower. Her wet heat greeted him eagerly, accepting him with one smooth thrust. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, lowering his face into the crook of her neck. His teeth grazed against her pulse, his tongue savoring the salty edge of her skin. With another powerful yet precise pump of his hips, he bit down hard enough to leave a mark. Once, twice, a third time. Having been deprived of her for too far too long, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He wanted to be buried inside of her forever. He wanted to crawl into her skin, embed himself into her heart, drill a Tom shaped hole into her soul that only he could fill. 

When Tom’s fingers dipped to the ridge between her legs, circling it in the way he knew she loved, her moans morphed into needy cries of ecstasy.

“Shhh, Hermione. Only I can hear those pretty little noises of yours,” he warned her, yanking on her hair to force her to arch further into him. She clenched harder around him in response, reacting to each snap of his hips. He was so close to breaking, but so was she, and he refused to give in before she did. 

Tom drew his wand from his pocket, casting a silent spell until it vibrated to life. Later, he would have time to carefully coax out her orgasms on his fingers, his tongue, and on his cock. But right now, he would take it from her. 

As soon as he placed the end of his wand against her center, she had to slap a palm over her mouth to muffle her voice. She was cumming around him, her inner muscles contracting around him wildly. On her cue, he bucked into her madly, never losing his rhythm as he chased their mutual pleasure until he filled her completely with his seed. When he stilled, so did his wand, the charged hum of magic lingered between the silence. With a slow, deliberate motion, he tucked it back into his pocket, his movements uncharacteristically sluggish. His forehead found her shoulder, the weight of it heavy, opposite to how he was feeling inside—he was physically spent, and yet, his heart felt lighter than it ever had before. He had longed for this closeness, for possession, for this intimacy that dug deeper than mere lust.

Begrudgingly, Tom pulled out of her and tucked himself away. Hermione remained in her position, leaning forward against the wall as she struggled to catch her breath. “That was…” She trailed off, never finishing the thought, but she didn’t need to. He understood. He always did. What passed between them defied language—raw, consuming, something neither of them could name but both felt with undeniable certainty. 

It was fate. 

“Come, my heart,” the words slipped off Tom’s lips like a whispered incantation, effortless and natural, as he turned her around and pulled her into his embrace. He hadn’t planned to say them, but they seemed to fit—just like so much about Hermione, it felt right, as if they had always been waiting on his tongue, exposing him like veritaserum.

When she pulled back, Tom took a moment to scan every disheveled detail. Her lips were swollen from his kiss. Her shirt was untucked on one side, the fabric wrinkled, and her skirt was askew, evidence of the havoc he had wreaked on her. His lips quirked up in a mischievous smile; he was pleased with his work. 

“Don’t be so smug!” she chided. 

Tom’s smile only widened as Hermione shoved at him, her hands pressing against his chest in an attempt to create space, though the playful glint in her eyes told him she wasn’t truly angry. He could see the way her chest heaved, the way she tried—half-heartedly—to distance herself, and he relished the tension between them. It was intoxicating, this teasing back-and-forth, the playful banter that was so unique to his little witch. 

“I’m simply appreciating the aftermath,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You look quite... ravishing.”

“You’re a sweet talker, Tom Riddle,” Hermione swatted at him lightly, biting her lip shyly. 

Tom caught her hand, resting it back on his chest. “I speak only the truth, Hermione,” he replied smoothly, his tone dripping with self-assurance. “It’s hardly my fault that the truth happens to sound so charming.”

“It’s cold outside,” she observed as she cleared her throat, taking her hand back to right her clothes, tucking in her shirt, and properly aligning her skirt. Redness bloomed across her cheeks, though he had a suspicion it wasn’t entirely due to the cold. The way she fidgeted, attempting to reclaim some semblance of composure after the chaos of their moment, made Tom’s lips twitch in amusement. He couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him. There was something irresistibly endearing about her struggle to regain control. 

“Let’s get you inside,” Tom agreed with a hum. He took her hand gently, cradling it between his palms. With a flick of his wrist, a soft glow surrounded them as he projected a warming spell. 

His thumb brushed over the Gaunt ring on her second-to-last finger, lingering for a brief moment longer than necessary. It was a strange sight—seeing the ring on her hand rather than his—but an odd sense of pride stirred within him. She had accepted him, with all his darkness, all his imperfections, and he felt an unfamiliar satisfaction in that. It was a connection he would not take lightly.

As he looked at her, his gaze darkened slightly and his lips curled into a subtle smile as he guided them towards the path that led them back to Hogwarts. “I have some worshiping to do,” he murmured. 

“I like the sound of that,” she agreed, squeezing his hand lightly. 

He squeezed back, keeping a firm grip on her the whole way home.

He never wanted to let go—of her, of this—ever again. 

* * * *

Abraxas trailed behind Tom and Hermione, keeping a careful distance as they entered The Three Broomsticks. He allowed a few moments to pass, then pulled the black hood of his cloak over his head, slipping inside quietly after them. Though he couldn’t sit close enough to overhear their conversation, he would have no trouble watching from the far corner of the pub, nursing a butterbeer as he observed every subtle movement, every glance between them.

He had become an expert at reading Tom’s body language over the years, studying every shift in posture, every subtle twitch of his jaw or flicker in his eyes. Abraxas knew when Tom was irritated, when he was pleased, or when he was hiding something. He fixated on the smallest of movements, and as he watched from across the room, he honed in on every detail, analyzing each one with quiet intensity.

And he didn’t like what he saw. 

Tom was practically fawning over the girl. Holding her back from leaving, letting his fingers linger on her skin for too long. The way he smiled at her, his eyes soft and warm in a way that Abraxas had never been granted. A flicker of something twisted in his gut, a strange, sharp pang of jealousy mixed with an unfamiliar unease. He had always been the one who earned Tom’s attention, his favor, his trust—yet now, it seemed that Hermione had come to claim a space he once thought was his alone.

Malfoy observed in horror as Tom inched his way closer to Hermione, until he was rounding the curve of the U-shaped booth, pressing up against her side. Their conversation became irritatingly intimate—too close, too casual. The subtle brush of Tom’s knee against hers, the way his gaze lingered on her lips as if he were savoring every word she spoke. After everything Malfoy had done for Tom—the countless gifts, the lavish getaways, the unconditional loyalty—Malfoy had never earned that hungry look from Tom. A surge of possessiveness and frustration gripped him, his fingers tightening around his mug of butterbeer, the glass cool against his palm but unable to quell the simmering heat of anger rising in him.

A porky lad from Hufflepuff stood on the other side of the bar, raising his drink—the size of his fat head—in the air before chugging it down in a mess of foam. A rowdy crowd gathered around him, hollering in encouragement and laughter, their bodies creating a wall that obscured Malfoy’s view of Tom. He grit his teeth in annoyance, his patience fraying as the boy’s antics dragged on. Every cheer, every slap on the back felt like a fresh insult, keeping him from the scene he was desperate to witness. His fingers flexed, itching for something to do—anything to break the maddening commotion.

He wanted to yell at the lad, tell him to sit his tubby arse down and act properly in public, but he knew better. That would only draw attention to himself—and the last thing he needed was to make a scene. Instead, he steeled himself, focusing every ounce of his attention on trying to peer through the crowd, but it was no use. The boy’s obnoxious laughter echoed in his ears, mocking him as he shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, the distance between him and Tom growing ever more unbearable.

