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Chapter Text

“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”

— C.S. Lewis

Prologue

Hermione Granger, 2044 – Office of the Prime Minister, Wizarding Confederacy

There’s a particular silence that settles over dying things. It isn’t tragic. Not at first. No, at first it’s just… inconvenient. Like the lull between heartbeats, or the fading buzz of a spell you know should’ve worked. You tell yourself it’s a fluke. A glitch. Maybe the wand’s off. Maybe the child was just a late bloomer. Maybe—just maybe—magic will sort itself out like it always has.

And then the silence grows teeth.

“I’m sorry, Minister,” Neville says, scratching at the pale scar that winds down his cheek like a crack in old stone. “The numbers don't lie.”

I don’t look up yet. My fingers curl around the teacup on my desk, chipped and stubbornly unrefined. I keep it as a reminder. I may rule what's left of the Wizarding world, but I do so from a house of ruins.

“The projections?” I ask, voice calm. Too calm. I’m already retreating into strategy mode, my safest place.

“They’ve… worsened,” Luna says. Her voice is air-light but steely underneath, like wind through broken glass. “We’ve cross-referenced magical density data with birthrate curves and ley line fluctuation. The core essence of magic is… receding.”

"Like a star collapsing,” She gives me a look that’s far too knowing. “Beautiful. But terminal.”

I look up then. The council sits in a crooked semi-circle. War heroes, every one of them. Tired, older, twisted by losses no victory ever mended. Neville’s eyes are sunken. George wears Fred’s old coat like a second skin. Luna still paints her nails blue, as if the right shade might ward off the truth.

“We estimate two generations,” says Chen Moriyama, my Head of Arcano-Statistics. “At most. If nothing changes… magic will be folklore.”

The silence returns, bolder now.

“Options?” I ask. My voice doesn’t waver, it hasn’t wavered in twenty years.

They look at each other like cowards passing blame until George, of all people, stands. His voice is rough. “There are… rumours. From the East. A rogue faction proposes selective culling of—”

“No” I cut in sharply. “We’re not going down that road. I will not trade genocide for survival.”

There’s a beat. Then Chen clears his throat and sets a glowing scroll onto my desk. “We have another possibility. Experimental. Perhaps… dangerous.”

I raise a brow. “Do tell.”

“Temporal bloodcasting,” he says, almost reverently. “A form of time travel woven into ancestry. A person sent back to 1944 with the power to alter events subtly… intrinsically. Not just prevent the war but reroute history.”

1944.

Shift the fate of a world. Reroute Voldemort.

My throat tightens.

“And the cost?” I ask.

“Your legacy,” Chen replies. “Possibly your life. And definitely… your innocence.”

I laugh then, dry and sharp, like breaking parchment. “That was lost long before I took this office.”

No one speaks for a moment.

I think of the children not born. The magic not cast. The walls of Hogwarts silent and cold. I think of a world choking on concrete and static and synthetic laughter.

I think of Tom Riddle; of what he became, and what he might have been.

“Send the owl,” I say, rising. “I’ll prepare tonight.”

Neville blinks. “You’ve made your decision?”

I offer them a brittle smile. 

***

There are worse things than death.

I’ve catalogued them. Alphabetically. Twice.

Most of them fall under the umbrella of what we once called progress.

In the Vault of Record-Keeping—a half-sunken chamber beneath what used to be the Department of Mysteries—I read through the Human Need Titles. That’s what they called them. Needs. As if greed was just hunger with better PR.

They were drawn up by the United Magical and Muggle Global Accord in 2027; that was the last time the two worlds pretended to work together.

We were told it was peace.

It was slow, sanctioned erasure.

They say it all began in 1944. The year a boy with too many secrets turned his back on redemption and walked into legend with a horcrux in each hand.

The same year the last stable leyline spike occurred. Chen believes the moment Riddle severed his soul for the second time, he unknowingly damaged the arcane lattice of magic itself. A fracture, not just of self—but of structure. A splinter in the backbone of the world.

Fix the boy, fix the future. Or, at least… reroute it.

My chambers are silent. Even the paintings sleep.

I’ve changed into robes woven with phoenix thread. Rare. Painful to earn. The phoenix must offer it willingly. Fawkes did. On the day Hogwarts closed, he circled above the castle once, cried upon my new robes and then disappeared into smoke and memory. These threads are all I have left.

I pack one book into my beaded bag; a first edition of Hogwarts: A History along with a few golden galleons forged before 1944. Temporal bloodcasting so far back in the past allows for precious few objects to be carried along with the carrier. 

The irony is delicious.

Crookshanks, older now, half-astral and mostly shadow, nuzzles against my leg. 

He knows. Animals always know.

The portal is nearly ready. The ritual circle hums with soft, pulsing light, like a heartbeat in reverse.

Luna kisses my forehead. “Be careful. Don’t let him see you as prey.”

George smirks. “Or worse—as a project.”

Neville just hugs me.

“You’re our last shot, Hermione.” he says softly.

I nod. “I know.”

And I do. Because I was born to fight monsters.

Only now, I have to save one.

***

The pain of time travel is not what you think.

It isn’t tearing or burning or the shatter of your soul across space. It’s… suction. Like being pulled through a teardrop-shaped hole made of memory and fire, and left gasping in a body you haven’t worn in decades.

I wake choking on magic; thick, old magic. Hogwarts magic.

I am kneeling on cold stone. Around me stands the familiar sprawl of the stone corridors—except not quite. The House banners are a different shade of red, green, blue and yellow, more regal, more vibrant. The air hums with torchlight and history that hasn’t happened yet.

I crawl to the nearest mirror and stop cold.

She stares back.

Hermione Granger, in her late teens… but not. Not really.

I look like a sketch of myself drawn by someone obsessed with symmetry and moonlight. My curls have softened into waves—dark, lustrous things that spill over my shoulders like ink. My skin is pale, moon-washed, untouched by war. And my teeth—those traitorous, oversized slabs I once charmed smaller—are perfect now. Naturally so. My lips are full, tinted like bitten roses.

And my eyes. Merlin help me, my eyes.

Almond-shaped. Tilted like a siren’s. The color of honey set on fire. They do not belong to a girl. They belong to a force.

“Did they make me more beautiful?” I whisper.

It’s not vanity. It’s calculation. I know what beauty can do, how doors open before it. How people underestimate or overestimate based solely on symmetry. I’ve seen empires fall for cheekbones.

“Did they do it on purpose?”

Blood magic is never exact. But it isn’t careless. If they shaped me this way, it was intentional. They’ve crafted a weapon. 

Wrapped a scalpel in silk.

I look down at my hands. Slim. Steady. Not scarred. My nails are short but elegant. I lift my shirt hem slightly, feeling the taut stretch of muscle beneath. Leaner than I’ve ever been. Faster. 

At peak condition.

But I feel the weight of time behind every movement. The instincts. The knowledge of loss. And gods help me… the echo of long-dormant hormones beginning to wake.

The door creaks and I spin on reflex.

A fifth-year girl I don’t recognize peers in with hesitation. She's tall, lanky, with a soft Scottish accent and bright, curious eyes. “Professor Dippet says you’re to come down. There’s going to be a… sorting.”

“Sorting?” I blink. “I thought that was for first years.”

She shrugs. “You're a transfer. Apparently they want to make a show of it.”

Of course they do.

The robes they’ve provided are traditional; fine wool, high collar, silver detailing. No house crest yet. Just a blank shield. I toss the robes Fawkes gifted me with into my beaded bag and change instead to the plain, woolen ones. 

According to the fabricated records, I’m a seventh-year transfer from an elite magical academy in the Alps. My letters say “Hermione Leclair,” forged in elegant script. Orphaned and untraceable. 

But I am not alone. He’s here.

Tom Marvolo Riddle. Seventh year. Head Boy. Still almost-human.

My pulse jumps—an ancient, irritating betrayal of this borrowed body.

The halls of Hogwarts are thinner in this decade. Fewer students. Shadows stretch longer. Magic feels hungrier.

As I walk toward the Great Hall, whispers follow.

“Did you see her hair?”
“She’s beautiful—looks like a Veela.”
“Didn’t she come from Beauxbatons?”
“Quiet, idiot. You think Dumbledore didn’t notice her aura? She crackles.”

They’re not wrong. I feel like I’m wrapped in thunderclouds. Raw, leaking power. And they all feel it. 

Chapter Text

PART I: RIDDLES

Chapter 1: The Sorting Ceremony

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals and prisoners are treated.”

— paraphrased by Mahatma Gandhi

I walk the halls of Hogwarts in silence, the worn stones echoing faintly beneath my boots.

It’s September first. The first years should be arriving by boat, the lake mist curling around them like a welcoming spell. But the corridors are empty, too empty. Perhaps they’re already tucked into the Great Hall, wide-eyed and trembling, much like Harry, Ron and I had been in our first year here. 

Not that it matters; my entrance was never going to be quiet.

When Luna, Neville, Chen, and I constructed my cover, we were unanimous on one point; blending in was a fantasy. Even if I performed mediocrity to perfection, I’d still be an anomaly—too new, too polished, too...uncanny. Better to wield the mystery like a wand.

The heavy doors of the Great Hall open without my knocking. The candles drift above in lazy patterns, casting golden light on every astonished face. The ceiling mimics the stormy sky outside, but here—here it is still warm, still magical. 

A castle impervious to time and war; at least on the surface. If only the same could be said of the future. My heart flutters again inside my chest unbidden and I press my lips together in irritation. 

Professor Dippet inclines his head; polite, uninspired, already charmed by the Ministry letterhead and forged documents bearing my invented credentials; an undercover operative, dispatched to assess the so-called Chamber of Secrets incident. A fabricated investigation, a threadbare lie.

The only thing real was the Ministry stamp.

But Dippet isn’t Dumbledore. He doesn't poke where things might bite back, he obeys.

“Miss Leclair,” he calls, drawing attention like a summoning charm.

I walk slowly, letting the elegant sweep of my robes speak for me. The Sorting Hat waits, for the first time in decades, to place a seventh-year. I kneel. It drops onto my head like a crown laced with barbs.

“Well, well… what are you?” it hisses into my mind. “Too old. Too strong. Too clever. Oh, they’ve done something to you, haven’t they?”

Just pick a house, I think.

“Gryffindor? You’ve outgrown bravery. Ravenclaw? You use knowledge now, not seek it. Hufflepuff? Please. You’d eat them alive.” A pause. Then, with wicked delight. “Ah… Slytherin. Not for cruelty. Not even ambition. But here, you will be tested. Feared. That suits you best.”

“SLYTHERIN!” it roars.

Applause, uncertain. A ripple of whispers.

I rise. The Slytherin table is a mirror of noble bloodlines and glittering disdain. Black. Rosier. Malfoy. They watch me curiously, as if I’m a riddle in need of solving. 

I take the lone seat at the end, silent. They don’t greet me, but their gazes flick—not to me, but to the boy seated farther down, almost imperceptibly.

Riddle.

I don’t let my eyes linger, but I feel him; his presence presses at the air like a second gravity. He glances at me, then away, with a smooth indifference I almost admire.

I nibble at dinner but my mind isn't here, not truly. When Dippet calls my name again, the words land like baited hooks.

“Mr. Riddle will escort you to the dormitories. He’s Head Boy and he’s requested a meeting to discuss shared responsibilities. I’ve made you a prefect, Miss Leclair. That should grant you all the freedom you require.”

Ah. Shared responsibilities.

To my left, I catch a flicker of Dumbledore. younger, more dangerous in his restraint. He coughs discreetly, amusement glinting behind his spectacles.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” I say, then turn and walk without waiting for further pleasantries.

The Prefects’ study is quiet, tucked beside the Great Hall and was frequented only by a few during my time in Hogwarts; Harry was led there after the Goblet of Fire had spewed his name out during fourth year. 

I don’t knock.

He’s already there.

Tom Riddle sits in a high-backed chair, firelight dancing across his cheekbones. A tableau of composure; legs crossed, fingers steepled, parchment spread before him as if ready to interrogate me. 

He looks up.

And the world comes to a brief but irrefutable standstill, my breath catching in my throat. 

His eyes are dark—not black, not quite. There's a strange color there, something between bruise-purple and garnet. Like magic stained his irises before he was born.

How utterly unnerving.

His dark hair curls faintly at the temples, an illusion of softness that clashes with the cut of his jaw. 

He doesn’t speak. It’s a tactic and I know it well. He’s waiting for me to crack the quiet.

So I sit. Calm. Still. I meet his silence with the faintest of smiles and return it tenfold. I have out-stared dragons. A seventeen-year-old sociopath in a pressed Hogwarts blazer is not going to make me flinch.

He blinks.

Success.

“Miss Leclair,” he says at last. His voice is velvet, smooth with a baritone edge and not at all what I'd imagined it to be. “Your documents are... fascinating.”

I tilt my head. “Are they?”

A flash behind his eyes..

“Accelerated placement in all subjects. Fluent in seven languages. And,” he lifts a parchment, lips curling, edged with restrained curiosity. “Parseltongue?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

His gaze sharpens, his voice grating against the nerve endings of my spine. “No. But rare. You speak it?”

After Lord Voldemort’s defeat I made sure to study Parseltongue in my free time. I could never imitate the exact sounds—I suspected the genetic predisposition to speak the language perhaps may have altered the tongue shape slightly to be able to more accurately pronounce certain words—though I could understand it.

Riddle's head flicks to the side in curiosity and disbelief, still waiting for my answer.

I sigh dramatically. "Ah …well. Speak is an exaggeration. I would say I understand some words to be exact"

“Oh?" he asks, raising a single dark eyebrow.

"My father spoke it fluently so I picked up on a few words when I was young," I say with a shrug as if it’s common in this world to speak Parseltongue.

“And who would that be?" he further prods.

“David Leclair,” I say, pointing to the parchment in front of him. “It’s in the file.”

His posture is impeccable. Tom Riddle has the physique of someone who is naturally lean—though I suspect he does little physical exercise unless performing dark magic counts. The image of Lord Voldemort, in his snake-like form, doing crunches pops unbidden into my mind and I almost smile.

He arches a single brow at that as he leans forward and I can tell he is tall, taller than I suspect.

He is…

Striking in every conceivable way, and more handsome than I unfortunately suspected. It is rare, after all, for powerful figures to rise if they lack a certain ... symmetry. 

Riddle doesn’t glance down. He must have already memorized my files. He’s testing for discrepancies.

“And where is your father now?” His voice has the characteristic edge of a doctor’s gentleness before they press an injection into a child’s arm. 

“Dead. His secrets with him.”

Try me. Speak it. I dare you. 

He doesn’t. But his eyes glitter like a challenge unmet.

“A bold admission,” he murmurs. “Especially after the incident last year.”

Ah. The bait.

I lean back into my chair, regaining my lofty demeanor,  my tone dry. "I assume you are referring to the incident with the suspected Basilisk that turned out to be an acromantula. These two creatures are so often confused.”

His lips curve only slightly, almost unconsciously, catching the hint of my sarcasm. A point for me, then.

“I’ve been Head Boy since fifth year,” Riddle adds, deciding to change the subject. “No one has ever been inserted into the position of Prefect.”

“Well,” I murmur, leaning in to the arrogance and entitlement that Slytherins boast, “no one’s ever been me, have they?”

There it is; his pupils narrow ever so slightly. In interest perhaps or recognition. 

Of power. 

Of challenge.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he says, carefully, studying me suspiciously. 

“And I don’t believe in humility,” I reply, gaze dropping to the place on my arm where the word mudblood once lived. The skin is smooth now, but the memory itches like a phantom limb.

Forty five years of war stitched into the body of an eighteen year old girl.

He reclines again, folding into shadows. “We’re hosting the Yule Symposium. December second. You’ll be expected to speak.”

A scroll appears midair. Wandless. Wordless.

I don’t blink.

Does he expect me to be impressed?

Knowing how rare this is within the wizarding community and amongst students, perhaps. 

Instead, I transfigure air itself into a crystal goblet, fill it with firewhisky, and slide it to him.

His surprise is well-hidden—but there. A crack in the façade. I pour my own drink, resisting the urge to smile in victory. 

“They’ll want to see your talents,” he says, masking his shock, his hand going to the smooth glass, his fingers ghosting over the surface.

I sip. “Perhaps I’ll teach them how to curse without lifting a wand.”

Another twitch. He’s intrigued now. 

Good.

“Do you always arrive shrouded in riddles?” he asks, eyes glittering with layered meaning.

“That depends. Do you always flirt like a predator, or is it just for girls you can’t intimidate?”

He laughs. 

He laughs.

It's so unexpected that my hold on the glass tightens and my heart skips a beat. 

It’s not warm. It’s not cruel. It’s curious; like I’m a puzzle he didn’t expect to enjoy.

Then all at once the laughter is gone and a neutral, somewhat bemused expression returns upon his features. I blink. 

“Your file said you were ambitious." he says, a sudden, playful gleam in his eyes. 

“Then it was a very polite lie,” I say. “They usually spell it dangerous.”

Another beat of silence.

He’s watching me now like something under the microscope—curious whether I’ll crack or shatter or slip through his fingers entirely.

“You’re very composed and knowledgeable for someone sent here to… what was it again?” he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

I wonder if he’s already figured out what Dippet has been told and is fishing for information; a ministry spy.

I shrug, sipping slowly. “Does it matter?”

His smile is slow and sharp. “Only if you’re in my way.”

I rise, closing the distance between us. “I wouldn’t dream of it”

We stand there—eye to eye, breath to breath—two predators circling a kill neither of us intends to share. My body thrums with magic, restrained but potent, the residue of forty years of battles, betrayals, and buried grief.

His own brushes the edge of mine like a test. Not a threat. A question. Coiled. Old. Tethered to something broken and brilliant and just beginning to wake. Still almost whole, but trembling. He doesn’t know what he is yet. Not fully. But he knows he’s more.

“I’ll be watching you,” Riddle says finally, his lips thinning.

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” I reply with a wink. 

His smile falters for the briefest instant, something unreadable behind his gaze.

And just like that, the game begins.

He leaves first. I follow, just a step behind.

His stride is long, almost imperious—measured to keep others trailing behind, to remind them who leads. But this new body of mine—sharpened by magic and memory—does not falter. My muscles coil and release with each step, fluid and silent like his own.

We descend toward the dungeons.

The air thickens, colder with each stone stair. Magic lingers here—not the whimsical kind found in upper corridors, but old magic, feral and half-asleep. Moisture clings to the walls, and the torches flicker with green flame, casting long shadows that stretch into clawed hands.

The hairs on my arms rise involuntarily and I contain a hiss. 

Riddle doesn’t speak. 

We reach an otherwise unremarkable archway, just another trick of architecture. But I see the serpent etched into the stone, coiled and sleeping.

He raises a hand, fingers splayed with the grace of one who never learned to fumble, and speaks in a soft hiss. “Veritas Obscura”

The stone ripples. Liquid and slow. Then it parts.

The entrance to Slytherin House unfurls like a serpent uncurling from sleep—low-ceilinged, vast, and filled with the eerie shimmer of the Black Lake pressing in behind thick glass. Tentacles brush against the window. Shadows of mermaids drift past, humming a wordless lullaby meant for drowning sailors.

So this is where they live.

The ambitious. The cunning. The cruel.

The survivors.

And there—standing eternal guard—is him.

Salazar Slytherin.

His statue looms beside the entrance, twice the height of any man. Robes carved like waterfall folds, hood drawn forward, features chiseled with solemn disdain. A serpent coils from his feet, winding upward like a warning, its obsidian eyes are carved to follow.

As I step through the threshold, I feel them rake over me.

Trespasser, they seem to whisper. Mudblood.

Riddle pauses at the statue.

I wonder how many nights he’s stood here, dreaming himself a legacy, whispering to the stone. Waiting for the serpent in the walls to answer. I wonder if he discovered his heritage through coincidence or obsession; perhaps a book misfiled in the Restricted Section, a whisper in Parseltongue he didn’t mean to understand.

“I’m happy to share any notes or old texts,” Riddle says suddenly, the warmth in his voice so carefully placed it feels sculpted. “Though I suspect you’ll hardly need them.”

I blink, caught off-guard because generosity most definitely doesn’t suit him; I don’t tell him that, maybe, I do.

I was brilliant once. Top of my year. But it’s been decades since I’ve had to write an essay or annotate star charts. The Confederacy’s planning was flawless, but even flawless has limits. The bags I brought—charmed, weightless, bottomless— could only hold precious few supplies due to the limitations of time travel. 

“I’ll consider it,” I say evenly.

He continues. “The girls’ dormitories are to the right. The boys to the left”

“Because girls are always right,” I mumble automatically.

He stops. Looks at me. Brow raised.

Oh. Right. That idiom may not exist yet. Welcome to the 1940s, Hermione.

Sexism reigns supreme.

Around us, students are returning from the feast; robes rustling, voices low. Yet none approach, glancing first at Riddle, then at me, then looking away.

I step closer to the statue, trailing fingers along the stone serpent’s spine.

See me, Salazar? I think, lips curling in silent defiance. A Muggleborn dares to touch your legacy.

And then I speak. “Sssilthar Salazar. Issa Nahz’ka.”

The words scrape my tongue; too foreign, too reptilian. They weren’t made for me.

Hello, Salazar. I’m back.

Riddle inhales sharply behind me. When I turn, his pupils are blown wide, lips parted, the façade cracked for a single heartbeat. 

He no longer looks the part of the charismatic Head Boy he is simulating but staring at me with a thoughtful look in his eyes. I raise an eyebrow at his direction and it’s then that he remembers himself, putting on his polished veil—slides the smile back into place like slipping into tailored silk.

“I apologize, simply taken aback,” he says smoothly, “Was that Parseltongue you spoke?”

“It was,” I reply. “Though I imagine my pronunciation was... embarrassing.”

He says nothing.

Outside the glass, a Grindylow drifts lazily past.

“I’ll be off, then,” I say with a shrug. “Might take you up on those notes.”

“Why?” His voice is sharper now. “You’ve proven tonight you most certainly don’t need them.”

I don’t look back, but I feel the weight of his stare—and maybe magic?—on my spine. Is he trying to cast something? That prickle again, that telltale sign of magic brushing the nape of my neck.

With a flick of my fingers, a silent shield wraps and slides over my skin like a second layer, keyed to deflect subtle probes and prying thoughts.

I don’t flinch, forcing myself to remain steady, calm. 

“Knowledge...” I say over my shoulder, “is meant to be shared. Not hoarded.”

A pause. Something flickers at the edges of my vision and my fingers automatically close around my wand.

“Then perhaps you’re in the wrong house,” he murmurs.

The prickle grows colder. Sharper. I reinforce the shield.

“Doubt it,” I turn slightly. “My father was a descendant of Salazar’s.”

His exhale is sharp; audible.

And satisfying.

There’s no way to disprove it, no family tree survives intact. No Chamber key but Parseltongue.

I made sure.

After all, when crafting a backstory detailed enough to fool the Ministry, Dippet, and Tom Riddle himself—you do your research. 

The butterfly effect is nothing to scorn. Even subtle changes in the past can affect the future. Which is fine, we planned it this way. I do not expect to return to what will be left of the wizarding world in 2044. If I succeed, hopefully, that timeline will have vanished and a new one will have slowly started to take its place. 

I drift toward the corridor, not missing the way his eyes follow and exhale loudly when I enter the girls' dormitory. 

It is warm, almost deceptively so. Laughter hushes as I enter.

They’re watching me, those Slytherin 7th year females, sharp-eyed and silent. Perhaps they've been warned. Perhaps they were given instructions by a certain dark haired wizard not to engage the new student. Or perhaps they’re waiting for me to speak first, like it's a duel.

But I have no time for small talk. 

Velvet emerald curtains guard each four-poster bed like sentinels while lanterns burn low, casting flickering green light on polished stone floors that gleam with obsessive care. The air smells of mint and lilac oil.

No posters. No clutter. Just perfect, calculated control. 

I move slowly, memorizing names etched in brass above the beds like headstones. Clarissa Mulciber. Honoria Greengrass. Vereena Avery. Euphemia Carrow. Lilith Travers.

My new roommates. My new liabilities. I pray they have the sense to behave—for their sake more than mine.

My bed lies at the far end, slightly apart. The trunk at its foot bears my name in gleaming brass. 

Hermione Leclair
Slytherin – Seventh Year.

I sit on the edge and open the trunk; transfigured from a quill earlier today. Mostly empty.

Dippet provided the barest essentials; two pairs of ill-fitting robes, threadbare slippers, a towel with Ministry embroidery. No wand polish. No parchment. No ink. No toothbrush. No soap. No spare underthings.

Brilliant, Hermione. Time travel? Yes. Hygiene? Optional.

All I truly own are the clothes I wear, my wand, my beaded bag and a pouch of galleons forged before the 1940s, charmed to never clink or weigh down my pocket. 

The girls keep watching as I pretend to unpack. I fold the same towel three times. Shift my wand from trunk to nightstand and back again. My hands move while my mind spins.

I need a trip to Hogsmeade soon—very soon. A world-ending magical operation is no excuse for dirty knickers and no toothpaste. My parents would be appalled… Not that they would remember me now even if they lived; I was too thorough with my memory altering spell. 

Conversation picks up around me, tentatively at first.

A girl with platinum-blonde finger waves throws herself dramatically onto the bed nearest mine. Vereena Avery, her tag declares.

“Did you see the look Dumbledore gave Tom at the feast?” she huffs. “Honestly, I thought he’d hex him into a toad.”

“And what a handsome toad he’d be,” adds a dark-haired girl with soft brown eyes.

I nearly snort.

“As if Dumbledore would attack a student, Clarissa,” says a girl with auburn hair and emerald-green eyes—Honoria Greengrass. Her gaze slides toward me as she speaks, appraising.

Clarissa beams at me, pushing dark curls behind her ears. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of gossip, new girl.”

“Oh no, not at all,” I say breezily. “Please, continue. There’s much to sort in these bags of mine.”

Honoria’s eyes dip toward my nearly barren trunk. She says nothing, but I can feel the judgment soaking into the air like cold mist.

Clarissa leans toward Honoria. “Speaking of gossip, what did Abraxas’ last letter say?”

Vereena stares very hard at her pillow.

Honoria shrugs. “He writes. Doesn’t mean I read it.”

“Fair. Still... I’d give Lucan a chance if I were you. He’s been drooling over you since first year.”

“Pass. You can have Burke.”

Clarissa gags. “Bliah. No thank you. I’ve seen him stomping around his father’s shop with all those dead things.”

I don’t think the shiver she gives is entirely for show.

“You didn’t seem to mind Tom doing the exact same thing,” a tall girl with cropped mousy-brown hair and rugby-player shoulders interjects. Euphemia Carrow, I gather.

Clarissa flutters dramatically. “Oh hush, Euphemia. What do you know of boys?”

Euphemia turns to me instead, eyes glittering. “I’ll admit… not much. I find them standoffish. Like cockerels. And I don’t like those either.”

Vereena giggles. “Oh, but they have their uses.”

Clarissa blinks. “The boys or the cockerels?”

“Can one really differentiate one from the other?” Honoria deadpans.

Laughter erupts, full and wicked.

All but one.

Lilith Travers doesn’t look up. Her nose is buried in a book on ancient runes. If I weren’t already inclined toward Clarissa for her unfiltered nature, I’d likely approach Lilith next—for the sake of an actual conversation that doesn’t orbit boys and toads.

Then, silence again.

Euphemia steps forward, crossing her arms and looming above my bed. “And you? What’s your preference?” she purrs. “Cockerels… or doves?”

I blink up at her, noting the subtle tension behind the joke; a test.

The next words I speak will seal my status with these girls—for better or for far worse. I take the Clarissa approach.

“I’ve only had cockerels,” I reply dryly. “They’ve been tasty. Doves… well, they’re rarer these days.”

The room breaks into another wave of laughter.

Except Clarissa, who frowns slightly. “I don’t get it. Chicken is served nearly every day in the Great Hall. Why would anyone eat a pigeon?”

Even I can’t help the grin that tugs at my lips.

It’s disarming—how normal this feels. These girls, bloodline and pride aside, are still seventeen. Still giggling over boys. Still teasing one another with the reckless intimacy of girls who’ve shared too many secrets and stolen too many midnight snacks from the kitchens.

I should never have been allowed in here.

Second year, a botched transformation. Polyjuice potion. Fur, shame, claws, and panic. I never made it past the bathroom floor. Never saw the common room.

And now—here I am.

I smile to myself, recalling Draco’s drawl in my head. Bet you didn’t think you’d end up here, Granger.

I laugh under my breath, a sound the girls misinterpret as amusement at the joke. 

It fades fast. Because nostalgia is a luxury, and I have a war to prevent.

Step one. 

Tom Riddle.

He's still a boy, technically. Almost whole. He's created one Horcrux, already so close to tipping. The arrogance, the thirst, the flicker of something hollow behind his charm—it’s all there. I could destroy him but that may fracture the timeline in ways we can’t predict. I will only do so if all else fails. 

Stopping him from splitting his soul and creating more horcruxes is the wisest course of action. 

Step two. 

The Muggles.

The future is already set on a path of unchecked advancement. Synthetic control over nature. Over magic. Over memory. They won't mean to destroy the arcane world—but their ambition will burn it all the same.

I need to plant the seeds of hesitation. Warn the right minds. Adjust alliances. Spark enough awe or fear in the right people to delay their rush toward technological godhood.

It’s a tall order. Nearly impossible.

But I’m Hermione bloody Granger.

And I don’t do easy. I do necessary.

A soft laugh echoes down the corridor. Elegant. Razor-sharp.

Tom.

My wand lies beside me, humming faintly with its hybrid core—blackthorn, phoenix feather, and basilisk scale. 12¾ inches. A weapon forged for adaptability. Issued after the Uprising of 2022 when my old wand was shattered beneath the rubble of the Brazilian Auror Embassy.

My fingers twitch toward it—but I pause.

No. Let him wonder. Let him watch. 

Because I’m not here to be another name in his ledger of pawns and playthings. 

***

Transfiguration class is technically taught by Dumbledore. But he’s taken a timely leave—off preparing for the Symposium, or perhaps investigating the tremors from Nurmengard.

Convenient, that.

Instead, we have Professor Abraxas Northwell, a man with a beard that sheds chalk dust like snow and a voice like rolling thunder. 

The desks are precise. The air is sharp with ozone and parchment. I choose a seat in the center row—neutral.

Tom enters last.

A subtle display of power. Authority should wait for no one, so of course, he makes it wait.

He sees me instantly but I don’t return the gaze.

“Miss Leclair,” Northwell rumbles. “First lesson with us?”

“Yes, Professor,” I answer, even and poised.

“Have you studied animorphous conjuration?”

“In theory,” I nod.

His eyes glint. “Care to demonstrate?”

A ripple of interest runs through the class because seventh year transfers don’t perform on day one. Not unless they’re being evaluated.

“Certainly.” I rise.

He hands me a wand. Lighter than mine, the balance unfamiliar. 

No matter.

I step to the pedestal. Breathe.

“Avis.”

Emerald-green sparrows burst from the wandtip, spiraling upward in a flurry of shimmering feathers before dissolving mid-flight into a slow drift of golden autumn leaves.

Clarissa claps once, wide-eyed, until Honoria’s glare slices the sound in half.

I hand the wand back with a nod. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Remarkable,” Northwell mutters. “Advanced execution... with artistic flair.”

I return to my seat. I don’t look at Riddle but I feel his gaze. Calculating. Like a knife deciding where to slice.

Good.

The DADA classroom is dim, circular, and filled with the usual relics meant to frighten young minds—preserved Grindylows, snarling boggart boxes, a caged Hungarian tree bat snoring like an old kettle.

Professor Marius Tiberius stands at the front, hands folded behind his back, robes crisp and voice severe. He is sharp-eyed and fond of rhetorical questions. He paces at the front of the room, his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. His wand lazily draws a single phrase across the blackboard in shimmering chalk; The Dementor’s Kiss.

“Who can tell me,” he intones, “what is a Dementor’s Kiss?”

Several hands rise.

Euphemia Carrows answers first. “It’s when a Dementor removes the soul of a person—sucking it through their mouth. The body remains alive, but the person is… gone.”

“Correct. But the true question,” he intones, turning to face the class, “is not what the Kiss does—we all know it drains the soul, leaves a husk behind. No. The question is: who among us has the right to decide if another wizard or witch is beyond redemption?”

The Slytherins and Griffindors groan as if they’ve had to participate in such discussions many times before. Then—

“Azkaban is not a reform institution,” I say, my voice steady but edged. “It’s a punishment.”

Tiberius arches a brow. “And what alternative would you suggest, Miss Leclair?”

“A permanent one. The kiss” I don’t blink. “I believe society would benefit from fewer dangerous witches and wizards roaming free. There comes a point when someone is too far gone. Containment only delays the inevitable. The Dementor’s Kiss ensures they can’t hurt anyone else.”

A few students shift uncomfortably.

Tom Riddle doesn’t.

He leans forward slowly, a smile like a blade curving at his lips. “So you advocate soul extraction as justice? Murder, essentially. Because we’ve failed to rehabilitate?”

I flinch—but just slightly. “Not murder. Protection. If the system can’t reform them, we owe it to the victims—”

“To kill those we can’t fix?” Tom interrupts, voice deceptively soft. “Tell me, Hermione, who decides where that line is? When does someone cross the invisible threshold from misguided to irredeemable?”

The way he says my first name makes the hairs on my arm rise. When did he decide to become so familiar with me? And why is no one flinching at him dropping honorifics? Wasn't politeness and etiquette a thing in the 1940s?

I hesitate. Not because I lack conviction but because he’s dragging me into deeper waters. “It’s not about thresholds. It’s about harm prevention. Recidivism among dark wizards is high. Our society hasn't yet found a way to guarantee they won’t come out worse.”

“And so your solution,” he says, slowly and with something approaching reverence, “is to erase the soul. Because of what they might do. Preemptive obliteration.”

I lift my chin. “I said it was temporary. Until we find something better.”

Tom’s smile widens. “But until then, we become executioners. Elegant, educated ones, of course. With neat little rules and Latin incantations. But executioners all the same.”

He tilts his head.

“Isn’t it funny how easily morality bends when dressed in white robes?”

He presses on, voice velvet-dark. “Wizarding society adores its binaries—dark and light, pure and impure, good and evil. But what happens when those lines blur? What happens when the executioner wears the same badge as the healer?”

I can’t look away. My fingers grip the desk.

“We pretend superiority,” Tom murmurs, “while sentencing others to a fate worse than death. We think we’re above magical creatures, above Muggles, half-bloods, even Muggle-borns—”

His voice drops, his eyes going to my left arm and I quickly look away.

“Wizarding Britain is not a beacon of virtue. It's a killing machine wrapped in bureaucracy.”

I draw a breath. My heart pounds, not just with fury—but with fear.

Because it’s working.

He sounds reasonable. Persuasive.

This is how he rose. This is how the Dark Lord rallied legions to his cause; by pretending to challenge injustice while sharpening the knife behind his back.

"Dangerous ideas to have in the house of Serpents," I whisper and his eyes twinkle in amusement. 

"Indeed. Yet they are not mine alone." 

I turn, expecting to find the class hanging on every word.

But they aren’t. They’re scribbling notes. Listening to Tiberius, who’s moved on to Patronus theory.

None of them heard a thing.

Except me.

My eyes fly back to Tom.

“You were speaking in my head,” I whisper with a quick exhale, feeling my stomach drop. 

His smile is slow and indulgent. “Only at the edges. Your fortress is impregnable—I’d never breach it.”

“Then how—?”

No one has been able to break my defenses in thirty years.

No one.

“I didn’t enter.” He taps his temple. “I whispered. And you listened.”

My defenses are still up. Good. He didn’t manage to access any of my memories. But my hands still clench in my lap.

“How?” I demand.

“A natural Legilimens ability of mine,” he says. “Though perhaps aided by the traces of my magic already inside you.”

I pale.

“What?”

He leans closer, voice like silk-wrapped steel. “Why do you carry my magic, Hermione? My dark magic?”

My mind races—Horcrux. The locket. The days on the run with Harry and Ron, the way it seeped into my bones. It's been decades since then. My skin has erased any dark magic that may have been performed to it—like Bellatrix's scar. 

But my mind... Well that's a very different matter.. 

My chair scrapes back and I rise to my feet.

“Stay out of my head,” I snap out loud. 

The students turn to us and his presence brushes against my mind like breath against glass.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t need to.

“Only if you let me,” he murmurs, entirely too pleased.

I spin away, pulse thundering.

At lunch, Tom doesn’t sit next to me.

He sits diagonally across—where he can watch without appearing to watch. He speaks little to anyone else, even as I watch Vereena and Clarissa trying to sit beside him. Lucan Burke, the male who graced much of yesterday’s conversation, takes the seat next to Tom much to the disappointment of the girls.

“Oh Tom, won’t you let me sit next to you just the once?” Clarissa says with a pout.

He smiles at her apologetically but I can feel the coiled tension in his body, the way a serpent prepares itself to strike. My own heart thunders inside my chest and my eyes grow larger, knowing exactly what Tom Riddle is capable of at this age, having already murdered one innocent girl.

“Clarissa,” I say tentatively with a frozen smile. “I’ll tell you all about my tumultuous affair with a Bulgarian Quidditch player.”

The girl’s eyes widen in unconcealed hunger. “Oh, how lovely. Bulgarian, you say? I’ve heard such great things about their wand span.”

It seems my musings about the girl are correct because she soon forgets all about Tom Riddle and listens near entranced to my romantic escapades about Victor.

All the while Riddle ignores me, sharing hushed words with a blonde man I suspect might be a relative of Malfoy’s and Lucan Burke, who dares throw me leering looks whenever he catches any mention of Victor’s broomstick. 

But once, when I rise to get pumpkin juice, he follows me.

“We’re in Charms together after this,” he says casually.

Of course we are. I made sure to take the exact classes he did, with the exception of Divination. There was only so much bullshit I was willing to listen to while plotting on how best to reroute the Dark Lord’s path.

I feel his aura circling me, prodding my newly constructed shield. It’s dark and wrong yet intriguing and unique; much like that deep purple hue which clouds his eyes.

But I don’t allow him in. I learnt my lesson.

I arch a brow. “And?”

“And I’m wondering whether your magic is always that… decorative.”

“Would it be a problem if it were?”

“No.” His smile is soft. Dangerous. “I like decorative things.”

I lean close enough that only he can hear, despite my thundering heart beat. “Be careful, Riddle. Some decorative things bite.”

I return to my seat, and I don’t look back—but I hear his chuckle echo like a spell half-cast.

In charms, Professor Marchand hovers his hands, “Miss Leclair, Mr. Riddle—you’ll pair for the syncopated hover charm.”

My stomach knots.

Tom Riddle stands beside me again—poised and unnervingly still. Our wands are out, the charm already written on the board in spidery chalk. The task is simple in theory, guide a coin through three floating rings, perfectly coordinated, with alternating magical rhythm. 

Which, of course, is a joke.

A foolish exercise, really. The sort that would take ordinary partners weeks to master. It’s a test of magical compatibility, of trust.

And trust is not something I have for Tom Riddle.

I can feel the edges of his magic even now—coaxing. It curls faintly toward mine like smoke through a cracked door.

I pull back. Shield and reinforce every wall I can muster.

“I’ll lead,” he murmurs.

“No,” I say, sharper than intended.

He glances at me with a small upwards tilt his eyebrow; not offended. Just... amused.

But I can’t let him in. Not again. Not after what happened in Defense class. Not after realizing just how close he came to slipping past my wards. The memory of his voice in my head still makes my skin crawl.

I force myself to take a breath.

I could refuse to participate. I could sabotage the spell. But that would draw more attention, and I can’t afford questions.

So I lower my defenses—just enough. Just for the spell.

The coin lifts.

One flick from me. One echo from him.

It hovers.

Spins.

And I feel it.

His magic brushes mine again—tentative. The air crackles.

We move in perfect tandem. The rhythm syncs. Our magic coils and stretches, winding through the task like thread through a needle. The coin passes the first ring, the second, the third.

It should be mechanical.

It’s not.

It’s... intimate.

Too intimate.

Every point of connection between our magic hums almost... Sensually. Like a whisper pressed against skin. Like tension held just at the edge of release.

I grit my teeth and force myself not to react, not to give him the satisfaction.

But he’s already seen the flush in my cheeks.

When the coin lands in the center ring, motionless and gleaming, Professor Marchand bursts into applause.

“Brilliant! Absolutely stunning!”

No other pair completes it. Only us.

I step back from the table too quickly, the coin still hovering in front of us like some damning proof of intimacy. My hands shake. My thighs ache.

I chance a look at Tom.

He’s breathing is shallow. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His mouth parted slightly like he’s about to ask me something—something dangerous.

But I don’t give him the chance.

I flee.

I gather my books and turn without a word. My legs are unsteady. My fingers tremble. My mind won’t stop racing and my skin is burning and I am not going to think about how damp my knickers feel or how much worse this could have been if I hadn’t—

No.

This is magic.

Just magic.

Except the look in his eyes tells me he knows better.

I’m already gone, leaving the coin, the class, and the impossible question of what just happened behind me. And I swear I won’t let it happen again. No matter how much my magic disagrees.

That night, I lay in bed, fingers steepled over my stomach, wand resting beside me. My mind races.

Tom Riddle is watching me now. He’s interested, which is the first step. But interest can curdle into obsession, and obsession into destruction. I’ve seen it. Lived it.

Still... This is my moment. My second chance to be a student. To rewrite what was broken. For me. For magic.

For the world.

And if I have to dance with the Devil to do it—

Well.

I brought better boots this time.

Chapter Text

“Ever absent, ever near; Still I see thee, still I hear.”

— Francis Kazinczy

There are few things more suspicious at Hogwarts than a seventh-year girl who owns only one pair of knickers.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly where I find myself.

I sit cross-legged on my bed in the Slytherin dormitory, wrapped in my single oversized jumper, staring at the Marauder’s Map, thanking my ingenuity for bringing it with me. If only I'd been able to bring underwear as well I wouldn't be in such a pickle. 

I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.

The ink bleeds to life.

The next Hogsmeade visit is twelve days away.

Unacceptable.

If I don't acquire clothes, toiletries, parchment, and a few arcane items soon, someone will notice. Maybe not the professors—they’re too busy preparing for the Symposium—but the students will. Riddle will.

And he doesn’t miss patterns. Or absences. Or… girls wearing the same clothes for three days straight.

So I trace my finger down the parchment.

Honeydukes passage. Old cellar. Must be functional in this era.

Excellent.

The girls around me are still sleeping, probably dreaming of cockerels and doves but I still cast a silencing charm along with a disillusionment, just in case. The rest of the castle sleeps like a beast between meals—slow-breathing, twitching slightly in its dreams—but I know how to step between its ribs.

My wand, stashed in a boot sheath. The pouch of gold tucked tight to my waist. The Marauder’s Map, folded and charmed flat against my thigh.

No one sees me slip through the statue of the one-eyed witch. The cellar tunnel is dry, dusty, and exactly as I remember it—minus the cockroach that runs across my shoe and nearly ends my mission prematurely.

By the time I emerge in the Honeydukes basement, the sky is still inky blue. Hogsmeade is hushed, yawning into life.

Shops open slowly. House elves sweep cobblestones. The post owl station coughs out sleepy hoots. I wrap my cloak tighter and keep my head down.

I buy the essentials first. Spare robes, fitted and enchantment-absorbing. A soft green jumper. A more severe charcoal one and practical underthings. Several. Thank Merlin. A replacement toothbrush. (Self-cleansing, thank you very much.). Lastly, ink, parchment, and a bottle of Disillusionment Tonic (limited batch and long lasting in the rare case I can’t cast the spell).

The wand shop is unfortunately closed. A pity—I wanted a second wand, preferably obscure and untraceable for potentially casting the unforgivables. Later, maybe.

By the time I step out of the final store—bags charmed light and tiny enough to fit into my pocket, eyes shadowed beneath my hood—the sun is cresting over the hills. Morning has arrived.

And with it… a feeling.

Someone is watching me.

It can't be the bored, disinterested or sleepy shopkeepers though I might have been a novelty to them first thing in the morning. 

But no, this is someone other. Someone deliberate.

I veer left, into a narrow alley behind Zonko’s. Flatten myself against the wall. Wait.

Nothing.

Then, a flicker of movement. A shadow not caused by the sun.

I take a long breath. Count to three. Step out, wand in hand—

And there he is.

Riddle. 

Leaning against a wall like sin made incarnate. His cloak half-unbuttoned and his hair impeccable. A maniacal smile blooming across his face like a bloodstain.

“Well, well,” he says softly. “Aren’t you full of secrets.”

My heart doesn’t race—but only because I refuse to let it.

“Were you following me?” I ask, voice cold.

“I prefer the term observing.” He steps forward, hands behind his back. “You are a Prefect yet you left without permission. That’s not very... rule-abiding”

“I didn’t realize you monitored the dormitories like a guard dog.”

“I don't,” he replies smoothly. “But I notice when things go missing and you’re not exactly… forgettable.”

I don’t let his words fluster me, but I catalog every one. He didn’t stumble upon me by accident. He watched me then chose to follow. And now he wants to see what I’ll do with that knowledge.

“You do realize following a girl through a secret tunnel is… unsettling behavior.”

He tilts his head, studying me carefully, a slow smile spreading upon his lips. “You’re not unsettled. You’re furious I caught you.”

Damn him.

He steps closer, and I resist the urge to shift away.

“You planned this,” he murmurs. “That tunnel hasn’t been used in years, mind you. Most of the current Slytherins don’t even know it exists. But you, the new student who technically has never set foot in Hogwarts before, did. Why?”

“I read.”

“Mhm,” he smiles, unconvinced “I read too. And that secret passageway has not been in any of the books I’ve read.”

I gulp, tiring of this cat and mouse game and the tension between us stretches taut. 

“Planning on blackmailing me?” I ask tentatively. 

“Perhaps,” He tilts his head. “I want to know why you need to sneak off-campus. You don’t strike me as the rule-breaking type.”

I step closer, deliberately, until there’s only breath between us.

“I needed supplies,” I say, voice low. “You may find this shocking, but I don’t enjoy being dirty and underdressed.”

His eyes flicker down—quick and sharp and I realise—too late—I’ve said the wrong words. 

“I could’ve helped,” he says and the way his eyes sparkle in mischief does strange things to this new body of mine. 

“That’s exactly why I didn’t ask,” I say quickly. 

He chuckles—rich, low, the sound tingling the nerve endings of my spine,“You’re the most interesting thing to happen to this school since the supposed basilisk attack”

The basilisk. 

Of course. 

Silly me in momentarily getting caught in the game.

This is Tom Riddle, a charismatic young wizard with a bloodthirsty tendency to end lives, not a geeky, seventh year prefect who caught me sneaking out of Hogwarts. 

I turn to leave.

But Tom doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans against the stone wall just outside the last shop we passed—arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“I’ll walk you back.”

“No, thank you,” I say immediately, far too fast.

He arches a brow. “Worried I’ll bite? Last I checked I wasn't the basilisk”

I school my features into neutrality, knowing full well he is baiting me in order to see exactly how much I know about the basilisk. No doubt he’s already riffled through the forged files given to Dippet,  announcing me as a Ministry spy. Perhaps he suspects something may is not right, perhaps something in my pause before made him suspicious—

“Worried you’ll gloat,” I say dryly, because he is expecting a reply and it's the second time he's mentioned basilisks and I've stayed silent.

“I don’t need to gloat,” he says in a matter of fact tone “I already caught you.”

Smug bastard.

“Still, I’m perfectly capable of finding my way back alone.”

“Of course you are,” he replies, stepping in beside me anyway. “But the tunnel’s narrow. It wouldn’t do for a student to… slip and fall, now would it?”

I pause, eyeing him dramatically. “Was that a threat or a joke?”

“The latter, of course. I’ve been practicing.” he says with a wink that causes the hairs on my arms to rise in foreboding. 

He starts walking toward the hidden entrance again, not bothering to check if I follow. And of course, like the idiot heroine in a Greek tragedy, I do.

“Fine,” I mutter, catching up. “But if you try anything—”

“You’ll hex me,” he finishes, smirking. “Viciously. Yes, I’m counting on it.”

I glance sideways at him as we duck back into the tunnel.

The smugness. The quiet control. The way he moves like every room belongs to him, even this narrow passage filled with spiderwebs and dust.

He shouldn't be fascinating.

And yet.

The walk back is long and silent. I adjust my grip on the bags inside my robes’s pockets as we approach the statue of the one-eyed witch. Tom flicks his wand and the stone groans open, and we descend into shadow.

“You know,” he says casually, voice echoing off the tunnel walls, “most girls would be terrified if I caught them sneaking through secret passages.”

I inhale sharply and turn to him, deliberately studying him from head to toe. "You don't look that terrifying."

He chuckles, his long fingers going through his mane of wavy, dark hair. He opens his mouth to reply but I freeze. 

Because standing at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, mustache twitching in outrage, is Professor Slughorn.

“Merlin’s brass buttons,” he wheezes. “Where in the blazes have you two been?”

“Professor,” Tom says at once, all velvet and charm. “I’m so terribly sorry. We—”

“You what? Decided rules didn’t apply to Head Students? Have you any idea of what would happen were rumours of you two sneaking out—” Slughorn bellows, searching for the words, red-faced. “—out gallivanting around Hogsmeade like you’ve got diplomatic immunity?”

I open my mouth, but Tom lays a hand on my arm ever so lightly, the touch so gentle and so in contrast with what I know of him that it causes my breath to stumble. He steps in front of me.

“Please, sir. I take full responsibility. Miss Leclair was merely accompanying me. I’d asked her to help me retrieve a rare potion component—one I feared would sell out before the official Hogsmeade weekend.”

Slughorn squints. “And you couldn’t have asked permission?”

Tom lowers his head slightly. “I was embarrassed, sir. It was an oversight. I should’ve come to you. I’ve let you down.”

He even looks ashamed. It’s ridiculous—and it’s working.

I watch, morbidly fascinated, as the tension bleeds out of Slughorn’s shoulders like a deflating balloon. He actually pats Tom’s arm.

“Well, well, I—of course, I understand ambition, dear boy, but there are rules…”

“I know, sir. And I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

Slughorn looks like he’s about to melt into the floor in satisfaction. It’s almost art, the way Tom disarms authority with a smile and a tilt of his head. I watch it unfold with something that feels uncomfortably like envy.

That power. That ability to bend people without force. To charm them into obedience. To make them want to please you.

What would my life have looked like… if I’d been that kind of girl? Would I have survived the war with fewer scars? Would I have been Minister sooner? Or worse… would I have become something else entirely?

Slughorn clears his throat.

“Well, much as I sympathize with your reasoning, I’m afraid this can’t go entirely unpunished. You’re both to serve detention—together—tonight.”

I raise a brow. “What sort of detention?”

He smiles, eyes twinkling. “The Trophy Room has acquired several crates of enchanted records—award plaques, Quidditch cups, all with misfiring preservation spells. Your job is to sort them, catalogue them, and avoid being hexed in the process.”

Tom dips his head, positively regal. “Understood, sir.”

Slughorn gives him a fond look, then waves us off.

“You’ve both missed breakfast. Off to class with you. And do try not to cause any more drama today, mm?”

Classes pass in a blur of parchment and forced composure.

I catch glimpses of Tom at intervals—flashes of black robes, a profile in candlelight, laughter that never quite reaches his eyes.

The other students orbit him, drawn like moths to a flame they know might burn them, and don’t care.

Me? I stay just close enough to keep him curious. Just far enough to keep him guessing.

But tonight... we’ll be alone again.

And I am absolutely dreading it for all the wrong reasons. 

The Trophy Room is colder than I remember. Or maybe I’m colder.

Shelves of golden cups and jeweled plaques gleam under flickering candlelight, but they’re not the source of the chill. A large wooden crate sits in the middle of the floor, already half-unpacked. Dozens of trophies line the table beside it, each faintly humming with residual enchantments. Some are warm. Some vibrate like misbehaving wards. One of them sneezed when I walked by.

“I’ll catalogue,” I say briskly. “You scan for hexes.”

“Commanding already?” Tom replies, lounging on the stool like a bored monarch. “I must admit, it’s refreshing.”

“Then refresh yourself quietly. I’d like to get this done without being hexed into a jellyfish.”

He chuckles. “Doubtful. You’re far too… sharp.”

Ten minutes pass in silence. We work—sort of.

Tom begins casually, without warning.

“Where did you grow up?”

“France.”

“Which city?”

“Small one.”

"You don't have a French accent" 

"My father made sure I spoke proper English" 

“Name of the city?”

I don’t look up. “No.”

He laughs again, low and pleased. “You’re not very cooperative.”

“You’re not very subtle.”

“On the contrary. I’m just efficient.”

He charms one of the plaques into stillness and watches it spin in place like a hypnotic coin. I can feel his eyes on me.

“Why transfer now?” he asks.

“Why not?” I respond.

He leans closer across the table. “You’re a mystery.”

“And you’re insistent.”

He smiles like I complimented him. 

“What about your family?” I say, too casually. “You speak like someone raised in a manor” I say lightly. “But ‘Riddle’—it’s not exactly a Sacred Twenty-Eight name.”

I pretend to catalog a trophy for the House Duelling Cup, but my eyes are on him.

He doesn’t flinch, simply watches me with open curiosity. 

Then tilts his head with a smile. “And here I thought you didn’t care for gossip.”

“Oh, I don’t. But I notice things and you are not exactly forgettable.” I say, throwing back his earlier words. 

He —almost— smirks at that, his eyes alight with curiosity. “And what exactly have you noticed, Hermione?”

Ah. The use of my first name again. But I don't allow this to rattle me, only stare at him defiantly, making sure to allow my eyes to hover over his form deliberately slowly. 

“That your robes are perfectly tailored, your speech archaic in just the right ways, and you correct others as if you were born with a crest stitched into your skin.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Would you rather I slouched and stammered?”

“I’d rather you told the truth.”

“Truth,” he repeats, his full lips opening and his tongue clicking against them, as if tasting the word. “Such an odd little obsession. People think it’s some sacred, immovable thing. But truth is… fluid. Refracted”

I narrow my eyes. “Avoiding the question?”

“On the contrary. I’m answering the question in a far more interesting way”

I lean in, pressing just a little closer but he doesn’t step back. “So no estate in Wiltshire? No long-lost Riddle line of pureblood nobility?”

He smiles wider. “I never said I was from a Sacred House. Others assumed. I simply never corrected them.”

“And why would you?” I murmur. “Letting them believe what they want—very Slytherin of you.”

He glances sideways at me, eyes darkening. “And what is it you believe, Hermione?”

That you’re half-blood. That your father was a Muggle. That your mother came from the last, rotting vestiges of the Salazar/Gaunt line. That you will murder your Muggle father’s family. That you are the architect of your own tragedy. That by releasing the Basilisk you have already created your first Horcrux in the form of the diary and I intend to find it and destroy it. 

But I smile. “I believe you enjoy playing god in a room full of mortals”

He smiles—sharp and chilling— and the hairs on my arms rise involuntarily.

I inhale through my nose and look away. “You missed a plaque”

He sighs, steps back, and flicks his wand. The enchanted trophy sings something vaguely operatic before silenced.

“I do hope detention goes on all week,” he says under his breath.

“Careful what you wish for,” I mutter. 

***

The very next day the Slytherin common room buzzes gently with morning conversation and cigarette smoke; 1940s Jazz songs playing from a Gramophone in the corner. 

As usual, Tom Riddle sits surrounded, but apart—at the center of a spiral no one dares tighten. Perhaps with the exception of the blonde man and Lucan Burke. 

I don’t realize I’m staring until a sharp elbow nudges my ribs. I startle violently, already reaching for my wand. My face burns with instinctive rage—shields wrapped tight around me, but still not enough to deflect the surprise.

“Sorry,” Vereena Avery says with a dreamy sigh, not noticing how near she came to dueling in her dressing gown. “He’s magnificent, isn’t he?”

I follow her gaze, trying to decipher what she must be seeing. The young, handsome, charismatic yet enigmatic boy that keeps everyone guessing. Dark curls falling perfectly over his brow. Pale skin, unmarred. Shoulders straight, jaw sharp. Youth still clings to him, but only barely—like a snake shedding its last soft skin. He is studying the book in front of him, lips parted slightly in concentration, one long finger tapping the corner of the page. 

If only one would look at a witch as intently as Tom is studying Advanced Runes. 

His power leaks through the room in quiet pulses—unintentional, perhaps. It’s no wonder pure-blood girls fawn over him. Prestige clings to him like cologne even without the estate and the galleons. His magic tastes old. Powerful. 

Even if he hardly spares anyone other than the males a second glance. I wonder why that is. Is it because he thinks witches are beneath him? Do all males— Muggle and magical—in this era consider females the weaker sex? Or are there some unwritten social rules in regards to approaching female witches in the 1940s that I am unaware of? 

He certainly has not seemed to care about following them with me. 

And surely he’s had opportunities to explore? Does he not care at all about carnal relations? The Voldemort of my time did not seem inclined to such pursuits.

But Tom Riddle, the seventeen year old—

Even the ghosts float a little differently when he walks by. I saw the Bloody Baron nod at him. There’s beauty there, certainly. But it’s the hollow inside the beauty that catches my attention.

“He’s beautiful,” Vereena sighs, almost as if reading my thoughts “and yet… a complete waste of time. Honoria speculates he prefers cockerels”

My head tilts automatically, watching the way his eyes flick up just once as I pass.

Expressionless.

No curiosity. No challenge. 

Just… blank.

Odd.

Especially after last night’s verbal duel in the Trophy Room and hovering charm coordination the day prior. Perhaps the novelty of a new seventh year female has already lost its charm. 

The dungeons are warmer than I remember. Or maybe I’m sweating.

Today’s lesson is a rare variant of the Veritaserum base. Complex, delicate, and easy to sabotage.

Professor Slughorn is in a good mood—he always is when he smells pedigree and power in the air. He greets me with his usual dramatic wave. “Miss Leclair, you’ll be working with one of my finest students, Mr. Malfoy. Selwyn, dear boy—switch places with Margret.”

Margret, a Ravenclaw I had grown fond of mainly due to her shyness, departs without hurry, drifting towards Riddle’s cauldron like a leaf caught in a soft current.

Selwyn Malfoy.

He’s the same man who’s been gravitating Riddle.

Selwyn.

Not a name I recall from the bloodline registries, which is saying something.

A cousin, maybe. Or one of those lesser-branch Malfoys Lucius never liked to mention. But he looks the part.

Lean. Tall with silver-blond hair slicked neatly behind one ear. His tie bears a silver serpent pin, the kind Narcissa once wore in her youth.

He inclines his head. Not a bow. Not quite.

“Miss Leclair,” he says, voice like aged velvet. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

We begin the brew.

The instructions are on the board. Veritaserum base, three-phase stability blend. It's a fussy and unforgiving potion - one wrong stir and it curdles. 

He moves with a practiced ease, not bothering to explain anything he does. I match his silence, measuring, slicing and stirring in the right cadence.

After ten minutes, he speaks in a casual tone. 

“You use the Montmorency slicing technique. French—yes?”

I glance at him, mildly surprised because that had not been intentional. “Yes.”

Montmorency. The school Luna and Neville insisted we fabricate into my cover story. Obscured by clouds, guarded by magical beasts in the Swiss Alps, known for its academic rigour and secrecy. The perfect alibi. The perfect ghost of a school.

Selwyn nods, as if confirming a private hypothesis. “Difficult school to transfer from, isn’t it?”

“I managed.”

“Of course.”

He says nothing more. Just adds the powdered valerian root with a flick that is almost theatrical in its precision. The potion gleams silver-blue, nearly perfect. We decant into vials. It will mature in a full lunar cycle. 

Then, he asks, soft but sharp. “Is it true you have no family?”

It’s not the question itself, but the way he says it. 

I feel my jaw tighten. “Depends how you define family.”

Blood? Dead. Memory? Fading. Loyalty? An abstract luxury.

“Spoken like someone who’s lost quite a bit,” he murmurs.

There’s no warmth in the words. Just a low thrum of observation, a Malfoy kind of interest.

I don’t answer. Neither does he.

When he leaves the dungeon, I wait a full beat before quietly sliding a vial of unfinished Veritaserum beneath the sleeve of my robes.

***

Contrary to Tom Riddle’s expectations—or hopes—we are not assigned detention for a second night. The old man must be in one of his forgiving moods, likely having over-indulged on crystallized pineapple.

That evening, the Slytherin common room hums softly, all velvet shadows and whispering torches. A wisp of smoke curls lazily in the air.

Tom sits exactly where he always does; centered but unreachable. A monarch on an invisible throne. He’s hunched over a thick volume on Arithmantic rune compression, the kind of book so dense it’s practically written in ancient goblin syntax. He doesn’t look up as I pass.

I plant myself near the fireplace. My fingers are stiff with cold, and the flames feel indifferent as they lick the stone grate. I pull out a Defense Against the Dark Arts assignment. Boggarts. Elementary material; a waste of time, mostly. But it’s been years since I played the role of the perfect student, and tonight, the mask feels clumsy on my face.

My quill scratches across parchment, but my thoughts drift.

What would my Boggart be now?

Failure?

Watching the world end—again?

Tom Riddle, risen and untouchable?

…or something far simpler. Something petty. An “F.”

But no. That’s not likely. I’ve never failed an assignment in my life.

Still, my eyes keep straying—to him.

He’s pretending to read, but his lips move in the wrong cadence. Not following text but mouthing thoughts. A polished silver goblet beside him warps his image just enough that I almost miss the way his eyes flick—not at his book, but across the room. To me.

I don’t move.

Honoria Greengrass slides into the chair beside me with the subtle grace of someone used to being watched. She launches into a complaint about Divination—something about an upcoming tea leaf analysis and a prophecy involving fish.

I let her talk.

She offers me a Chocolate Frog with a careless flick of her hand and I accept, my attention only half there. The card is Albus Dumbledore. Naturally. He blinks at me once, then folds his arms behind his back and vanishes.

The fire dies to glowing coals.

Students scatter, yawning, robes trailing like shadows.

I don’t rise because tonight I have prefect duty. A glamorous euphemism for solitary midnight patrols. Dippet's idea of granting me discretionary freedom. 

Once, I would have found comfort in the structure of it. Now, it feels like a punishment with a name tag.

The halls stretch out before me—ancient stone, cold and echoing. My Lumos casts a soft circle ahead, dancing across old portraits and iron sconces. A man dressed in Victorian clothes scolds me. “Put your wand down, you’ll blind us.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, pushing my wand to the floor as a draught tugs at the hem of my robe.

Hogwarts feels less whimsical at night; the hairs on my arms rise. 

Somewhere, in another corridor, Riddle patrols too—I know because I saw it in Slughorn’s schedule. 

We don’t speak. We haven’t exchanged a word since the detention. No veiled remarks, no wandering glances, no near-smiles that taste like secrets.

Just... absence.

And it shouldn’t bother me because I know what it is, what he’s doing. 

A tactic.

Lean in, then disappear. Tempt, then starve.

Let her wonder. Let her reach.

And Merlin help me—it’s working.

Psychological warfare at its finest. 

I hate how clever it is in its simplicity. 

How effective.

And I hate that a very small part of me misses it. The bite of our conversations. The game.

The attention.

But I came here to get close enough to alter the trajectory of a boy who would grow into a monster. And if that fails… find the diary. Kill the Horcrux and then the boy.

To do any of that though—

I need proximity.

A faint sound echoes behind me—footsteps, soft and deliberate.

I stop. Turn.

My heart beats fast inside my chest alerting me of danger but—

Nothing.

Just shadows. The brush of cold air. The creak of old pipes.

I wait a moment longer, heart steady but alert, then continue down the corridor.

I need to get him back on the board. I need to give him a reason to look again.

And I know exactly how to do it.

Chapter Text

“The question is not, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but, Can they suffer?”

— Jeremy Bentham

The Slytherin common room has gone still these days, students whisper now, worrying about upcoming assignments. Outside, autumn has settled. The lake gleams copper in the afternoons, dusted with fallen leaves. At night, the mermaids host underwater balls, their eerie songs curling against the glass of the Slytherin windows, seductive and sad.

Inside, I sit by the fire. Waiting.

Across the room, Tom Riddle reads—flanked by Selwyn Malfoy, Lucan Burke, and Honoria Greengrass. He does not look up.

I wave once at Selwyn.

He does not look up either.

I open Genealogies of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, gifted with suspicious sweetness by Clarissa, who had asked—far too casually—if I had any ancestors within its hallowed, blood-pure pages.

I declined not to answer, taking Tom’s approach. Let the rumours spin, let them wonder, let him guess. 

If he's still watching.

On my way to breakfast, I pass Nearly Headless Nick in the upper dungeons. He bows with a flourish I don’t remember from first year; more theatrical, somehow, as though he’s trying to prove something.

"Miss Leclair!" he beams. "Mind the third-floor corridor tonight—Peeves has been juggling ink bottles again."

I nod, bemused. “Thank you, Sir Nicholas.”

He drifts through the wall, humming some long-forgotten tune. "The Brightest Star from mud and rain, and the Shadowed Child who seeks no name." 

The morning air in the Great Hall is scented with toast and ink. Girls cluster in knots, gossiping about the upcoming Samhain Ball and discussing what Hogsmeade purchases they'll need—new dresses, lip-tinting charms, enchanted lashes.

I listen, absentminded; let them think I’m bored.

But part of me slips sideways, into memory. A different Hogsmeade trip. A different life.

Sixth year—Ron and I sneaking off to the Three Broomsticks while Harry and Dumbledore were off chasing Horcruxes. The taste of Butterbeer, the glow of candlelight, the way his smile had felt like home.

What did we eat?

The detail escapes me. Something sweet? Or was that another time? Or someone else?

My mind catches on the haze—forty years gone.

And I always prided myself on memory.

I blink and refocus.

The Daily Prophet reads. 19th September 1944.

My birthday. Though… is it?

Am I nineteen? Or sixty-five?

Or both?

Did the bloodcasting ritual make me a girl again? Or an old woman wrapped in teenage skin?

Not now, I remind myself. Now is for strategy.

I scrape my fork over untouched eggs and push the thought away.

History of Magic is a haze of chalk dust and Professor Binns’ incorporeal mutterings.

I sit still, waiting for the right moment.

Then, casually, my voice cuts through the fog.

“Is it true,” I ask, clear and sharp, “that all four Founders enchanted personal relics to be hidden across the wizarding world?”

Binns pauses, more confused than curious.

“There is… speculation,” he replies. “The sword of Gryffindor is confirmed. But the others—a cup, a locket, a diadem—are myth and folklore. Though compelling.”

I tilt my head. Smile. “Still, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Legacy through artifacts. Enchanted objects meant to endure, to influence…”

The room stills.

Across the space, Tom Riddle looks up.

His gaze lands on mine. Calculating. 

I smile with teeth. 

As expected, he corners me after dinner. 

"You know quite a bit about Hogwarts, Miss Leclair," he says.

I hold up Hogwarts: A History with a shrug. “It’s all in a book. Nothing special”

His smile is polite but mismatched. “And Montmorency? What secrets do its Founders keep?”

I laugh softly. “Montmorency? Oh, it's no Hogwarts.”

He waits. 

So I give him something.

“It’s hidden high in the Alps, behind veils of enchanted clouds. Students arrive by broom or by carriage drawn by Thestrals with silver manes. The school pulses with elemental magic, τhe mountains themselves hum beneath your feet...”

All true. Luna and I had visited the crumbling ruins in 2015, just before the last class graduated.

His expression flickers. “I’ve heard of it. But not much”

“No one has,” I reply, letting a touch of pride warm my voice. “it's too reclusive and too powerful. Only the best students attend and they don't want the world finding out how deeply the old magics still run.”

“And the Sorting?”

“We choose our element each year—air, fire, earth, water. Based on our strengths. You can change annually.”

He blinks. “Every year?”

“I did all four,” I say, the note of pride in my voice not feigned. “Fire when I needed passion. Earth when I needed grounding. Water for healing. Air for vision.”

His gaze sharpens. “And which did you begin with?”

I raise a brow. “Do you often take such a keen interest in others' affairs? Or are we back to you interrogating me?”

Something shifts in his jaw—a small muscle ticks. “I apologize. I... become overzealous with knowledge”

I wave him off, biting my tongue to stop myself from smiling in victory. “It’s fine. After all, who could blame a thirst for knowledge?”

He exhales faintly.

“Air,” I continue. “My first element. It ... suited me. We learned to fly without brooms and drift through clouds.”

His pupils widen. 

Flying without brooms.

It took me twenty years to master it but he doesn't know that. That little kernel will eat at him, I’ve planted the idea and watered it well.He tries to mask it but I see the awe.

The envy.

Then, slowly. “Walk with me to Ancient Runes?”

He offers his arm like a gentleman from a fading memory. I look at it carefully, studying it like it might turn to ash or a serpent.

Then I smile.

“I think I’ll walk alone.”

I turn. Leave him behind.

And I don’t look back.

But oh, how I wish I could see his face! 

In Transfiguration, I outpace the spell by half a second, shifting metal to silk without a stutter. In Charms, I correct the wand pattern before Professor Marchand can finish her explanation. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, I unravel a hex knot mid-air, reduce it to harmless silver moths, then cloak myself in a protective charm that settles just under my skin like warm glass.

Honoria, seated just behind, gives me a look that is half-assessment, half-warned intrigue.

It’s not my best work.

But compared to them?

It’s devastating.

The professors notice. Their brows lift. Their tone shifts. And the students? They whisper now.

Tom Riddle pretends I don’t exist. His eyes don’t stray. His lips don’t move.

But in DADA, my chair has shifted three inches to the left. My secondhand books lie opened, to my most recent notes.

Too bad I locked them. Advanced encryption charm—unbreakable unless you know the trigger rune. And he doesn’t.

When I enter the Arithmancy classroom I notice the room is thick with chalk dust and candlelight. The kind of dim, measured space where minds are lulled into routine. Where mediocrity thrives.

Professor Melrose drones on about linear threading, binding integers, and third-cycle rune harmonics. The sort of lesson designed to lose a room by sheer force of monotony.

Then he asks a question. My hand shoots up.

He pauses, startled. “Ah—Miss Leclair?”

“The model you’re using is incorrect,” I say, voice steady. “It’s based on a mistranslation of the Lufkin scrolls. If you adjust the integer alignment in the second binding, you stabilize the rune without the need for a break line”

Rustles. Quills halt mid-scratch. A few students blink at me like I’ve spoken Mermish.

Melrose frowns. “Do you have… proof?”

I flick my wand deliberately slow. The corrected equation appears midair—impossible to refute. The numbers hum.

Melrose stares. “That’s… very advanced.”

I give him a tight smile.

Of course, he thinks it's advanced but even if I went three hundred years back into the past, the only thing that might’ve changed in this world would be the hemline on a wizard’s robe.

“It’s expected. Magic’s progressing too slowly.”

The professor blinks. Twice. “That sounds like a debate for another class, Miss Leclair—not Arithmancy.”

“It’s a debate worth having regardless,” I reply coolly, crossing my arms.

He doesn’t engage but that's fine. He wasn’t the target.

Tom’s head barely turns. Just enough to catch the floating equation. Just enough to watch me. 

I turn in essays. Attend class. Sketch idle doodles on the margins of a History of Magic scroll that I will later submit with flawless analysis.

The week progresses. 

And beneath the surface?

The ripple begins.

My dorm trunk is slightly ajar when I return from Astronomy. Enough for me to know someone opened it and tried to leave it looking untouched.

Tom is digging. And he’s finding nothing. That makes me smile more than any previous birthday present I have received.

On Saturday morning, the Slytherin common room buzzes with low chatter, an undercurrent of excitement swirling through the dungeons like incense. The students are getting ready for their Hogsmeade outing and the Daily Prophet has just been delivered—dozens of owls swooping through enchanted slits in the stone ceiling, parchment sealed with wax and urgency.

I sit by the hearth, a steaming chipped teacup balanced in one hand. My thoughts take me to another chipped teacup, one that still graces the desk of the Minister of the Confederacy in the year 2044. 

With a shake of my head, I allow my eyes to scan the headline on Clarissa Mulciber’s open paper.

GRINDELWALD STRIKES AGAIN – VIENNA CONGRESS IN RUINS

I inhale sharply. I will be 1945 soon. That was the year he was defeated, wasn’t it? I remember reading that in History of Magic. Or maybe in The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. Or perhaps Batilda said it herself, though the memory slips sideways—blurred, watery.

My brows knit. Where did I read it? It should be foundational. Indelible. But it isn’t. Forty-five years is a long time, even for me.

With a deep sigh, I sip my tea, the warmth grounding me; around me, the Slytherins have begun arguing with their usual elegant venom.

"He’s got half of Eastern Europe eating out of his palm. My father thinks it won’t be long now," says Selwyn Malfoy, lounging with a copy of the Prophet fanned across his lap. "And the ICW pretends he’s just a footnote."

"That’s how power works," Honoria Greengrass counters, perched on the armrest beside him. "They fear what they can’t control."

"Grindelwald’s not just power," Lilith murmurs and I perk up because she so rarely speaks. "He’s vision. A world where wizardkind rules without apology."

My stomach curdles and suddenly I no longer like her all that much, despite her love of books and quiet nature.

"He’s a terrorist," comes Euphemia’s sharper tone. "He just wraps his spells in pretty words."

Lucan Burke twirls his wand absently between fingers. "You have to admit, he makes a better figurehead than any of those Ministry fossils."

“And certainly handsome,” Clarissa adds, brushing her finger along the printed image.

“You might be disappointed,” Euphemia says with a wicked grin, “to learn he prefers cockerels and back doors.”