Malfoy would have missed Tom’s exit entirely if Hermione’s large, bushy hair hadn’t stood out against the masses. It was unmistakable—like a beacon in the chaos. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as she brushed past the crowd, her laughter ringing out as Tom led her away from the madness, and out into the cold. 

Despite knowing he should wait a few moments to follow, Malfoy threw caution to the wind. The urge to remain hidden, to track their every move, overpowered his restraint. He couldn’t risk losing them—not when he was so close, so painfully close to seeing what would happen next.

Malfoy followed at a distance, his pulse quickening as he slipped into the shadows. Abraxas watched as Tom led Hermione behind Zonko’s, his grip firm around her wrist. She stumbled slightly, caught off guard by Tom’s urgency.

“Tom, where—” she began, but her words were cut short as Tom pulled her deeper into the alleyway, away from prying eyes.

Malfoy edged closer, careful to keep to the darkness. His breath was shallow, his mind racing. What was Tom planning? 

Abraxas felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath him. Whatever theories he had concocted—threats, manipulation, perhaps even a show of power—were shattered in an instant. His breath hitched, and he barely managed to stifle a gasp as Tom turned Hermione in his arms, pressing her against the cold stone wall.

Then, to Malfoy’s utter horror, Tom kissed her. Not a chaste, calculating peck, nor an act of dominance meant to put her in her place—but something else entirely. It was deep, consuming, as if Tom were drawing life from her lips, as if she were something he needed for survival.

A leaden weight sank in Malfoy’s gut, twisting into something ugly and bitter. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He wanted to look away, to deny what was right in front of him, but he couldn’t. The truth burned itself into his mind, scorching through every delusion he had clung to.

Malfoy had seen this before—had been forced to endure it once already, the day he’d followed the Granger girl to the Black Lake in a futile attempt to warn her away from Tom. But he had shoved the memory deep into the recesses of his mind, locking it away where it couldn’t torment him. He had told himself, over and over, that it hadn’t truly been Tom that day, but Antonin. Antonin, who had touched her, kissed her—Antonin, not Tom, wearing Antonin’s face through the deception of Polyjuice.

It was the only way he could stomach it, the only way he could force himself to ignore the way the sight had sent a searing heat coursing through him, twisting his shameful lust into feigned revulsion. But here, now, in this alley, there were no illusions, no disguises. It was Tom holding her close, pressing into her as if she belonged to him, and he to her. And there was no lie Malfoy could tell himself this time.

Malfoy’s jaw clenched as rage threatened to choke him, but even as jealousy clawed at his throat, he remained rooted to the spot. Fury burned hot in his veins, burning through him like wildfire. How dare she—how dare he ? 

Tom was his master, his to serve, his to devote himself to. And yet, here Tom was, lavishing his attention upon her , touching her as if she were something precious, something treasured. It made Malfoy sick. It made him seethe .

And yet, Abraxas looked on, fixated on their every movement.

Malfoy’s breath was shallow, his pulse pounding, vision blurred at the edges, his mind warring between fury and heartbreak. He should leave. And yet, his feet refused to move, his body betraying him as his eyes remained locked on the scene before him.

Tom— his Tom—was kneeling. For her .

The sight sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him, but it was overshadowed by the undeniable heat pooling in his gut. He watched as Tom lifted her leg with practiced ease, his fingers pressing into her skin with a possessive certainty, his mouth trailing sinful promises along her thigh before sealing over her completely. Hermione’s head fell back against the stone wall, a breathless cry escaping her lips, and Malfoy had never felt so wretched—so disgusted—so entranced .

It was obscene. It was unbearable. It was…. so bloody hot. 

Unconsciously, Abraxas found his hand hovering over the stiffy in his trousers. He cupped himself, humiliated at his desperate need for release. He wished to be in Hermione’s place—to have his master on his knees, worshipping his body, devouring him with such passion. To be squirming, thrashing against the tip of Tom’s tongue, his hands weaved through his master’s dark locks in a frantic need to get closer. 

And yet, he also found himself wanting to be in Tom’s position, too. To wield such power over another, to know he was the source of someone’s undoing, their trembling limbs, their shattered composure. The way Hermione melted beneath Tom’s touch, the way she surrendered so completely—it was intoxicating.

Malfoy’s jealousy twisted into something more complex, more insidious. He had spent years wanting to be the one beneath Tom, to submit to his every command, to give himself over without hesitation. But now, standing in the shadows, watching the raw display of control before him, he found himself craving the other side of it.

To wield such power over another.

To be the reason someone gasped, shuddered, pleaded.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his mind spiraling with the implications. Did he envy Hermione for having Tom’s devotion, or did he envy Tom for taking hers? For commanding it so effortlessly? For the first time, Malfoy wasn’t sure which he wanted more.

He told himself watching was enough—that this voyeuristic torment was sufficient punishment for his own weakness. But that was before Tom stood up, before he spun Hermione around with effortless dominance, before his fingers tangled into the wild mess of her curls and yanked . It was the casual authority in Tom’s movements. The way Hermione yielded without question. The way power dripped from Tom like a force of nature that had Malfoy’s mind so conflicted—outrage and envy battling against each other, enticing him to become part of the scene.

Malfoy’s fingers shook as they hurriedly unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his length. His strokes started slow, savoring the rhythm of Tom’s thrusts, but they quickly turned frenzied as Tom speared into the Granger girl faster. Hermione's moans grew louder—so loud, even Malfoy, in the distance, could hear them clearly—so needy, so desperate. Until Tom whispered something over her shoulder and she muffled her delicious noises with her hand. 

The Tom that Abraxas knew was meticulous, precise, but the Tom in front of him was rushed and sloppy, chasing a heavenly ecstasy. And when Hermione sagged against the wall, and Tom stilled, pulsing inside her, Malfoy went right over the edge with them, imaging—how warm, how wet and tight—Hermione must have felt around Tom at that very moment. What would it feel like to fill someone with your seed—or oppositely—to be filled with the seed of another? 

The thought plagued him as he came down from his high. The moisture of his release dripped down his pants, and dotted the path in front of him in an humiliating line of evidence. He shoved himself back in his trousers, and wiped his hands free of his own filth, disgusted with himself. He had been taught his entire life that Malfoys did not lose control—a rule he had always abided by before Tom. And this act? This moment of weakness? It was just another way that Tom Riddle had proven he owned Malfoy in a way that no one else ever could.  

Abraxas hated himself. 

Perhaps even more so than when he had cum just from watching Tom fuck Hermione right over his face. He didn’t have a choice then, but he was a willing participant this time around. 

Between the searing self-pity and the suffocating self-loathing, Malfoy’s breath came in shallow gasps. He barely had time to collect himself, to bury the unwanted ache that gnawed at his chest, before the sound of footsteps echoed closer. 

Panic surged through him. His instincts kicked in, and he slipped into the dark corner, praying his cloak would blend into the shadows. His heart thudded in his ears as he pressed himself against the cold stone, barely daring to breathe.

He knew it was foolish, he knew it was pathetic, but the thought of being caught, of being seen while... that was happening between Tom and Hermione, filled him with a sense of dread so powerful it nearly crippled him.

His eyes squeezed shut, until finally, the silence returned, heavy and suffocating. But even in the absence of noise, he only hesitantly opened his eyes again. The adrenaline still buzzed through his veins. 