“Specifically Dumbledore’s” Vereena adds sweetly.

Burke howls with laughter. Clarissa snorts milk out of her nose. Even Lilith cracks a rare smile.

The air suddenly shifts.

I don’t have to look up to know Tom Riddle has entered. He descends the dormitory stairs like a shadow poured from velvet, robes perfectly tailored in deep green, silver pin glinting like a serpent’s eye. The fall of his gel-charmed hair frames his face, sharp and unreal.

I still can’t get used to it. The way his beauty holds you hostage. The fullness of his lips, the sculpt of his cheekbones, those violet-shadowed eyes.

His presence brushes mine like silk over a blade and I have to fight not to react. Why is he so .... much?

He’s not vain I don’t think, not like the Slytherin girls who charm their lashes or enchant their cheekbones to perfection. He doesn’t need to. His power does the work for him.

Still—those robes. Tailored. They would have cost months of Muggle rent. He can’t afford them, not on his own.

A bribe? A trophy? Or something more subtle, a witch’s indulgence?

Vereena straightens, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her blouse. Clarissa claps delightedly, complimenting the cut. Honoria’s quill pauses mid-sentence.

Tom ignores them all. He glides past, plucks a newspaper from Tobias Mulciber’s lap without a word and folds it neatly under his arm.

As he passes, his eyes flick toward mine. Just for a breath. Then he settles into the leather-backed chair by the fire, perfectly composed. 

The moment breaks and I exhale. The students resume their conversations—but now it’s safer topics. 

“Are you coming to Hogsmeade later?” Euphemia leans in, her voice pitched low.

“What?” I blink.

She tilts her head. “Hogsmeade. You’ve heard of it, surely?”

“Yes,” I say, too quickly. “Of course. I just… was thinking”

My memories blur again. The Three Broomsticks. Honeydukes. Ron grinning through foam. The Shrieking Shack—was that second year? Sixth?

I nod. “I might.”

“We’re meeting at the Three Broomsticks after lunch,” Euphemia says. “Don’t let Vereena drag you to sit with the Quidditch lot. They talk about brooms like they’re married to them.”

“Noted,” I murmur.

By the fire, Tom doesn’t read. He watches the flames like someone fitting together the final pieces of a vast, invisible puzzle.

Then, his eyes flick to mine.

Brief but piercing.

My fingers tighten on my teacup. And for the first time, I wonder—has someone been casting Legilimency on me? And then making me forget?

But no—my walls are intact. Even a natural Legilimens like the Dark Lord himself would have trouble barging in through. 

Once the Slytherins have departed, the common room is still.

Perfect.

I ascend the boys’ dormitory staircase slowly, casting muffling charms as I go. Knowing future Tom Riddle he would probably have wanted to hide the diary somewhere inconsequential. Or pass it on to a Malfoy. 

This is my opportunity to do some digging. 

The male dorms are cleaner than I expected. Their beds are made to military precision and trunks tucked tight underneath. Potion vials are lined in neat rows upon bookshelves and no loose socks or snack wrappers in sight like I remember from Gryffindor.

Tom’s bed is the third from the end. It's the one closest to the lake window and his sheets are tucked like hospital corners. 

His pillow is barely dented.

Does he even sleep? Voldemort from my time certainly had no need of sleep or food. But Tom Riddle surely remains a victim to the needs and cravings of the flesh. 

I approach his bed and notice that his trunk is unlocked. That, in itself, alarms me more than any curse thus far but the diagnostic charms show no protective wards or spells. 

So, ignoring the alarm bells in my head, I kneel. Lift the lid carefully, using the edge of my sleeve but I find nothing suspicious. 

Secondhand books, dog-eared and marked with obsessively detailed diagrams. A cauldron, with labeled potion stages—then a sketch of a student pouring ingredients. Below it, inexplicably, a crude drawing of a male piece of anatomy. 

I blink.

A snort escapes me before I can stop it.

Is it… his? Or a prank?

I remember Ron and Harry’s old notebooks, full of doodles that made them laugh like lunatics.

Boys.

I close the book, stowing it exactly as I found it.

Next is Selwyn Malfoy’s trunk.

I run a few diagnostic charms here as well but no locks or curses.

Odd.

I search. Ten minutes.

Nothing.

His books are standard and his belongings curated, but dull.

Too dull.

Either he’s a perfect decoy, or not involved at all. With a disappointed sigh, I return to the corridor, casting a glance up toward the seventh floor.

With time still to spare, I patrol the corridors near the Room of Requirement, hoping—however unlikely—that Tom has “misplaced” his Horcrux diary there.

Nothing.

It’s early afternoon and my homework is long finished.

So, I take Euphemia up on her offer—legally, this time. No disillusionment charms. Just a borrowed scarf, warm boots, and a clean pass through the Hogwarts gates.

The cobblestones of Hogsmeade glisten with dew, sunlight bending low behind the hills, casting golden light through crooked windows. The air is crisp but kind, the wind tickling scarves and ruffling cloaks, and students descend on the village like birds descending on grain.

It’s familiar. Too familiar.

My throat catches.

What happened to the woman I used to be—the sharp, calculating, sixty-five-year-old tactician who walked through blood and bureaucracy with equal ease?

Apparently, she melts at the scent of butterbeer and warm bread. I wipe discreetly at the corner of my eye and continue on.

They're exactly where they said they’d be; Euphemia waves me over from a back table at the Three Broomsticks. The long windows are fogged with laughter and breath, the fire roaring merrily in the hearth.

As I approach, I notice they aren’t alone. Ravenclaw Quidditch boys are sitting next to them—tall, broad and cologne-soaked.

Euphemia rolls her eyes as I sit beside her.

“I tried to convince her,” she mutters, nodding toward Vereena. “Bribed her with Fizzing Whizzbees and cauldron cakes. She refused. Said the Quidditch boys looked oh, so lonely.”

“They certainly inhale like it,” I murmur, eyeing how two of them are indeed trying to sit a little taller, puffing their chests like preening Hippogriffs.

Honoria Greengrass sits a little apart. Her teacup remains untouched and her eyes keep darting toward the window, flickering like candlelight.

“Expecting someone?” I ask.

She doesn’t look at me. “No”

A beat.

“Yes”

I wait.

Two beats, three. 

Silence is leverage, after all. 

“Selwyn said he might come,” She sighs, a bit too quickly. “He won’t.”

My eyes flick to the window. If it is Selwyn she’s hoping for, I’ll eat my wand. Though what a scandal that would be—dating Abraxas and then his younger brother. But no... More likely she’s playing an old game—trying to look like she isn’t watching someone else altogether.

The bell over the door rings catching us both by surprise. 

And the air shifts.

Riddle. Malfoy. Burke.

They enter like a war party dressed for court—boots polished, postures precise. 

Tom is wearing his morning robes, that tailored cut accentuating the leanness of his body. The Slytherin pin at his collar gleams like a dagger hilt. His hair is slicked into place, his jaw as sharp as ever, and those violet-shadowed eyes rake across the room without a flicker of care.

The effect is chemical. Almost alchemical.

Vereena perks like a flower leaning toward sunlight. Clarissa giggles. Even the Quidditch lads go silent, blinking as Tom lazily charms the end of the table to extend with a flick of his wrist. Three chairs sprout from thin air, and the boys slide in like royalty reclaiming thrones. 

Burke slides a bottle to Clarissa with a wink.

“Oh, Burke,” she purrs. “You didn’t have to.”

“Couldn’t let you waste a Knut on butterbeer,” he grins, rolling his shoulders.

Vereena twirls a strand of platinum hair. “How gallant of you, Lucan.”

Tom Riddle sits beside me.

He’s said nothing to me for days. Barely a glance. Only the occasional cryptic inquiry into Montmorency or the lost lore of elemental schools.

And now he’s beside me again and I try not to let this rattle me. 

His fingers, long and pale, tap once against the rim of his firewhisky. Then he lifts it to his lips and takes a slow, deliberate sip.

Across the table, Honoria blushes.

I must have missed something; a look, a wordless exchange. 

The Quidditch boys scramble to reclaim the spotlight.

“Did you hear Grindelwald was seen near Prague?” one says, chin high, aiming for dangerous topics. 

“I heard he’s got a dragon skull on his staff,” Selwyn says, eyes narrowed in thought.

“He’s a Seer, definitely,” another adds. “Predicts raids apparently.”

I say nothing.

Because Tom has offered me his glass. Just slid it toward me with the ease of a man placing a book back in the bookcase. My fingers brush the rim. Still warm. The firewhiskey glows amber.

Poisoned? Perhaps.

But I’d taste it. Detect it. Nullify it. I know fifty ways to dismantle a toxin before it hits the bloodstream.

Still, I sip cautiously.

It tastes like citrus and old parchment. His mouth twitches. Barely. A smirk half-born.

Later, the Quidditch boys excuse themselves, muttering about early practice; the girls barely notice.

The lamps are low now, the room bathed in firelight and velvet shadow. Butterbeer foam clings to lips and glasses clink. A soft hum of conversation buzzes beneath the weight of heat and proximity.

Vereena leans closer to Malfoy, giggling. Burke corners Honoria with another sleazy grin while Euphemia is eyeing the female bartender appreciatively, her cheeks flushed.

“Another drink, Miss Leclair?” Riddle asks smoothly, tipping his empty glass to the side.

I raise a brow. “Trying to get me drunk, Riddle?”

He smiles like a cat considering a canary.

“Trying to get you talking.”

He motions, and the bartender herself comes by with two more firewhiskys. That makes Euphemia perk up as she leans down to deliver the drinks, making sure the tall girl gets a good look at her cleavage.

Euphemia’s lips part, standing unsteadily. “Excuse me for a minute.”

Tom pays without flinching. His fingers brush mine as he passes me my glass.

Intentional.

“Cheers,” I murmur, clinking his glass softly.

“To dangerous conversation.” he replies, voice low.

We drink.

We do not toast with others. We are not part of their world tonight, sitting at the edge of the table with two empty chairs next to me and Tom that neither of us has charmed to disappear.

Tom turns to me again, deceptively casual.

“Have you read anything by Bertrand Sylvain?” he asks.

“Magical anthropology?” I say, pretending to think. “Yes. He’s the one who proposed that the Statute of Secrecy stunted magical evolution, isn’t he?”

A flicker of surprise. “I didn’t think anyone outside of… niche circles read his work.”

I sip and shrug. “I like niche things.”

His lips curve. “I suspected you would. Sylvain suggested that hiding magic forced us to stagnate. That we plateaued, became preservationists. Reliant on tradition instead of innovation.”

“And do you agree?” I ask, turning the question back at him. “Do you think the Statute was a mistake?”

A pause, then— “I think... it was a necessary cowardice. At the time”

A clever answer. True but noncommittal.

“Cowardice implies there was another choice,” I say slowly. “But Muggles were advancing. Could magic have survived a war with that?”

Tom’s gaze sharpens. “You make it sound like Muggles are the stronger species.”

“Not stronger,” I correct. “Just… more numerous. More restless. And they are, if nothing else, resourceful. Magic doesn’t expand as fast as industry.”

Riddle’s fingers tap against the rim of his glass. “So you think we’re meant to coexist?”

“But we already did. Once.”

That earns a pause. He leans forward. Slightly. Just enough for his sleeve to brush my wrist.

“Go on,” he says, and I see the gleam in his eyes now; curiosity laced with challenge.

I lift my chin.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” I say. “At some point, we came from the same blood. The same root. A magical mutation, maybe. Some difference in affinity. One child in a village who could summon wind or fire—and suddenly, a new branch of humanity. Divided by power, not species.”

He stills.

And I realize I’ve made a mistake.

Mutation.

That’s not a word they use yet. Not in that context. And from the look he gives me, Tom Riddle knows I’ve said something I shouldn’t.

“A mutation?” he asks quietly. “That’s rather… not a word I am familiar with.”

I cover it smoothly. “Not biologically. I meant in temperament. Attunement. Some people’s bodies… spirits… are simply more suited to catching magic. The same way some people are born with perfect pitch, or faster reflexes.”

Tom nods once, slowly. His eyes do not leave mine.

“It’s the same reason we use wands. Even if magic is in our blood… Well, wands are needed for focus and precision. Raw magic is chaotic. The wand gives  magic structure, direction.”

“You’ve thought about this,” he says, something that looks like a genuine smile beginning to spread upon his lips.

“I think about a lot of things,” I say, swallowing uncertainly as my heart hammers inside my chest.

He hums softly, then downs the rest of his drink in one long, elegant motion.

“I suppose next you’ll tell me that blood purity is a myth,” he says, voice almost playful.

I meet his gaze with a roll of my eyes. “Only if you tell me you already know it is.”

For a breath, neither of us moves. The table noise fades. The pub flickers around us like a scene under a Pensieve’s surface—unreal. Unimportant.

Tom is studying me like I’m a mirror he’s not sure he wants to look into.

“You mentioned wands. Are you familiar with their creation?” he murmurs, his eyes sparkling and following my lip movement carefully.

“Well...” I begin, running my finger along the rim of my glass “most wandlore traces back to the Old Makers—Gregorovitch, Ollivander, even the Polish and Russian guilds. Wand cores are typically harvested from magical creatures—phoenix feather, unicorn hair, dragon heartstring… though there are rarer ones. Basilisk scale. Kelpie mane. Thestral hair. Some are banned now, or at least heavily regulated.”

Tom’s brow lifts at that, just slightly. “And the wood?”

“Just as important,” I say, my cheeks flush, my breath quick as I reiterate everything I've read in books. “The wood decides how the wand behaves—its alignment, responsiveness, tolerance for certain spells. It’s not always about power. Sometimes it’s about personality. Blackthorn, for example, is temperamental. Holly is reactive. Elder is—” I pause, almost smiling, “—complicated.”

“And yet,” he says, swirling what remains of his firewhiskey, “for a society that prides itself on magical superiority, we’re rather... dependent, aren’t we?”

I meet his gaze. “On creatures, you mean?”

He nods once. “If magic is in our blood, why do we need phoenixes and dragons to make it work? Why do our most sacred tools depend on things we deem beneath us?”

A beat.

He’s testing me again.

“Because,” I say slowly, “perhaps they aren’t beneath us.”

That makes his eyes sharpen.

“I mean,” I continue, choosing my words carefully, “we don’t invent magic. We harness it. Direct it. But it’s been here long before us—in nature, in creatures, in places. A unicorn doesn’t need a wand to be magical. But we do. The parts we take—from creatures, from the earth—it’s not about dominance. It’s about… compatibility.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

And then, very softly. “But it is taking, isn’t it?”

I blink.

He leans forward. “We slaughter dragons. We snatch feathers from dying phoenixes. We rip hair from unicorns. All to fuel our own power. So I’ll ask again—if we are the apex of magical evolution, why can’t we do it without them? Why do we need them?”

I exhale slowly at his accentuated use of the word need, suddenly reminiscent of another time. Humans Needs accord, 2027. 

As if Muggle survival was need with better P.R. But it wasn't need. It was greed. 

The hairs on my arm rise involuntarily and his eyes are darker than I have ever seen them, watching me carefully. The firelight plays shadows across his face and I know he is still expecting an answer. But I can't share my true thoughts with him, not truly. 

“Because raw power isn’t the same as refined power,” I reply unsteadily. “We can do magic without ingredients. Wandless, wordless, even bloodless. But it’s unpredictable. And unpredictable power, Riddle, becomes dangerous power very quickly.”

Perhaps I have drunk more firewhiskey than this body can handle—I do remember eighteen year old Hermione Granger was not a heavy alcohol drinker—because suddenly my stomach flips around itself, my pulse fluttering fast against my chest.

My thighs feel damp and I swallow, rearranging my legs under the table awkwardly. Tom Riddle’s nostrils flare as if he can detect it. His eyes grow as dark as midnight, a brief seductive smile lacing his lips.

Intellectual fencing… What better, spectacular foreplay?

He considers that. Taps a single finger on the table.

"Hmm," he hums, unconvinced. "I lean more towards greed as a reason, not control over magic. Greed, after all, is a thing of intelligent minds, it seems, Creatures—magical and otherwise—do not take more than they need. Besides... How can we ever know power without wands and potions is unpredictable if we've never gone without it?"

Greed. 

I shiver at the word. Did he read my thoughts? Was I projecting them so loudly that he just couldn't help himself? But no, my wards are intact, my magic my own. 

Still, there’s something fevered under the calm, something quietly ravenous. He’s not just playing devil’s advocate. He’s building a thesis.

I shift, letting the silence stretch before I tilt my head. 

“I reckon those first witches and wizards found out relatively quickly how dangerous magic could be when used without wands. Alas, are you suggesting that harvesting magical creatures is immoral, or that relying on them makes us weak?”

His smile returns—slow, deliberate, his curling lip revealing a set of perfectly even white teeth. “There are still tribes that use magic without wands or potions. Quite successfully, I might add. You, as well, are proof of accomplishing spectacular, wordless magic. As for my thoughts on creatures... Can’t it be both?”

Another drink arrives. Unbidden. He ordered it while I was speaking. Sleight of hand. Or expectation. I sip. The firewhiskey is hitting now, enough to loosen the edges of the room. 

Tom’s cheeks are flushed faintly. His hair is mussed in just the right way—like he’s been running ideas through it instead of fingers. There’s ink on one of his knuckles.

My cheeks are warm. The third firewhiskey is spreading across my limbs like soft electricity. I’m still in control but I know what he’s doing. He’s waiting for me to slip—to speak too freely, to reveal what I truly think about magical power and the ethics of extraction.

But I’m not seventeen. Not really.

“I think,” I say, voice calm, “that using the gifts of magical creatures isn’t inherently wrong. But forgetting to respect the cost… is”

That earns a pause.

He tilts his glass toward mine. “You’d make an excellent philosopher."

I smirk. “You’d make a dangerous one.”

He leans in again, too close. “Am I not already?”

And I laugh, soft and sharp, feeling the weight of all the things I cannot say.

If only you knew, Tom.

If only I didn’t.

“You have a theory about everything, don’t you?” he questions, pauses.

“Only for the topics that matter.”

He leans in. “And what theory do you have about me?”

My mouth curves.

“That,” I say, lifting my glass in salute, “would require a fourth drink”

His lips curve, his eyes gleam and he raises a hand—

“Careful, Riddle,” drawls Selwyn Malfoy from farther down the table, his voice light but aimed like a dart. “If you keep staring at her like that, Vereena might start hexing your firewhiskey.”

A few of the others laugh. Honoria snorts into her butterbeer.

Tom’s eyes don’t leave mine, not at first. Then, almost lazily, he turns toward Selwyn, lips twitching in amusement.

“Hexing firewhiskey is such a vulgar revenge,” he muses. “If Vereena wanted to kill me, I imagine she’d use something far more poetic. A love potion laced with arsenic, perhaps?”

“Oh, please,” says Vereena with a hair-flip, half-flattered and half-offended. “If I wanted to kill you, darling, I’d just bore you to death. Like she’s doing,” She throws a mocking glance my way.

I smile sweetly. “Careful, Vereena. If I get bored enough, I might start reciting wandlore in Latin. Third declension. Out loud”

“Oof,” mutters Euphemia, smirking, having returned to the table with her robes half unbuttoned, and her lips pink and flushed. “Don’t start. Clarissa might actually cry”

Clarissa frowns. “I speak Latin.”

“A toad speaks better Latin than you dear,” Honoria mutters without looking up from her drink. “It’s different.”

Laughter ripples down the table and just like that, the tension breaks.

Tom chuckles—low, and entirely performative. A perfect imitation of ease. If I didn’t know him—really know him—I’d believe it. But I see the precision behind the curve of his mouth. How he chooses the moment to laugh. How he doesn’t blink too long or too slow.

He lets the spotlight shift away from us for a few minutes, just long enough for the others to relax.

But under the table, I feel his foot graze mine. Just once. Light as a whisper. 

I don’t move.

A few minutes later, he stands, adjusts his robes with elegant nonchalance, and turns to me, offering his palm. “Walk back with me?” He says it too casually. As if it’s nothing.

Which means it’s something.

I finish the last of my drink, my fingers tingling faintly, and rise to join him. When my hand connects with his soft, pale flesh I nearly recoil, the faintest spark of electricity present. Riddle blinks but doesn’t acknowledge it. 

The air is colder now outside The Three Broomsticks. The night is stitched with fog, curling around the edges of the cobblestones like a creature at rest. I lean closer to Riddle, chasing his body’s heat and he allows it. 

We walk in silence for a few steps, boots echoing. Behind us, the others remain, still talking, laughing—normal. 

“You’re quiet,” Tom says eventually, glancing at me.

“So are you.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous habit that.”

He smiles again. Not for show this time.

We walk without speaking for several minutes, the hush between us rich with unspoken things. The fog is thicker now, the half-moon caught behind a veil of cloud. Somewhere in the distance, a Hippogriff calls once, then falls silent again.

The lights of Hogsmeade dim behind us.

“You know,” I say at last, tone perfectly casual, trying to stir the conversation to safe waters “I once threatened to castrate a boy in the library for misquoting Agrippa.”

Tom blinks, surprised and taken aback.

I keep walking.

He catches up after a heartbeat, clearly biting back a smile. “You threatened to…?”

“Castrate,” I repeat smoothly. “With a quill. Ink-stained. Blunt tip.”

Not a lie. Cornac McLaggen had been cornering me in sixth year for a good while. It was only natural to go for his jewels as retaliation. 

Tom Riddle laughs, his eyes sparkling with delight. It’s quiet. Genuine. And it’s unnerving how lovely that sound is when it’s real.

“And what, exactly, did he say?”

“He claimed Agrippa believed wizards should avoid nonverbal spellwork because it weakened the wand’s emotional bond. Absolute nonsense.”

He stares at me, clearly delighted. “So you went for his—?”

“I just waved my wand at his trousers and started muttering Latin. He ran. Lost two shoes on the way out.”

He laughs—truly again, the sound echoing like dark silk across stone. “You’re mad.”

“Am I?” I ask, looking over at him with a small smirk. “Or just… precise in my priorities?”

His eyes narrow with a grin, his pace slowing ever so slightly.

“That,” he murmurs, “might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

I scoff. “If that’s your standard for romance, I fear for any future Mrs. Riddle.”

He gives me a long look. “I doubt she’d be much interested in tradition.”

“I doubt she’d survive it.”

Another beat.

And I realize what this is. Flirting. With young Voldermort. I don't allow guilt or disgust to cloud my thoughts and another flicker of laughter brings me back to the present. 

“Miss Leclair—” he says, voice low and conspiratorial, “—you’re full of surprises.”

I smile, eyes forward. “Just wait until you hear what I did to the last person who stole my ink bottle.”

“I’d almost pay to see that.”

“You wouldn’t need to pay,” I murmur with a smirk, clearly enjoying this far more than I should. “You’d just need to be foolish.”

“You are dangerous,” he says, his eyes gleaming excitedly. “But I’ve always liked dangerous things.”

I hum. “Then I suppose you like yourself quite a lot, dangerous philosopher that you are.”

He smiles—low, smooth. “Touché”

By the time we reach the gates of Hogwarts, I swear I can still feel his smile beside me, even as the castle looms and the night stretches long.

***

The next weekend arrives cloaked in silver mist, heavy rain and echoing cheers.

Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw. The match of the season.

Apparently.

Students spill down toward the Quidditch pitch in a flurry of scarves and painted cheeks, house colors blazing like battle banners. Euphemia Carrows wears green from her boots to her eyeliner. Even Honoria Greengrass, perpetually cool, dons a delicate emerald ribbon.

I sit in the corner of the common room, legs folded beneath me, flipping idly through Modern Magical Conflicts: A Century in Review. But my mind is elsewhere.

I think of firewhisky and candlelight. Of a long walk back to Hogwarts wrapped in laughter and wicked smiles. Of fingers brushing beneath the table, of a gaze that curled under my skin like smoke.

And then, the next morning, nothing.

Silence.

Tom Riddle has vanished once again, though not literally. He still occupies every room with his careful stillness, still smirks at Clarissa's dramatics, still rules the common room with poised boredom. But to me?

He has become air. 

An old tactic, surely. Push, pull. Warm, retreat. One that should have become familiar to me. 

But that doesn’t make it less frustrating.

"Coming to the match?" Euphemia asks, slipping on gloves enchanted with serpent scales.

I smile politely. "I think I'll pass. Quidditch has never really held my attention."

"Blasphemy," Clarissa mutters dramatically, adjusting her robes. "The pitch is where all real politics happen."

"Then I suppose I'll have to find a quieter war to win." I say airily, already gathering my books.

The library is deserted.

Perfect.

I walk the rows slowly, letting my fingers trail along the spines. The dust is thicker in the darker corners. I gravitate there, toward the shelves few students bother with; magical theory, pre-Ministry incantations, obscure runic dialects.

And then—

I see it. In the Restriction Section.

A thin, black book tucked between volumes on magical ethics. No title on the spine, no Dewey enchantment sigil. I pluck it free, my heart in my throat. How many times had I tried to read such a book in a tent in the Forest of Dean?

Inside pages of faded ink stick together as if it’s cursed; for all I know it may very well be. A table of contents that reads like a funeral list. "The Fracturing of Self: A Treatise on Soul Alchemy."

My breath catches.

Impossible.

Books on Horcruxes had been banned by the time I attended Hogwarts. This one shouldn’t exist. A few pages have been ripped off but the rest still stands. 

I flip it quickly. Ritual diagrams. Incantations in blood-ink. Theoretical debates on consciousness tethering. Ethical arguments long forgotten. The creation of a Horcrux requires a willful act of soul division, catalyzed by murder. The fragment is then bound to a vessel through ritual: anchoring incantations, blood binding, and symbolic sacrifice.

Willful.

So it couldn’t happen by accident.

Could it?

Of course it could, I chastise myself remembering Voldemort did the exact same thing to Harry, after he’d already split his soul six times.

I trace a passage with my finger.

In cases of extreme trauma, magical theory suggests it may be possible to create an unstable Horcrux-like tether through unintentional acts. These are, however, rare and often fatal to the caster.

A shadow falls across the page.

I glance up, startled, my heart beating unnaturally fast. 

Tom Riddle stands a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Miss Leclair,” he says softly, “if you were inclined to create dark objects to store your soul, you should have come to me first.”

My heart jolts again but I cover it with a small, cool smile.

“Oh? Am I to assume, then, that you’re an authority on the matter?”

He steps closer, gaze flicking to the book in my hands. “I’m an authority on most things worth knowing.”

I close the book slowly.

“Do you think it’s possible,” I ask carefully, “to create one by accident? Without fully understanding what you’ve done?”

Tom’s eyes sharpen. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug. “Intellectual curiosity. If the act requires intention, then it implies moral choice. If not… then it’s closer to a magical consequence.”

Tom studies me.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, sounding the least bit fascinated “But a soul doesn’t split unless it’s broken. And breaking something that fundamental doesn’t happen by chance. Not really.”

“You sound almost reverent,” I note, watching him. 

“Only of power that lasts.”

I tilt my head. “Is that what you think Horcruxes are? Power that lasts?”

Tom steps even closer, close enough that our breaths mingle now.

“I think they’re insurance. The ultimate refusal to be erased.”

I hold his gaze. “But if your soul is broken… what are you preserving, exactly?”

He doesn’t smile.

“The part that matters.”

A beat of silence.

I breathe out slowly. “Maybe the real power is in not needing to fragment yourself to begin with.”

Tom’s eyes darken, almost angry.

In a moment he corrects himself and straightens, smiling politely, a smile I have come to associate with him trying to charm the Professors in doing his bidding.

“Ah, well. That may be a conversation better had with firewhiskey running through our veins,” he says with a smirk, then walks away.

I stare after him, startled.

Was it ..? Could this conversation be enough to deter him from creating yet another Horcrux?

Doubtful. 

I have no way of knowing yet and Samhain is still almost a month away when I will have the opportunity to check upon Luna and see if anything substantial in their timeline has changed.

With a deep sigh I return the book to the Restricted Section and make my way back to the Common Room avoiding Peeves who has decided to make water pipes explode, thus filling corridors with water, urine and something far more foul.

It’s early evening and the Slytherins are arguing, blaming one another about what I assume must have been a loss against Ravenclaw.

“Marius, you should have gotten the bludger!” Malfoy exclaims, his cheeks tinged red.

“Oh shut it, Malfoy. If you’d only caught the snitch we wouldn’t be in such a predicament now, would we?” the sixth year argues, arms crossed.

“Honestly, I blame the girls,” a tall man with dark hair and somewhat tan skin says, eyeing Vereena, Honoria and Clarissa carefully.

Vereena pales. “I told you, Lestrange! They wouldn’t give out anything related to their strategy. Both Clarissa and I tried.”

Clarissa shrugs. “That we did.”

I ignore them, making my way upstairs where my bed is located.

Only to find something upon my pillow. A single slip of parchment. Cream-colored with elegant script. 

"Some truths are best revealed under starlight.

Midnight. Astronomy Tower.

Password: Tenebris Potentia"

No name. But I know the handwriting. 

Riddle. 

I pocket the note. My pulse is steady.

Is he going to reveal to me that he’s made a Horcrux? Will he try to make another and kill me? Will we debate magical ethics? 

Either way my heart flutters inside my chest in anticipation.

Chapter Text

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

— Sarah Williams, The Old Astronomer

The clock strikes midnight with a whisper, not a chime.

I stand at the base of the Astronomy Tower, robes pulled tight, the air sharp against my skin. I can feel the magic of the school shift slightly, as if Hogwarts itself is holding its breath. The note is still pressed in my pocket like a second heartbeat.

I whisper the password at the base of the spiraling stairs Tenebris Potential and the stone groans open.

I climb.

At the top, the tower is already lit by floating blue-white orbs, casting long shadows across a ring of waiting students. The air tastes of frost and smoke, tension crackling. 

My breath catches.

A dozen seventh-years wait in silence, cloaked in bravado and shadows. Every House is represented. No professors. No ghosts. Even some prefects are present though they have turned a blind eye to what I assume must be some sort of illegal dueling practise. 

This is not at all what I expected when Tom Riddle asked me to meet him. I don't even know why I had the notion it could be something.... Romantic. 

Lucan Burke leans against a pillar, wand spinning through his fingers. Clarissa Mulciber stands at his side, luminous and dangerous. Honoria Greengrass folds her arms, expression unreadable. I see Margret Astor from Potions and Cross from Gryffindor. A few more sixth and seven year students are already sharpening hexes in their teeth.

But none of them matter.

Because Tom Riddle isn’t in the circle.

He sits just beyond it, legs crossed, wand balanced across his lap like a blade at rest. A chair conjured from darkness and decorum supports his lean frame. He watches the ring with a predator’s stillness.

He doesn’t acknowledge me.

Not a nod. Not a word.

But I know he knows I’ve arrived.

"She came," Clarissa murmurs.

"Of course she did," says Honoria. "She’s not stupid."

I don't answer them because my eyes immediately fall to the two male figures circling one another.

Rosier versus Cross.

It’s clean at first—almost beautiful. Then Cross outsmarts him with a redirection charm that flings Rosier’s own spell into his foot. The Gryffindor wins.  

Tom tilts his head. A flicker of approval.

I say nothing. I observe. Let the ancient magic of the circle seep up through my boots.

Hogwarts does not prepare them for war, I think, not without irony. And yet here they are—preparing themselves in secret, like shadows training for dusk.

Grindewalt has been rising in power and one would be a fool to not make sure they at least know how to defend themselves. I am suddenly reminiscent of another dark haired boy who wanted to teach us DADA in order to stand against Voldermort. The irony is not lost on me. 

The next match begins, Volant versus Avery.

It ends quickly and in smoke with no clear winner.

Lucan turns toward me. "Leclair" 

I step forward with apprehension. Not because I can't duel but because I am afraid of what I may accidentally reveal about myself. 

Tom remains seated, unreadable.

"Who challenges her?" Lucan asks the crowd.

A pause.

"I do," says Honoria Greengrass.

There’s a ripple, soft and sharp. She enters the circle, wand drawn, mouth set. I nod once. A courtesy. 

The duel begins.

Honoria is sharp, relentless. She casts with control and strategy. But I am older than her, in ways she cannot imagine. My wards are instantaneous. My counters precise. 

Her flame meets my wind. Her hexes bounce from shields she can’t see forming.

It's the shortest duel yet, lasting less than twenty seconds. 

I do not humiliate her and she drops to one knee, breathing heavy. I raise my wand in acknowledgment.

“Respectfully,” I say.

She nods. “Well played.”

The circle dims.

Then—

A slow, deliberate clap.

Tom Riddle rises.

For a second I fear he may challenge me to a duel and I grasp my wand a little tighter. 

“Impressive,” he says, almost lazily.

Then, he turns, disappearing into shadow as though he'd seen what he needed and grown bored.

Bastard. Cool, calculating, and content to leave me hanging on a compliment with fangs.

Duelers scatter into corridors and secret stairwells, their faces flushed with adrenaline and whispered accolades. Spells still hung in the air, ghost-trails of light where hexes clashed, sizzling faintly before dissolving into the cold.

Above, the stars blink quietly into view.

I remain for a moment longer, still somewhat frozen from what happened.

Had he planned this? See my dueling style? Lured me in with the promise of romance and intellectual conversation only to have me cornered to accept a duel? 

Possible. 

With a quick exhale, filled with annoyance and unspoken words, I descend.

The fire has burnt low by the time Tom is back in the Slytherin common room. It takes me all but two seconds to realize we are alone and unbidden my fingers trail the end of my wand again. 

He stands by the window, fingers laced behind his back, watching the reflection of the lake shimmer against the glass.

"You’ve studied combat and formal magical strategy" he comments, his eyes on the mermaids dancing underwater. 

I don’t pretend otherwise. Instead, I join him at the window, my reflection pale beside his in the glass.

A girl with honey-coloured siren eyes and smooth, wavy brown hair cascading down her back. A girl with muscles hidden underneath soft flesh and elegant fingers. A girl with knowledge no one aged nineteen should have.

Beautiful. But deadly.

Much like him.

His reflection is all shadows and cut, clean lines. 

"Where I came from," I say softly, "magic wasn’t just a subject. It was a weapon."

A pause.

Tom finally looks at me. "Montmorency doesn’t teach that."

I arch an eyebrow “How would you know?”

For a second his expression falls, his features showing something akin to a boy caught stealing chocolates from a cupboard in an orphanage.

Then he straightens with a smile. “I only meant most schools don’t teach that”

"Montmorency teaches survival in different ways," I say, watching him carefully "But no. That part I learned elsewhere."

He steps closer. Not threatening. Just... present.

"You’ve been holding back" he says at last.

"I’ve been observing” I add with a coy smile. “Much like you”

A corner of his mouth twitches. "And now?"

"Now I’m ready to play." I say with a deadly smile.

And there is it. A flicker of hunger in his eyes. Not lust or admiration. Something colder. Sharper.

Need.

Tom doesn’t only crave power. He craves equals.

And I’ve just placed myself squarely within his reach.

The next morning, the castle hums with low murmurs. News of the duel spreads faster than whispers about illicit broom closet encounters. I notice it in the way students glance at me from behind goblets of pumpkin juice. Some cautious. Some curious.

Tom doesn’t look at me.

But Selwyn Malfoy approaches.

"Head Boy wants to see you" he says. "Library. Noon. Bring nothing."

I arrive early.

He waits by the Restricted Section, cloaked in stillness. Tom Riddle finds me on the edge of the library's upper mezzanine, my fingers resting lightly on a closed volume of advanced spell theory.

"Teach me"

I blink up at him, brows arching, honestly surprised. "Pardon?"

"How to fly. Like you did at Montmorency, without a broom."

I lean back against the rail, studying him as though I hadn’t expected this request—not from him. Not really.

I am still half expecting him to challenge me to a duel.

"Why?"

Tom tilts his head, that ever-curious spark flickering in his eyes. "Because you can. And because I can’t."

I smile faintly, my body buzzing with magic, knowing that suddenly I am the one in control. I consider declining because how sweet would it be to see his fallen expression at being told no?

Then I remember the whole point of me coming back is to redirect him. 

“Three nights from now,” I say with a deep, resigned sigh “Astronomy Tower. Midnight.”

He doesn’t ask why.

"We'll be breaking a lot of rules but -" 

He gives me a look. "You've not shown to care much about breaking rules Miss Leclair. Nor have I for that matter"

With a conspiratory smile he departs and I watch his silhouette disappear with foreboding, my fingers digging into the closest book shelf. 

***

He arrives precisely on time.

The sky is crystalline, the moon low but full, brushing silver onto the ramparts like spilled paint. He stands in profile—sharp-edged, still, haloed by stars.

“What are you reading?” I ask, tilting my chin toward the constellations.

He smirks without looking. “Why would you care? You’ve never shown interest in Divination.”

I shrug. “It’s hard to invest in something that claims fate is fixed.”

He turns to me. “Divination doesn’t show absolutes. It shows paths. Possibilities.”

“That’s still too close to bullshit for my liking.”

He looks up again, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. The light catches in his irises—deep violet, starlit, endless. For a second I forget myself.

But only a second.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “Are we here to fly or not?”

He nods.

We step into the center of the tower, where the wind dares not touch us and the moonlight lays everything bare.

“You know the basics,” I begin, “Wingardium Leviosa?”

He doesn’t even deign to answer, rolling his eyes in quiet dismissal. 

“This is similar. But instead of directing the spell outward, you turn it inward. Lighten your body and surrender to the pull.”

"The moon doesn’t pull" he scoffs.

“Doesn't it? I thought you were an expert on this. After all, the moon cycle is intimately connected with magic and life. Take for example, werewolves... " I pause, my voice going momentarily shrill with excitement and theories before I shake my head "But I digress. In order to fly you need to surrender. It is part of control.”

Riddle is watching me intently. “That’s contradictory.”

“So is flight.”

He scoffs "You make it sound like philosophy."

I shrug with a smile. "Perhaps magic is philosophy."

"Remember, I am a dangerous philosopher" he whispers with a soft smirk playing at the edges of his lips and I smile, genuinely. 

"Oh, I am aware Tom" I say, suddenly flustered. 

Dangerous for all the wrong reasons. 

But instead of doing something stupid, I raise my arms.

And I rise.

Just a few inches, but enough. The air responds because I ask without commanding and suddenly I am weightless and my hair floats around my like a halo. 

Tom watches, entranced.

My feet touch the ground gently, like stepping down stairs and I smile. 

“Your turn”

He steps into the moonlight.

Closes his eyes. Inhales.

For a breath—he rises. Just slightly.

Then he falls.

I don’t laugh. I don’t dare.

Instead, I say, “Not bad”

“It didn’t work” he replies, clearly angry at himself.

It seems he is not used to failure. 

“It almost worked. Flying takes time.”

It took twenty years for me. 

I step closer and the wind stirs between us. Red and gold leaves and pine needles swirl from nowhere—brought by magic, perhaps. 

He steps forward and reaches out, almost touching me with an unreadable expression upon his features. His hand hovers near my jaw and I don’t move, even as my heart is beating impossibly fast underneath my ribcage. Our gazes meet and then he steps back, almost shy. 

I smile, swallowing and looking to the floor “Again.”

By the twelfth try, he’s hovering for seconds. By the twentieth—

He’s floating. Nearly a foot off the ground.

And my stomach curdles. 

I remember Lord Voldemort gliding silently, unnaturally, over blood-slick ground and think—was it me? Did I teach him? Have I always meant to?

It feels absurd.

Then he tips. Starts to fall.

I catch him instinctively. Our bodies meet and his hands are against my waist, mine against his chest.

For a moment, everything is still.

Wind sweeps around us, tugging at our robes, catching loose strands of hair. Tom’s breath brushes against my cheek. He smells of pine and smoke and secrets whispered at night. 

I look up—just enough to meet his eyes.

There is no smirk, no calculation. Just a quiet, startled recognition. Our eyes hold and so does my breath.

He steps back and the spell is broken. 

"You’re an infuriating teacher" he says at last. 

"Infuriating perhaps but I am good. You flew!” I say with a genuine smile.

“That’s because I am persistent. I am not so sure about your teaching skills” he teases with a smirk. 

He gives me a look that says everything and nothing.

And then-

“You taught me yet demanded no price” he whispers, genuine perplex etched upon his brows. 

"Not everything has a price" I counter. 

He studies me for a beat. “I don't like owing people. Let me repay you. With something rare.”

His eyes go to the skies again and I arch a single brow before rolling my eyes in dismissal. “Divination?”

He finally turns to face me, a quizzical half-smile curving his mouth. "Perhaps you were not divined properly at Montmorency. It is a fine art. And it doesn’t show definites. Only possibilities"

I tild my head, watching him as he looks upward again. His expression shifts. 

In his eyes, I see the night sky—stars reflected, endless and unknowable. And perhaps, suddenly I might indeed be interested in Divination. I could easily spend hours trying to divine what passes behind those eyes and still never succeed.

I allow a small smile to graze my lips before, finally, nodding. 

We sit at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, knees nearly touching, the vast sky yawning open above us like a spell cast in infinite ink.

Tom doesn’t speak at first.

He conjures a star map with a wave of his wand, silver thread spooling mid-air like enchanted spider silk. The constellations shimmer into form—Orion, Andromeda, Draco, their lines drawn not in ink but in starlight.

"Do you know them?" he asks quietly, voice almost reverent.

My gaze follows the threads. “Some. A few.” I gesture to one with a hesitant hand. “That’s Cassiopeia. Queen of vanity, cursed to hang upside down in the sky.”

Tom hums watching me carefully before tracing the stars with the tip of his wand. “And there—Delphinus, the dolphin, messenger of Poseidon. He tricked a sea nymph into becoming a bride.”

“Romantic,” I say, voice dry.

He smiles faintly. “Deceptive. All mythology and lust is. Stories twisted into stars.”

The threads between us pulse softly, glowing with ancient magic. The map responds to our words as though listening.

“Did you know the Greeks believed the Milky Way was milk spilled from Hera’s breast?” he asks.

I blink, feeling my cheeks heat at his choice of words. “I did, actually”

“And that the Fates”—he flicks his wand and a new triad of lights forms—“were said to spin lives into thread, measure their length, then cut them?”

He points. “Clotho. Lachesis. Atropos. They live up there, even now.”

I shiver, just slightly.

“Do you believe that?” I ask, quietly.

“That our fates are stitched into the sky?”

Tom tilts his head, eyes following the celestial lines. “No. But I believe that others believe it. And belief—widespread, collective—shapes magic and the world”

The words settle over us like dew. The star map bends, slowly, shifting shape. Not a constellation now.

A web. A great weave of silver and possibility.

“This line,” he says, pointing. “Is one version of now. And that—” he gestures further out, where a split like a forked lightning bolt veers hard to the left—“is what happens if someone changes something they shouldn’t.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it. But he doesn’t have to.

I watch the path veer off into darkness.

"And that one?" I ask, pointing to a delicate, spiraling line that seems to loop in on itself like a dance.

His eyes follow. “A future no longer accessible. Lost when a decision was made. Or not made.”

The silver threads gleam between us, delicate as memory.

“Can you really see all this?” I whisper.

“No,” he says almost gently, his lips twitching into a half smile. “But I can feel it. Some of us are born with a thread wound tighter than others. It hums. The trick is knowing when to follow it—and when to cut it.”

The map dims slightly, the lines shifting into softer constellations. Now I see Phoenix, its wings outstretched. Hydra, winding and endless. Sagittarius, bow taut, aiming toward some forgotten horizon.

“The stars don’t tell us what will happen" he murmurs "Only possibility... And this... It is as powerful as prophecy.”

I turn to him, watching his face lit in moonlight and starlight, carved in pale silver and sharp shadow.

"You believe in the possibility of rewriting fate," I say softly.

“I do.”

"And what if someone rewrote yours?"

Tom finally looks at me.

His eyes are dark. Hungry. Quietly infinite and sparkling like the galaxies above. 

“I suppose” he says, “I'd want to know why.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because part of me doesn’t know anymore.

And the stars—silent, burning, unbothered—offer no answers either.

“I had a professor once,” I murmur, more to myself. “She wore glasses like owl eyes. Lived in the North Tower. Taught with tea leaves and too much perfume.”

“What was her name?” he asks, curiosity bare in his tone.

I open my mouth.

Nothing.

Gone.

“I… don’t remember.”

Tom leans back. Eyes gleaming.

"Maybe it will come back to you," he says casually, voice smooth.

I don’t respond.

Instead, I look up at the stars.

And try to remember a name that had once shaped prophecy and war.

But the sky gives me no answers.

And somewhere, in the dark halls of fate, another star shifts off course.

***

The next day, the Professor splits the DADA class into two teams. Duel-format. Friendly competition.

I’m placed opposite Tom. The goal is simple: use non-lethal charms to knock your opponent’s conjured object into the opponent’s goal ring.

His spell slices through the air. I intercept it with a twist of my wrist, sending it rebounding in a loop that curves perfectly—into his own goal ring.

The class laughs, amused. 

Tom blinks. Just once. A vein ticks under his jaw. Then he offers a faint smile, like he’s almost impressed.

“Predictable,” I murmur as I pass him, unable to resist the chance to rattle him.

“Calculated,” he replies, too softly. “You just corrected the math.”

“That’s the difference between intuition and arrogance” I say.

“And yet” he says, “you still needed me to miss.”

I smile.

The next class starts with a discussion about magical ethics.

A Gryffindor makes some predictable comment about “intent being everything.”

Tom, lounging in his chair like a king off-duty, says “Magic doesn’t care about morality. Only mastery.”

Silence.

The Professor doesn’t correct him. Probably doesn’t dare.

So I do.

“Magic responds to understanding,” I say. “Without it, mastery becomes abuse.”

He turns toward me slowly. “To accomplish mastery you need understanding. Alas, you speak like someone who’s been abused by power.”

“No,” I reply. “I speak like someone who’s learned not to worship it.”

His gaze snaps to me then—sharp and direct.

“And yet here you are,” he says. “In Slytherin. Surrounded by ambition and power worshiping”

I smile with a shrug. “I didn’t come here to fit in, Riddle.”

A beat.

“No,” he agrees, watching me carefully. 

Something flickers in his expression and I freeze. Just slightly.

The week progresses.

And while I appear to focus on essays and coursework, I’m well aware of the shift. Tom Riddle does not ask me to teach him flight again. No, he’s fixated on something again and it’s not flight.

I wonder if I did something wrong to have caused such a shift. Was I too forward during my lessons with him? Did I bait or tease him too much? Is he just sour because he lost to me during DADA class?

By the time Monday morning arrives, I am restless and in a bad mood. 

The classroom smells like ancient parchment and preservation charms. Sunlight filters through stained-glass windows, casting shimmering glyphs across the desks.

Professor Elspeth Hestia—thin, sharp-eyed, known for her obsession with magical anomalies—writes the day’s assignment on the board with a flick of her wand.

“ Temporal Mechanics and Magical Ethics: A Study of Time Turners”

My blood goes cold.

Of course.

I inhale through my nose and keep my expression still. Serene. I’m not seventeen. I’m not panicking. I’ve walked through fire before. This is just... another spark.

Hestia turns, her robes fluttering. “You’ll be working in pairs. Ten inches of parchment, minimum. I want a critical breakdown of the Hour-Reversal Enchantment and the moral implications of temporal interference.”

There’s a shuffle of movement as students turn to one another.

Selwyn Malfoy starts to move toward me.

And then, calmly, confidently—

“I’d like to work with Miss Leclair” Tom says.

The room stills a little.

Hestia doesn’t hesitate. “Very well”

I nod once, every movement measured. “Fine by me”

My stomach tightens—not from fear. Not exactly but from the weight of every unspoken thing between us.

In the afternoon, we take a corner table near the Restricted Section. It feels too fitting.

Tom sits across from me, long fingers loose around a quill. No books. Not yet.

He studies me for a moment before speaking.

“So” he says lightly, “how do you think time turners work?”

A test.

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I flip open a reference volume on ritual casting theory and trace a diagram I already know by heart.

“Poorly” I say at last.

He laughs, genuinely amused. “Too primitive for you?”

“Too dangerous for anyone”

“That’s half the appeal”

I glance up, meeting his eyes. “You would think that”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “Come now, Leclair. Surely you’ve considered it. All that time. Stretched and folded to your advantage. A world you could bend backwards, if only you had the spine”

"Time turners are still experimental. They've been around for what, twenty years now?" I ask, aiming to deflect and pointing to the passage on a book. "I am certain the travellers who used them more than had the spine to do so"

"And yet they are highly regulated"

"Bravery with rules" I allow, thinking back on the first time McGonagall entrusted me with a time turner in my third year at Hogwarts.

“Along with the lack of conscience” he allows with a shrug

I blink and glare at him.

“What?” he smiles like I’ve just complimented him “Those aren’t mutually exclusive”

I close the book and open another. A worn volume with cracked corners and a faded Ministry seal.

“There’s a reason they keep time magic under lock and key,” I murmur. “Misuse leads to paradox and collapse”

“You say that like someone who’s studied the consequences” he adds, almost lazily.

I shrug. “Maybe I have”

“And what if the collapse is useful?” he asks.

I look up slowly.

He’s watching me too closely. Not like a classmate. Like something colder. Hungrier. I don't answer, instead shrug, feigning disinterest.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What would you change, if you could?”

A dry laugh escapes me unbidden.

Everything.

That's why I've travelled back into the past, after all. 

“That depends. Do I get to remember the original timeline?”

He hums, intrigued. “Yes”

I smile faintly. “Then everything”

He lets out a low, quiet laugh, leaning in a little closer “Is the present so dreadfully terrible?”

“I moved schools for a reason” I say coyly and Tom leans forward, intrigued. 

Then as if a different thought has made itself known, he falls back into his seat and opens the first tome. 

We work. Or pretend to.

He’s quick, of course. Brilliant, even. His logic is crystalline, his thoughts so precise they could cut.

So are mine.

Sometimes our hands brush as we pass parchment or adjust diagrams. Once, my inkpot wobbles toward the edge, and he catches it—without looking.

I try to ignore the fluttering in my chest, knowing very well this is just the game he likes to play.

Hook, lure in, pull back.

When our eyes meet again, Tom's sparkle. 

"What would you change? If you could?" I ask quickly, genuinely curious. 

What would the seventeen year old Dark Lord change if he could? Keep his mother alive? Win in a duel he lost? 

He shifts in his seat, considering, almost like he’s debating how much to reveal. He leans back, laces his fingers together, and says smoothly “I don’t much care for the past.”

I watch him closely.

“Why not?”

He shrugs, the gesture too elegant to be careless. “It’s a collection of mistakes.Things you were too ignorant to prevent or too powerless to change. The past is a graveyard and the living have no place there.”

There’s no venom in his voice, just clarity. As if he’s describing weather.

“I prefer the future” he continues, his eyes gleaming dangerously. “It listens. The past resists change—full of corpses and consequences. But the future...”

He smiles. Small. Chilling. 

The hairs on my arms rise and my heart skips a bit. 

“The future hasn’t made up its mind yet.”

I sit perfectly still.

Because I remember what he does with the future. I remember what he becomes.

Tom taps the edge of the parchment absently, then says, as if it’s a passing curiosity. “Do you think there’s a point where time travel breaks reality?”

I pretend to frown in academic interest, though my pulse is ticking faster.

“Define ‘breaks.’”

He gestures lazily, but his eyes are sharp. Focused. “Too many jumps. Too many altered events. Layered paradoxes stacking on top of each other. Is there a moment where reality just... folds?”

I keep my tone neutral. “Theoretically? Yes. Magical structure isn’t infinite. If you change too many constants, the framework starts to reject the changes. It would fracture”

Tom hums, eyes still on me.

“Would the fracture kill the traveler? Or just the timeline?”

Both. Neither. It depends.

Neville and Luna along with the brightest wizards and witches of their age spent a good deal studying it. 

But I only say: “That depends on the traveller”

He’s quiet for a moment. Too quiet.

Then, softly, “And if the traveller didn’t know what they were breaking?”

My fingers still on the page.

He’s probing.

Curiously. And curiosity, in Tom Riddle, is often the prelude to obsession.

I exhale through my nose and close the book between us.

“That’s why we study theory, Riddle. So we don’t have to find out the hard way.”

He watches me for a long, quiet second.

And then—unexpectedly—he smiles. But it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No,” he murmurs. “Some things are only understood the hard way.”

Later that night, I twist and turn on my bed.

Sleep, that merciful spell, refuses me.

Instead, I stare up at the low-hanging ceiling of the Slytherin girls’ dormitory, the rough stone casting shifting shadows with each flicker from the green-glassed lanterns. My wand lies loose in my hand, still warm from too many compulsive Lumos charms. The Marauder’s Map rests on my chest, pulsing faintly beneath my fingertips like a second heartbeat.

Around me, the girls breathe with the unthinking rhythm of safety. Vereena snores—obnoxiously—and someone lets out a muffled fart.

It should be mundane, comforting.

Instead, it feels like a dirge.

Because they’re dreaming of O.W.L.s and Quidditch matches and whose eyes lingered too long in Charms.

And I’m dreaming of collapse. Of timelines crumbling like paper castles under rain.

What did I miss?

I was meticulous when I came back.

Every object I brought through the threshold of time had to belong in 1944. Galleons smithed pre-Grindelwald. Parchment aged and handmade. Clothes sewn by hand, charm-free. No Velcro, no post-war threadwork. No hidden gear, no clever little tech disguised as trinkets.

Nothing to give me away.

But it’s Tom Riddle.

And he doesn’t need proof. Just a scent. A trace. A tremor in the fabric of magic.

He’s watched me too closely lately.

Too intently.

He knows. 

I replay every conversation, trying to catch it—the moment I stepped wrong.

Did I show off too much during duels and classes? Did I recite a theory that wouldn’t be discovered for another thirty years? Was it the way I rolled my eyes at one of Binns' inaccuracies without correcting it, like someone who knew the truth and was already tired of it?

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and press trembling fingers to my temples. My wand hums against my thigh, alert.

Could it be my wand?

Wandlore is ancient and he’s sensitive—too sensitive—to magical frequencies. Could he feel that offbeat resonance? The slight dissonance? Like hearing a song in the wrong key?

Maybe that's it. Maybe he heard it in me.

And today—

Today he asked about time.

Not like a boy curious about theory, more like a predator testing a trap.

Come now, Leclair. Surely you’ve considered it. All that time. Stretched and folded to your advantage. A world you could bend backwards, if only you had the spine.

His voice had been casual. Too casual.

But his eyes were not.

And then I—Merlin help me—I spoke of mutation.

A magical mutation, maybe. One child in a village summoning fire—and suddenly, a new branch of humanity. Divided by power, not species.

His silence had said enough.

Mutation. DNA. Deviance. Words I’ve spent years balancing between science and spellwork. But here—in 1944—they are not yet common parlance. Mendel’s peas, Hugo de Vries, yes—but not Watson. Not Crick.

And yet I remember those names clearly.

Why can I recall Muggle scientists but not my own Divination professor? The one who lived in the North Tower, who read tea leaves and smoked too much sandalwood?

Her name is gone.

As if someone—something—doesn’t want me to remember.

Doubt creeps in like smoke.

The problem with Tom Riddle isn’t that he’s curious. It’s that his curiosity is never idle.

He doesn’t wonder.

He hunts.

So when he asked about time fracture and paradox theory, I don’t know if it’s academic... or if he’s already guessed.

And if he has guessed, even in part—

It’s only a matter of time before he tries to prove it.

Whatever I missed, whatever I said, whatever flickered behind my eyes when he asked the wrong question.

It was enough.

Not for certainty.

But for suspicion.

And that is infinitely more dangerous.

***

Chapter Text

“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”

— Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes

Slughorn’s dinners are always a performance—I remember them from sixth year even as I have never set foot in one of this time.

Silk napkins. Floating lanterns. Pastries stacked like miniature monuments to ego. Bottles of elderflower wine chilled in silver buckets. Decadence dressed up as tradition.

And of course; carefully selected guests. Handpicked prodigies and legacy students. Future Ministers. Department Heads. Unspeakables in training. Tonight’s guest list glitters with names like Malfoy, Cross, Astor, Avery, Greengrass and many more.

And Riddle.

And me.

I received my invitation after a successful Felix brew a week ago, Slughorn cornering me and asking whether I would oh, so graciously accept to be a part of his small gathering. 

Now, I stand in front of the mirror, wand in one hand, potion vial in the other.

The gown is dark green—Slytherin silk, tailored close to the body and purchased during my last Hogsmeade visit. Elegant, high-collared, but fitted just enough to remind anyone watching that I am not made of stone.

This isn’t about vanity. It’s about subtle distractions, psychological leverage. I’ve already been blindsided by Riddle's intentions, I don’t plan on doing so again; Tom Riddle is many things, but immune to beauty isn’t one of them. So far, he’s shown to be too calculated for lust, maybe—but fascination? That, I can work with.

My curls are tamed into soft waves, pinned half-up to expose the slope of my neck. A small glamour charm adds a natural flush to my cheeks. The effect is precise. Just enough vulnerability to make someone drop their guard. Just enough allure to tilt the playing field.

I slip the vial of mature Veritaserum into a concealed fold sewn into the side of my robes. A whisper of a security charm seals it in place. Three drops. Two questions. One memory charm.

Get in. Get the answers. Get out. Find the diary. 

My reflection stares back at me—older than she looks, and still carrying the fire of someone who refuses to lose.

Tonight, you are not a schoolgirl. You are a weapon.

I fasten the last clasp of my cloak and turn toward the door heading to the dungeons.

The room is warm with candlelight, thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and caramelized pears. Laughter floats above the table like steam; bright, easy, curling at the edges before disappearing altogether. Slughorn’s trademark atmosphere; overindulgence wrapped in flattery.

I step through the doorway, letting the rustle of my robes announce me before I do. Heads turn. Not just boys, but girls too. A few lingering stares, a whispered comment.

Good.

Slughorn’s smile blooms the moment he spots me. “Miss Leclair! So glad you could join us—come, come! Right this way, we saved you a place.”

I incline my head ever so slightly. The chair beside Tom is empty.

At Slughorn’s right hand, Tom is charming Honoria Greengrass seated opposite him and swirling his wine like he grew up at a manor instead of a Muggle orphanage. I cross the room slowly, letting my gaze flick over the table. I nod to Selwyn Malfoy, briefly meet the cool glance of Cross, the Gryffindor boy I met at the Duel, offer a small smile to Margret Astor.

And then—

I reach him. He doesn’t rise. Of course he doesn’t. But his eyes lift to meet mine, unhurried and assessing. I catch the flicker of something in his expression. Surprise? Interest? Calculation? Maybe all three. His gaze drops—briefly—then rises again as he shifts in his seat and offers a polite nod.

He knows I am onto him.

If he didn’t he would be far more charming in the same manner he persuaded me to teach him flying. Unless, of course, that's another tactic.

“Leclair.”

“Riddle.”

Our greetings are curt and polite and I am almost thankful he’s stopped calling me by my first name; at least in public. 

I slide into the chair beside him and our sleeves brush.

Slughorn raises his goblet. “To brilliance! To ambition! To all of you—the future leaders of the magical world!”

Glasses clink. Smiles pass like secrets. Tom reaches for the bottle nearest us and pours my wine before his own.

Chivalry?

No.

Control.

He passes me the goblet. I take it with a smile—and set it down, untouched.

Not yet.

The dinner begins with polite conversation. Slughorn launches into an anecdote about one of his Ministry protégés.

Tobias Cross from Gryffindor sits across from me and smiles politely. “Miss Leclair, you were in Montmorency before Hogwarts, weren’t you?"

"I was. Briefly." I reply in a measured tone.

Slughorn interjects brightly. "Ah yes, a very curious little school—French, fiercely protective of their knowledge and their... how shall I say... eccentric students.”

A fifteen year old male from Ravenclaw (he wears blue, it’s obvious) smirks. “You’re the one that said the wizarding community should be advancing much more quickly, weren’t you?”

I nod with a sigh “A working hypothesis. I’m not convinced yet.”

Tom smiles quizzically, the goblet to his lips, reminding me of his presence “She’s never fully convinced. That’s the mark of a mind that doesn’t mistake certainty for intelligence."

Now he chooses to flirt and charm again? I swear this male is giving me whiplash. I roll my eyes and he catches the movement with the smirk of a predator that knows their prey is near.

“You two seem familiar,” Margret Astor says, the girl with whom Selwyn swapped with in Potions.

“We spend enough time together arguing about magical theory. You’d be surprised what that does for rapport,” I offer dryly, glaring at Tom.

“Or manipulation.” Lilith Travers adds through a curtain of dark hair and I glare at her, almost forgetting she is present.

How utterly… Observant of her.

Slughorn launches into a story about a cauldron catastrophe in Cairo without hesitation.

“A few years ago, there was this nasty business, a failed elixir meant to induce euphoria – it foamed to much it burst through a dozen cauldrons in the Egyptian Academy. They still call it the Day of Endless Bubbles and Giggles.”

Honoria, Burke and the other students laugh, some genuinely, others out of pure politeness.

Tom is quiet; watching, absorbing. Waiting for his moment to dominate the conversation.

He always waits. 

So do I.

I laugh when appropriate. Respond when expected. I shine—but not too brightly. Just enough to ensure eyes drift back to me. Especially his.

I watch as he takes a slow sip of his wine.

Not yet, Hermione. Wait.

The evening spins itself in glittering circles—gold-rimmed plates, polished laughter, chess-like glances over crystal stems.

Edwin Fleet turns gently to Slughorn. "Sir, is it true you once brewed Amortentia strong enough to linger in the drapes for a week?"

Slughorn blisters with delight. "Only a day! Ahem... or two. But I’ll admit, even Dumbledore refused to enter my study during that time."

Tom leans in and my heart accelerates at his nearness. "Love spells are truthless illusions. Useful on occasion. But oh, so vulgar”

I swallow, whispering back to him, close enough I could bite his ear shell, "Even illusions have their place. Some minds prefer poetry over truth."

His throat bobs and an artery begins ticking on his throat. "Some are dangerous enough to know the difference and are not so easily swayed by lies. It is a true weakness when one has to resort to such crude measures."

I don’t allow my eyes to grow larger.

Does he know I have Veritaserum under my sleeve?

But no, how can he?

The moment will come.

Soon.

“So,” I say, swirling the wine in my goblet without drinking, “how does it feel, Riddle, being Slughorn’s prized jewel?”

"Oh? I am his favourite?" He feigns. 

"Dont play coy. It's obvious." I answer, crossing my arms above my chest.

Tom doesn’t look at me right away. He’s spearing a slice of honey-glazed pear with surgical precision. But his smirk is audible.

“Dazzling,” he says dryly. “Blinding, even.”

I tilt my head. “Are you not afraid you will start drawing suspicion?"

His eyes flick to mine, amused and wary. 

“Suspicion,” he repeats. “From whom? Slughorn? He’s too fond of his trophies to question where they came from.”

“Everyone has a flaw,” I murmur. “Even collectors.”

He studies me over the rim of his glass. “And what flaw do you think I have, Leclair?”

I smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so arrogant as to assume I’ve found it.”

Tom’s tone is low, curious. “Let’s play a game, then. If you’re done testing me."

I arch an eyebrow.

“Tell me what you see. Not just the names. The weaknesses.” he says, his hands pointing to everyone around us.

I glance across the room. A heartbeat.

He does not know I was trained as a spy before I ever became Minister of the Confederacy.

I take a deep breath. 

“Selwyn’s too desperate to impress his father. Honoria wants validation more than power. Clarissa craves proximity to control because she has none of her own. Beatrix plays calm, but she’s watching everyone’s hands—not their eyes. That’s a duelist’s paranoia. Cross thinks emotion makes him powerful. It’s going to get him killed.”

Tom stares.

Then smiles.

“Excellent,” he murmurs. “And me?”

I hesitate a second too long. “I told you already, I have not found it yet.”

He smirks, his hand casually leaning against the table so he is a tad closer to me. “Come now, Hermione. Surely you can make an … educated guess? Unless of course you think me perfect and I would never shatter such an illusion.”

I snort before I inhale sharply, looking him dead in the eye. “Your weakness is... legacy and arrogance. You never mattered when you were young and you want to matter now and after. You want eternity more than you want the present.”

The playful smile drops from his mouth.

He says nothing.

And I wonder if I’ve said too much.

But then he lets out a quiet laugh, low in his throat. He shifts slightly toward me. Closer. Comfortable now. Dangerous.

“I could say the same about you,” he says. “You crave praise and acceptance above all yet carry too many secrets and dark deeds to ever be accepted.”

I wonder if that’s true. It definitely was for eighteen year old Hermione Granger but doubt that was the case for the sixty five year old Minister.

But I am both, I remind myself, absorbing their strengths and weaknesses.

I let my lashes fall half-lidded. “Doesn’t everyone have secrets?”

“Yes, but yours feel... older.”

That flicks a chill down my spine, but I keep my voice smooth. “You’ll have to define what you mean by older, Tom. I’m not that much more experienced than the rest of you.”

“Don’t lie,” he says, so softly no one else can hear. “You’re leagues ahead. In knowledge. In control. In restraint.”

A pause.

“And yet here you are, pretending to sip your wine while deciding whether to ask me about things you shouldn’t know.”

I blink. Just once. “Maybe I like watching you guess.”

Another smile—quieter this time. Sharper. His eyes glitter, catching the candlelight like glass just before it shatters.

His lips twitch at the corner. “Then maybe we are more alike than you thought.”

We hold the silence between us like a chess clock ticking down.

And just as the conversation drifts toward the far end of the table—Slughorn now retelling some bloated tale about a Ministry official who botched a truth serum dosage—I feel the moment arrive.

Tom turns to refill his glass.

And I move—quick, practiced—reaching into the fold of my robes.

Three drops.

Just enough.

I raise my goblet and clink it gently against his.

“To honesty,” I say, voice sweet as sugar.

He raises a brow, but drinks.

For a moment—nothing happens.

His expression doesn’t shift. His breathing stays steady. No flicker of resistance. No spark of suspicion. He simply lifts the glass, tilts it back, and lets it touch his tongue.

I count the seconds in my head.

Veritaserum doesn’t act instantly. Not on practiced minds. Not on Tom Riddle. But even the most guarded wizard falters under its weight eventually—if the dosage is clean.

And mine is perfect.

He leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the edge. Still watching me. Always watching.

I lean in too, elbow resting lightly on the table, all effortless charm and ease.

“Tell me something true.” I murmur, soft enough that no one else hears.

He doesn’t blink. “I enjoy challenging you.”

That... isn’t the answer I expect.

I tilt my head, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“Because you’re clever enough to make it worthwhile.”

Still calm. Still smooth.

But not resistant. Not yet.

I push further. “What do you want, Tom?”

His answer comes instantly.

“Dominion.”

No hesitation. No flourish. Just one word, dropped like a stone into still water.

It hits harder than I anticipate.

I press on. “Dominion over what?”

He looks at me, and this time there’s something darker flickering beneath his gaze. Something aware.

“Time,” he says.

And my stomach plummets.

He knows.

I wasn’t certain before but now I am.

Bollocks.

But before I can speak again, his voice drops—too soft to be casual. “You put something in my wine.”

My mouth goes dry.

“What makes you say that?”

He smiles.

Not like a boy.

Like something older.

“Because I let you.”

I freeze.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to see what you’d ask,” he murmurs. “And how far you’d go.”

No signs of the serum. No slip. No haze in his eyes. Nothing.

Either it didn’t work—

Or he’s already mastered lying through it.

Or—

He switched the glasses.

My eyes flick to the goblet. He sees it.

And he laughs.

It's a quiet and cruel sound that has his features twisting into something delighted but... Unnatural. 

Which means I am the one currently dosed with Veritaserum. 

“I’ve read about Veritaserum, you know. Its taste is so difficult to mask. Especially in older vintages. But no matter how much Slughorn likes to boast, the wine...” he pauses, tilting his glass and observing the red liquid "...is neither rare nor old."

My throat burns.

I should have tasted the serum, been able to tell the difference, yet nothing. If I’d acted immediately after ingesting it I would have been able to nullify its effects but too much time has passed—

“I wanted you to believe you had control,” he adds, as an afterthought. 

He leans in. Close enough that I catch the scent of clove and wine on his breath.

“But Hermione,” he whispers, “you never did.”

I feel it.

Not a rush. Not a haze. No telltale fog in my mind. Just a steady unraveling of resistance. A clarity so sharp it could split me open. The truth bubbling up beneath my tongue, ready to pour out like poison.

You are not a child, I tell myself. You are not powerless.

Across the table, Honoria Greengrass giggles at something Selwyn Malfoy just said about Hippogriff grooming. Slughorn chuckles, cheeks pink with wine, as he fumbles through a story about a love potion mishap involving a young Auror and a Fwooper.

The room sways with the soft glow of candlelight, laughter flickering like flame.

And I am sitting in the center of it all—heartbeat thudding against bone, skin too tight, thoughts racing.

I cannot show it.

One wrong answer. One slip. One hint of truth in the wrong direction, and he will know everything.

My name.

My mission.

The future.

Tom leans in slowly, resting his chin on his hand like we’re sharing secrets at a school dance.

“So,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “who sent you?”

My fingers tighten around my goblet. My throat aches. I can feel the answer trying to rise.

Neville. Luna. Chen. The Confederacy. The last desperate council—

No.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard.

I've been trained into how to avoid the effects of Veritaserum. I am a trained Occlumens. I know the drill. 

Anchor. Interrupt. Force the truth elsewhere.

“My professor,” I say carefully. “He wanted me to observe the curriculum. Compare methods.”

It's not a lie. Once upon a time Neville was a Professor at Hogwarts and I attended some of his lectures out of curiosity. We did have a conversation about the curriculum taught in Hogwarts and how it was in desperate need of an update since it was likely it hadn't changed much since the 1900s. He'd made a passing joke about wanting to compare the past curriculum and I'd laughed, promising I'd do it as soon as I got the chance 

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Which professor?”

I feel cold sweat forming under my breasts as I gulp. 

“Longbottom,” I answer quickly. 

He tilts his head. "I am not familiar with a Professor Longbottom."

I say nothing, biting my tongue. The serum doesn’t care about names, per say. Only intent.

“And what are you comparing, exactly?”

My tongue tries to move without me.

Decay. Collapse. War. The death of magic. The unmaking of everything.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Breathe through my nose. Redirect.

“Spellwork,” I say. “Theory.”

I feel the sweat now at the back of my neck.

Tom’s smile doesn’t move. But his eyes flicker—briefly—to my wand hand.

Behind us, Burke is describing a prank involving a singing staircase and a jar of doxy eggs. Slughorn laughs too loudly. A floating tart buzzes past my ear. None of them know the future is trembling on the edge of a knife.

“Facinating," Riddle says, not sounding the least bit fascinated "Where did you learn your magic? Before Hogwarts. Before Montmorency.”

I involuntarily hiss. 

“Private tutoring,” I say automatically.

“By whom?”

I hesitate. Just long enough for him to see it.

Myself. 

I read all the books, all the tomes and taught myself enough that I could rival all other pure-blooded students.

But I can't tell him this. I redirect again. 

“Very old bloodline. French.” I murmur. 

My grandmother was French, coming from a very long line of farmers and this technically makes me one quarter French as well. 

“And what bloodline would that be?”

My mouth parts before I can stop it. The pressure to speak—to obey—pulses at my throat.

I taste the truth.

Granger. Muggle-born. Nothing you’d respect.

But what I say is. “Leclair.”

A lie I’ve worn like skin. A lie that's not really a lie. In order for a lie to be convincing it has to have its roots in truth. And my grandmother's maiden name was Leclair. 

The serum doesn’t reject, because it’s all I’ve fed it.

Tom studies me now like a scholar appraising a magical artifact that shouldn’t exist.

“How old are you really?”

The blood drains from my face.

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because the serum wants me to answer—but it knows I’ve never said it aloud. Not here. Not in this time.

And the truth is ... I am not entirely sure how old I am. 

Hermione Granger, right after the Second Wizarding War, had been eighteen scarred by the war and more than willing to do whatever she could in order to stop the future decay of the wizarding world. 

I know because she had been me. 

My body is nineteen, I tell my brain. 

It's nineteen so I am technically nineteen, I repeat for a good minute before answering. 

“Nineteen.”

He smirks at that. "A little old for a student, are you not?"

I gulp "I lost a year. My birthday is in September."

He says nothing.

But I know he doesn’t believe me.

Not anymore.

His voice drops lower, a thread of silk pulled tight. “Are you really Slytherin’s descendant?”

I will my features to remain smooth, untouched.

“I don’t know,” I answer the closest to the truth I can get without revealing what I know deep in my bones.

It is possible after all that a Slytherin descendant may have had relations with a Muggle at some point and may have lent their blood to my father or mother. Unlikely, considering their prejudices and notions of the Slytherin bloodline, but not impossible. 

“You’ve seen things, Hermione. Things none of us here have,” he says carefully, his eyes glinting.

I say nothing.

“Things not yet written.”

He knows.

I look down. My fingers are trembling.

No. Not now. Not like this.

I need to end this.

I fake a cough. Soft. Dainty. Just enough to bring my napkin to my lips.

My wand hand slips beneath the table.

One flick.

Silent.

A cleansing charm—incomplete and crude. But enough to break the edge of the serum’s grip.

My head throbs.

The pressure lessens—but barely.

Tom’s watching me too closely now.

And I know what comes next.

He leans in, just enough to brush against the shell of my ear, causing further goosebumps to form onto my already pebbled flesh. 

His voice, lower than ever. “What are you here to stop?”

My heart lurches.

I look at him.

And for the first time—

I see it.

Not the boy. Not the prodigy. Not the charmer.

The Serpent.

The breaking wave of a future that almost no one survives.

“I’m here,” I say, voice tight, eyes locked to his, “to see what happens when you’re tested.”