He was safe. 

For now. 

But the taste of that near-exposure lingered, bitter and unsettling. The image of them together—their closeness, their intimacy—still embedded in his mind. And though he had escaped for the moment, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he would forever be on the edge of losing control. Because now? He wanted more. 

“You can come out now, you miserable wanker,” Antonin drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. 

Abraxas froze, eyes darting around the alley, every nerve alert. Antonin’s voice—so casual, so knowing—cut through him like a strike of lightning. Malfoy hadn’t realized Antonin had been watching, hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might be found by anyone other than Tom or Hermione. The quiet seconds stretched on, each one dragging him closer to the inevitable confrontation. Malfoy had the instinct to stay hidden, to pretend this wasn’t happening right now. 

Finally, knowing there was no escaping it, Malfoy exhaled slowly and stepped out from the shadows. He straightened his cloak, trying to mask the unease that still roiled within him.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Antonin asked, a smirk in his voice as his eyes gleamed with amusement.

Abraxas cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his gaze drifting down to the ground, flinching at the mess beside his shoes. If he didn’t crumble under Antonin’s scrutiny, he would surely be ripped apart by his own mortification. 

Antonin stepped closer, forcing Malfoy to look him in the eye. “Which one is it, Malfoy?” he mocked, his smile sharp as he absently flicked his tongue against his lip piercing. “Are you after a good hate-fuck with Hermione? Or are you chomping at the bit to be our Master’s favorite servant again?” 

Abraxas straightened, raising his chin in defiance, refusing to let Antonin have the satisfaction of seeing him falter. “I will always be our Master’s favored servant,” he said with quiet confidence, his gaze cold. “And I don’t need to stoop to such... crudeness to secure my place.”

“Is that so?” Antonin mused, a smirk growing increasingly smug by the second. Dolohov shook his head, as if fighting the urge to laugh at Malfoy’s expense. “And what makes you so sure of that, Malfoy?”

Abraxas stood firm, his jaw clenched in resolve. He could see right through Antonin's attempt to provoke him—another game, another power play. This wasn’t the first time one of his fellow Knights had tried to plant doubt in his mind, to sow discord between him and Tom for their own gain. And he knew it wouldn't be the last.

Abraxas lifted his chin, his voice laced with pride as he leaned into the conversation. “If I weren’t Tom’s favorite Knight, would he have entrusted me with the task of helping him take down Grindelwald?”

Dolohov raised an eyebrow, the amusement clear in his expression. “Yes, actually. He’s probably hoping you fail. How exactly does someone like you plan to take down Grindelwald? Tom knows it's an impossible task, Malfoy. That’s precisely why he ‘gifted’ you the task.”

“An impossible feat?” Malfoy repeated with a scoff, his eyes narrowing as he regarded Antonin with disdain. “You underestimate me, Dolohov. If anyone can accomplish what others deem impossible, it's me. Grindelwald won’t be the exception. In fact, the old fool is so arrogant, he accepted my invitation to Malfoy Manor for New Years. He’s practically handing us the chance to defeat him.”

Antonin’s expression flickered with skepticism, though his eyes held a glint of curiosity. “Is that so? Grindelwald, invited to your home? I’m not sure whether to be impressed or horrified. You really think he’s that blind?”

Malfoy smirked, his confidence unwavering. “He’s blinded by his own conceit. He’ll come, thinking he’s above us all. And when he does, we’ll make sure he leaves with more than just a bruised ego.” His gaze flickered toward the horizon, a quiet certainty settling in his chest. “It’s a mistake he won’t survive.”

“Bold words, Malfoy. But words alone won’t kill a Dark Lord.” Dolohov crossed his arms, clearly unconvinced. “I’m curious, how exactly will you ensure this happens?”

Malfoy met his challenge with a smirk, his gaze gleaming with sharp, calculated certainty. He could read Antonin as easily as an open book—knew exactly what he was after. Unlike Antonin, Malfoy didn’t just toy with ambition. He embodied it, pursued it with relentless precision.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d love to know, wouldn’t you?” he mused, tilting his head just enough to convey his amusement. “So you can run to Tom, regurgitate my plans, and claim them as your own? Tell me, Dolohov, which one of us is truly vying for our Lord’s favor?”

Malfoy caught the brief flicker of hesitation in Antonin’s smirk. It was fleeting, but it was there—a subtle shift, a momentary lapse.

“Oh, how very wrong you are, Abraxas,” Antonin finally said, his tone laced with something close to pity. Malfoy bristled at the condescension but remained silent, yet guarded. “Do yourself a favor,” Antonin continued, his voice taking on a cryptic edge. “Next time you see Hermione, look down at her hand.” He paused, letting the words sink in before delivering his final blow. “Then, let me know if you can finally see reason.”

With a huff of dry amusement, Antonin lifted the hood of his cloak and retreated from the hidden path, leaving Malfoy standing rigid in the alleyway. Abraxas remained still, his narrowed eyes still fixed on the space Antonin had occupied moments before. His mind worked furiously, dissecting the implication of his words, weighing every possibility.

Whatever Antonin had meant, Malfoy intended to find out.

Chapter Text

Time slipped through Hermione’s fingers like sand in an hourglass whenever she was with Tom. Hours blurred into one another, dissolving like ice under the summer sun, until she could scarcely remember where one moment ended and the next began. They had barely left the confines of his bed all weekend, tangled in each other, lost in whispered conversations, heated silences, and passionate embraces.

The only exception had been a stolen venture into the Hogwarts kitchens late Saturday night—muffled laughter, hands brushing in the dim candlelight, the thrill of secrecy crackling between them like a spell on the verge of being cast. But even then, they had been drawn back to his chambers, as inevitable as the tide returning to shore.

This was the Tom she would miss when he was gone…

This was the Tom she would grieve for, the one she would remember with a bittersweet ache—the boy who had traced ancient spells along her skin like poetry, who had looked at her as if she were the only puzzle worth solving. Not the monster the world would one day fear, but the boy she had come to know in the quiet hours between dusk and dawn.

When she woke on Monday morning, Tom was already out of bed, methodically dressing for his Head Boy duties. The early light cast long shadows across the room, stretching toward him as if reluctant to let him go—much like she was. As much as she wished to remain in the fragile bubble they had created, reality was relentless, and the world beyond this room awaited them both.

She stretched languidly, letting out an exaggerated yawn to make her presence known. At the sound, he paused, his tie draped loosely around his neck, and turned toward her. Without hesitation, he crossed the room, sinking onto the mattress beside her and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her forehead.

“Stay,” he requested, cupping her cheek lightly. “I’ll be back with enough time before classes for us to attend breakfast in the Great Hall together.” 

Hermione blinked up at him, warmth curling in her chest at the soft way he looked at her. It was rare—this unguarded version of Tom, the one who asked instead of demanded.

She reached for his tie, running her fingers along the silk before beginning to knot it properly. “You know I can’t,” she murmured, focusing on her task rather than the way his gaze burned into her. “If I’m caught sneaking out of your room at this hour, it’ll be more than just whispers in the corridors.”

Tom huffed, but didn’t argue. Instead, he let his fingers trace along the curve of her wrist before capturing her hand in his. “One day, we won’t have to hide,” he said, his voice like a promise—like a vow.

Hermione swallowed, forcing a small smile as she finished his tie. “One day,” she echoed, even as a cold weight settled in her stomach.

He was quiet as he gathered his bookbag, though his subtle glances toward her did not go unnoticed. Hermione could feel it—the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing against him, held close to his chest rather than openly sharing.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she fastened the buttons on her robes. “I thought we were over all the secrecy.”

“No secrets,” he assured her with a sigh, though the hesitation in his voice told a different story. “It’s more of… a want. But we’ve only just reconciled, and I’d rather not push my luck.”

Then, as if to soften the admission, he let out a quiet chuckle, his lips curling into a mischievous smile that sent a familiar warmth curling through her.

“Well, now you have to tell me,” she said, tilting her head as she crossed her arms over her chest. Her tone was playful, but the suspicious smile of her face told him she was serious. “Or the mystery of it all will keep me up at night.”

Tom exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “I should’ve known that would only encourage you.”

Hermione arched her brow. “You did know. And yet, you still said it.”

He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing the risk of whatever it was he wanted. Then, with a slow, deliberate step forward, he reached for her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

“We discussed the chapter on fated mates this weekend,” Tom said cautiously, his gaze steady on her. “And we acknowledged the bond between us.”

Hermione nodded, a simple confirmation, urging him to continue.

“But we didn’t discuss the bonding ceremony,” he added, his voice measured, careful. He was watching her—always watching. Calculating. Testing. Her heart fluttered at the mention, but she kept her expression neutral, unwilling to betray the sudden rush of emotion the idea stirred within her. “Nor if you would be interested in completing it.”

Hermione inhaled slowly, choosing her next words with care. “You want to unite our souls?” She tried to make the words sound light, almost teasing, but even she could hear the weight in her voice.

He remained silent, his jaw tightening as though he were wrestling with the words before they could escape him, but Hermione didn’t need to hear them. His eyes had already betrayed him—the raw, unspoken truth burning brightly. He wanted this. Truly.

“I’m only going to ask this one final time, Tom,” Hermione said, taking a step away from him before proceeding. “Is this about power? Or is this about embracing our bond and fully accepting it?”

Tom followed her, stepping forward to bridge the gap she had created. His fingertips grazed hers lightly, sending shivers up her spine from the electricity of his touch and igniting the intoxicating thrill of their shared magic.

“I have enough power on my own, Hermione,” he said, his lips curling into a crooked grin that made her stomach flutter. “This is about us. About the way you make me feel whenever we're together. Alive. Safe. Happy.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a chaste kiss, a simple gesture that spoke volumes. As their lips met, she could feel his emotions flowing through their bond, vivid and undeniable. The warmth of them wrapped around her, soothing and comforting, a sensation so deeply familiar—one she had not felt in some time, if ever. It felt like love, pure and honest, settling in the center of her chest.

“I want you , Hermione. I want everything that comes with this bond, even if it means losing myself to it,” he said, his voice quieter than before, laced with sincerity. 

“Have you considered all the potential consequences?” she asked, falling back on logic, even as her heart yearned for the undeniable pull of their bond. She couldn’t afford to lose herself in his emotions—no matter how tempting his offer.

“I understand your concerns. It’s a risk,” he said softly, brushing a curl away from her face. “But it’s a risk I would blindly take if it meant being tied to you infinitely.”

Hermione bit her lip, torn between the allure of his proposal and the reality of their situation. It was impossible, and for plenty of reasons. 

“I would, too, Tom,” she said with a heavy sigh, her eyes tracing each thread of the embroidered snake on his lapel. It was a lie. She most certainly wouldn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. “But we can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, nudging her chin up to meet his gaze. His brows were knit together, not in anger, but concern—or maybe hurt mixed with the overwhelming fear of rejection. 

“Your soul,” she explained cautiously, swallowing down the frog in her throat. “It would have to be intact to complete the ceremony.”

As he processed the implications of her words, his eyes darted to the ring on her finger. Instinctively, Hermione shielded it with her opposite hand, as though protecting something fragile, something irreplaceable from danger.

“I see,” he murmured, his tone distant as he turned away from her, his eyes clouded with contemplation.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and tense, until Tom finally broke it. His voice, once quiet, now carried an unexpected determination. 

“I can repair it,” he said, his tone sharpening with newfound conviction. “It’s not too late.”

“Is that even possible?” Hermione asked in a small voice, her unease growing as she watched him. His sudden change of mood had her on high alert.

“It’ll be difficult, and it’ll certainly hurt like hell, but it’s possible.” He paced the room, running a hand through his hair. The behavior was odd, unlike anything she had seen from him before, and it made her even more on edge. His usually controlled composure was slipping, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he had already made up his mind, or if the uncertainty was creeping into his thoughts.

“I should get going,” she said, clearing her throat, forcing an air of nonchalance. “Before the others rise.”

Tom exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple before nodding. It was as much permission as she would get.

She turned swiftly, taking the chance to escape before she lost her nerve. She wasn’t sure how to interpret this new development, but she needed time—to think, to breathe, to separate herself from the overwhelming pull of everything that was Tom Riddle. But just as her fingers brushed the door handle, he stopped her.

“Wait,” he rasped.

Before she could react, his body was suddenly pressed against her back, his hand flattening over the door to keep it shut. His opposite arm wrapped firmly around her waist, anchoring her to him, as if letting go was unthinkable. His face nestled into the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin, making her heart stutter.

“Are you mad at me?” he whispered, the quiet desperation in his voice splintering something deep within her chest.

“Why would I be mad at you?” she asked light-heartedly, reaching back to embrace his side. It was an awkward angle, but it was all she could manage in this position, and he obviously needed reassurance.

Tom let out a slow, unsteady breath. “Because I foolishly placed yet another obstacle in our way,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before, almost uncertain.

Hermione closed her eyes, absorbing the feel of him against her, the way his grip tightened ever so slightly, as if he feared she might slip through his fingers. She had every reason to be angry, every reason to push him away—not just because of this, but for so much more. And yet, all she felt was the ache of what could never be.

“Of course I’m not mad at you, Tom,” she said with sympathetic understanding. “How could you have known I’d be coming your way?” she added, teasing him lightly to brighten his mood. For all the times she had witnessed Tom angry—had perhaps even found herself drawn to the fire of it—she realized she didn’t enjoy seeing him like this. Melancholy did not suit him.

He nodded into her neck, still unwilling to move, his grip tightening ever so slightly around her waist, constricting her like a boa constrictor wrapped around their prey.

“Now give me a kiss goodbye, my heart,” she chirped, echoing the term of endearment he had whispered to her in the back alley of Hogsmeade. The tenderness had left her buzzing with bliss, and she could only hope it would do the same for him now.

Her efforts paid off. The moment the words left her lips, Tom spun her around, lifting her effortlessly and pinning her against the door with his body. His mouth crashed against hers in a fevered kiss, his magic crackling around them, sending a delicious tremor straight to her core. She met his fervor without hesitation, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms tangling around his neck as she drank him in. The taste of him—dark and wholly addictive—made her dizzy with need. She could have stayed there for hours, nipping at his lips, rolling her hips against the hardness beneath his robes—

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

It was as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over her head. She froze, tapping his shoulder in silent urgency, signaling for him to let her down.