He blinks.

Then—slowly—he smiles.

And I know I’ve bought myself time.

He leans back in his seat, sips his wine again, and turns toward Malfoy like the conversation never happened, even though I know he can ask many more questions. 

And I sit beside him, cold with sweat, my head pounding.

Because I don’t know how much he got.

Or how much longer I can keep this up.

But one thing is certain:

He’s no longer curious.

He’s hunting.

And he’s not above using whatever methods necessary.

Veritaserum is indeed a coward’s way to the truth, I think with dread.

Chapter Text

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

— Oscar Wilde

I dream of a scar I no longer have.

A lightning bolt—not Harry’s, but mine. A gash earned during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. Or was it during the siege at Malachite Ridge? I can’t remember anymore. I reach for the memory and it slides away, like mist over a mirror.

I barely sleep that night.

Sometime around the early hours of the morning I leave the dorm in quiet feet, feeling Lilith’s dark eyes on my back.

The candles in the common room gutter low as I sit curled on the arm of a green velvet chair, eyes fixed on the coals in the fireplace, breath measured. My body is still, but my mind won’t stop unraveling.

He knows.

Not everything. Not yet. But enough.

He drank the wine.

I drank the wine.

I wrap my arms around myself, cloak still draped over my shoulders from Slughorn’s dinner. The air in the dungeons is colder than usual, or maybe it’s just me.

How much did I say?

Did I pause too long on the question about age? Did the serum betray me with hesitation I couldn’t measure?

Tom knows I’m hiding something.

He always knew.

But now he suspects the truth. Or some version of it.

From the future.

I press the heel of my hand against my brow.

If that seed takes root in his mind—if he confirms it—he’ll tear the world apart just to see how it works.

He’s not curious anymore.

He’s calculating.

Which means I need a new strategy.

Getting answers out of him is no longer the goal.

Now, it’s containment.

Damage control.

Survival.

And yet—every logical instinct tells me to step back, to vanish into the crowd, to dissolve into routine. But there’s a problem.

Tom is suddenly, suspiciously quiet again. 

He doesn’t look at me during class. Doesn’t speak to me during prefect patrols. Doesn’t correct me when I counter him in Arithmancy, even when I deliberately bait him. Doesn't ask for another flying lesson. 

He is shutting me out.

And I know better than to believe it’s indifference.

No—this is how he hunts.

He steps back, sends others forward.

I’ve seen it before. In war. In politics. In him.

The shadows move where his eyes don’t.

Even when the Full Moon returns he doesn’t ask for my help again. 

Tom was using his web to feel around the perimeter of my life—checking for inconsistencies, pulling threads to see what unravels.

But now he’s stopped.

Why?

I dont know. 

And me?

I fall into rhythm.

Homework. Patrol. Research. Smile. Deflect. Defend.

The days blur into study hours and candlelight. I find myself up late in the library again, checking timelines, double-checking everything I brought with me, searching for magical traces that could mark me as a paradox.

Nothing.

The Marauder’s Map shows him alone near the Room of Requirement some nights. I don’t follow. I don’t need to. I know that’s he's up to something but I am too afraid to find out what.

I only know I’ve lost the advantage.

***

The dorm is aglow with warm candlelight and low music plays from a gramophone in the corner. Someone’s cast a scent charm—violets and cinnamon—and the stone walls feel less like a dungeon and more like a dressing chamber.

Honoria Greengrass lies draped across her bed, a piece of deep green silk fluttering in her hands. “If Euphemia wears that ridiculous corseted gown again at Samhain, I swear I’ll vanish the laces mid-dance.”

Clarissa snorts from her vanity, where her wand is hovering over a floating collection of shimmering cosmetics. “As if you’d waste a spell on her. Besides, the corset’s the point. Euphemia’s never met a neckline she didn’t want to weaponize.”

The Carrow girl in the corner blushes as she clutches a letter close to her chest, her quill hovering.

“I’ll give you this” Vereena mutters to Euphemia, holding up a bolt of midnight-blue fabric. “Honestly, I’m leaning towards starfire silk myself. Its subtle”

“Subtle” Honoria echoes dryly, “says the girl who once wore sequined veela feathers to a prefect mixer.”

“That was a statement” Vereena replies with a flip of her hair. “This is a mood.”

I am seated on the edge of my own bed, a book open but forgotten in my lap. I listen without speaking at first, watching how they move. How they choose dresses like armor. How they charm their laughter to float just slightly above the real tension in the room.

“I’m still deciding” Clarissa says, turning toward me suddenly. “What about you, Leclair? Or are you going to show up in school robes and shame us all with intellectual purity?”

The other girls laugh, but there’s curiosity behind it. A challenge.

I smile lightly, cool but unreadable. “Oh, I have something in mind.”

Honoria narrows her eyes. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?” I ask, raising an innocent brow.

“The one you get in classes when you prove the Professors wrong” Clarissa says, swirling her wand and coating her lips with a subtle glimmering gloss. “As if you’re playing chess and none of us know what pieces we are yet.”

I laugh softly, noncommittal, wondering if that’s true. “I suppose you’ll find out when the masks come off.”

Vereena pauses, pinning a charm into her gown’s neckline. “You’re not going to wear green, are you? Everyone always wears green. I swear, Slytherin pride is a fashion curse.”

“Not green” I agree.

They glance at me now, more curious than before.

“Better not be red either” Clarissa adds, eyes narrow. “We don’t want the Gryffindors taking a dig at us”

“That would be a statement” Honoria says carefully.

“Oh no, I have no such intent” I reply.

The girls go quiet for a beat.

Then Clarissa smirks. “Is there not someone you want to impress?”

Vereena grins. “You mean Riddle?”

Honoria gives her a warning glance, but it’s too late. The name lingers in the air like smoke.

I don’t rise to it. Just close my book and stand with graceful calm.

“We’ll see who’s brave enough,” I say, voice smooth. “Samhain and masks have a way of revealing what people want most.”

And with that, I slip past them, my footsteps quiet on the cold stone floor, my mind already elsewhere—planning, preparing, calculating.

The air shifts.

It always does around Samhain. The veil between worlds thins—between life and death, magic and memory, present and past.

Hogwarts begins to hum with it.

Jack-o’-lanterns appear in alcoves. Students whisper about the coming celebrations. The Great Hall is being slowly transformed—floating branches, shifting shadow murals, flickering will-o'-the-wisps drifting lazily near the ceiling.

The festivities last three days here. Old magic. Pagan roots. Slughorn is arranging a masquerade. Hestia is helping transfigure decorations in the main corridor with an efficiency that makes me smile.

The students chatter about costumes and masks, enchanted firelight, and the Samhain bonfire that will burn in the courtyard for seventy-two hours straight.

But all I see is opportunity.

Samhain is chaos cloaked in celebration. If I’m going to make a move—real, lasting—it has to be during the veil.

The girls have dressed and preened themselves to look spectacular. Their gowns are awe-inspiring and they’ve got enough charms to make all male eyes glued to them. My mind, however is elsewhere.

This is my chance. The dorm is, at last, empty.

I start preparing.

A ritual circle.

Spellwork etched into parchment that must look ancient, hand-written, smudged with time.

I’ve gathered ingredients during patrols—iron filings, grave dust, phoenix feather ash.

I can feel it in my bones—in the strange ache behind my ribs that always precedes something unexplainable. Magic, like blood, pools when it's drawn by memory. And tonight, the air is heavy with both.

I sit cross-legged on the stone floor, a single white candle flickering beside me. My wand lies across my lap, unmoving. The Marauder’s Map is sealed tight in my drawer. No distractions. Just the scrying mirror propped against the leg of my desk.

It’s old. Hairline cracks lace the surface like veins. It barely hums anymore.

But it is humming.

Just faintly.

Just enough.

The spell is unpredictable—only possible when the dates align. October 28th, 2044, meeting October 28th, 1944. A brief overlap. A ripple.

An echo.

I touch the mirror gently. The surface clouds. Then clears.

And Luna’s face blooms into view.

She looks... older, even though technically only two months have passed since I saw her last. At least the same dreamy calm sits behind her eyes. A calm earned through too many battles and too many lost names. She’s wearing a soft robe, embroidered with runes that flicker faintly, as if alive.

“Hello, Hermione,” she says.

My throat tightens. “Luna.”

There’s a silence between us—brief, but not empty.

“How long do we have?” I ask.

She tilts her head, listening to something I can’t hear. “Six minutes. Maybe seven. The leyline here is weak.”

“Right” I nod, steadying myself. “I need to update you.”

Luna nods, and I begin.

I tell her everything.

The Veritaserum. The wine. Tom’s trap. His retreat. The way he’s using others to dig into me, to pick apart the seams of the false life we built.

And worst of all—how I think he knows.

Luna’s face remains serene, but her hands tighten slightly over the edge of the mirror.

“I was afraid of that” she murmurs. “The pattern’s started fracturing. The timeline’s feeling... more liquid than it should. Threads are slipping.”

I breathe out slowly. “Is it too late?”

“No” she says, quickly, firmly. “But it is... complicated.”

I nod. “Aren’t we all.”

Luna leans in slightly. “You still have leverage. You haven’t used everything we gave you.”

I frown. “The spells? The memory failsafes?”

She shakes her head gently.

“No. I mean you.”

I blink. “What?”

Luna smiles sadly. “We didn’t make you beautiful out of vanity, Hermione.”

I stifle a breath.

“Bloodcasting allowed some... adjustments. We needed you to blend but be unforgettable. Magic shaped you into something the past couldn’t ignore.” she says. 

My throat goes dry.

“You want me to seduce him.”

“I want you to distract him” Luna corrects softly. “To destabilize the narrative he’s building around you. He sees you as a threat now. But if he wants you—even a little—he won’t be able to make clean moves.”

“I’m not sure I can... play that role.”

Luna’s eyes don’t waver. “You don’t need to lie. You just need to choose what truth to amplify.”

Silence again.

Then -

“You’re good at this” she whispers. “You’ve already made him spiral. Make him fall.”

The mirror starts to flicker. Static. The edges blur.

I lean forward. “Luna—wait. If this fails, if he finds a way to go forward—”

“We’re working on that” she says quickly. “There’s a barrier spell forming. Neville’s coordinating with the Icelandic Circle.”

Static begins to creep in.

“Luna, what if I can’t—”

Her voice, fading: “You can. And if you can’t stop him—tie him to you. Hold him back with need.”

The mirror goes dark.

Just like that.

Need. 

That word again. 

I sit for a moment in silence. The candle crackles beside me. The warmth has already begun to fade.

I rise slowly, the weight of her words still pressing against my chest.

Tie him to you.

Use whatever weapon you have.

I can hear the music drifting from the Great Halls. Costumes. Masks. Music. Fire.

Illusion.

A new dress is sprawled upon my bed—opal-threaded, obsidian black. Glamours woven into the fabric. A veil that shifts like smoke. And a mask charmed to draw the eye toward mine.

If Tom Riddle wants to know who I am—then I will show him.

Chapter Text

“In seduction, there is both giving and taking: the dance is half surrender, half command.”

— Unknown

The Samhain Masquerade is already underway.  Violins laced with a druid’s heartbeat and drums like distant thunder can be heard from the Great Hall. 

The doors open without me knocking and suddenly everything is quiet. The silence is subtle but absolute. Just a heartbeat’s pause. Just enough for them to notice something they can’t name before the music picks up again. 

I don’t wear House colors.

I wear opal-laced silk spun with enchantment. Threaded with wards, mirrored in runes so faint they vanish when stared at too long. It's fitted snugly across the parts that matter, accentuating my trim waist and perky chest. A slit starts just above my right hipbone and ends below my toes, exposing a wide expanse of pale flesh.  Stiletos would have been a must with this outfit but I value practicality over fashion. If things go south, I still need to be able to run so I've opted for knee length dark boots. 

My wand is tucked neatly above my left thigh for easy access. I only need to lift the dress and the weapon will be right there for the taking. 

Silver painted nails glitter under the Samhain Festival decorations, filed sharp enough to cut a jugular.

My mask is silver, carved like a crescent moon, framing my face without hiding it. It glints with charmwork designed to catch light—and hold attention. My veil is smoke. Glamoured. Whispering. Slipping from my shoulders like mist rolling off a grave.

The curls falling upon my shoulder are lush and soft, matching the tone of my smoky eyes. 

My lips are bare. Inviting. 

He sees me first.

Tom Riddle stands near the center of the hall, half-shrouded in torchlight. His mask is minimalist—black, lacquered, elegant. His robes are severe, tailored, his collar high and also black.

We match tonight. 

He looks regal and restrained. His dark mane along with his lips are the only thing soft about him. All else is severe; cheekbones and jawline as if carved from ice. 

Predator.

He doesn’t look surprised.

I descend the stairs like an invocation.

Around me, conversation stutters and picks back up. Slughorn beams at his own success as if this—this—is what he was hoping for when he arranged the whole affair.

I move past Greengrass, Clarissa, past Malfoy, past Cross. All of them reach out, eyes wide, mouths ready with compliments they think will matter.

None of them do.

Because I stop only when I reach him.

His eyes flick over me—not quickly, not hungrily. Slowly. Like he’s reading an ancient rune he doesn’t quite understand.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do I.

The music swells—violins winding into themselves, a strange, slow reel that feels older than anything this castle remembers.

I tilt my head just slightly.

“Dance with me,” I say.

His lips curve, just slightly. Not a smile. A ghost of one. A knife’s edge wrapped in velvet.

"Trick or treat?" he asks, studying me carefully, his voice deep. 

"Both" I reply, playing coy. 

He offers his hand.

I take it.

His palm is cool. His fingers long, elegant, practiced. I don’t let my breath hitch, but the skin between our hands sparks—something too magical to be entirely human.

We move. He leads—but only barely. Every step is mutual, every shift contested. His hand rests against my waist—too light to claim, too sure to ignore.

“You’ve been quiet,” I murmur, letting my body sway just enough to draw attention. To keep his hand exactly where I want it.

“You’ve been loud,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Without saying a word.”

“You noticed.”

“Everyone noticed.”

His gaze drags over my mask, the veil, the skin at my thigh where the slit shifts with each turn as if to accentuate his words. 

I only smile coyly again but his fingers twist deeper into the material of my dress. He catches skin and I gasp more in shock than pain. 

His eyes sparkle as if he is pleased by my reaction. 

A beat of silence. Then, softer:

“Do you want me to be watching, Hermione?”

I meet his eyes fully, trying to decipher what he is thinking behind those thick lashes of his. “Are you?”

His hand tightens again at my waist but this time I don't gasp, though I do bite my lower lip. His eyes dart to the small movement almost instinctively, his nostrils flaring. 

For a moment we pause, calculating each other's reactions. 

Unbidden his magic strokes my own and I inhale sharply watching as his own violet eyes sparkle mischievously. 

Then, his other hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a care so precise it feels surgical. 

I blink, perplexed. 

“I’ve never stopped" he whispers and leans closer, just enough for his words to caress my ear. 

I inhale sharply. His proximity... His voice... It does strange things to this new body of mine. 

The music shifts again. A darker chord. Something with bite beneath its elegance.

Our bodies draw closer—half a step. Nothing indecent. Nothing rule-breaking. But the space between us disappears like breath on glass.

“You’re playing a game,” he says.

“So are you.”

His expression doesn’t change. But his pulse does. I feel it now—under the pad of his thumb against my wrist. Fast. Controlled but barely.

“I wonder,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “how much of this is performance.”

“I ask myself the same thing" I allow, deciding to twirl and give myself a moment of reprieve. 

This... It's becoming too much. 

The rest of the students and Samhain festival have blurred into the background as if they are bystanders and we are the main event.  

When I return back to his arms, he doesn't blink yet holds me closer. “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“I don’t have to try.” I say with a shrug, feigning disinterest.

His breath catches. Just once.

Then—he leans closer.

Too close.

The corner of his lips brushes my cheek, not a kiss, not even a graze. Just proximity so intimate it disorients.

My heart is beating faster now, faster than it has ever previously done as if it knows I am playing a game of danger and desire. 

“And if I kissed you right now,” he murmurs, his lips inches away from the shell of my ear “would that be strategy... or surrender?”

My heart thuds against my ribs and there is pressure in my lower abdomen, as if its turning into liquid.  

I feel disoriented and I check my Occlumency walls to ascertain he has not tried to barge in. 

Unbidden my lips part but I don't allow him this win. I smile, slow and dangerous.

“Yes.”

He lets out a soft laugh—genuine, dark, pleased.

“Should I be afraid of you?” he asks, his brows furrowing in perhaps the only trie human expression I've seen him make tonight. 

Concern etched with confusion. 

“You already are" I whisper and lean a little closer, my breath ghosting over the exposed skin of his neck which instantly pebbles, his fingers digging a little deeper into my flesh. 

The tension between us crackles—like kindling not yet lit, but waiting.

He finally breaks the silence.

“And you...You don’t fear me,” he says, not quite a question.

“Perhaps not” I allow, suddenly uncertain. 

“You should.”

My lashes lower.“I know.”

He’s quiet.

Then—almost gently, almost sadly:

“Most people mistake my attention for affection.”

I look up at him, expression unreadable. “And what is this, Tom?”

He meets my gaze, mask shadowing his face, lips barely parted.

“This,” he whispers, his eyes sparkling with hidden promises, “is foreplay.”

A beat of silence.

I don’t flinch.

I don’t blush.

Instead, I smile.

Small. Slow. Sharp.

“Then you’d better perform,” I murmur, my lips now inches away from his jugular “when the real match begins.”

I filed my nails for this but perhaps my teeth will have to do. I nip at his throat and hear his growl before he has time to cover it. 

The sound does strange things to my body. 

When I crane my neck backwards to look at him, his eyes are dark, the pupil near engulfing the white of his eyes. 

Both his hands are grasping my waist tightly as if afraid to let go, as if afraid of exactly what he'll do if he does. 

A vein is ticking underneath his jaw and I can't tell whether he wants to kill me or fuck me. 

Either choice seems to exhilarate my body and my stomach tightens, heat coiling low like a whispered threat.

Closer, I almost beg, my lower body suddenly demanding friction. 

Abruptly he releases me, lips parted, brows furrowed, lids shutting as if the move was painful to him. 

I expect to feel satisfaction at managing to get a reaction out of him. 

Instead all I feel is emptiness. 

His hands have turned into fists at his sides. 

Restless, I shove past him, aiming for the drinks table. 

The music swells again. I feel the eyes on us. Hear the buzz of whispers.

But none of it matters.

We are liars.

And we are both falling and failing at this game. 

Chapter Text

“The future is already here — it’s just not evenly distributed.”

— William Gibson

Hermione Granger – November 1st, 1944

The Slytherin common room is empty when I return, most of the students still at the Masquerade, either scheming, copulating or both. 

The torches burn low, their green fire casting shadows with edges too sharp. Somewhere above me, the last of the Samhain bonfire still flickers in the courtyard, feeding on enchanted ash and ancestral memory.

As soon as the dance ended Tom dissapeared.

Typical.  

I have no idea what he feels and I am too exhausted to dissect every word and move. 

My thumbs press onto my temples, massaging gently in order to ease the tension. There was no point in staying at the party without him. My mission is him, after all.

I return to the dorms and my hands fumble in my suitcase looking for the Marauder's map, concealed to look like an old sock. I tap it once and say the necessary words. 

Tom's name does not appear anywhere. Either he's left the castle grounds - a late night stroll in Hogsmeade or the Forbidden forest - or he's in the Room of Requirement. 

I’ve seen his name hover near that location too many times to dismiss it as coincidence. It’s wishful thinking to believe he hasn’t put it together.

He knows I’m from the future. He knows I’m a spy. He knows I’m focused on him. Tonight only confirmed it—even if it threw everything else into chaos.

I press my head between my knees and inhale deeply.

Is he trying to build a Time Turner? Not one that goes back—but one that moves forward?

He’s intelligent. Capable. But it should take him years to get close to anything viable no matter how obsessed he is. 

I still have time.

I hope.

I exhale slowly before I peel the dress from my body with shaking hands. The veil slips off like breath, and the mask hits the desk with a sound too loud for its weight.

The feel of him still lingers—his breath near my ear, his fingers at my waist, the promise folded inside his every word.

It was never about seduction. It was about control. 

I sit in the dark, unable to decide if tonight I had been dancing with a boy who could be saved…Or falling in love with the monster I was sent to kill.

I don’t sleep that night.

Again.

***

The next day, the lesson in transfiguration drones.

A lecture on interspecies morphic boundaries. Professor Northwell is chalking out an equation- complex yet archaic. 

Tom has feigned illness.

Once again he is nowhere to be found on the Map.

My wand doesn’t respond when I try to transfigure my quill into an ink pot. Not right away. The magic stutters.

Delays.

A second pulse ripples under my skin.

I frown.

Try again.

It works, but the wand flares faintly with warmth. A tickle of static at my fingertips.

I don’t like that.

When class ends, I make an excuse to stay behind and test another spell—Lumos Maxima.

The wand flickers like a dying lantern. Then it brightens. Too bright. White fire leaps up, almost blinding.

My heart jumps.

This isn’t normal.

Temporal instability, my mind whispers. 

And then—

I hear a voice.

From behind the portraits.

“Granger?”

I spin.

There, half-formed inside the dusty old frame of Eleanor Fontaine, Inventor of the Two-Way Teapot, is a flickering face.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

Straight black hair, parted with precision. A soft scar above one brow. Bronze skin gone pale with strain.

Padma Patil.

Older. Weathered, but can't be more than forty years of age, her image barely holding shape inside the paintwork.

“Padma?” I whisper.

The portrait glitch stutters. She blinks. Focuses on me like a woman reaching through smoke.

"Did you send me this?" she asks, pointing to the silver masque of Last Night's Masquerade. 

My heart is my throat. "What date is it?"

"November 1st, 2018. Hermione you look hazy, I can’t hear you well. Are you inviting me to something?" she asks, brows furrowed. 

"No…" I say, my mind trying to calculate what exactly is happening, my hands frozen to my sides. 

She opens her mouth to reply -

Static.

Then nothing.

The paint blurs. Resets.

Eleanor Fontaine returns, yawning into a cup of invisible tea.

I stand there, wand in my hand, stomach churning.

Something cracked.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve done something right…

…or something very wrong.

My fingers are clenched so tightly around my wand I feel the throb of my pulse in my knuckles.

Padma is gone.

I gather my things and leave class with quiet urgency. By the time I reach the nearest alcove, I’m already casting.

“Praemagia Revela.”

A diagnostic net spreads across my skin—faint blue shimmer, outlining magical interference. The results aren’t immediate. I wait.

Then:

Faint temporal residue at my sternum. A tether line drawn backward, no origin.

And worse—my wand pulses unevenly under the second charm. There’s something wrong with its responses

As if he wand is fighting time itself.

Or like it’s been read—examined through the imprint of someone else’s spell work - Priori Incantetum.

Someone trying to trace what spells I've cast or to locate something worn against my skin. Someone trying to reverse-engineer the nature of my magic.

I lean my back against the cold stone wall before I gather my things and go back to Slytherin dorm, completely ignoring upcoming classes. 

I only wish I had Tom's charm so I could get away with it, feigning some sort of magical ailment. 

When I arrive to the Slytheryn Dorms I find my things disturbed. The silver masque is gone, not that it's any surprise. 

I know because it's currently residing in Padma Patil's hands. 

One of the girls is doing Riddle’s biding. Or all of them for that matter. Not that I am surprised. Whoever searched didn't bother with attempting to hide it. 

Clumsy, obvious. 

Clarissa, I immediately think and bitterness coats the back of my tongue. 

The question of how it got to 2018 remains.

I replay the moment in the portrait. Padma asking about an invitation. Holding the masque.

A chill settles beneath my ribs.

If she was holding it in 2018—and recognized me as the last one to wear it—

Then Tom has already succeeded in part.

My stomach plummets. 

I was right in gauging he was building a time machine capable of sending things to the future. Not only is he building it but he has succeeded because he did sent something forward.

And Padma… responded instinctively. She cast something in return. A seeker’s spell or a blood-trace. 

And because my magical structure is still paradox-tethered, it found me. 

I exhale, slow and careful.

The veil between present and past thins when old magic floods the world—Samhain, Yule, Christmas, Beltane, New Year's, sometimes equinoxes; I know because I was briefed thoroughly on all its nuances by Chen. 

Perhaps in the same way I reached Luna…

Tom reached the future.

But how?

I had a tether. A contact. Familiarity with future magic. Ritual spells designed for time-harmonics.

Why Padma?

Did he find someone from her bloodline?

It’s possible. Probable.

I don’t know her family tree well enough to confirm. Which means I need information. And I need to act.

Because Tom isn’t fixated on Horcruxes anymore.

He’s fixated on time travel. 

And if I’m not careful—

He might succeed. 

Chapter Text

“Indecision and delays are the parents of failure.”

— George Canning

November 1st, 1944 – Slytherin Girls’ Dormitory, Midnight

I don’t sleep. Again.

My curtains are drawn and I've cast a silencing spell for good measure. It wouldn't do to have Greengrass or the others poking around again. 

I no longer trust their giggles and whisperings.

I trace the edges of my wand with careful fingers, sensing the subtle resistance humming along its core. Not enough to render it useless. Just enough to mark it… touched.

Thankfully it's no longer misbehaving. Perhaps the cause was the disturbance in timelines, Padma's appearance in the portrait. 

I cast a secondary diagnostic.

“Vera Vinctum.”

The result appears midair—an echo trail, faint and silver. It clings to the wand’s path like smoke.

It’s been interfered with. 

A magical imprint cast backward through time, piggybacking on an object worn close to the skin.

The masque.

He needed something I’d worn, something imprinted with my paradox. Something of mine the future might recognize.

Blood. Skin. Sweat. 

I cast “Tempus Lumen” and scry the top of my drawer where I'd left it last.  Time residue appears—white strands laced with gold and obsidian pulses. Tether magic.

He must have sent the masque forward using time-aligned sympathetic casting.

Which means—

He’s using ancestry to triangulate temporal anchors, blood magic tethered to lineal frequency.

That’s how he reached her.

I press my hand to the wood of the drawer, cold against my skin, my mind made. I move quickly, tugging on boots and robes, charm-wrapping myself in silence and invisibility. 

The Map is useless now. I know where he is.

The Room.

Always the Room.

I head for the seventh floor corridor, slipping past candlelight and portraits, dodging the keen-eyed gaze of Sir Cadogan with a silencing charm.

The corridor outside the Room of Requirement is still.

But the air hums. Magic. Strong.

The wall breathes faintly, as if it knows I’m watching.

I pace—once, twice, three times—thinking not of entry, but of purpose.

I need to see what he’s building.

Nothing.

The stone wall remains blank. Inert. Impenetrable.

I try again.

I need to know what he's doing. I need to stop him.

Still nothing.

The magic resists—not with hostility, but indifference.

He's thought of this.

Of course he has.

The Room obeys intention, will, need. 

And right now, Tom Riddle’s is stronger than mine.

I press my palm flat against the wall, as if sheer proximity might be enough. The surface is cool, unmoved. No pulse. No shift.

My breath clouds the air in front of me, the torches flickering dimly in the distance. It’s late. The castle is quiet. Still.

Too still.

I step back, chest tight.

Maybe this was always inevitable.

Maybe I was arrogant to think I could rewrite a soul already chiseled into obsidian. That I could reroute a boy already possessed by obsession.

Tom isn’t building Horcruxes anymore. He’s building futures. And I am the tether he’s using to breach them.

What was the plan again?

Redirect him?

Save him?

I almost laugh—sharp, bitter.

Save Tom Riddle. 

I stare at the sealed wall, and for the first time in days, I let myself say it—

Maybe it’s time to stop trying to rescue what was never mine to salvage.

Maybe I should be doing what I came here to do.

Kill. 

End the rot at its root.

All I need is the diary.

He’s made it. And it’s tied to him by blood, by soul.

A traceable tether.

A blood-tie spell could locate it under the right circumstances. 

If I get close enough. If I have access.

Seduction, then.

Let him play with his rituals and glyphs and echoes while I regroup. Let him believe I’ve lost.

Maybe that’s the only way forward now.

I inhale through my nose, resolve stiffening.

And then—

The door opens.

My wand is already halfway raised, my heart in my throat. 

And standing in the threshold, silhouetted by shifting light, is Tom Riddle.

His hair is mussed and out of place, his blazer on one hand and his white shirt half-unbuttoned, the Slytherin tie loose around his neck.  Dark circles cloud his eyes and his brows are furrowed, his lips a thin, white line. 

His expression isn’t smug.

It’s furious.

Barely controlled—the edges of his composure are cracking. Jaw set. Eyes lit with something colder than wrath.

He looks at me like I’ve violated something sacred. Like I’ve betrayed him.

We stare at each other in silence.

Then, he allows a slow smile to grace his lips, attempting to turn on his charm. 

But his voice betrays him, low and razor-sharp: “What exactly were you hoping to find?”

I let the silence stretch. 

His eyes search mine—merciless and brilliant. He’s too sharp not to see how I hesitate. But that’s fine.

Hesitation is a weapon too.

I lower my wand, slowly, against every better instinct of mine. 

“You,” I say, voice smooth as molten glass. 

That makes him still. Tension coils in the narrow space between us.

He knows what game I’m playing. And I know he knows.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because I’m playing to win.

He leans against the doorframe, arms loose at his sides. He doesn’t step aside. He doesn’t invite me in. He’s gauging. Calculating. Watching the angle of my wrists, the dilation of my pupils.

“You’re late,” he murmurs. "This morning would have been better"

He is referring to the masque, of course, but I feign ignorance. Let him think his experiment was a complete failure.

“I wasn't sure if it was worth it” I reply allowing my lip to curl upwards, stepping closer. “Interrupting a genius mid-breakthrough is risky.”

There is no point in denying I don't know exactly what he is doing and he doesn't correct me. 

“And yet, here you are.” 

“Here I am.”

The firelight from the corridor kisses the curve of his cheekbone. His sleeves are rolled just enough to bare his wrists. Veins like threads of ink beneath pale skin.

I stop just before the threshold. Not quite in his space.

But close enough that we share breath.

“Whatever you’re building in there,” I whisper, “it’s dangerous.”

He presses more of his weight against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, a sardonic smile appearing upon his lips “Ah, well. I am a dangerous philosopher, am I not? Besides, everything worthwhile is dangerous”

He’s still angry. I can feel it. I wonder if it's because I interrupted him while he was conducting his experiment or whether it is something else entirely. Maybe the pretense failure of this morning.

Yet there is something else in his gaze as well. 

Curiosity. Caution. Something darker.

I seize my chance.

“We have unfinished business" I whisper, like a secret slipping between syllables.

His jaw ticks. Just once.

“What business is that, Hermione?”

I reach up—slow, deliberate—and trace one finger along the neckline of my collar, brushing skin. 

“I challenged you,” I say. “You said you enjoyed that.”

“I said it once. You took it as an invitation to bite me” he hisses through tight lips, the muscles of his forearms straining against the material of the shirt.

“Did I?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Did you not want me to?”

The air shifts. Heat coils in the shadows between us.

He studies me, eyes like twin blades.

My hand lowers, brushing the length of my cloak aside. Exposing a sliver of skin.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows,  his fists tightening on his sides. "I tire of this game. Why are you here, truly?"

“I came,” I say, “to make you an offer.”

He raises one eyebrow. Barely.

“I’m listening.”

My heart hammers once. Then steadies.

“I’m done pretending I don’t want to know you,” I say surprising myself when I taste truth behind the words. “You’ve already seen through every single strategy of mine. You’ve read my movements like runes.”

A pause, a raised eyebrow. “And yet you still asked me to dance with you. Was that part of the strategy?”

I swallow, uncertain on how best to answer. 

"At first" I allow.

He steps forward.

Just half a pace. But it’s enough to collapse the distance.

"And now?"

"I don't know" 

His hand lifts—then hesitates—hovering near my waist.

“What’s the offer?” he asks, voice barely audible now.

I look up at him. Let my gaze drop to his lips, then back to his eyes.

“A truce.”

He tilts his head.

I step into him, as if gravity’s pulling me there.

“And what would that entail?” he whispers.

I let my hand rest against his chest. His heart beats steady under my palm and he studies me intently. 

“I help you get what you want,” I say. “You give me... access.”

“To what?”

“You”

He stills again. But it’s a different kind of tension now.

He’s trying to decide whether this is a trap—or the prize.

I look up at him.

One minute passes, his eyes never straying from mine. 

Two.

Then he steps aside.

Just enough to let me in.

I brush past him, every inch of mine aware of his presence. 

And as I cross the threshold into the Room, I slide one small enchanted needle from my sleeve, tucking it into my palm.

I’ll only need one drop of blood.

One cut.

One moment.

He closes the door behind me.

Magic seals the space like a breath held too long.

I don’t turn to look at him. Instead, I let my eyes adjust to the atmosphere of the room—the way it’s shaped by his will.

And Tom Riddle’s will is meticulous.

The chamber is vast and dim, lit by floating orbs of pale silver light. Books hover midair, rotating slowly. Scrolls unfurl and roll back on unseen currents. Tables are arranged in concentric circles, covered in artifacts and diagrams, parchment and tools that whisper danger. A cauldron stands next to a bookcase, pale steam rising. 

At the center of it all, a pedestal.

On it: the bare skeleton of a device.

Bronze and gold. Glass veins. Runes half-etched into its core.

I step forward.

A timecaster prototype. Primitive—but not unsophisticated. It pulses faintly, like something alive just under the skin.

“You’ve made progress,” I say, letting my voice fall into reverent hush while my mind begins to spin with every possible strategy to hinder this. 

He comes to stand beside me. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the weight of his magic curling around my own.

“It’s not stable,” he says.

I nod. “No anchor.”

“Yet.”

My gaze stays on the runes. “That’s why you needed something of mine.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It could’ve been anything paradox-bound.” A beat. “But you were convenient.”

I glance at him coyly. “And tempting.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t mistake usefulness for attraction.”

“I don’t.” I let the silence stretch again. 

His gaze flicks to mine. Sharp. Measuring.

“Does this scare you?” he asks, nodding toward the device.

“No.” I let my fingers trail the edge of the pedestal—delicate, but deliberate. “You, maybe. Not this.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not complete. You’re still guessing.”

“And you’re not?”

“I’m not the one gambling with time itself"

He scoffs before I've realised exactly what I've said. 

He steps closer, his voice just behind my ear. “Aren’t you?”

I feel the truth of it prickle against my spine.

He’s testing me again. Always testing. 

I breathe in slowly. “What does it need?”

“Control,” he says. “And a constant.”

I glance at him. “You think I’m the constant?”

“No. You’re the paradox.” His voice is calm, clinical. “But paradoxes create fractures. And in fractures, you can find opportunities"

I turn to him now.

He’s too close. Close enough that I see the tension in his jaw, the furrow between his brows—the trace of obsession carved into every angle of his face.

He wants the future. He wants out.

“Do you want help,” I ask quietly, “or just control?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reaches out and brushes his fingers—barely—along the edge of my sleeve.

“You said you wanted access,” he murmurs, his eyes two dark pools of abyss. “Earn it.”

My breath catches.

Not because of the threat.

Because I hear what he’s not saying.

Convince me you’re worth the danger.

I should reply with strategy. A calculated counter-move. Words edged in silk and steel.

But I don’t.

I step forward instead.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The space between us disappears.

His eyes narrow—not in confusion, but in calculation. Like he’s parsing an equation he didn’t expect to be written this way.

We’re close enough to touch.

And for a few suspended seconds, neither of us moves.

We just stare.

His gaze burns. Mine holds.

Thoughts flicker between us unspoken. This isn’t about attraction. Not really. It’s not about affection either.

It’s about control.

Desire.

And hunger—raw and urgent.

So I do it.

I close the final inch and kiss him, my lips barely touching his own. 

Tom is still for a heartbeat.

A statue carved from tension and suspicion.

And then—

He moves.

Hard.

Fast.

Violent.

His mouth slams into mine like a curse, all heat and precision, every ounce of his self-control splintering beneath the weight of contact. His hands find my waist, fingers digging in, claiming space. Not possessive—territorial.

He spins me, pressing me back against the table behind us, parchment scattering like falling leaves.

His lips bruise. His breath shudders.

And I match him.

It’s not soft. Not sweet. Not safe.

It’s wildfire and bloodlust. Teeth and breath and hands pressed to robes. My fingers tangle in his collar, dragging him down to me with a sound that escapes my throat half-growl, half-sob.

It’s reckless. Stupid. Dangerous.

And it’s what I’ve wanted since the moment I first saw him.

His hands are everywhere and nowhere at once—threading through my hair, down my spine, fisting into my robes as if he can anchor himself to me and still stay untethered.

This isn’t seduction.

It’s annihilation.

He breaks the kiss with a ragged breath, our foreheads nearly touching.

We stand there.

Breathing.

Shaking.

Still locked in the wreckage of the moment.

His voice is low, uneven.

“This wasn’t part of the deal.”