“What if it’s Slughorn?” she hissed, smoothing out her skirt with frantic hands and attempting to tame the wild mess he had made of her hair. Slughorn never stepped foot in the girls dormitories, but was known to frequent the boys dorm bright and early on Monday mornings. “We could lose our Head Boy and Girl positions.”

Tom only laughed, utterly unbothered, his wicked grin sliding back into place as if it had never left. “Calm down, Hermione. It’s not. And even if it were, I assure you, he adores us too much to make a fuss.”

“Easy for you to say! You’re a wizard. Do you know what they would say about me?” Her voice was sharp with panic. She was sex positive, yes, but this was the 1940s—a time when a witch’s reputation could be ruined over the smallest indiscretion.

Tom, ever the picture of ease, merely smoothed a hand over his hair before pulling the door open.

Hermione exhaled sharply, hiding herself behind the door, pressing a hand to her chest as the tension in her body refused to fully dissipate. 

“See? It’s just Malfoy,” Tom said with a smug smirk. 

Just Malfoy. 

She wasn’t sure if that was a relief or another problem entirely.

Abraxas stood in the doorway, his cool gray eyes flicking between them with practiced indifference. But she didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on Tom’s ruffled collar, or the dark hickey she had left on his neck. 

“I assume I’m interrupting something,” he drawled, stepping inside without invitation. “Though, judging by Granger’s indecent appearance, I’d say I’ve saved you both from a rather unfortunate scandal.”

Hermione shot Tom a sharp glare, but he only chuckled, throwing an arm around Hermione’s shoulder and biting playful at her shoulder. “We were just saying goodbye.” 

“Great,” Malfoy said, scanning Hermione up and down like he was in the presence of something truly repugnant. 

Hermione stiffened under Malfoy’s scrutiny—she was used to Slytherin’s looking at her like she was less than, but something about the way his eyes lingered a little too long on her lips and then moved slowly to the open button on her blouse made her feel dirty. She lifted a hand to chest, blocking the view of her cleavage.

He paled—which was odd since Malfoys were already as white as snow. 

“I—I have to go,” he stuttered, suddenly rushing past them without a glance backward.

“What’s with him?” Hermione asked, confused by his odd behavior. 

“Think he remembered the little show we put on for him at the Black Lake?” Tom chuckled darkly. 

“Tom!” Hermione swatted his chest. She had nearly forgotten about that, but suddenly she felt both embarrassed and smug. It had been a proud moment for her, perhaps one of the highlights of her year so far—besting a Malfoy and then punishing him so deliciously.  

Tom caught her wrist before she could pull away, bringing her hand to his lips with a satisfied smile. “Don’t act so scandalized, pet,” he murmured against her skin. “You weren’t exactly shy that night.”

“I think it’s time to go,” Hermione said with a deep blush. “I’ll see you in the Great Hall for breakfast.”

Tom hummed in amusement, clearly pleased with himself. “Run along then, my heart,” he said smoothly, his gaze never leaving hers. “But don’t keep me waiting too long.”

Hermione huffed, turning on her heel before he could draw her back in with another sly remark. As she stepped into the corridor, she could still feel his eyes following her, the ghost of his touch lingering on her skin.

Merlin help her —she was in too deep.

* * * *

Malfoy welcomed the scalding embrace of the shower, tilting his head back as steam curled around him, thick and suffocating. He had been standing there for what felt like an eternity, allowing the relentless stream of hot water to burn his skin raw. If he stayed like this much longer, he might very well drown himself—or at the very least, pass out from the heat. The thought wasn’t entirely unappealing. Anything seemed preferable to the cruel reality he now found himself trapped in.

That morning, he had set out with purpose, determined to seek out Tom after days of unexplained absence. It wasn’t like him to miss meals in the Great Hall, nor did he ever disappear without a reason. Something was wrong—Malfoy had been sure of it. Optimistically, he had entertained the possibility that Tom’s conversation with Hermione had gone south after their… encounter in the alley behind Zonko’s. Perhaps he was brooding, avoiding her out of frustration or irritation. It wasn’t exactly like Tom to sulk, but Malfoy had clung to the hope nonetheless.

Of all the possibilities he had considered in the past twenty-four hours, none had prepared him for the truth.

He had never expected to find Hermione in Tom’s room. 

Or to catch them in yet another intimate moment. 

Tom had always been cold beneath the illusion of his charm. Before Hermione, Malfoy had never seen him touch anyone with such warmth, never witnessed Tom indulge in anything remotely tender or playful. It was unnatural—wrong, even. Tom was meant to be above such trivialities. Above the kind of sentimental foolishness that mere mortals succumbed to.

However, more than anything else, what shocked Abraxas the most—or perhaps, what truly terrified him—was the ring gleaming on Hermione’s left hand.

The Gaunt Ring.

Not just because it was Tom’s most prized possession. But because it was on her second-to-last bloody finger. On her left bloody hand.

Engaged.

Tom was engaged.

To a no name witch—who was potentially even a mudblood!

This wasn’t just a passing fancy. This wasn’t mere amusement.

Tom was serious about her.

Abraxas pressed his forearms against the cold tiled wall, forcing himself to remain upright as the weight of realization threatened to crush him. His breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps—no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to draw enough air. Rage coiled tight in his chest, and fire burned behind his eyes, blurring the edges of his vision. His throat bobbed, tightening painfully as he fought against the sobs clawing at his chest. 

He refused to give in. 

Refused to let this break him. 

But the effort was excruciating.

Streaks of water cascaded down his face, and yet he couldn’t tell if they were droplets from the shower anymore—or if they were the manifestation of his own silent, burning outrage. He slammed a fist against the wall, seeking any release for the fury coursing through him. The sharp jolt of pain shot up his arm, but it did nothing to soothe the ache in his chest. Now, his hand throbbed along with his heart—both wounded, both uselessly grasping at something already lost.

Sliding to his knees, he curled in on himself, shoulders shaking like the tremor of an earthquake. 

He would rise again. He would pretend his world wasn’t crumbling beneath him. He would dress, attend his classes, and stand dutifully at Tom’s side when called upon. Because Malfoys endured—like the marble statues of their ancestors, weathering the storm of time with unyielding grace.

But for now, just for a moment, he would allow himself to break.

* * * *

When Tom had first arrived at Hogwarts, no one had particularly liked him. Tom was a nobody from nowhere, and although he insisted his lineage was magical, he was often curiously ignorant of the most elementary wizarding knowledge, the sort any proper wizard child would have mastered by age three. Nevertheless, Abraxas recognized something extraordinary in Tom; it was more than Tom’s magic, though that alone was staggering, effortlessly refined beyond his years. No, there was a certain aura about him, a distinct darkness Abraxas detected immediately, one that drew him in as a moth to flame. So, when his pureblood companions—the Slytherins Malfoy had known since birth—began to speak disparagingly of Tom in Tom’s absence, Abraxas swiftly silenced their murmurs.

Yet, forging a bond with Tom was no simple matter, despite Malfoy’s most earnest attempts. Tom was relentlessly driven, ravenous for knowledge, absorbed entirely by his studies, dismissing trivial pursuits like Quidditch or the affections of witches, in order to constantly improve his mind. Indeed, Tom embodied the very qualities Malfoy Sr. envisioned for Abraxas himself. 