His eyes don’t leave mine. Not even for a blink.

“Then renegotiate,” I whisper again, tasting defiance and smoke between my teeth.

A flicker crosses his face—not hesitation, never that—but a flash of restraint tearing at the seams.

His fingers slide up, curling around my throat—not tight, just enough to hold me still. Just enough to make my breath catch.

“Are you offering yourself as collateral?” he murmurs.

My pulse flares under his touch. “No,” I say softly. “I’m offering you a distraction.”

His grip tightens. Not cruel. Not yet. But he leans in again, nose brushing mine.

“A trap,” he breathes, something breaking in his eyes.

And then we’re crashing into each other again.

His mouth drags along my jaw, down my neck, teeth scraping skin just shy of bruising. I gasp—a sound he drinks like wine.

My fingers are under his robes now, tugging at the fine linen beneath. I don't care if it rips. He doesn’t seem to either. One of his hands fists in my hair, tilting my head back to bare more of my throat. His tongue follows the path his lips just marked, searing heat down to my bones.

There is no softness here.

Only sharp edges.

Only fire.

He lifts me onto the table with a single movement, my legs parting instinctively as he steps between them. Our bodies press together like pages in a cursed book.

He breathes against my mouth. “What do you want, Hermione?”

I freeze.

Not because I don’t know.

But because the answer terrifies me.

Because the truth is—I want everything.

His diary. His trust. His ruin.

But also this.

Whatever this is.

I press my lips to his again, slower this time, but no less demanding. My hands slide beneath his robes to find skin, warm and lean. 

“You” I whisper into his mouth.

His hand stills where it grips my hip.

Then slides lower.

And I realize I’m trembling.

Because I mean it.

And he knows.

Chapter Text

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

His breath is ragged. Mine is worse.

We are pressed together like the hinges of a trap—fused, taut, dangerous.

Tom’s mouth grazes mine, not quite a kiss, more like a warning. His hands are under my robes now—spine, hip—mapping. Claiming. Testing the lines of where I end and he begins.

His fingers are on my thigh now, his eyes drinking in my every reaction as he draws lazy circles. Then they tighten around the wand, strapped above my right hipbone.

A pause, a question.

My breath hitches and I nod, eagerly. 

He removes the wand and his fingers graze upwards, slowly, methodically, his eyes dark as midnight. 

I feel like I’m burning alive. I don’t care.

I don’t care.

Because somewhere between his breath and mine, my fingers slide down the length of my cloak… and close around the needle.

One enchanted sliver of silver, warm from my skin. Still thrumming with purpose.

His fingers pause between the apex of my thighs and his lips are back at my jaw again, his breath searing.

“I want everything.” I whisper again, my voice breaking on the word.

His fingers tighten, applying pressure. Then release, just slightly.

I gasp at the sensation, my eyes widening in surprise.  

A flicker of vulnerability mixed with lust behind his eyes. A pause for breath.

It’s all I need.

My fingers move.

Down, along his collar. Slow. Submissive. Curious.

He lets me.

Because he thinks he’s winning.

His fingers spread my wetness, applying further pressure and I moan, unbidden, nearly forgetting what I am doing. The moment I find skin, I slide the needle in. Just a prick. Just enough.

Tom exhales against my throat, his eyes growing darker; hopefully mistaking the needle for my nails. 

It wouldn't be the first time I've broken skin. 

A single drop wells to the surface—hot, red, alive. I feel the enchantment activating in silence, just as my eyes roll back, pressure mounting. 

The blood tethers. Anchors. His diary is now traceable. 

He kisses me harder.

And I kiss him back like I haven’t just set the end in motion.

Magic curls around like smoke. 

He knows something is amiss.

I see it in the flicker behind his eyes. The faint stillness in his hands. But he doesn’t stop.

Not yet.

Instead, his touch grows bolder. Possessive.

While one hand is still teasing me, applying just enough pressure to bring me to the edge, the other removes my robes and boots with purpose, fingers dragging along fabric like a spell being undone. Then—roughly, without hesitation—he tears my shirt open.

The sound is obscene in the quiet. Threads splitting like promises. My chest is bare to the air, to his gaze.

And he drinks me in.

His eyes are black flame. Not lust, not entirely. Something darker. As if my body is a riddle he’s never seen solved.

In return, I touch him. I find the curve of his hip, my hands going lower, testing the waters. 

He trembles just below his ribs, his lids shutting. 

My fingers slide into his trousers, fisting around him with purpose. 

He gasps.

A small sound.

Surprised.

I explore him with precision, with meaning and he growls, unable to resist bucking into my hand. 

And I watch him—eyes wide, locked on the ruin I’m making of him.

He is unraveling.

Beautifully.

Dangerously.

And I relish it.

Until—

He grabs my wrist.

Not roughly. Not at first.

But his fingers tighten.

And keep tightening.

His eyes flash—calculating again. No longer lost. No longer adrift.

I try to twist free. My body is strong now. Designed for this.

But he holds me.

Tighter.

Harder.

Until the pressure at my joints is undeniable.

Until I’m forced—slowly, humiliatingly—to open my fingers.

The needle lies in my palm.

Exposed.

I feel my stomach plummeting. 

His gaze drops to it.

And when he looks back up at me, his face has changed.

Gone is the wonder. The hunger. The unraveling.

All that’s left is betrayal.

And rage.

His lips curl, teeth flashing in a quiet snarl.

I had thought him furious when I interrupted his experiment.

I was wrong.

That was annoyance.

This is fury.

My heart stammers under my ribcage. 

“You vile, cruel, manipulative creature! To think I was so close to sharing that part of mine! I should gut you for this,” he murmurs, voice a blade pressed to my throat.

His mouth finds my skin—jaw, throat, just beneath the ear—but there is no warmth now. Only threat. He bites but there is no lust behind it, no abandon. His other hand slips around my neck.

Not choking.

Not yet.

But it rests there. Ready.

“I’ve killed once already, you know,” he breathes, his eyes dark and furious. 

A heartbeat. My own. Loud. Reckless.

"I know" I allow, my eyes flickering to my wand now lying useless on the table. 

His gaze flicks to where I am looking and his fingers grasp my jaw, forcing me to look back at him. 

Tom shakes his head before tittering. 

"They sent you back... For this?" he asks in disbelief, pointing to our disheveled bodies. 

I don't answer, instead my mind is calculating all possible escape routes. 

There is quite a lot of wandless magic I can perform. 

But it requires focus and I am currenly under the grasp of a predator. 

Accio, I think but nothing happens. 

I need to redirect. 

His hand stays firm at my throat, fingers cool against heated skin. I can feel my heartbeat pounding wildly beneath his palm—betraying me, echoing in my ears like a war drum. He feels it too. I know he does.

Even though I’m certain—

He could kill me now.

“Why did you kill?” I whisper, the word trembling between us, dropping all pretense. 

Accio wand, I try again. 

A breath.

Then—

“For immortality,” he says, tone cold and surgical, not denying it. “Human lives are too fragile.”

It’s not a confession.

"But you knew this, along with all else"

And then—before I can speak, before I can plead—

He pulls away.

Just enough to reach for his wand.

He draws it slowly, deliberately, as if testing whether I’ll flinch.

I don’t.

Even when he raises it.

Even when the tip presses against the soft hollow of my throat.

We are still. Frozen in a tableau of ruin.

He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’s been running—like the kiss, the spell, the betrayal have all carved through him.

And behind the rage in his gaze—

Something flickers.

Uncertainty.

A splinter of it.

Buried beneath the fury and the lust and the need to control.

Vulnerability.

He doesn’t blink.

And I—

I think this is it.

"Why did you kiss me?" I ask, in a small voice, aware I have failed my mission and I am about to meet my end "If you knew?"

His wand trembles. 

This is what destroys me.

He will strike.

And I will fall.

My breath catches.

And still… I do not move.

Because if this is how it ends—

It ends with me looking into the eyes of the boy who was supposed to become the monster.

“Because even monsters,” he whispers, interrupting my train of thought or perhaps flirting dangerously close to Legilimency, “are curious.”

Chapter Text

“Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.”

— Arthur Miller

His wand stays poised at the hollow of my throat. I can feel the magic humming just beneath the surface, coiled and ready, as if the spell has already chosen me. My pulse throbs against the tip.

I should beg.

I should plead.

But instead, I speak.

“You don’t have to wonder how this ends, Tom,” I say, voice low, trembling but sure. “I already know.”

His brow twitches. Barely. But I see it.

“You fail,” I add.

The words fall between us like a guillotine.

His expression doesn’t change. Not much. But the shift is there. In the stillness of his grip. The razor precision behind his silence.

He is thinking. Calculating. Evaluating variables I can’t see.

And for a breathless, blood-thick moment—

He lowers his wand.

I exhale. Too soon.

“Then I’ll make sure you never get the chance to stop it,” he says, his voice deep, like an echo coming from caverns. 

He lifts the wand again.

And that’s when it happens.

Magic doesn’t just obey intent. Not with me. Not anymore.

It reacts.

The Room of Requirement—sensitive to need, to desperation —shifts.

The walls ripple. The air warps.

Heat slams through the chamber like a bell rung too hard. Runes flash. Scrolls burst into flame. Something glass shatters. Tables crash sideways, scattering artifacts and metal across the stone.

A book spins past my cheek like a thrown blade.

Tom stumbles, eyes narrowing.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t flinch.

He growls.

And I run.

I dive for my robe and wand. Fingers brush it. Grip tight.

A burst spell explodes from my fingertips—not at him, but the shelf above his shoulder.

Wood and light and dust collapse in a shower between us.

Smoke. Shadows.

And I bolt.

Out the door. Into the corridor, hastily donning on my robes - aware I am all but naked underneath - and clumsily clasping them while still running. 

It feels as if the castle itself pulses with the aftershock of what just happened.

Barefoot now. Robes askew. Skin still marked from his hands.

I don’t go back to the dormitory. I don’t stop.

Fifth-floor tapestry. A House-elf passage. I whisper the incantation, and it opens.

Stairs. Tunnels.

Dirt walls close in like ribs. I barrel through, half-blind.

Out into the open. Onto the edge of Hogsmeade.

And there—as if fate hasn’t punished me enough—

“Miss Leclair?”

Professor Hestia stands near the old clocktower path, cloak drawn tight, wand in hand.

“It’s nearly two in the morning—what are you—? You shouldn’t be out here.”

I try to steady my breathing.

“I… I lost track of time—”

Her eyes narrow. She lifts her wand. Not aggressively. But ready.

“You’ll come with me. Now.”

No.

I’m too close. I have the blood. I can’t risk being detained.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

And then I hex her.

A sharp flick. “Oblivia pulsare.”

The modified Confundus hits her like a sleep spell. She crumples backward, eyes dazed, mouth slack.

She won’t remember.

I sprint. Wind lashes at me as I break through the edge of the village, robes snapping around my legs.

The apparition barrier breaks with a hiss.

And I’m gone.

I stumble as I land, knees hitting the frozen moss. Trees tower like judges around me, their limbs skeletal against the night.

My breath fogs. My palms bleed.

But I have it.

I have it.

I dig into my robes. Pull the silver-threaded charm from my belt—a needle-shaped compass wrapped in Tom’s blood. One drop. One spell.

“Sanguinum Ostendere.”

The spell crackles, faint and fast.

The thread stiffens. Then turns.

It spins once. Twice.

And points.

Northwest.

Toward the castle. Toward the past. Toward the diary.

I sink to my knees in the dirt, trembling.

I almost laugh at the irony. 

The castle I just escaped from is where the diary is hidden, but at least, I have a direction now. 

Now I only need the will to finish this. Before he finds another way to the future. Before I lose what little is left of mine.

Even monsters are curious.

I shake the words from my head.

Focus.

The spell draws me onward, way past the outskirts of Hogsmead, beyond the last crooked fencepost. The pull grows stronger near the hillside.

I realise with horror, it's taking me to the forbidden forest. 

A flickering ache in my core. Something buried.

It leads me to a grove of twisted ash trees, half-dead and humming with residual magic. Old magic. There’s something here.

I crouch beside one of the roots and whisper another spell.

“Revelare.”

The earth trembles slightly, and a small patch of moss shimmers, peeling away like paper. Beneath it—a lockbox, iron-bound and warded.

The blood spell pulses. My heartbeat spikes.

This is it.

The first Horcrux.

I reach for it—and the wards bite.

A searing flash of pain lances up my wrist, and I yank back with a hiss. Magical protections. Familiar.

His. 

I almost fell for it as Dumbledore had. Silly, reckless. Luckily for me, young Tom Riddle does not yet know the necrotizing curse. 

My vision blurs as another burst of his magic hits me when I attempt to touch it. 

Of course he wouldn't leave it unguarded. He’s clever and paranoid. 

I can break the magical protections but I need time. 

And definitely not here.

Or now.

I need a safer place. Somewhere isolated. Shielded. The bindings may require preparation—counter-rituals.

And the Horcrux? 

There is no way I am getting close to the Basilisk to retrieve its venom, not after everything that just happened. 

The sword will present itself to any true Gryffindor in a moment of need, Dumbledore had said. 

I doubt it will appear for me, though I am in need and technically still partly a Gryffindor. 

Yet my actions are beyond questionable now. Still, I close my eyes and plead. 

Please, I need your help. I need to destroy jt before it's too late. 

I wait five full minutes, knowing I dont have time to spare before I sigh deeply, remembering a crucial detail that had previously escaped my notice. 

The only reason the Gryffindor sword was able to destroy the diary Horcrux was because it had soaked in Basilisk venom. 

In the future. 

Even if it appears, it's useless to me now. I have to resort upon other ways of Horcrux descruction. 

Fiendfyre is one but I am reluctant to cast it here in the Forbidden Forest. I have already messed up with the past too much as it is, no need to add to that. 

I could try purchasing Basilisk venom from the Black market or the Unspeakables but this... It will take time. 

Alternatively I can find an old Goblin Forge, a remnant of the Goblin Rebellions and cast Fiendfyre there where it may be contained. 

Yeah... That might be a more appropriate solution. 

I summon the box with a silent levitation charm, wrapping it tightly in a stasis field before slipping it into my beaded bag.

It’s heavier than it should be.

Like it knows it’s being hunted.

My breath curls in the night air as I rise, shouldering the weight of the thing that could end him.

Or me.

I take one last look toward the castle.

Toward everything I just left behind.

And then I vanish into the dark.

Chapter Text

Fire tests gold, suffering tests brave men.”

— Seneca

Hermione Granger – November 7th, 1944 – Devonshire Wilderness, Edge of the Moor

The wind howls like some ancient thing with a grudge.

I crouch beside the fire I’ve conjured, muted and cloaked in every silencing and shielding charm I know. Even so, the flames flicker like they’re nervous to be here. Like they know something I don’t.

I’ve been here three days.

Camping. Sleeping in makeshift wards. Living off canned food, dry bread and cheese I procured with difficulty from a Muggle black market due to World War II sanctions along with whatever the forest begrudgingly offers.

I’m dirty. Tired. My robes are wrinkled. My nerves are thinner than the shield spell keeping the night out. The diary weighs heavy in my bag, wrapped in five layers of stasis and silencing spells, and still—it pulses.

As if it knows.

My body aches from disuse, my thoughts ache from overuse. The forest is old here, and darker than it should be. It reminds me of something ancient and untouched—like the trees are holding their breath.

It took me nearly a week to reach this place. 

According to every traceable source I could find, there should be a Goblin Forge buried beneath the southern bluff of this hill. A remnant from the 14th rebellion, long abandoned and dangerous—the perfect place to release a controlled Fiendfyre. No witnesses. No risk of forest fire. I’ve double-checked the topography, mapped the leylines, even rerun the calculations with a third-century Fiendfyre containment theory.

A place where fire doesn’t spread.

I rise with care, heart thudding. Wand in one hand. Compass-spell floating beside me. I cross the clearing and find the place: a jagged line of stone half-swallowed by roots. Faint runes glimmer beneath the dirt, flickering as if reacting to my magic.

This is it.

But something’s wrong.

I sensed it the moment I stepped into the clearing. The ground feels... off —interfered with. 

I circle the glade, wand drawn, casting layer after layer of diagnostic charms.

“Mundatum revelare. Vestigia. Vestigia humana. Temporal drift detection.”

The results shiver through the air.

Recent spellwork. Wards disarmed and re-cast. Someone’s been here within the last week.

My stomach drops but I don't allow myself to think off the worst possible case. 

I knew when I left the castle that it would be a possibility he would follow. I shouldn't be surprised if he actually goes through with it. 

I sigh with dread, adamantly refusing to think of the last time we were together in the same room.

Instead, I put out the fire using my leather boot - another recent purchase from the 1944 Muggle world, after I got too tired transfiguring my shocks- and rise. 

The trek is short before I reach another clearing wrapped in granite cliffs and my heart beats fast with the prospect of discovery. 

Black iron ribs arch overhead like the bones of a buried dragon, enclosing a soot-streaked cavern laced with silver-veined stone. Runes flicker faintly on the anvil altars, pulsing with ancient magic. The air hums with heat and enchantment—thick with the scent of scorched metal and dragon oil—while enchanted hammers clang rhythmically, even when no goblin is in sight.

I crouch beside the carved entryway. It’s ancient Gobbledegook, half-worn by time. But I can still make out some of the phrases: Forge of the Flame-Keepers. Only magic may enter.

The entry spell should be simple. Just a blood-key and a fire charm. But the ground smells of recent casting here too. Ash and iron. Charred moss where there shouldn’t be any.

Someone else has been here.

Recently.

My stomach knots.

I try the spell anyway. “Ignivoco.”

The earth pulses once.

Then sputters.

Nothing happens.

I repeat it. Add a blood-prick charm. I feel the spell take root—then collapse like wet parchment.

The runes have been tampered with. I step back quickly, wand rising. The Forge doesn’t open.

But something stirs in the trees behind me.

I whip around, wand at the ready. 

But... Nothing. Just silence and shadow.

Still, I can feel it.

Someone was here. 

The spells are too clever, too specific. This wasn’t brute-force vandalism. 

Not a Goblin.

Not a beast.

Tom.

He knew I would come here.

My throat tightens. How?

The diary?

Can he see me through it?

I cast three privacy wards in quick succession, followed by a blindfolding curse for any scrying attempts. It won’t last. But it buys time.

I sink onto a nearby stone and press my palms to my eyes.

This was supposed to be the place. The final strike. Controlled Fiendfyre, bound within ancient wards, the diary burned in a crucible built for magical destruction. No witnesses. No wildfires. No fate-breaking spells.

But now?

The Forge won’t open. And even if it did, I wouldn’t trust the runes. 

I glance at the diary inside my pocket, still wrapped in its bindings.

It hums. 

Smug.

I don’t scream even though I want to. And I don't give up but I know my location has been compromised. He knows I am here. 

How exactly, I dont know. 

I apparate to Dartmoor, near the River Dant and set up camp, hoping I am far enough from the Forge that he won't follow me here. 

It's night now and the air is brittle with cold. Frost clings to the grass like silver thread, and my breath ghosts white and soft as I step over a fallen log. My boots crunch through underbrush, the sound obscenely loud in the hush of dawn.

No fire. Minimal charms. Just a tent sewn from magical mesh and the constant whisper of paranoia.

I sit with my back to a yew tree and pick at a bit of hard bread and some berries I found. I chew slowly. Without appetite.

Something shifts in the darkness and I rise instictively, wand drawn, heart at my throat. 

I pace the area three times before I feel a semblance of safety. 

"Protego Totalum, Muffliato, Cave Inimicum" I mumble, reminiscent of another camping trip with a Horcrux in hand ripe for destruction. 

Last time Harry, Ron and I had been lucky. 

Severus Snape had brought the sword to us, practically giving us the solution to the puzzle. 

The corners of my eyes sting but I don't allow myself to cry. 

It's been too long since I last thought about them, both now long burried. 

The Muggles called it the Covid pandemic but we knew it had been targetting wizards. 

Our numbers were thin enough already and the Muggle epidemic all but anihilated us. St. Mungo's had been working overtime and it was still not enough. 

At first they didn't think it was serious. They didn't even imagine that wizards and witches could be afflicted or that it would be contagious. 

The numbers showing up every day on Muggle News? 

That was us, dying.  Wizards and witches trying to assimilate into human society with their IDs and their taxes. 

Muggles died as well but not nearly enough to stop their weaponised take over of the planet's resources. On the contrary it made things worse, plunging the economy into chaos.

A clock ticks behind my eyes reminding me that even when I do succeed in destroying the Horcrux and killing Tom, I still need to make sure the Muggle world does not descend into catastrophe. 

The tent is made of silver-threaded dragonhide and should be enough to stop the cold from creeping under, yet my fingers are frozen. 

Perhaps it's the lack of proper sustenance.

Or my turmulous thoughts. 

But the diary is in my pack.

The stasis field I wrapped around it still hums, a low throb of warning. I can’t hear the Horcrux, but I can feel it. Like an itch behind the eyes. A pulse just off-tempo from my own.

I remove it from the pocket of my cloack and glare at it. 

It’s cold now. Too cold.

When I unwrap the stasis charm, the thing practically hums in my hand. Not with power.

With attention.

The cover peels back without my command.

And on the first page—

A single sentence, scrawled in clean, sharp script.

You disappoint me. I expected a more elegant solution.

I drop the book like it burns me, hissing at it. 

It knows what I am trying to do. 

But how? This should be impossible. 

When Harry destroyed the diary - Horcrux, Voldermort had no idea. 

The diary should only contain the thoughts and feelings of a fifteen year old Tom who had just commited his first murder. 

Unless...

He must have used a Mnemonic Bridge Spell. 

When, though? 

Surely it had to be done before I even procured the diary.

At some point when he realised I was drom the future and was targetting him, he must have taken extra precautions. 

The words made just be a fail-safe mechanism to deter thieves. It's possible, it might not even be linked to me, at all. 

You look tired, Hermione. Betrayal does not become you. 

I stumble back, heart in my throat, wand raised like it might protect me from words on parchment.

Had the diary been able to see the carriers? 

As a dark artefact the idea of the diary was studied long after Voldermort's eventual demise and yet I had tried to ignore anything that brought back memories of the war. 

I should have asked Harry and Ginny more about it when I had the chance. 

But when would that have been? 2018? Before their death? How could I have known I would need that information for the future? 

Did I spook you? 

Another line appears on the diary and my lips thin. 

He is mocking me. 

My fingers tighten at the leather edges, near shaking. 

And in a moment of pure madness I crush the berries I had been chewing on between my fingers and begin writing. 

Not as much as I must have spooked you when I held you in my hands. You were gasping, enjoying it. I can't help but wonder if anyone else has touched you in that way or if I was the first. 

I am furious and it shows. 

And finally -

Silence. 

The diary doesn't reply and I exhale angrily, knowing I've hit my mark. 

I can practically feel his anger, pulsing in waves from the diary but there's also something else there. 

Regret, sadness. 

I frown. 

Now, now, Hermione. Don't be crude. 

I raise my berry-stained hands and write again. 

You did not answer the question. 

Another deliberate pause. 

Yes. 

I raise an eyebrow though I know - or at least hope - he can't see me. 

Though it was without my consent. 

Again I frown, wondering. 

Is he being truthful? I remember nothing of the sort when discussing it with Harry. Voldermort had been detached, a sociopath or psycopath of some sort, though the magical world would probably use another term for it. 

He did not care much for the physicalities of a wizard's or witch's anatomy and may have only engaged in such acts as manipulation tactics much like he did with me. 

Which is fine. Because I did the exact same thing. 

Once more, I write. 

Are you being truthful? 

Truth... Such an odd, little thing. What is it but one's percept-

I scoff.

Manipulative bastard. 

The lines pause mid-writing. 

You want truth? Fine, I'll bite. But only if you do the same. 

I almost do. 

Merlin help me, I almost continue writing. 

But then I remember what the diary is, what it does and I pull my hand away as if I've been burnt. 

I recast the stasis charm, hands shaking. I have no choice.

The forge was compromised.

Somehow, someway, Tom knew where I was going. 

The magic there had been tampered with. If I'd cast Fiendfyre in this place, it wouldn't consume the Horcrux. It would consume me.

I retreat, dragging the weight of the diary and my failure back into the trees.

And tomorrow—

Tomorrow I’ll find another way.

I have to.

Because every second I wait...

He’s watching.

And he’s winning.

Chapter Text

“The moment you take away someone’s choice, you commit a violence against their soul.”

— Unknown 

November 14th, 1944 – Cairngorm Caverns, Highlands of Scotland

By the time I reach the caverns, frost clings to my lashes.

The northern wind cuts sharp across the hills, fierce enough to numb thought. I brace against it, my boots sinking into loose shale as I press on through the narrow cleft in the cliff face. The map in my hand trembles from both wind and nerves. The old spell etched into its ink pulses faintly. The runes had warned of a forge once hidden here—deep, broken, abandoned.

I was thorough when I did my research, ensuring the diary was nowhere near me as I tried to come up with a plan in the rare case he was watching.

The stasis field around the Horcrux hums softly from my pack. I can feel its awareness pressing against my spine, like it’s watching me. Like it knows what I’m about to do.

And worse—like he does too.

You disappoint me, Hermione. I expected a more elegant solution.

He'd done it to taunt me, to show me he was ten steps ahead. 

But my mind goes back to everything else he said and worse what he didn't.

I can't help but wonder if anyone else has touched you in that way or if I was the first. 

Yes. Though, without my consent. 

His words haunt me because they have caused me to reassess everything I knew about who would later become the darkest wizard of his time. 

The diary speaks in his voice - old and new. I can't be certain that this did happen. Even so he would have been fifteen or younger. This alone could have been the cause behind everything else. 

I press my fingers on top of my eyeslids replaying every single physical interaction between us. 

I try to view it as clinical, methodical and not get lost in how I felt at the time, only how Tom reacted. 

He was hesitant, uncertain. 

"You said you enjoyed that." I'd said with a coy smile   "I said it once. You took it as an invitation to bite me" he'd replied, something akin to fury in his expression. 

But then... He'd implied he wanted more in the Room of Requirement, hadn't he?

"You said you wanted access. Earn it"

Could he have meant something entirely different? Had I been mistaken when I took the leap and kissed him first? 

Every single time I'd been the one to act first and he simply... Reacted. 

The only exception may have been the dance when he leaned closer to graze his lips against my cheek but even then.. That's all he'd done. 

As soon as I'd made the next move -biting him- he'd left and then ignored me. 

The wind slaps my face, bringing me back to the present and I press forward. 

There will be time for ruminating later. Now, I have a horcrux to destroy. 

The cavern opens slowly, the ceiling narrowing before plunging downward in a wide, curved bowl of rock. Traces of ancient spellfire paint the walls in faded ash and soot. The runes are older here—Goblin-forged, yes, but inscribed with something deeper. A magic that sings of war and hunger and fire.

I drop to my knees at the center and draw a circle. Runes. Salt. Flame.

A silence wraps itself around me as I unwrap the Horcrux box.

It’s heavier than before.

Almost… angry.

The diary inside pulses beneath the iron bindings, like a heart buried in steel. My hands shake as I place it in the center of the ritual circle.

I should say something.

But there’s nothing left to say.

I lift my wand.

“Incendio Infernalis.”

The rune flares at the circle’s edge, catching slowly—hesitant, like it knows the fire I’m calling isn’t meant to be tamed.

I steady my hand.

“Fiendfyre…”

The word is a breath. A threat. A prayer.

I close my eyes, drawing deep from the core of my magic. I feel the old lessons rise up—the warnings, the failures, the roaring fire that once consumed Crabbe whole. The spell is ancient, volatile, hungry. It obeys power, not precision.

“Vesica Flamma.”

Flames lick the inside of the circle.

They spiral up, slow at first, curling like smoke tendrils around the diary.

And then—

A growl.

Low. From the fire itself.

It surges.

A great snake of flame—head like a lion, body coiling, roaring—it lunges for the Horcrux.

But the moment it gets close—

It stops.

The diary pulses once.

Then the flames recoil.

The Fiendfyre buckles—twitches—then turns on me.

I don’t scream. I raise my arms, shielding my face.

“Finite!” I scream reactively, even though I know logically this will do nothing to stop it. 

The fire roars larger and I exit the Forge in near panic, my hair singed, clothes half-burnt, lungs wrecked. 

The diary lies inside, abandoned, and I am thankful I had the foresight of casting protective and containment charms around the Forge. 

Smoke fills the cave. My knees buckle. I fall backward, coughing.

I wait, patiently, for the fire to die out. If there is no more fuel it will eventually dissappear. 

I set up camp, casting further protective spells and barriers. 

The sun drops lower in the horizon. Inside the forge I can see only a flicker of fire. 

A little more, I think. 

And then... It dies out. 

I squint, drawing closer, wand raised. 

My heart beats twice as I stare at the cursed diary. 

It lies there pristine and untouched, still humming darkly. I press a trembling hand to the ground. My mind spins.

Tom knew.

He must have. The protections were changed. He might have used a mirror Curse or Reflective Binding.

Which means -

He’s watching. Tracking. Maybe even… listening.

I rise on unsteady legs, eyes burning from the remaining smoke, heart thudding like hooves against stone.

And for the first time in weeks—truly, viscerally—I feel hunted.

***

I wake with ash under my fingernails in the early hours of the morning, my heart beating fast. 

Dreams broken like glass. Flames licking the edges of memory.

Cold hands caressing my burning flesh, lips tasting faintly of pine and smoke. 

The diary remains in the stasis field, unmoved. Mocking.

The forge was a failure.

My palms are blistered. My voice is hoarse. I lost control of the fire before it even began to burn.

And still, I’m alive.

That is, perhaps, the most terrifying part.

Tom didn’t stop me.

He didn’t need to.

He let me fail.

One step ahead. Always.

I pull the protective wards tighter around the edge of the clearing, recasting the illusion field for good measure. The nearby town is quiet. The people rural, wary. Superstitious. They won’t wander close but still it's good to take precautions. 

The blood trace spell no longer flares. Whatever magic tethered the diary has gone dormant. That, or he’s found a way to mask it.

My fingers tremble as I write my notes. I rework the spell equations, tightening the logic. Fiendfyre is too volatile. Not just magically, but temporally.

The ripples would travel.

I can’t afford that. Not now.

Another way. Another path.

Poison. Venom. Fangs.

I curse myself for not bringing a fang with me from the future in my beaded bag. Luna and Neville had advised the magical object would not survive the journey but still... I should have tried. 

My wand did survive, after all. 

Forgot underwear. Didn't brinf a fang. But they remembered to make me beautiful.

Priorities.

I scoff. At the time I'd thought I still had a chance to change the past, to redirect Tom.

I'd been too optimistic. 

Shaking my head in despair, I catalogue my remaining options. 

The black markets are a dead end. I’d tried last week, hidden under glamours and old passwords. Every lead on Basilisk venom was a ruse, or an obvious trap. Someone even tried to sell me powdered dragon tooth and a forged Ministry tag.

And worse, the moment I asked, I felt it.

A pull.

From the diary in my bag.

It hummed. Softly. As if amused.

As if it knew.

Tom’s watching me. Through it. With it.

I nearly threw it into the sea yesterday night. But that would accomplish nothing. 

The wind won't stop breathing down my neck.

I lie curled inside the tent, its dragonhide walls barely holding back the cold. My wards are intact. My charms still hum faintly. But nothing keeps the ache from my limbs, or the exhaustion from settling into my bones like rot.

My eyes burn, not just from smoke and sleeplessness, but from sheer accumulation—of grief, of failures, of near-deaths and not-quite-kisses that never should have happened.

Unable to access proper showers, I have used Scourgify and Tergeo excessively over the past two weeks to cleanse myself, to refresh my burnt clothes and oily hair. 

Yet his taste is still imprinted onto every part of mine, the pad of his fingers fisting through skin and fabric. 

It's as if he's left a living residue of himself inside me. I shake my head, trying to clear it of such thoughts.

It just won't do to think of his touches again, the way his tongue darted between my open lips, his fingers digging into my core, his thumb apply-

I gasp, digging my nails into my open palms until I feel enough pain to ground me. 

What in Merlin's beard is wrong with me?

Is it a problem with my new anatomy, the fact my body is pocessed with hormones belonging to a nineteen-year old?

I can't recall feeling like this before. My relationship with Ron had been sweet yet short after both of us had realised we had no future together. We'd remained friends and he had moved on with Padma, having two beautiful children together. 

After Ron, I hadn't really had another relationship just brief encounters with male wizards whenever the need striked. There'd been a brief correspondence with a boy from my past but it didn't go any further. 

I'd been too budy and focused on the problems of the world. 

I hung my head between my knees, sighing deeply. 

Outside, the frost grows thicker, silvering the grass like a warning. Inside, I stare at the tent ceiling, knowing I won’t go back to sleep.

I feel it again.

The diary.

Its presence like static just beneath my skin—pressing against the edges of consciousness, familiar now in a way that makes me sick. I have after all been in contact with his dark magic in the past, his locket around my throat. 

I reach for my bag, fingers trembling, and pull it out.

It’s cold. Ironic, really. For something that nearly burned me alive, it’s always cold to the touch. Its heartbeat feels unnatural, more like circuitry than blood. Mechanical. Artificial.

And I think—absurdly, bitterly—

I used to make fun of humans who used artificial intelligence.

The Muggles were obsessed with it by the 2020s. Digital entities built to answer questions, solve equations, mimic personalities. Some of them even wrote poetry. I’d laughed at it. Called it adorable once, when Padma showed me a chatbot that claimed it wanted to be human.

And now?

Now I’m doing the same thing.

Only worse.

Because I know exactly what or who I’m speaking to.

Not a program but a soul fragment.

A sentient being.

A psychopath.

I rub my temples, the firelight inside the tent flickering low, casting thin shadows. I shouldn’t engage. I shouldn’t feed it.

But the silence is worse.

I unwrap it. Slowly.

The moment the stasis field peels back, the pages flutter on their own.

I hold my breath. 

But there’s no new writing.

Yet.

I stare at the blank page.

It stares back.

The ink is already there, just invisible. Waiting to be coaxed.

I reach for a quill.

I shouldn’t.

But I do.

And I write:

How long have you been watching me?

Nothing.

Then:

Long enough to know you should have gone east.

I blink, exhaling angrily, my hands shaking. 

I hate that he's right. There had been a forge near St. Andrews, but I hadn’t trusted the coordinates. Too exposed. Too close to Ministry presence.

Your caution is admirable, he writes. Your execution, less so.

I scowl.

You sabotaged the Fiendfyre spell.

I ensured it wouldn't consume the diary.

I don’t respond.

The ink blooms again, like oil across water.

You nearly destroyed yourself today. Perhaps it's time to stop. 

I grit my teeth.

I’ll find a way.

You’re predictable. Which is why you’re failing.

The quill trembles slightly in my hand. I steady it.

Why are you even speaking to me? I have what you want. You should be trying to take it back. 

A pause.

Then, softly—

Why? You can't destroy it physically and I'd rather continue having a tether to you. 

I roll my eyes.

Flattery. How original.

Would you prefer truth? I offered it to you already and you declined. 

It's my turn to pause, to swallow unsteadily. 

Fine. Truth, then. What happened when you were fifteen? 

The words don't appear all at once. They come slowly—staggered like breaths. As if Tom is behind them, thinking of how best to break the weight of them. 

The pages flutter open, soundless. The ink appears like breath across the parchment.

I can show you, he says. But it won’t be pretty.

The words burn the page.

My pulse spikes.

I sit up—or think I do. The tent warps around me. Shadows stretch and fold. The forest is gone.

I’m nowhere.

Only the diary remains.

A pause.

Long enough to make me think he won’t answer.

Then—

And then I fall.

Chapter Text

“Your body is not a democracy. It is your sovereign territory.”

— Unknown

Hermione Granger – November 15th, 1944 – Inverness, Temporary Encampment, Early Morning

I hit stone.

The air is heavy. Smells of ink and dust and youth.

I’m in the Hogwarts library.

The lighting is softer. Shadows longer. My hands are translucent. My feet leave no sound.

A memory.

I see him.

The hallway is dark, and young Tom Riddle walks alone. Fifth year. Taller than his peers. Too pale. Too quiet. His posture is immaculate. His expression blank. But his eyes—sharp, flicking to the corners.

Because he knows she’s following him.

A girl with large glasses and limp hair peeks out from behind a pillar, biting her nails. Myrtle Warren.

I recognise her immediately.

Her eyes are round with fascination, obsession. She clutches a torn page from Hogwarts: A History, fingers sweating over the margin where she’s doodled his initials.

Tom sighs. Quiet. A long-suffering breath. He says nothing. Keeps walking.

But she doesn’t stop.

She follows. Always.

And I follow along with her. 

Tom in class, withdrawn. Tom in meals, sitting alone with Myrtle hovering over the corner, smiling at him, his discomfort obvious.

Once, even to the boys' lavatory.

She giggles and thinks it's funny, rushing to tell her friends while Tom clutches his trousers in something akin to terror. 

"She followed me everywhere" his voice narrates. "Not me. The version she built. The one that looked perfect in her head."

Flash .

I’m at the orphanage. Summer sun slices through the clouds.

Tom sits on the back step with a girl—a pretty one, dark-skinned, laughing, hands touching. He looks different—relaxed, almost soft.

I've never seen him like this. 

For once I dont think it's ruse or manipulation. 

He's simply enjoying the summer, carefree, happy.

The muggle girl he's with—Alice—sketches him with charcoal. She smiles shyly.

Myrtle.

She shouldn't be here. 

But she is. 

Peering from behind the hedges.

She's clutching something in her palm. A powder. Yellow and shimmering.

Then—

Screaming.

Bees.

Alice flails, face swelling, sobbing, choking.

Tom leaps down, swatting frantically, but too late. Alice convulses. An ambulance siren wails.

No one other than him sees Myrtle flee.

She killed someone to keep me alone, he whispers. That was the first time I saw how breakable people are. And the first time I hated her.

Flash.

Back at Hogwarts. Fifth year.

It’s the Yule celebration. Candles dance in midair. Laughter echoes. Tom sips cider, distracted by Hestia's droning of "time turners" He places the cup on the table, turning to focus on her, his interest peaked. 

I see Myrtle watching. Waiting. She walks forwards and slips a vial from her pocket.

Though I am not corporeal I can smell it and instantly recognise it for what it is. 

Amortentia.

She stirs it in. Smiles to herself.

Dread coils in my stomach. 

Tom turns, grabs the cup. 

"No!" I scream even as I know it's useless. 

Tom pays me no mind.  He empties his cider with a smile. 

"She dosed me"  Tom's voice is flat. Distant.

Minutes later, he staggers. Dizzy.

He's smiling widely, too widely for it to be natural. 

A student passes by and Tom grabs their arm. "Where's Warren?"

"Girl with glasses?" the student asks, confused. 

"Yeah" he slurrs, his brows furrowed in perplex. "She's pretty, right?"

The other student shrugs. "Dunno. Saw her going to the loo"

Tom heads to the bathroom and my heart is in my throat, following behind him. 

I don't want to see what comes next yet I can't stop the memory from unfolding. 

Tom doesn't reach the batrhoom because Myrtle is leaning against the wall outside Slughorn's office. She's smiling in a predatory manner. 

"I have been looking for you" Tom says in a rush, his pupils dilated, his lips parted. 

He looks... Like a reflection meant to imitate lust. 

It's wrong and sick and my hands stay frozen next to me, my stomach plummeting. 

"I know" she says, her voice shrill, removing her glasses. 

She touches his chest and I see a momentary flicker of doubt cross Tom's eyes. 

Optimism clouds my better judgement. 

The dark lord had always been a powerful Legilimens, perhaps Tom would have been able to sense that -

She kisses him roughly, sloppy and Tom grabs her shoulders uncertainly, his lips unmoving. 

Her hands are greedy. Shaking. She tries more. Unbuttons. Moves faster.

He doesn't stop her though and she pushes him against the wall, his arm clutching his wand tightly. 

She begins fumbling at his trousers, her mouth moving to his chest and I see Tom mumbling incantantions, desperation behind his eyes. 

I flinch.

His hands tremble. He tries to push her away.

There's a flash as he points the wand to himself. 

Myrtle doesn't realise and I am not sure whatever he did worked because he's still not stopping her. 

She pushes his trousers down and lifts her skirt and I -

I can't look. 

I know there is nothing I can change. Whatever I am watching has already happened but...

The door slams open.

Then—

Slughorn.

He appears in a burst of robes and outrage.

I look. 

She's touched him but didn't have the opportunity to go any further. 

Slughorn freezes Myrtle. Pulls Tom upright.

Gasps. Curses.

Realisation. 

Then—horror.

Sympathy.

Sadness. 

Tom is disoriented, his hands shaking and Slughorn rushes him to his office. 

He doesn’t scold. Simply gives Tom Bezoar and waits. 

Clarity returns slowly along with shame and horror. 

"It's not your fault" I whisper but I don't think Tom hears me.

Slughorn holds him by the shoulders, his eyes sympathetic. 

"You’ll never speak of this" Tom says, dead-eyed.

Slughorn nods. Pale. Guilty. "Of course not, dear boy. Not a word. Not ever."

Flash.

Late spring. The bathroom.

Tom speaks to a sink in parseltongue. 

He must have already awakened the basilisk by then. 

The floor rumbles. The wall splits.

Myrtle enters, tearful. Desperate.

He doesn’t look at her.

Not once.

But something behind him moves.

A hiss.

Stone. Water.

A snake, sliding through damp halls.

Another hiss in parseltongue. 

I know this word. 

Attack. 

And then—

Silence.

Forever.

"She violated me" Tom whispers, his fifteen year old self staring at the wall, eyes empty "I ended her. And in doing so—I became more than human"

A flash.

The diary in his hand, scribbled with notes on the heir of Slytherin, the Gaunt family tree and research into prevention of death. 

Blood on the floor.

A scream caught in the stone.

"I didn’t know what I’d done at the time. Not really" he whispers, his voice flat. "I'd been researching a way to prevent death. To bring back Alice. Magic was capable of a lot of things, why not that?"

The scene fades, the dream blurs.

And I wake gasping, my skin clummy, the midday sun caressing my limbs like a snake slithering up my toes. 

The tent is still. My wand lies clutched inside my hands. The diary sits open beside me. 

The echo of his memory is like poison in my veins.

He showed me.

My fingers shake.

I touch nothing.

Say nothing.

Just breathe.

Because now I understand.

Not him. Not fully.

But the shape of the scar he carries.

And the shape of the one I might have left behind.

Chapter Text

The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.”

— African proverb

He showed me.

Not because I asked.

Because he chose to.

Why?

To manipulate me?

To prove his origin was forged in pain, not cruelty?

Or...

Was it because a part of him—the part still fifteen, still cracked—wanted me to see?

I reach for the diary. Not to open it.To place it back in the iron box.

For safekeeping.

For silence.

I sit in the center of my tent, legs folded beneath me, heart aching with something worse than grief.

Guilt.

We’d gotten it wrong.

All of it.

He hadn’t needed a rival. He’d needed a friend.

Someone constant. Someone kind. Someone who wouldn’t touch him, claim him, twist him.

Someone who would stay.

That girl never came.

Instead, I did. With plans. Strategies. Traps. Reminiscent perhaps of Myrtle.

I seduced him. Lied to him. Made myself the trap. 

And maybe he deserved it.

But maybe he didn’t.

Not now. 

I bow my head, pressing my hands against my temples.

What are you trying to show me, Tom?

What do you want from me now?

But the diary says nothing.

I don't expect it to. 

Because I already feel the answer stirring under my skin.

He doesn’t want me to kill him.

He wants me to understand him.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

***

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since I tried to kill Tom Riddle' Horcrux. 

Since I saw what shaped him. Since I watched Myrtle’s shadow drag across his skin like a curse he never chose.

Three weeks of stalling.

Three weeks of telling myself I’m doing everything I can—when really, I’m circling.

The basilisk venom search has taken me across half the world. I’ve followed whispers through World War II-torn port towns, shadow markets, cursed ruins. From the crumbling salt mines of Bulgaria to the trade tunnels beneath Cairo, I’ve scoured every whispered lead.

I found nothing. Nothing real.

Imitations. Snake oil. One powdered manticore fang. A forged Ministry receipt stamped with Dumbledore’s signature that I knew immediately was fake.

I made the mistake of heading into Athens in the hope I could stumble upon a witch or wizard for aid but instead I was faced with children and women walking down the streets, swollen bellies from starvation, eyes gaunt and pleading. I snak food from my pack under Notice-Me-Not charms and placed it on windowsills and cribs. 

I try to pretend it helps. 

It doesn’t.

Only makes my search for a way to end the continuous suffering all the more pressing. 

But even if I had found a Basilisk fang...

Would I have used it?

I don’t know.

That’s the part that scares me.

I haven’t opened it since the memory. I haven’t dared. Not out of fear of what he’ll say—

But of what I might say back.

I camp beneath the ruins of a collapsed temple, the stars cold and sharp overhead, reminiscent of a time when a dark haired boy spoke to me about fate. I trace the star constellations absent-minded. 

The wind from the Aegean slaps my tent in furious bursts. I make no fire. I eat little. My thoughts spiral.

I’m stalling.

Yule is approaching.

And with it—the veil will thin again. The ley lines will open. I’ll be able to reach Luna. If I want to.

The thought makes my chest ache.

I haven’t spoken to her since the masquerade. I haven’t told her what I’ve seen. What I felt. What I did.

What if I speak with her and she tells me what I already know?

That this mission is failing.

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes and try to breathe.

Snow has started falling across northern Europe. Hogwarts is drawing close to holiday break. The castle will shift with the solstice, as it always does—rooms sealed, magic in flux. The Yule bonfire will burn, and the magical children will dance, and beneath it all, time itself will stir.

That’s when I’ll make contact.

And when I do… I’ll have to decide what to ask.

Not just how to destroy Tom.

But if I still want to.

***

I passed through London three days ago.

The smell still clings to me.

Ash. Burnt cloth. The copper stink of blood in the gutters, hidden beneath Muggle efforts to scrub it all away.

A small girl with a soot-streaked face stared at me from a window cracked with tape. Her doll had no arms. The house behind her had no roof. She didn’t cry. Just… watched.

I’d glamoured myself as a traveling nun, robes dark and unthreatening. It let me move freely enough. Long enough to see the craters. The bombed-out churches. The piles of coal rations being doled out like bread. Long enough to hear a radio crackle in the ruins of a corner shop: “Berlin suffered heavier losses. London will recover.”

I knew the future. Recovery was a relative term. 

Yesterday, I watched a man bury his wife in a backyard garden, sobbing in silence. He pressed a tin of tea into her hands before covering her with dirt.

I don’t know why. Some human comfort ritual, I suppose.

The magical world looks untouched. Pristine.

Hogsmeade glows like a snow globe as I approach—its lanterns warm, its roofs glittering with powdered frost.

But I know what lies just beyond the edges of those protective wards.

In my brief travels, I saw Muggles huddled in bomb shelters, children singing to drown out the shaking walls. I saw a mother sell her wedding ring for three potatoes and half a tin of evaporated milk.

And I…

I turned away. Because I had something heavier in my pack.

A diary that pulses with sentient rage. A war brewing in a different direction.

One soul I might still save—if I’m not already too late.

The Muggle war isn’t mine to fight.

But gods, does it mirror mine too closely.

***

I cross the wards at dawn.

The wind is sharp, slicing across the snowdrifts like a blade. The sky is iron. Cold seeps into my bones through the soles of my boots.

But it’s nothing compared to the cold behind my ribs.

I’m back.

There is only one object left in this timeline capable of destroying a Horcrux: a basilisk fang. It is possible there may be other ways of Horcrux destruction. 

Harry, Ron and I had been extremely lucky, after all. In the span of seven years we'd discovered three ways of Horcrux destruction and all were accidental. Who's to say there's not more? 

Still... I know for a fact the fang is in Hogwarts and I am tired of running around Black Markets chasing leads or ways to destroy the Horcruxes. 

Because time—like the temperature—is running out.

The mountains loom ahead, powdered white. I stand on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, my breath steaming before me as I stare up at the silhouette of Hogwarts. It’s changed in my absence. Or maybe it’s me who’s changed.

The castle feels darker now. Like it knows I’m returning to finish what I started.

I slip through the perimeter wards, using a tunneling spell I built into the roots weeks ago, just in case. It drops me behind Greenhouse Four, a familiar route. Still shielded.

The castle is quieter than I remember.

But something feels off.

Very off.

I pull my glamour over my face, shortening my hair, tinting my eyes green—enough to pass through without instant recognition. My robes are patched, but I adjust the Slytherin crest. Let them think I’ve been on a mission. Let them wonder.

The first student I pass—A Hufflepuff, sixth-year I met in Slughorn's party—does a double-take, eyes narrowing.

“Leclair?” he mutters.

I flash a tired smile. “Got lost on an assignment. Long story.”

He stops dead in his tracks. "They have been looking for you. They thought -"

I shrug. "Long story, happy to talk about it over tea!"

I rush forward. Perhaps I can make it to the Chamber of Secrets and steal a fang before the Professors or Riddle notice I have returned.

The whispers start before I even reach the second corridor.

“I heard it slithered through the pipes again.”

“Bathroom on the third floor. Just like last time.”

“Did you see the message? On the wall?”

I stop.

Still.

My throat tightens.

Has the monster awoken again?

If the basilisk is awake… then Tom has done it again. He’s drawn its power back to the surface. Maybe to protect the diary. Maybe to trap me. Maybe to remind the castle of who really owns its bones.

I gulp, suddenly uncertain I should go to the Chamber. I'd thought the monster asleep which would have made things so much simpler. If it's awake... Well. 

At least tomorrow is the Yule solstice. The veil will thin. And I’ll finally speak to Luna again.

She may have answers.

The portraits whisper behind gilt edges, their oil-thick eyes following me as I climb the winding staircase toward the second floor. My footsteps echo too loudly, even though I’ve cast a softening charm. The silence is a little too tight. The shadows a little too long.

I grip my wand tighter and press forward.

I know where I need to go.

The bathroom. The sink. The entrance.

If the basilisk is truly awake again, I may not have long. I’ve rehearsed this: the incantations, the approach, the moment I’ll whisper to stone in a dead language only monsters - and I - understand.

But halfway down the corridor, I feel it—that delicate, charged prickle of being watched by someone not bound to a frame or enchanted stone.

“Miss Leclair.”

I freeze.

Dumbledore steps from a shadowed alcove, half-lit by a trembling torch. His robes are the color of stormclouds—subtle, intentional. His eyes are their usual glacier blue, but tonight, they are colder than I remember.

He must have returned back to teaching after being away for the Symposium preparations - or Nurmengard. 

“Professor” I manage, schooling my expression into something caught between surprise and guilt.

He regards me for a beat too long.

“Miss Leclair,” he says quietly. “You were dead.”

I freeze just inside the door.

A chill brushes my spine. “Excuse me?”

His head tilts slightly. Still facing away. “When a student vanishes for forty-seven days, leaves no note, no communication, no magical tether behind—and does not appear on any Hogwarts tracking system—we presume the worst.”

He turns now.

His eyes are heavy. Not unkind, but sharp. 

“Forgive me” he adds. “But we mourned you. Privately.”

I swallow. “I didn’t mean for that.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “You meant for something else.”

I step forward, keeping my hands still at my sides. “I was sent out.”

He raises an eyebrow.

I continue, slowly. “Private mission. Departmental clearance. Need-to-know. I was told not to speak of it in detail.”

“And which department?” he asks, still too softly.

“I’d rather not say.”

“That is convenient.”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my voice level. “Sir, you’ve seen my records. You must know -”

I pause and his eyes sparkle in something akin to understanding. 

He nods once. “You came from nowhere. Fluency in multiple languages. Advanced defensive theory. Arithmancy levels well beyond your age.”

“And no one who would vouch for me directly.” I add, letting the implication of that hang in the air. 

“I’ve seen operatives lie before,” he says. “Very well. Very deeply. But they usually remember to leave a breadcrumb behind. A trail to follow. You, Miss Leclair, left nothing. No magical echo. Not even a charm in your trunk.”

“That was deliberate” I say before I can stop myself. “I—couldn’t risk being tracked.”

A pause.

He leans forward, resting both hands on the desk. “So tell me. Who did you think might be following you?”

I meet his gaze fully.

“Who did you suspect might have killed me?”

It’s quiet. Heavy.

He straightens, just slightly.

And then—he lowers his glasses. Just low enough for me to see the full weight behind his eyes.

Tired yet burning.

I let the silence stretch a beat longer. “You didn’t bring him in.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because the castle hasn’t caught him.”

“And you trust the castle more than your instincts?”

He smiles. Just a little. Just enough to show how exhausting this is for him.

“I trust patterns” he says. “And the places it leads students to.”

My legs are beginning to shake, the old anger rising to the surface. He has always been like that, always giving half-answers only to send the most impressionable students to do his hiding. 

Forcing them to commit dangerous acts, dying even, in the premise of the greater good. He and Grindewalt are not as alike as he may believe. 

He watches me, curious, misinterpreting my hate for something else. 

“Do you think he’s dangerous?” I ask, instead, forcing my occlumency walls in place. 

Dumbledore’s eyes flick toward the window again. “Oh, I don’t think, Miss Leclair.”

My breath hitches. “Then why keep him?”

“Because monsters” he says gently, “don’t always start off as monsters.”

I study his face. Trying to parse what he sees in me. If he’s guessing. If he knows.

“Keep your wand close,” he advises. 

"I always do" I whisper. 

Silence stretches between us again.

Finally, Dumbledore sighs.

“You sound like someone far older than your years.”

You have no idea, I think.

Instead, I offer a faint smile. He studies me again.

“The castle missed you,” he says. “Though I suspect it wasn’t the only one.”

I swallow.

“I’ll be more careful.”

“Do,” he says, gently but firmly. “The world may allow its prodigies to falter—but not its weapons.”

And then he’s gone.

No footfalls. No rustle of robes. I stand alone in the corridor again, breath quick and uneven.

My heart is racing—not because I was nearly caught.

But because for a second…

I think he saw me.

Not the disguise.

Not Leclair.

Me.

Chapter Text

“When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.”

— Wayne Dyer

I waste no time slipping through the corridors with practiced ease—feet silent, wand close to my side, heart louder than either.

Before I even reach the door, I cast a Silencing Charm on the pipes. I don’t trust the echoes in this place. Not anymore.

The bathroom is unchanged. The marble floor glistens, steam curling gently from the air like breath, curling in the stillness. The same gilded taps. The same cracked mirror.

And one sink that doesn’t quite belong.

It’s subtle—almost charming in its peculiarity. A bronze serpent curling around the drain, one eye chipped, the metal dulled with time.

I kneel in front of it and press my palm to the basin. The porcelain is cold beneath my skin. 

Tom had said the awakening was never deliberate, that the magic responded to something inside him—something old, coiled deep in blood and bone. Parseltongue couldn’t be learned, it was inherited. 

But Ron had done it, once. He’d imitated Harry’s voice, Harry’s words. That had been enough.

I lean closer to the faucet. My mouth is dry but still, I speak.

Hee-sha-ish.

Open.

The word is flat.

Human. Powerless.

Of course it doesn’t work. For all my claims of being able to understand Parseltongue I most certainly cannot pronounce the words correctly. 

My tongue reshapes itself, awkward and forced, curling into something less natural—more serpentine.

Again: “Hee-sha-ish”

This time, it hisses. Almost right.

The pipes tremble beneath me.

My blood runs cold.

The drain shudders—grating, ancient. And then—mercifully—it stops.

Too shallow. Not the right cadence. Not the right blood.

Unless of course Tom has done something to change the password. Something more intricate. 

I step back, heart hammering in my throat.

The basilisk is still down there. Coiled in darkness. Nestled in bones and dust and time.

The fang I need rests between its jaws.

I clench my hand at my side, nails digging into my palm.

Is there another Parselmouth in the castle? Someone I could convince? Bribe?

But time is thin. Fragile. And the moment Tom discovers I’ve returned—

I don’t let the thought finish.

Later. I’ll try again later. After rest. After food.

Magic isn’t only about skill or blood. It’s about presence. 

And I am too thin. Too hollow. I’ve lost weight. Haven’t slept more than a few hours a night in weeks. I haven’t showered in...

Ah, well.

I shake my head. Focus.

First: food.

I slip into the kitchens, tucked beneath the Great Hall. The entrance is hidden behind a painting of a grand fruit bowl. I tickle the pear, and it giggles—green lips stretching into a smile before morphing into a brass door handle.

Warmth greets me instantly.

Roasted meat, sugared spice, baking bread—the smells wrap around me like arms.

A female house-elf rushes forward, her large eyes brimming with concern. “Oh dear… Tippy thinks you is so thin! And when was the last time you bathed?” she gasps, eyes shimmering as if she might cry.

Before I can reply, five more elves descend upon me with platters piled high—soups, pastries, chicken dripping with jus, Yorkshire pudding, treacle tart, warm rolls. It’s enough to make me dizzy.

I let them. Let them fuss. Let them feed me.

The food is rich, decadent, wonderful—but I barely taste it. I chew fast, swallowing between spells of exhaustion and dread. There’s no time to savour.

Because he’ll know soon, if he doesn’t already.

Tom.

He’ll feel me back in the castle like a pulse under his skin.

Last time, I betrayed him.

Last time he tried to kill me.

He gave me a memory, a wound, a truth—and I responded with silence.

I don’t know if I’m still playing a game. Or if I’ve already lost.

When I’m done, I thank the elves—genuinely, quietly—and slip out again. I climb the winding stairs to the fifth floor, each step coiled tight with apprehension. The halls are empty, the students probably attending classes. But I move with care, brushing shadows.

At last, I reach it.

The Prefects’ Bathroom.

The password is still the same.“Duckus Maximus”

And I step inside, hoping to wash away more than dirt.

The door creaks open at the whispered password, soft as breath, and the scent of lavender and sandalwood greets me like memory.

The prefects' bathroom is empty, thank Merlin. The vast, porcelain pool steams before me, enchanted bubbles and lilac-scented mist curling above the surface. The room is just as I remember—gleaming white stone, stained glass glinting in soft candlelight, taps of every shape and size lining the sunken bath.

Steam billows.

I lock the door behind me with three spells, each more paranoid than the last; layered silencing spell, a privacy ward, a locking jinx so intricate even Flitwick might’ve paused to admire it.

The mirror doesn’t speak as I approach. I stare at my reflection, removing the glamour with a flick of my wand. 

Hair wild. Eyes tired. Skin pale and scarred. I don’t look like a savior. Or a hero.

I look like a girl unraveling slowly, thread by thread. My hair is singed short on one side, courtesy of the fiendfyre that almost consumed me. Dark circles cloud my eyes and there is a mad sparkle to them I don't recall previously having. 

I undress slowly. The fabric clings to my skin like regret, torn in places, stained with ash and blood and time. I let it fall, pooling on the floor next to my wand.

The bath fills with a hum of ancient plumbing and warm magic. Enchanted taps gush in pale arcs, steam rising in delicate curls, laced with the scent of crushed mint and lavender. The water turns rich with froth, gentle fizzing bubbles cresting like soft waves. The light dims as I slip into the water, taking the steps two at a time. 

Warmth swallows me.

The ache in my limbs begins to fade. The tension in my neck, in my spine, in the hollow places between ribs begins to melt. I float a little. Drift.

I manage to swim once before returning back to the steps, resting on the second one, knees drawn to my chest. I let my head fall back, hair loose, breath softening. 

Steam thickens around me, blurring the air—I can’t see anything beyond the nearest faucet. The rest of the room vanishes, as if someone had draped a veil over the world. Shapes dissolve at the edges of my vision, everything distant swallowed in white. It’s like being inside a cloud, or a dream I haven’t quite woken from.

Magic clings to the air like perfume.

Safe.

Alone.

I don’t remember closing my eyes. Only the sense of heaviness, full-bellied and exhausted. My limbs too warm. My thoughts too slow. The sound of the water lapping gently against porcelain is the last thing I hear.

And then—

I stir, blinking uncertainly, aware it must be late evening, the light streaming from the windows all but gone. I must have been more tired than I thought to sleep for nearly the whole day.

A sound.

Soft.

Must have been what awoke me. 

I bolt upright in the bath, eyes flying open, heart thundering against my ribs.

The steam parts.

A figure stands at the edge of the pool.

Male.

Broad-shouldered, with lean, sculpted muscle. Pale. Bare to the waist, his lower half obscured by bubbles, water, and steam.

His wand isn’t in his hand.

The mist shifts just enough for his features to emerge.

Dark hair, curling slightly at the edges of his forehead. A square jaw, cheekbones so sharp they look like they could cut glass.

His cheeks are hollow, flushed faintly pink from the heat, matching the shade of his full lips. 

My heart skips a beat and I crawl backward on the marble steps, my fingers floating on the water surface. 

Dark shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes, speaking to exhaustion, to hunger. And yet—his eyes, dark and unreadable, hold mine.

A flicker of surprise crosses his face—real, unguarded. Then it vanishes.

Tom.

My breath stutters.

I don’t scream, frozen in place. 

He freezes too.

His thigh still hovers over the water’s edge, like he’d only just stepped in.

Time suspends between us—coiled like a spell not yet cast.

I speak first. Barely. “What are you—”

His eyes flick to the pile of clothes in the corner. 

To my wand, left unattended. 

Then back to me, his brows furrowed. 

“I didn’t know you were here.”

Liar. Maybe. Or maybe not.

I glance toward my wards—my intricate, layered charms—and feel a lurch in my stomach. They should have held. They did hold. No one could have opened that door.

Tom’s eyes quickly dart toward a spot along the wall—another door, his eyebrows almost touching. 

Have the Prefects’ Bathrooms always had two?

As a sixth-year prefect, I’d barely used them. When I did, access was scheduled, privacy protected by layers of enchantments.

Maybe this second door was removed later on, for obvious reasons. Hogwarts boasts an interesting architecture, after all. 

But right now…

I should summon my wand. It’s just behind me, within arm’s reach. But I don’t move.

Neither does he.

Steam clings to the space between us. His skin glistens. There’s tension in his jaw, the kind that comes from restraint. Or confusion. Or fury held barely in check.

“You're back” he murmurs at last, voice neutral. Too neutral.

I don’t respond. I’m calculating.

He steps closer to the edge, his reflection rippling in the water between us. But he doesn’t enter fully. Not yet.

I lift my chin, though my heart won’t stop hammering. “Yes.”

A silence stretches.

“Why?”

I hesitate.

Because I need a fang.

Because I want to finish what I started.

Because you showed me something I can’t unsee.

“I had unfinished business,” I say carefully, suddenly reminiscent of the last time I'd said those words. 

Perhaps he thinks the same because the corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite. “So did I.”

I swallow.

The heat of the water is suddenly unbearable. Not from temperature. From tension.

I shift slightly, foam clinging to my shoulders, clinging to the air like smoke.

We stare at each other.

He’s closer now.

The water laps around his waist and my eyes inadvertently go to the v that is visible, a faint hair line in the center of his taut stomach.

He looks tired. Hair damp from steam, curls clinging to his forehead. His throat bobs once as if he wants to say something but then changes his mind. 

It feels almost deliberate. Or dangerous.

And I—

I am naked beneath a shroud of foam and magic, caught between fight and flight and something far more foolish.

His voice softens. “Are you going to hex me?”

I arch a brow. “Should I? You did try to kill me, last time.”

He pauses. His mouth twitches—somewhere between irony and something almost resembling regret.

“When you didn’t answer,” he says, voice rough around the edges, “after what I showed you... I thought—” He stops, eyes flicking to mine. There’s something unguarded in them. Perplexity. Pain. “I thought you were dead.”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

I’m frozen—caught between the words and the weight behind them, held still like a deer in the path of oncoming light.

My gaze drags over him, each breath he takes, the tension strung tight through his shoulders, across the line of his throat, beneath skin too pale to hide anything.

I watch him.

And I wonder if he knows he's shaking.

He doesn’t reach for his wand.

And I don’t reach for mine.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

“Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery.”

— J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire 

The steam thickens between us, curling in tendrils, soft as breath and twice as damning.

He doesn’t move. Neither do I. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks again, quieter this time. Like maybe the question isn’t just about objects. Or missions.

Still, I don’t answer.

He lets out a slow breath. Not quite a sigh. More like… surrender.

“That memory,” I murmur finally, “you showed it to me for a reason.”

A pause stretches, thin and precise. Measured like everything he does.

“You wanted to know what happened when I was fifteen,” he says.

“You didn’t have to show me that.”

“No” he replies. “But it was the truth.”

My fingers trail the water’s edge. “You know,” I say slowly, “we got the strategy all wrong.”

He raises an eyebrow. A flicker of interest.

“They thought you needed a rival. A dark reflection. Someone who could match you—beat you. But what you really needed was…” I pause, then finish, “someone kind. Someone who stayed.”

He huffs a laugh. Bitter. Dry. “A friend?”

I nod.

His mouth curls—not in amusement. In cruelty. “You’re six years too late, Hermione.”

My name, from his lips, still feels like a blade.

“Maybe” I whisper.

The water laps softly against tile. A bubble pops near my wrist like punctuation.

He steps closer. Just a half-step. Careful. Like I’m something fragile. Or armed.

“Why did you come back to the castle?” he asks.

I swallow. “I needed something.”

“And did you find it?”

“No.”

His head tilts. Shadows carve strange shapes across the hollow of his cheek.

“Then you’re still playing” he murmurs.

“Aren’t we both?”

Another silence.

“Did you open the Chamber again?” I ask. My voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze doesn’t waver. “No.”

“There’s a rumor.”

“There’s always a rumor,” he replies. “But I haven’t touched the entrance, not since Myrtle.”

I watch him carefully.

And then he says—almost like a confession: “And yet… you still think I’m a monster.”

The words land like stones. He doesn’t flinch.

“That’s why you came back, isn’t it?” he continues. “To finish what you started. To kill me. End the poisoned Gaunt line.”

I go still.

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the bath, water glistening off pale skin and clenched knuckles.

There’s no malice in his voice. Only weariness.

“What happened while I was away?” I ask tentatively.

His expression twitches. A crack in the mask.

Then, low—so faint I almost miss it:

“I went back to the family”

The phrasing makes my stomach twist because I know what he did in the future.

My eyes drop to his hand beneath the water.

A ring glints.

Black stone. Gold band.

The air stutters in my lungs.

“You did it” I whisper, wondering if he has already made his second Horcrux.

He doesn’t confirm, doesn’t deny. But his eyes meet mine again—and in them, something heavy has settled. Not triumph.

Resignation.

“It’s all about legacy, isn’t it?” he says. “Blood. Names. Power passed down through broken hands.”

His voice is brittle. Like he’s quoting something he no longer believes in.

“My mother” he continues, his voice breaking, “used a love potion on a Muggle. Like Myrtle. She trapped him.”

A beat.

“When it wore off, he left. Of course he did.”

The steam curls like smoke around his face, softening the sharp lines.

“I was born in a loveless bed” he says. “Not from want, not from choice. Just… manipulation. That’s what she gave me.”

There’s no edge to the words, just grief worn thin with time.

“Did you kill them?” I ask, carefully.

His eyes flick to mine. And there it is—buried under the weight of every mask he’s ever worn.

A flicker.

Something unguarded.

“I’d been planning it since the summer” he says.

My heart slows, thick and heavy.

“What stopped you?”

He lifts one pale hand from the water and points to me.

Simple.

Direct.

“Oh” I breathe.

He leans back, jaw tight, eyes closing as the silence falls again. Between us. Around us. Inside us.

Steam rises.

The light softens.

“You came back to stop me,” he says quietly. “To stop me from turning into… something other.”

His voice is calm, but beneath the calm, something cracks.

“It was never my intention, you know. Control—yes. Power over death—yes. But pain? Misery? That wasn’t the goal.”

He shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.

“Do you believe me?”

My breath hitches. I don’t want to lie.

“I’m beginning to, yes.”

His eyes search mine, too openly, too raw.

“Please... Please just tell me… this isn’t all manipulation, is it?” His voice breaks, the question trembling loose. “It’s not just strategy? Am I that—” his throat bobs— “detestable?”

It takes me too long to answer.

Not because I don’t know.

But because I do.

And it terrifies me.

My lashes lower. “No. It’s not just a strategy”

A sharp creak sounds outside the door—stone shifting, maybe a pipe groaning. Reflexively, I flinch. My eyes dart to the entrance.

Tom stills.

For one breathless moment, neither of us moves. The world feels paper-thin, like if anyone were to step through, the illusion would shatter.

Then—nothing. Just the murmur of water, the hush of steam.

Tom’s gaze returns to me. There's no smirk or snide remark. Just... stillness.

He nods once, as if that’s enough. As if it’s more than he expected. Then, a small, broken smile curls his mouth, something resembling grief. 

“I thought you might have used Amortentia on me” he says quietly. “That’s how obsessed I’ve become with you.”

The words land like a stone in my stomach.

“I wouldn’t” I whisper. “Not ever.”

His eyes flick up, and for a moment I think I see something like gratitude.

“I know” he says. “Slughorn’s been teaching me Occlumency. I even asked him to help me test how I’d react to Amortentia… if someone ever tried again.”

I pause, stunned by the implication. That he’d carved defenses into the wound Myrtle left behind. And that it still bleeds.

The steam curls between us again, coiling in patterns like serpents in sleep.

“I used to think power would make me safe” he continues. “But power doesn’t change anything. It just… makes me more paranoid. More aware”

I don’t respond.

He turns to me again, slowly. Carefully.

“Did you feel something for him too?” he asks, and I blink.

“Who?”

“The boy you left behind” he says. “In your time.”

My heart stutters.

He must have seen it—in my memories, maybe, when I was writing in the diary. Or guessed.

Or perhaps listening in on my conversation with Clarissa that first week in Hogwarts, when I was telling her about my tumulous affair with the Bulgarian Quidditch player. 

“Yes” I whisper. “But not like this.”

He watches me.

“What’s this, then?” he asks, but the question is quieter than it should be.

I answer the only way I can.

“It’s a tragedy” I whisper with a humorless laugh.

The words hang in the air, too soft to take back.

His mouth parts—just slightly. And for once, he has no retort.

Just silence.

A beat.

Then another.

And he moves.

The space between us evaporates like steam under flame.

His fingers brush the edge of the tub.

My breath stutters.

He steps in, slow, deliberate, letting the water wrap around him without breaking eye contact. It climbs his ribs. His sternum. His collarbone.

He kneels across from me, knees brushing mine beneath the surface, and the steam closes in like a shroud.

“It doesn’t feel like tragedy” he says, voice rough.

I swallow. Hard.

“No?” I manage.

His hand lifts—slowly, as if testing whether I’ll flinch. He brushes a knuckle along my jaw. The gesture is tentative. Alien. Like he’s read about touch but never really practiced it.

His thumb lingers just below my cheekbone. He’s not pulling me in. Not claiming.

He’s asking.

I close my eyes. Let my breath settle.

And then I lean forward.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

Our foreheads touch, soft and slow and aching.

The contact is unbearable in its gentleness.

“I am sorry” I murmur, my breath skimming his lips. “I didn’t know.”

His voice is barely a breath. “I know”

I kiss him.

Not like before—not frantic, not weaponized. There’s no strategy in it now. 

Just lips brushing lips. Just the hollow space between want and fear collapsing.

He shudders.

His hand slips to my neck, then my shoulder, then down—trembling slightly, like he doesn’t quite trust this is real.

Like he expects me to vanish.

I deepen the kiss, fingers threading through his damp curls. He gasps into my mouth—quiet, startled, undone—and the sound punches something loose in me.

His hands anchor at my hips under the water. Not rough. Not demanding. Just present.

And I melt.

The bathwater laps gently around us, muffling the edges of the world. The only sound now is breath—and touch—and the subtle, quiet breaking of every rule I set for myself.

His lips part against mine, tongue brushing tentatively, reverently.

It feels like prayer. It feels like mourning.

His teeth graze my bottom lip and my body arches involuntarily. I feel his hands tighten just slightly—still cautious, still searching.

We stay like that.

A half-kiss.

A near-confession.

A stillness strung tight between two people who should never have been allowed to touch.

And then—

He pulls back, far enough to look at me. His mouth is tinted pink. His eyes are darker than night.

And his voice, when it comes, is barely more than a breath.

“You feel like a future I was never supposed to have.”

My throat tightens.

“You feel like a choice I’ve already made,” I whisper.

And I know—I know—this isn’t strategy anymore.

I should run.

I should reach for my wand.

But all I can do is watch him.

Because I see the serpent now—not coiled in hatred or fury.

But wounded.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

“For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first.”

— Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

A brush of his lips—light, brief, unbearably gentle—presses against mine. My heart flutters inside my chest from the sweetness and simplicity behind it. He pulls back slowly, barely, lips ghosting over mine one last time like a benediction.

Then, soft as the steam curling between us, he whispers with a smirk, “Good night, Hermione. Thank you”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Water sways in his wake, barely rippling. The door clicks shut behind him.

I exhale, shakily. My fingers press to my lips, still tingling.

And for the first time in weeks, I feel… clean.

Not physically. Not yet. But somewhere deeper. A place that’s been crusted over with failure and fear and too many unshed tears.

I grab the glass bottle of shampoo and scrub it through my hair, the scent of mint and rosemary seeping into my skin. I wash, properly this time—every part of me. As if trying to separate who I was an hour ago from who I am now.

I repair my torn cloak with a flick of my wand—“Reparo”—and dry it with a charm.

Then, I step out of the prefects’ bathroom, brows flicking momentarily upon realizing that my charms at the front door were interfered with.

Odd.

There’s a bounce in my step as I wind my way back to the dungeons. The stone walls don’t feel quite as hostile. The cold doesn't bite quite as hard.