Ordinarily, this might have stirred a venomous envy within Abraxas, but instead, it ignited a peculiar, twisted fascination. Abraxas found himself yearning to delve into Tom’s mind. He was desperate to uncover the intricate mechanisms that set him apart from others—to shed light on those natural instincts that rendered Abraxas himself so small beside the enigmatic figure Riddle was fast becoming. 

Tom was a mystery, a tantalizing puzzle, and Abraxas felt drawn to solve it. His routine had quietly molded itself around Tom’s. 

If Tom rose early, Abraxas would ensure he, too, was up with the dawn. 

When Tom strode into the Great Hall, Abraxas, too, would suddenly find himself in need of breakfast. 

If Tom arrived early to secure a front-row seat in class, Abraxas would be seated beside him, ready for whatever knowledge awaited. 

It was as if Abraxas’s very sense of purpose had been rewritten to align with Tom’s, irresistibly drawn by the gravitational pull of Tom’s presence.

By the middle of third year, every achievement Abraxas could claim bore Tom’s invisible mark, a quiet testament to Riddle’s influence. Tom drove Malfoy to excel, spurring him onward with an unspoken challenge that demanded nothing less than perfection. In Tom’s presence, Abraxas found himself constantly tested, urged to outdo his own limits, to prove himself worthy in the eyes of the one person who mattered most. Abraxas discovered satisfaction in who he became around Tom. There was a thrill in it, a sense that, with Tom near, he was becoming someone far more grand than he could have been alone. Under Tom’s silent scrutiny, Malfoy felt sharper, more ambitious, and somehow more powerful—a shadow refined by the light it followed. 

Soon enough, the other young wizards of their house began to follow suit, and Tom’s presence elevated them all. His dark allure cast a spell that drew in not only Abraxas, but an entire circle of Slytherins who craved to be part of something greater. United by Tom's guidance, they found themselves encouraged to grab at opportunities, to reject societal limitations on their magic, to attempt the impossible—all within reason.

It was intoxicating. Empowering. Freeing. 

However, an unspoken rule was well known amongst the group: to accept Tom’s aid, meant to accept Tom’s leadership. 

Without question.  

There had never become a problem until fourth year. 

It was the first time they had truly glimpsed the extent of Tom’s power—and the consequences of crossing someone like him. 

The common room lay in shadowy silence that night, the hour well past curfew as Tom and his Knights pored over their textbooks. With a potions quiz looming the next morning, Tom was intent on nothing less than perfect marks. Antonin stared at the ceiling, as untroubled and silent as ever, while Lestrange fixed his lecherous gaze on a third-year witch, his tongue sliding across his teeth in that distasteful manner of his. Abraxas kept his own eyes on the pages before him, striving to secure the second-best grade in the class, though he found himself glancing toward Tom in quiet intervals.

Tom’s face revealed nothing, as always—inscrutable, as though carved from stone by a master sculptor, his features precise, cold, and almost unearthly. His beauty wasn’t soft or delicate; it was sharp, sharp like marble, and it captivated Abraxas in a way he couldn’t quite explain. There was something almost unsettling about the way Tom’s lips would part slightly, moving subtly as he absorbed every line, every word. The way his fingers would trace the pages of his book, as though the paper beneath his fingertips was the warm flesh of a witch he longed to touch. It seemed deliberate, as though he found comfort in the simple act of touching, even the inanimate.

His posture was as dignified as ever—shoulders squared, back straight, and an air of aristocratic nobility that radiated from him, despite the lack of wealth or title. It was as if Tom wore the very essence of royalty without the need for crowns or jewels.

Abraxas rarely had Tom’s full attention, but when their gazes did meet, it was as though Tom’s eyes saw straight through him, unflinching, unwavering. In those moments, Abraxas felt immobilized, as though Tom could reach into his mind and pull out every secret, every thought he wasn’t brave enough to voice. It left him breathless, and when Tom’s gaze finally drifted away, Abraxas was left feeling exposed, as if he were standing before Tom, stripped bare of everything he’d ever kept hidden.

Abraxas lowered his gaze, a silent show of respect—or perhaps a feeble attempt to hide the flush that had crept up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. Could Tom sense it? Could he feel the strange stirring within Abraxas that he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t ignore? It made his heart race, his skin burn with an unfamiliar, almost dangerous heat. He was certain Tom could see through the walls Abraxas tried so hard to build, but did he know how much control he had over him?

The intrusive sound of Cassian’s voice shattered the fragile silence. “Well, if it isn’t Tommy Boy and his posse of lackeys,” Cassian drawled as he sauntered into the room, each step oozing of languid mockery. 

Cassian’s robes were wrinkled, his hair a mess, and his shirt hung untucked, a clear sign of the late-night revelries he had most likely indulged in. His presence was obnoxious, as always—unapologetically confident in his every move, unaware, or perhaps uncaring, of the disapproving looks cast his way by the others nearby.

Rodolfus Lestrange had always been the playful sort, enjoying mischief and testing boundaries, but his cousin Cassian Lestrange took it to a whole new level with his reckless audacity. A few years older than the rest of them, Cassian prided himself on being untouchable—immune to the threats and fears that governed most of his peers. In his mind, Tom Riddle was little more than a boy—clearly gifted, but still a mere schoolmate, far below Cassian’s level.

Tom didn’t even bother to look up at him. He merely kept his posture, indifferent, treating Cassian like a pesky, inconsequential fly. To anyone else, Tom would seem indifferent. But Malfoy, his longtime companion, could spot the tightening of Tom’s jaw and the subtle, imperceptible shift in his demeanor. Tom had heard every word. And though he chose not to acknowledge it, Abraxas could feel the spark of irritation flaring from Tom. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Cassian,” Lestrange warned, his voice laced with a rare edge of caution as he noticed his cousin fishing his wand from his pocket. 

Every student in the common room was well aware of what it meant when Cassian drew his wand. He was the sort to thrive on chaos, finding joy in provoking anyone he could. Just last week, he’d set Avery’s trousers on fire for no more reason than Avery’s boastful claims about beating his Quidditch statistics. Cassian had stood there, watching the flames dance, all the while chanting “liar, liar, pants on fire” like some schoolyard bully. And that was hardly the worst of it. Days before that, he’d conjured a barrage of magnets and hurled them at Antonin’s face, grinning childishly as they stuck to Antonin’s piercings. Antonin had nearly ripped open his eyebrow while yanking them off. 

And now, with his wand poised, Cassian leaned against the doorframe with an almost theatrical air. His smirk was obnoxiously pleased with itself, as if he could already see the turmoil he intended to unleash.

“Let’s see, how can I liven up this group of wet blankets?” he mused aloud, his wand resting casually on his chin, feigning deep thought.

“Cassian!” Rodolphus snapped, his chair screeching across the stone floor as he shot to his feet, his frustration palpable in the air. The sharpness in his voice cut through the room, agitated by his cousin’s antics.

Cassian only grinned wider, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement, having decided that Tom was his next target. “Oh, I know,” he murmured, his voice laced with mischief. Then, with a casual flick of his wand, he chanted, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

In the blink of an eye, Tom’s book was wrenched from his hands, floating just out of his reach, tauntingly. The room seemed to hold its breath as Tom’s nostrils flared, a flicker of fury crossing his otherwise calm features, but his composure never wavered.

There was a tension in the air that none could deny—Cassian had pushed the boundaries, sure, but Tom? Tom wasn’t so easily rattled. Cassian had undoubtedly pushed the boundaries, but Tom? Tom wasn’t one to be so easily rattled. Abraxas knew this, as did the others in the room. They all understood the game. Responding—reacting—was precisely what Cassian wanted, and Tom, ever the strategist, wasn’t so easily baited. He understood the dynamics better than anyone else present. If he gave in, if he engaged, he would only play into Cassian’s immature provocations.

Instead, Tom remained poised, his gaze fixed on Cassian, silent but unwavering, exuding the kind of control that rendered Cassian’s antics irrelevant.

“Drop the book, Cassian,” Lestrange commanded, his voice sharp like the snap of a whip, one that might've been aimed at a disobedient animal. Abraxas noted the subtle but undeniable threat beneath his words—one that could easily escalate if things went awry.

Cassian, however, seemed to take great pleasure in the challenge. He laughed, baiting Lestrange with a smirk that hinted at the ruckus he was always so eager to stir. 

“Make me, wanker,” Cassian jeered, his wand moving with a clumsy jerk as he levitated the book closer to Tom, hovering it within Tom’s reach. And yet, should Tom try to seize it, there was no question in Malfoy’s mind that Cassian would yank it back—like a predator playing with its prey.

Tom was too bright to fall into Cassian’s ploy. So, instead, he rose slowly, each movement deliberate, calculated—like a stalking lion before the kill. Tom turned to face Cassian with an eerie, almost amused smile, one that sent an unspoken warning through the air. The common room fell into absolute silence, every pair of eyes flickering between the two wizards, anticipation crackling like static.

From the corner of his vision, Abraxas caught sight of Rodolphus slinking back into his seat, his bravado evaporating as wide-eyed apprehension took its place. Fear and intrigue warred in his expression, mirroring the tension suffocating the room.

Abraxas, however, waited with bated breath, something far more dangerous stirring within him. Cassian had done it. He had succeeded in rattling him. And for that, Abraxas almost wanted to thank him. He lived for moments like these—the rare glimpses of the real Tom beneath the layers of charm and feigned civility. The Tom who did not need to raise his voice to command fear. The Tom who, for all his restraint, had finally been pushed to the edge.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Tom murmured, his voice laced with a poisonous sweetness that sent a collective shiver through the room. The warmth in his tone was a mere illusion, a cruel jest hiding the venom beneath. “Imperio.”

Tom’s wand cut through the air with effortless precision, the motion so fluid, so deceptively unremarkable, that Cassian had no chance to react. One moment, he was grinning in self-satisfaction; the next, that arrogance drained from his face like water through cupped hands.

Abraxas watched, transfixed, as Cassian’s expression emptied, his sharp, taunting gaze replaced by something eerily hollow. The light in his eyes dulled to glassy vacancy, his stare unfocused, reaching beyond the confines of the common room—beyond this world entirely. His posture slackened, shoulders slumping, arms hanging limply at his sides. Even his breathing changed, slowing into a steady, unnatural rhythm, too mechanical to be his own. The Cassian Lestrange they knew—the reckless, insufferable mischief-maker—was gone. In his place stood only an empty vessel, one that now was completely under Tom’s control.

“I apologize, Tom,” When Cassian spoke, his voice was flat and lifeless, devoid of the arrogant confidence that usually colored his words. “Please, My Lord, allow me to retrieve your book for you.” Cassian’s movements were obedient but lacked any spark of autonomy, like a marionette responding to the pull of invisible strings. To those watching, it was clear something was deeply wrong—this was not the Cassian they knew. 

Before they had time to process what was happening, Cassian knelt on one knee, head bowed in submission, offering Tom’s textbook with both hands as though presenting a tribute to the gods themselves.

"Now go jump into the fireplace," Tom commanded dismissively, settling back into his favorite armchair, his tone indifferent as he resumed his studies.

“Yes, My Lord,” Cassian said robotically, as he shuffled toward the mantelpiece, crouching down as if compelled by an invisible force. 

It was horrifying to watch, so horrifying, in fact, Malfoy had to look away from the inevitable carnage to avoid becoming sick. 

Antonin, on the other hand, ever the sadist, stepped forward. His eyes glittering with cruel delight, watching in awe as the flames engulfed Cassian’s robes, fusing the fabric to his skin. “Brilliant,” he murmured, clearly pleased by the grotesque spectacle.

“I-it smells,” Rodolphus stammered, sounding like he was choking on his own words. He had never been squeamish—but the scent that filled the room was truly unbearable. It was the stench of searing flesh, of human skin crisping and curling in the fire, mingling with the putrid smell of burning fabric and the sharp, acrid tang of singed hair.

It was a dangerous warning that Tom was far more than the intelligent, ambitious, polished student he presented to the outside world. No, it was a confirmation that Tom Riddle was as cruel as he was powerful. He was someone who delighted in dominance and fed on the fear and submission of others. 

At that moment, Tom earned the unconditional respect of everyone in that room. Yes, they were afraid, but moreso, they were impressed . For a fourth year to not only master the Imperious Curse, but to have also wielded it so flawlessly in front of an audience? That took much more than skill, it took guts. 

“Yes, it's quite repugnant,” Tom remarked, wrinkling his nose in distaste as the foul stench impregnated in the air. “That’s enough, Cassian, you’re free to go,” he finally said, releasing Cassian from the Imperius Curse with a casual flick of his wand.

It took Cassian several agonizing moments to comprehend the horror of what had just transpired. His mind, still clouded by the lingering influence of the Imperius Curse, struggled to catch up with the reality of the situation. For a few disoriented seconds, he merely sat in the flames, his nose twitching from the scent of his own burning flesh, as if unable to process the fiery pain that was beginning to consume him. His body was slow to react, until a creeping awareness of his predicament began to claw at his consciousness.

When the fog finally lifted, and the full weight of his agony struck him, Cassian’s body jerked violently. His legs trembled beneath him, unsteady as he scrambled away from the inferno, his hands desperate to tear at the fabric that clung to his skin. The flames had eaten through his robes, melting through the layers to his flesh, and now the blisters were beginning to form, dark, angry welts of charred skin. The pain must’ve been sharp, an excruciating wave that washed over him, each movement intensifying the wound, sending ripples of torment through his body.

Half-screaming, half-crying, Cassian stumbled out from under the mantlepiece, his face contorted in a mixture of disbelief and anguish. His hands shook uncontrollably as he clawed at the fabric, desperate to tear it off, but it clung to him like a second layer of skin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, coughing  ceaselessly as he collapsed onto the floor.  

His cousin, Rodolphus, hesitated for a moment, his hand reaching out unsteadily, unsure whether to offer aid—or if Cassian’s condition was already passed the point of no return.

“No one helps him,” Tom’s voice rang out, cold, commanding, and absolute, making the final decision for Lestrange. Rodulphus obeyed, ripping his gaze from his cousin’s writhing figure, because after what had just transpired, Tom’s word was law.

No one else in the common room dared to challenge him either, including those closest to Cassian, those who had known him all their lives. Not a whisper was uttered, not a soul moved. All eyes shifted away, minding their own business, deliberately avoiding the scene before them as a means of self-preservation. They looked anywhere but at Cassian, sprawled on the floor, his body twisted in agony as he wept. To show sympathy, to even acknowledge the display of suffering before them, would be welcoming a target of their own backs. 

Prior to this, Malfoy had always felt an instinctive need to protect Tom from the judgment and pettiness of others. Yet, as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shielding his nose from the lingering smell of impending death, the truth became uncomfortably clear: it was not Tom who needed shielding from the world—it was the world that would one day need shielding from Tom.

It should have been that realization where Malfoy’s unconditional praise of Tom ended, when the pedestal he had placed him upon began to crack. Yet, inexplicably, his admiration only deepened, anchoring him to Tom like the roots of an ancient tree burrowing further into the earth, unyielding and inescapable. From that point on, Malfoy would do anything, be anything, to meet Tom’s needs, to earn Tom Riddle’s approval.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat at the edge of her bed. It was the first time in days that she had a moment to herself after being wrapped up in Tom all weekend, and now that she was free from the distraction of getting herself ready for the day, the weight of reality pressed against her chest. She cradled the Gaunt Ring—Tom’s horcrux—against her chest. Warmth radiated off it, sending tingles down her spine. Although Tom was roaming about the castle, attending his Head Boy duties, the ring made it feel as though he was right there with her. 

She exhaled slowly, throwing herself against her pillows, willing herself to think clearly. This was dangerous. Not just the bond, not just the ring, but the way Tom consumed her thoughts, the way he made her forget who she was before him.

The Gaunt Ring pulsed gently in her grasp, its magic spreading through her fingers like a tether—like an unspoken promise. It was intoxicating, this feeling of connection, of possession. Of being his .

Hermione swallowed hard. She had always prided herself on her independence, on her logic. And yet, here she was, clutching a piece of his fractured soul against her chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Hermione still couldn’t fully decipher the meaning behind his gift. Was it a genuine gesture, or just another carefully laid trap? The uncertainty gnawed at her relentlessly. She needed clarity. And if there was anyone who could provide insight into Tom Riddle’s mind, it was… well, Tom Riddle himself—and the closest she could get to that was the fragment of him preserved within the pages of his diary… Which meant she only had a short window before breakfast to retrieve the diary from its hiding place in the Room of Requirement. 

Squaring her shoulders, she turned on her heel, determination setting her pace as she slipped out of her chambers and into the castle’s winding corridors. Hermione’s feet moved on autopilot, carrying her swiftly to the fifth floor while her mind churned with endless questions. Each step deepened her apprehension, her need for answers pressing against her ribs like a vice. It wasn’t until she reached the top of the stairs that a strange sensation prickled at the back of her neck—the distinct feeling of being watched haunted her.

Her pulse quickened. She had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t taken the appropriate precations. Swallowing her unease, she forced herself to keep moving, her fingers subtly curling around her wand as she listened for the telltale sound of footsteps behind her.

There was no one—at least, not that she could see. The corridor was empty, shadows stretching long beneath the torchlight. Still, the uneasy sensation lingered, curling around her like a whisper she couldn’t quite hear. Perhaps she was just being paranoid? On the other hand, she had spent enough time around Tom to know that deception often lurked where one least expected it.

Forcing herself to push past the feeling, she quickened her pace, unwilling to waste precious time on phantom fears. Yet, even as she continued down the corridor, or when she reached the shelter of her destination, the weight of unseen eyes never quite faded. She could turn around now and abandon her task, just to be safe, but she didn’t know the next time she might have an opportunity to get answers, so she continued.

The Room of Requirement was exactly as she remembered it. The four-poster bed—laden with far too many memories—stood tucked into the back corner, its curtains slightly askew as if still holding the echoes of stolen moments. Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents meticulously arranged yet untouched, while practice dummies stood in patient anticipation of defensive spells. But her focus remained fixed on the center of the room, where a single, worn book rested atop the table, precisely where she had left it: Tom’s diary.

Hermione traced her fingers over the worn cover, relishing the familiar spark of magic that pulsed beneath her touch, subtle yet insistent, drawing her in. Holding it between her hands felt like coming home—an soothing comfort that she had begrudgingly missed after weeks of separation.

She knew exactly how to summon him now—no ink, no quill, no slow siphoning of her soul as the diary fed off her essence. Instead, she held it firmly between her fingers, breathing her magic into the worn pages, focusing intently on visualizing Tom’s image until the shadows within began to shift, manifesting into the figure she sought—tall, poised, and unmistakably Tom Riddle. 

His sharp eyes locked onto Hermione the moment he fully formed, his expression dark, bordering on resentful. 

“You’ve been gone a long time,” he murmured, tilting his head as he studied her. He took a step forward, inspecting her with an unreadable expression. “I was beginning to think you had abandoned me.”

Hermione swallowed, returning the diary to the table and nervously fidgeting with the hem of skirt. “I didn’t abandon you. I just…” She hesitated. What was she supposed to say? That she had been too busy making up with his future self, only to betray him in the end? That she was brainstorming a way to destroy him—in all and any form—once and for all? “I needed time to think.”

His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no real humor in it. “Thinking, were you? And yet, you’ve come back here. To me.” He took a step closer, his presence cold despite the phantom energy humming in the space between them. “What exactly is it you needed to think about, Hermione?”

She exhaled sharply, reaching beneath her collar and pulling out the heavy onyx ring from the pocket of her blouse. As soon as it caught the dim light of the room, Tom’s entire demeanor shifted. His gaze locked onto the object, his eyes widening ever so slightly before narrowing with sharp intent.

His voice was eerily calm when he spoke. “That’s another Horcrux.”

Hermione blinked at him, surprised by how quickly he had recognized it. “Yes.”

His jaw clenched, his expression unreadable as he reached out but stopped just short of touching it. “Where did you get this?”

She swallowed, suddenly uneasy beneath his scrutiny. “You gave it to me.”

His gaze snapped to hers, suspicion flickering across his features. “I did no such thing.”

“No,” she admitted, rolling the ring between her fingers. “Not you, exactly. The Tom that made you.”

A slow, measured breath left him, but his eyes never left the ring. There was something unreadable in his expression, something calculating.

“He made another,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And he gave it to you.” His gaze flicked back to hers, sharper than ever. “Why?”

Hermione hesitated before answering, still unsure what the gift truly meant. “He called it a token. A gift.” She searched his face, looking for some indication of what he was thinking. “But I don’t know if I believe him.”

Tom let out a quiet chuckle, though there was little amusement in it. “A Horcrux isn’t a gift, Hermione. It’s a claim. A brand.” He finally lifted his gaze from the ring, pinning her in place with his stare. “You want to know if he’s being sincere. If this is some grand gesture of devotion, or just another manipulation.”

She nodded, tightening her fingers around the cool metal. “You know him better than anyone. So tell me, Tom—what does this mean?”

He was silent for a long moment, eyes drifting back to the ring. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter but no less intense.

“It means,” he said, glancing back at her, “that whatever his intentions are… you belong to him now. You can’t honestly be silly enough to think this is about affection —can you?”

Hermione shook her head, her voice urgent as she fought against the doubt creeping in. “He promised to see me as an equal,” she insisted, her words tumbling out too fast, as if speaking them aloud would make them true. “He told me about fated mates. We learned about it in this textbook.”

Her hands trembled as she reached into her satchel, fingers curling around the worn leather of Salazar Slytherin’s Tome. No matter how improbable it seemed, she had nurtured a fragile flicker of hope—a whisper in the depths of her heart that told her Tom was redeemable . That there was a world where she didn’t have to choose, where she could have it all: the safety of her family, the love of her friends… and Tom.