When I return to the Slytherin dormitory, the room is empty. Quiet. My bed waits, neatly made.

I change quickly into a fresh set of clothes—thick tights, dark jumper, wool skirt—and ward the perimeter with a circle of noise-canceling charms.

I have work to do.

***

Wind cuts across the battlements as I cast the final circle.

Runes shimmer on the stone floor, carved in old Norse and faded Latin. The candlelight flickers in patterns I can't control, drawn by leyline tension and something older than Hogwarts itself.

The solstice is here.

The veil is thinning.

Tonight, the boundaries between time and space loosen, if only briefly. Just enough to slip a whisper through.

I sit cross-legged at the center of the circle, clutching the mirror Luna gave me. The surface is cracked but still responsive. I can feel it vibrating faintly in my hands.

I breathe deep. Still my mind. Channel the question—not through voice, but intent.

Luna, I need you.

The mirror clouds.

Then—

Her face flickers into view. She's wrapped in fur-lined robes and her eyes glow faintly in the dimness of some future sanctuary. I see the glint of snowfall behind her.

"Hello, Hermione" she says, as if we’ve only been apart for moments.

My breath catches.

"I found the diary" I whisper. "And I tried to destroy it but I failed. The goblin forge. The fiendfyre. He was always one step ahead perhaps watch-”

Luna interrupts me "We were afraid of that. The mnemonic bridge in the Horcrux—we underestimated how deeply he'd tie it to himself."

“Luna, listen. He showed me something. A memory. His first murder. His… trauma."

Luna's expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker in her eyes.

"He shared that willingly?"

"Yes"

"Then he wants you to understand him. Not out of sentiment. Out of strategy."

I swallow, shaking my head. "Luna, that’s not the case. I think I may have done it. I think I might have reached him.”

She listens as I recount everything—Devonshire and the Highlands, the failed Fiendfyre, the diary, the memory, the bath. I try to be clinical, objective. But emotion laces through every word.

Luna doesn’t interrupt. Not once.

When I’m finished, she’s silent for a long time.

Then: “Hermione… Nothing has changed in the future yet… Are you absolutely certain it’s him you’re reaching?”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“Tom Riddle is—was—a master manipulator. You’ve said that yourself. He’s capable of mimicry, seduction, even vulnerability. Especially if it gets him what he wants.”

I flinch. “He hasn’t asked for anything.”

“Are you sure?”

Her voice is soft. Not unkind. But it lands like stone.

“What if he has changed but we haven’t seen the results yet?” I ask, almost a whisper. “What then?”

Luna sighs, her wrinkled eyes flashing with sadness. "You need to sever the tether. You can’t keep feeding him pieces of yourself. It’s how he survives."

“You mean the diary? I told you I need Basilisk venom. I tried the chamber… I couldn’t open it. Besides, I don’t think that’s the way to go about things. I trust him and he trusts me"

Luna’s fingers lift, adjusting a series of charms glowing at her wrist. I see a flicker of runes I can’t quite place.

"Then you’ll need him to open the chamber for you so you can collect a Fang. And when he does… you take what you need. Quickly. Cleanly. Before he realises it’s not trust."

My stomach plummets. “No. I can’t do that”

Her voice drops to a whisper.

"Then we were wrong to send you."

The mirror flickers.

"Wait! Luna!"

"You have one last shot, Hermione. One. And you’re out of time."

The image begins to fade.

"Luna! Please—"

But she’s gone.

The candlelight dies.

The wind howls.

And I—

I am left alone with the silence of the stars, the echo of her warning, and the weight of a choice I haven’t yet made.

December 21st, 1999 – Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire – 12:00 AM

The tea is warm.

And it’s currently soaking through the front page of The Daily Prophet.

Draco Malfoy stares at the impossible figure across the drawing room, saucer trembling between his fingers.

“You—you’re not real,” he breathes. “You can’t be—”

“I’m not,” Tom Riddle replies smoothly, voice like silk sliding over glass. “Not truly. Just a shadow. A ghost of intention.”

He smiles—tilts a smile, really—and takes in the room with the quiet poise of a predator dressed for court.

“I stepped through,” he adds, glancing toward the hearth. “To observe.”

Draco backs up until his spine meets the wall. His heartbeat hammers like a snare drum.

“We destroyed you,” he says. “Every Horcrux. Potter—we won.”

Tom nods, almost absently. “I believe you.”

Draco gapes.

Tom’s eyes flick around the manor—once a symbol of power, now more mausoleum than estate. He walks without hurry, fingers brushing along the mantle, the spines of forgotten books, the dust-thick shelves.

“I need to know what I became.”

And just like that, he starts removing volumes. Stacks of history, of spells, of parchment long yellowed with time. He plucks up newspapers, their headlines long since faded to tragedy:

MINISTRY FALLS TO VOLDEMORT. THE DARK YEARS BEGIN.

A CHILD NAMED HARRY POTTER SURVIVES.

THE FINAL BATTLE AT HOGWARTS.

THE GOLDEN TRIO.

Draco watches, helpless. The air feels wrong. Too still. Like the house is holding its breath.

Tom lingers on the last clipping. His finger trails across the photograph of Hermione Granger—frozen mid-laugh, windswept curls glowing faintly in the camera flash.

His expression shifts—just slightly. Not quite recognition. Not quite fondness. But something sharp. Something possessive.

Draco finds his voice, brittle and thin. “What do you want?”

Tom doesn’t answer. 

And Draco realizes—too late—that the past hasn’t come to haunt him. 

It’s come to take inventory.

December 21st, 2044 – Diagon Alley, Underground Vault

Luna jolts upright, nearly spilling the runes.

The magical ley lines have shifted—violently.

Not a time ripple. Not a minor echo.

A presence. Ancient. Wrong.

“Oh no,” she whispers, knowing exactly what was the cause. 

She grips her wand, heart pounding.

“He's found way to travel into the future. Hermione... She’s too close now. Too… compromised.”

The others gather—Theo, Neville, Chen, Padma, even old Flitwick’s portrait nodding grimly.

"Is it too late?" Neville asks, his eyes dark. 

Luna’s answer is immediate. "No"

December 21st, 1944 – Slytherin Dormitory, 3:17 AM

Hermione Granger

I’m dreaming.

No, falling.

The kind of fall that jerks your spine awake just before impact.

I wake gasping, hand already flying to my wand.

The dorm is quiet. Too quiet. Except—it isn’t.

Because someone is in the room with me.

The air is too charged.

I roll, wand tight in my grip, blankets half-tangled around my legs. “Who’s there?”

A beat.

Then: “Granger?”

The voice is wrong. It doesn’t belong in this timeline.

It’s young, familiar. 

I freeze.

The wandlight flicks on before I finish whispering Lumos.

And there—standing at the foot of my bed like a ghost in borrowed time—is Draco Malfoy.

Eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Pale and furious and breathing like he’s just run across a battlefield.

I gape.

He’s real.

Not an echo. Not a memory. He’s here.

His eyes are bloodshot. His jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitch.

“What the bloody fuck, Granger?” he hisses. “You had one job to do. How could you have failed so spectacularly?”

Chapter Text

“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!”

— Scrooge, Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol 

I sit up, the blankets clutched to my chest. “Malfoy?”

“You were supposed to stop him,” he snarls. “Kill him. End the mission. Not—” His voice breaks. “Not let him get to my future.”

My stomach plunges.

“What are you talking about?” I whisper. “He hasn’t—”

“He traveled,” Draco spits. “To 1999. December 21st. He stood in my manor. He read the headlines of his own fucking rise and fall.”

No. No, no, no.

I feel the heat drain from my face, every drop of blood pulled downward by gravity and guilt.

“He saw what he becomes,” Draco snaps.

“Draco,” I whisper, throat tight, “I didn’t know. I—I thought…”

“Oh, you thought, did you?” He strides forward. “You thought with what, Granger? Because it sure as hell wasn’t your head. Or your wand. Or your bloody mission.”

My fingers curl around the sheets. My wand is still in my hand, trembling.

“I opened myself up,” I say, hollowly. “I let him see me.”

Draco scoffs, holding the bridge of his nose. “And now he’s seen everything, along with the way to the future”

I flinch.

He’s not wrong.

I want to argue. I want to scream. I want to go back in time again and slap myself awake in that bath before I ever let Tom Riddle near my mouth.

But all I do is whisper: “He said he wanted to change.”

“He’s a Legilimens!” Draco hisses. “A manipulator. You really think he can’t fake regret?”

“He showed me what happened to him,” I say, soft. “What Myrtle did. What his family did. I thought—”

Draco’s eyes blaze. “You thought he was salvageable. You thought you were the exception. The one girl who could tame the serpent”

Silence.

“You’re not,” he says at last. “You’re just the next scar”

It hurts because it’s true.

I close my eyes.

A breath. Then another.

When I open them again, my voice is steady.

“If he’s seen the future… that might change him”

Draco’s laugh is sharp and broken. “Or it might just help him win”

I feel sick.

I reach for my robes, my boots, casting a dressing charm over myself with shaking hands. “We need to tell Luna”

“She already knows” he says flatly. “She’s the one who sent me because they needed someone who was intimately aware of how dark and twisted the Dark Lord is. Βecause... Well.. You… Are compromised.”

I freeze.

The word lands like a slap.

Compromised.

I want to argue. I want to say no, I’m still in control.

But am I?

Luna doesn’t trust me anymore.

Hell, I don’t trust me anymore.

Draco moves toward the fireplace, brushing ash from his coat.

His blond hair is disheveled, as if he had to rush back into the past without the chance to grab a comb.

“What do we do?” I whisper.

Draco’s eyes flicker to me—sharp and reluctant.

“We stop pretending he’s changed and we end him once and for all”

***

The fireplace crackles as I pace, robes half-clasped, wand tapping restlessly against my thigh. Draco stands with maddening ease, arms folded, like he didn’t just cross time and space to yell at me.

“What exactly happened when he arrived?” I mutter, brushing ash off the hem of my cloak

Draco sighs like this is all terribly inconvenient for him. “I was drinking tea, minding my own business, looking at a very long list of potential brides my mother selected for me—most of whom I think might actually be dead now—when he just… appeared.”

I stare at him.

“Out of thin air,” he adds, gesturing with mock flair. “Like some manic Victorian ghost”

My jaw tightens. “And you didn’t immediately hex him?”

“Oh, believe me,” Draco says, “I nearly choked on my tea. But he didn’t attack. He didn’t even sneer. He just asked. Wanted to know what happened. What he became.”

“And you showed him?”

“What was I going to do?” Draco snaps. “Throw a teaspoon at a ghost?”

I fold my arms, exhaling through my nose. “He read the papers.”

“All of them,” Draco replies grimly. “Every headline from 1979 to 1999. The war. The trials. His own name etched into tombstones and textbooks. He read about how he died, Hermione. And how you survived.”

The room goes quiet. That name still feels foreign on Draco’s tongue—Hermione—like he’s borrowing it from another lifetime. 

I shake my head. “He said he wanted to change.”

Draco scoffs, raking a hand through his hair. “He’s always said that to the right people. Change is just the word he uses when ‘conquer’ sounds too uncouth.”

I turn away, trying to steady my thoughts, but it’s useless. My body still buzzes from the bath, from the memory of Tom’s breath against mine, the weight of his hand on my hip like a promise I should have run from.

Instead, I leaned in.

I sigh, clasping my cloak tighter and pressing my hands against the fireplace.

“How are you even in the girls’ dorm?” I ask.

Draco shrugs. “Luna told me the exact bed, dungeon, time. Maybe the enchantments don’t apply. Maybe they placed the curse recently. Or maybe—” He glances around the empty room lazily, pausing to observe the untouched beds, the packed suitcases.. “There are no girls left here apart from. You.”

Something I had barely glanced at after my encounter with Tom.

Merlin’s beard, I was too high on the endorphins coursing through my veins to think clearly.

“Well that's rather convenient ” I allow with a deep sigh before I stand slowly, feeling as I am sixty five again.  “Would you like some coffee?”

Draco gives me a look. “Don’t be a sadist. Tea. Always tea.”

I roll my eyes but wave my wand toward the small heating charm in the corner. A kettle begins to hum.

He rubs the bridge of his nose. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”

“It’s almost five”

“Exactly”

I busy myself with two cracked mugs and a tin of dubious-looking leaves.

“So what about all the other students?” Draco asks after a moment, scanning the eerily empty dormitory and corridors. “Shouldn’t there be at least a few suspicious Slytherins lurking?”

I pause, halfway through pouring hot water. “Now that you mention it…”

Draco raises an eyebrow and accepts the offered teacup with a nod.

“Well… I did disappear for over forty days. Possibly scared off the entire dormitory. Rumors of the basilisk waking have been making rounds. Maybe they think the room’s cursed now. Or maybe they’ve just gone back home for Yule Celebrations”

He sips cautiously. The moment the liquid hits his tongue, he sputters it back into the cup.

“What the bloody hell, Granger?! Are you trying to kill me?”

I blink, bewildered. “Is there something wrong with the tea?”

“‘Something wrong’?” he exclaims, holding the bridge of his nose again like I’ve given him an aneurysm. “It smells like mildew and rot. What did you do to it?”

I squint at the cup, thoughtful. “Might’ve been the cheese and bread I stored in the same bag.”

“You steeped tea next to fermented dairy?” He looks personally offended.

My lips twitch. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Queen? Granger, I am royalty.”

I chuckle despite herself, tension bleeding slightly from my shoulders.

Then with a sigh, I rub my temple. “I am glad you are here. Luna probably foresaw the hormonal disaster about to unfold.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Not my fault you’ve been busy snogging the Dark Lord instead of stabbing him.”

“Technically, I've snogged him while stabbing him” I say. “Twice.”

Draco groans and gives me a look of pure disgust. "Saints preserve us. Spare me the details of whatever blood play you and the Dark Lord are into" 

I sigh and drop onto the velvet seat beside him. “I contacted Luna tonight and told her what happened. That he might not be a monster”

Draco lifts an eyebrow. “And instead, he showed up in my future in his ghost projection form or whatever that was before he blinked out of existence again”

I nod grimly. “That does rather skew the narrative. One positive thing is he still hasn't figured out how to stay in the future”

Draco sits closer to the fire, slouching in the way that only a teenager forced to time-travel against his will can manage. “True. Now, tell me everything” he says.

So I do.

The Room of Requirement. The blood needle. The diary. The failed Fiendfyre. The forge in Devonshire. The moment in the bath. His hands. His voice. My failure.

“I even tried to open the passage to the basilisk chamber” I admit. “Didn’t work. Wrong words or blood, I suppose.”

Draco grimaces. “Lucky. Or you’d be basilisk chow.”

Draco’s stands, pacing again, boot heels clicking against enchanted stone, hands buried in his robes like he’s trying not to throttle the very walls of Hogwarts. "There must be a way"

“I told you,” I say, rubbing my temples. “I tried everything.”

“Clearly not everything,” he shoots back. “Did you even try calling on the Sword?”

“Yes,” I grit out. “I stood in the middle of the Forbidden Forest and begged, Draco. It didn’t come. Besides I doubt it would have worked. The only reason it could destroy Horcruxes in the first place was because it had soaked Basilisk venom. And... Well.. Technically this hasn't happened yet”

He stops pacing and turns, arms crossed tightly, disbelief shadowing his face. “Of course it didn’t show up”

My head jerks up. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs—sharp, defensive. “Because you’re not pure anymore.”

My jaw tightens. “Say that again. Slower.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he snaps. “I mean—your intentions aren’t pure. Not like they used to be. You hesitated, Granger. You faltered. You fell for him. That sword of yours? It knows.”

I stare at him, furious.

And the worst part?

He’s right.

The sword reveals itself to those who act with bravery, sure—but also with clarity. With purpose. The second I started second-guessing the mission—started looking into Tom’s eyes and seeing a boy instead of a monster—I stopped being who the sword would choose.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Draco mutters, running a hand through his hair, “but maybe I should try calling to the sword.”

“What's the point? Besides, you’re not a Gryffindor,” I remind him acidly.

“No,” he says. “But I’m not sleeping with the enemy either.”

I throw the nearest pillow at him again.

He bats it away, unimpressed. “You were supposed to destroy the Horcrux.”

“I tried!” My voice cracks. “Do you know how many ruins I’ve been to? How many forges, black market vaults, cursed lakes? Every path I took, he already knew. He sabotaged the Forge. Rewired the Fiendfyre runes. He was always a step ahead.”

Draco goes still. “Then he knows the diary is a Horcrux? It wasn't some accidental thing he did?”

I nod. “He said as much when he showed me the book on Horcrux creation. He’s protecting it. Like it matters. Like I matter.”

He scoffs. “He’s protecting it because it’s a piece of him. Not because he cares about you.”

I don’t respond.

Because I’m not sure he’s right.

And that’s the most dangerous part.

“Kill the basilisk, then?” Draco suggests. “Find the Chamber, stab the bloody thing, harvest a fang, and be done with it.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say, exasperated. “I told you, I can’t open the Chamber. Parseltongue can’t be faked that easily. And there’s no way I’m bringing him with me.”

"Didn't the Weasel open it?" he asks, thinking. 

"Ron" I correct "said the same words I did. I have been studying Parseltongue for over forty year now. I suspect the fact it didn't open may have something to do with the fact I am not pure blooded. That or Ron is a Parselmouth and is not aware. Or Riddle has changed the enchantments? " 

“Well, we’ll figure something out. I am as pure as it gets when it comes to blood so perhaps it will open for me? ” Draco mutters. “and if that doesn't work... Ah, well. Blood magic, runework, a cursed sock—whatever it takes.”

He drops into a chair across from me again, scowling like a war general who’s just been handed a blank map.

For a long time he remains silent, contemplating. I’m half-asleep when Draco speaks again.

“You look different, Granger.”

My eyes open slowly. I glance toward him where he sits—still in the same chair, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, wand tapping absently against his knee. He hasn’t moved in over an hour.

“You,” he clarifies, “but not really you.”

I sit up against the headboard, blanket still clutched to my chest. “Thanks,” I murmur. “That’s not ominous at all.”

He shrugs. “Your face is more… symmetrical.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Not a compliment,” he adds, nose wrinkling like he’s trying to solve a particularly unappetizing riddle. “Just… strange. You’ve always been pretty, in your ‘I-read-a-thousand-books-and-forgot-how-to-blink’ way. But now? It’s like your features have been fine-tuned. Aligned.”

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Gods. Don’t say ‘fine-tuned.’ I’m not a bloody violin.”

He watches me with narrowed eyes. “So. What exactly happened?”

I hesitate.

Then, resigned, I say, “A combination of blood ritual, the acceptance of my past self into this mission, and the memories of a sixty-five-year-old hag.”

Draco blinks. “I’m sorry—what?”

“When I first arrived—in 1998—I was instructed by Luna and Neville to find my younger self and perform a blood-binding ritual.”

“That sounds awfully like dark magic, Granger.”

“It was the only way,” I say with a shrug. “Besides, my younger self… wanted to help. And now I’m in this body. Or she’s in mine. Or—we’re merged. Present and past.”

Draco stares at me.

“All wrapped,” I add dryly, “into a package ripe for opening by the Dark Lord.”

He recoils like I’ve offered him a moldy crumpet. “Merlin’s left arse cheek, Granger.”

I offer a weak smile. “I’d say ‘language,’ but honestly, go off.”

He stands now, pacing across the hearth, looking deeply disturbed. “They really went all in, didn’t they? Luna, Neville... I thought they were -"

"Good?" I add for him, smiling in a humorless manner. "Being on the edge of extinction will do that to people"

He sighs, touching the bridge of his nose. "Well, whoever the bloody hell else signed off on this was not thinking clearly”

“I volunteered,” I say, voice hoarse.

“Sure,” he snaps. “But they still made the weapon.”

I flinch.

He looks at me again—really looks. And this time, I see something close to fury simmering behind his eyes.

“You called me foul, loathsome, evil once” he says quietly, “When the only thing I was trying to do was make my family proud”

I don’t reply. Because he’s not wrong.

“And they—they—sexualised you. Polished you. Sharpened you. Built you like a honeytrap and then threw you at him.”

His voice lowers to a dangerous whisper.

“At least you fell for him, Granger. Imagine how much worse it would’ve been if you hadn’t.”

Something in my chest pulls tight. It’s not shame. Not exactly. Not regret.

But something uglier.

I stare at the blanket in my lap.

“I think,” I whisper, “they thought it was the only way to get close. If I were… more tempting. If I looked like something he’d want.”

Draco laughs bitterly. “He doesn’t want people, Granger. He wants pieces. Leverage. Reverence.”

He stops pacing. "Is he even interested in intimacy? Because the Dark Lord of my time never once alluded to...Even worse just the mention of muggle-born witches and wizards was enough to rattle him. And your name, most of all. He couldn't fathom how a muggleborn -" 

He pauses looking at me."Does he know you are Muggleborn? You mentioned snogging, but you -" 

“I volunteered” I say again, more forcefully now. “He may not have known I was Muggleborn before but he definitely knows now. And if you must know, I helped design the spellwork. I chose the rituals. No one forced me”

Draco points at me. “But no one stopped you either.”

I go quiet.

He slumps into the chair again, shaking his head. “Luna’s going to kill me for saying this, but I don’t think you should be alone with him again.”

A bitter smile curves my mouth. “Too late.”

Draco exhales sharply through his nose, muttering something about idiotic Gryffindors and suicidal brilliance.

I let the silence settle for a moment before I say, “It’s not just hormones, you know. It’s… it’s understanding. He showed me things. His pain. His past. What made him—”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake” Draco groans. “Don’t say ‘he’s just misunderstood.’”

“I wasn’t going to!” I snap. “I was going to say: what made him doesn’t justify what he becomes. But it helps me understand how to stop it. That was the point.”

Draco crosses his arms. “Right. And when you’re kissing him again, what exactly are you planning to do? Implant a Horcrux detector on his tongue?”

I throw a pillow at him. He dodges it, laughing.

And despite myself—I laugh too.

For a moment, we’re young again. Bickering over homework. Arguing over house points. Surviving a war neither of us signed up for.

Then the moment passes.

And we’re back in the dormitory. With the fire dim. And time racing against us.

I sober first.

“We need a plan” I say. “Before New Year's.”

Draco pulls his wand. “Agreed. Because I didn’t come back just to watch you play therapist to the boy who nearly killed us all.”

I snort. “No. You came back to insult my face symmetry”

He smirks. “You’re welcome. We all need a reality check once in a while”

Chapter Text

“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.”

— Dr. Seuss

Draco is asleep in the chair by the fireplace, legs sprawled, mouth slghtly open.

He always sleeps like he’s bracing for bad news. Even now—head tipped back, arms folded across his chest—there’s tension in his jaw, like he’s holding his breath even in dreams. The light from the hearth flickers across his features, softening them. He looks... young. Too young for everything he’s carried.

I can't imagine how it must have felt to see the villain of your story return back to hunt you.

The one saving grace in all of this is that Tom may have succeeded in going forth into the future but at least he didn't manage to stay, his “time machine concoction” incomplete. 

I sit across from Draco, legs pulled to my chest, watching the fire cast long shadows over the floor. The tea’s gone cold in my hands, but I don’t get up. Not yet.

Instead, I remember.

London – August 1998

The letter had arrived three weeks after the war ended.

It was written in tightly wound script on clean parchment, unsigned—but unmistakably Draco.

He had asked—quietly, almost clinically—if I would consider testifying on his behalf during the upcoming Wizengamot proceedings. Not for forgiveness. Just... truth.

Harry said yes without hesitation. Ron needed more time. In the end, I convinced him. “For fairness,” I’d said. “Not for friendship.”

The trial lasted three days.

Draco never cried. But I remember the way his hands trembled when he took the stand. The way his voice went hollow when they asked about the Dark Lord’s presence in the Manor. The way he couldn’t look anyone in the eye when he said, “I didn’t want him there.”

When the verdict came back—not guilty, on grounds of coercion and incomplete agency—he didn’t react at first.

And then he smiled. Just once. Wide and bright and real.

The first real thing I’d seen on his face in years.

That smile vanished outside the courtroom.

Victims’ families had gathered in the square. They shouted curses, flung rotten fruit and torn pages from the Prophet. Someone threw a tomato that hit his temple. Ron shielded him with a wordless spell. Harry stepped between him and the crowd. I pulled him aside by the wrist.

He looked at me like he didn’t understand what was happening.

And then he was gone.

A week later, I sent him a letter.

I didn’t know why. Maybe because I still saw that smile. Maybe because no one else did.

He didn’t reply.

I sent another.

Still nothing.

So I sent one more—with the name of a Muggle psychiatrist scribbled at the bottom, along with a note: “He won’t understand magic. But he’ll understand pain. Try him.”

Draco owl’d back two days later.

“You’re out of your mind. I’m not joining a cult, Granger”

But a month later, he started going.

The sessions were awkward, he said. The man—Dr. Wilson—thought he was delusional. But he listened. And after a while, Draco realized he didn’t need magic to describe guilt. Or grief. Or the way the Manor echoed at night like a mausoleum full of unburied sins.

He sent me a thank-you note. “Turns out your cult leader makes decent tea. And the Muggle world? It’s weird. Strangely structured. But interesting.”

That became our ritual. Letters. Banter. Muggle books and movie recommendations (apparently Dr. Wilson was a big Star Wars fan and thought Draco ought to watch it)

Two days later he owl'd me, saying the Emperor reminded him of his aunt.

I told him he had Skywalker hair.

He didn’t know how to take that.

***

I blink, my mind firmly back to the present as I stand in the Slytherin Common Room. The memory came back unbidden and with too much clarity. Which is odd considering those events happened forty years prior in my time. 

I move through the halls slowly, wand tucked into my sleeve, footfalls silent on the stone. Every few steps, I pause—listening. Watching.

Tom.

I haven’t seen him since the bath.

The recent memory pulses behind my eyes like a charm gone warm again: lips barely touching, steam curling between us, his voice like a wound when he whispered “Good night, Hermione.”

And now—nothing.

I go upstairs.

The boys’ seventh-year dormitory is dim and quiet. Most of the beds are stripped. Suitcases half-packed, gone for the break. But his isn’t.

Tom’s bed is still made, of course. Not a wrinkle out of place. No sign of life. But something feels… off.

The trunk at the foot of his bed is gone.

I blink. Step closer.

Not just packed. Vanished.

I look around the room—sheets crisp, books cleared, wardrobe empty.

He’s gone.

My fingers grip the edge of the carved bedpost. I feel suddenly cold.

He left.

No note. No message. Not even the decency of an illusion to hide the absence.

If I hadn’t been convinced before about his intentions I certainly am now.

Magic flickers at my fingertips, as if reality is an old TV with static. 

November 1998

I broke things off with Ron.

We hadn’t been happy for a long time. Too many memories. Too many mismatched futures. When I asked for space, he said okay. But he didn’t ask why. 

Draco sent a letter the very next day, as if he knew. 

“Stopped seeing the Weasel? Probably a good idea. Doubt he would approve of you writing me bedtime letters”

I told him Ron didn’t know, curt and simple. 

He replied:“Why not Hermione?”

I didnt reply for a while after that.

I tried to focus on work. Research. World repair.

Then one morning, an owl arrived with a single line: “Happy Yule. Or Christmas. Or whatever strange Muggle ritual you’re preparing for. May your coffee be disgusting and your books overwritten.”

I laughed for q good ten minutes before I wrote back.

He reached the “Empire strikes back" by late February. 

“Do you want to watch “Return of the Jedi” together?” he’d asked awkwardly one night. 

I’d said yes.

I invited him to my empty flat in London. My parents were still in Australia, unaware they had a daughter; it seemed I’d been too thorough.

Draco wore black. Stood in the hallway like it might bite him.

I made coffee and salted caramel, buttery pop-corn.

He sneered.

“That’s not a beverage,” he said. “That’s a war crime.”

“You’ve only had bad coffee,” I told him. “Let me show you something better.”

We went to a café down the street the very next day. The barista wore eyeliner and sang loudly as he brewed.

Draco ordered reluctantly. Took one sip. Paused.

“Still disgusting,” he said. But finished the whole cup.

Somewhere between “Return of the Jedi” and “The phantom of menace” I realized I was falling for him.

That scared me more than the war ever had.

So I stopped writing.

No letters. No answers.

Just silence.

Ten months later, I saw his name in the paper and I felt my stomach drop.

Draco Malfoy Engaged to Astoria Greengrass.

Present – Slytherin Dormitory, 1944

I am in front of the kitchens, tickling the green pear. 

Blinking in perplex, I press my fingers to my lips and close my eyes.

Why are those memories coming back to me? And why with such clarity? Is it because Draco is here with me?

Time is bending, I realise, feeling my stomach do a somersault.

Oh, no.

What has Tom done again?

The pear giggles. The door opens and I step inside, feeling as if I am walking into an old dream. 

The warmth of the kitchens spills around me like a quilt—roasting meats, baking bread, something clove-heavy simmering on the stove. A flurry of house-elves descend on me almost immediately.

“Miss Hermione!” Tippy cries, wringing her hands. “You is too pale! You is too thin! You is not eating properly!”

I offer a weak smile. “I’m here now. Something simple, please. Sandwiches, toast, tea. Enough for two.”

The elves scatter with comical speed.

I sit on a little stool near the fire while the food is wrapped. I’m still numb. Still thinking.

Footsteps echo behind me, followed by the unmistakable thump of someone bumping into a kitchen counter.

“Professor?” I ask without turning.

“Ah! Miss Leclair!” Slughorn’s voice booms, overly cheerful and slightly slurred. “The very Granger—I mean, student—I hoped to see!”

Black dots appear behind my eyes, blurring my vision as if there’s static. Magic is sharp against my skin. Slughorn is there but suddenly he is older.

I blink and my vision has turned back to normal.

I turn. Slughorn’s pink-faced, shiny-eyed, yet still young and clearly enjoying something stronger than tea.

“I—Professor, I wasn’t expecting you—”

“Weren’t expecting me? My dear girl, I wasn’t expecting to find you down here. Thought you’d be off mooning about after young Riddle.”

My chest goes tight.

“I haven’t seen him,” I say, voice flat.

Slughorn waves a hand. “Oh, well, he’s off, isn’t he? Malfoy Manor, I believe. One of the old families invited him for the holiday. Quite the coup. Very hush-hush, of course.”

My blood runs cold.

“He left?”

“Oh yes. Didn’t tell anyone, but I may have seen him at the Floo. All very mysterious. Cloak and wand. He’s very dramatic, you know. Like a fairytale villain in a student uniform.”

I force a smile.

He left.

Without a word. Without a flicker of warning. After what we shared. After everything.

Slughorn chuckles and pats me on the shoulder with surprising strength. “Don’t look so forlorn, Miss Leclair. Young men are rarely as clever as they believe. Or as loyal.”

I nod. “Yes, sir. Quite right.”

The tea is ready. I carry it back to the common room with steady hands, even though my heart is tearing itself to ribbons behind my ribs.

He left.

For the thousandth time since this mission began, I wonder if all of it—every confession, every kiss, every almost-word he never quite said—was part of a longer con.

And I fell for it. Like a fool.

Chapter Text

“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”

— Carl Jung

Draco stirs awake to the smell of buttered toast and the soft clink of china. 

His eyes open slowly, lashes fluttering as he takes in the low firelight and the small table I’ve charmed between us.

“Breakfast,” I say, softly. “Late. But still counts.”

He blinks blearily. “That smells illegal.”

“It probably is. I bribed a house-elf with a knitted scarf.”

He sits up, groaning faintly. “Are you trying to start another S.P.E.W?”

I allow a brief smile before passing a plate toward him—eggs, toast, sausages, a scone that may or may not have survived my sneaking spell. “Eat.”

He obeys, surprisingly quiet. We both are, for a while.

The fire crackles.

“Tom has gone to Malfoy manor for the holidays. He must have used the time machine there hence why you saw him in the library of your house”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Tom? You are on a first name basis with the Dark Lord now, hm?”

“How else should I call him? Feels strange to call him Voldermort” I allow, thoughtfully. 

“And yet you still call me Malfoy” he says, looking at me with that glint that once made Harry want to hex him. “Didn’t take you for a lovesick teenager, Granger. Especially not one pining after Voldemort Junior.”

I scowl. “Ha ha. Let’s all laugh at the brightest witch of her age, who was bested by—”

“A sociopath,” he finishes dryly.

I blink. “You… read that psychology book I gave you?”

He shrugs. “It did shed light on some behaviours.”

We both stare at the fire for a while.

The silence isn’t quite comfortable. But it isn’t cruel.

Finally, I say, “Why did you come back, truly?”

Draco rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead. “When someone from the future shows up at your door and says they need your help to stop the Dark Lord from rising to power—in the past, again, might I add—it’s not really a choice, is it?”

Draco’s voice is flat. Bitter. He’s leaning against the chair, arms crossed, hair slightly tousled from whatever half-sleep I yanked him out of.

Draco snorts “You are our only hope, Obi-Wan Kenobi,”

I sip from a chipped cup. “Careful now… you are almost as obsessed as Dr. Wilson”

“I watched it again on a videotape. Strange little Muggle concoction. Good film, though. Loved the bit where Darth Vader turned out to be Luke’s father. Almost choked on my popcorn.”

I arch a brow. “You eat popcorn now?”

“I’m not a heathen, Granger. I was raised in a manor, not a dungeon.”

I smile again, letting the silence linger. I am afraid to broach the subject but -

“I believe the timeline is becoming unstable” I whisper into my tea cup. 

Draco raises his brows. “How so?”

I shrug “Either Tom has been abusing his new invention or that along with the fact you are here and it’s Yule… It must be what is causing the ripples”

He stays silent for a few moments. 

Then he leans back with a smile. “At least he’s not in Hogwarts so we can get on with what needs to be done”

I nod.

Tea steams between us in cracked mugs.

I reach for the honey, and he catches my hand halfway.

“Don’t ruin it,” he warns. “The elves got the sweetness right.”

I roll my eyes and mutter “Philistine.”

He smirks.

I keep expecting to feel something else—guilt, regret, confusion over the memories that bloomed so clearly in my mind earlier. But all I feel now is... warmth.

And then it happens. I feel magic crackling at my fingertips again. 

I lift my spoon to stir the tea, and—

I see her.

Not my reflection.

Me.

The real me.

Sixty-five. War-worn. Tight curls streaked with gray. The scar under my eye. The look I forgot I used to wear—tired, determined, lonely.

The girl I’m pretending to be is gone in the steel’s curve.

Only me. The truth of me.

I freeze.

The spoon trembles.

Across from me, Draco sets his fork down with a soft clink. I glance up—and see him staring, not at me, but at the table. At his own reflection in the dark liquid of his tea.

He looks shaken. Pale.

“What did you see?” I ask.

He hesitates. Then: “I saw... you. But not you.”

A pause.

“The way you looked... when you testified for me.”

My stomach curls.

“I thought I was imagining it,” he says. “But the way you stared at your spoon makes me think... I wasn’t.”

I nod, slowly. My fingers are still clenched around the handle.

“It’s the glitch,” I whisper with dread.

He runs a hand through his hair. 

The room is suddenly too still. The fire’s crackle sounds wrong, like it’s echoing from somewhere farther away. The shadows stretch long and thin across the stone floor. Time isn’t breaking—not yet. But it’s fraying.

And beyond all of this there’s something else that stirs. My heart is in my throat, fumbling inside my robes.

“Should we be worried?” Draco asks.

“Yes,” I say. “But not just because of the time bleed.”

I lower the spoon.

“I think the diary’s... misbehaving”

"Where is it?"

Draco’s voice is low, but not quiet. It carries the sharpness of someone who has waited too long to ask the question.

I look up from my half eaten toast.

"The diary," he clarifies. "Where is it, Granger?"

My breath stills.

I place my teacup on the table.. Slowly. Deliberately.

"With me" I say at last.

He stares. “On you?”

I nod.

He recoils like I’ve admitted to carrying a viper in my robes. “That’s—are you mad?”

“It’s safest this way. He can’t steal what he can’t separate from me.”

“Right, well, that’s one strategy. Perhaps that’s why he has been so insistent on undressing you”

I feel my cheeks heating but I don’t allow him the satisfaction of acknowledging his comment.

“It’s warded” I snap. “Shielded. I’ve locked it in a layered stasis charm, and the moment I stop feeling safe carrying it, it goes into the Room of Requirement.”

He mutters something under his breath, too fast for me to catch.

“What was that?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“I said” he repeats, glaring, “that carrying a sentient fragment of the Dark Lord’s soul around like a pocket diary is perhaps not your brightest Gryffindor moment.”

“It’s not sentient—yet.”

He snorts. “Right. It goes into the Room of Requirement, right now. The more you have it on you the more I feel like the Dark Lord is watching our every move”

“Fine” I mumble, sarcasm dripping after every word “Perhaps we may be able to steal his “time machine” while we are at it, especially now that he is off to Malfoy Manor”

“Don’t be naïve. He took it with him. I am certain he is now travelling through multiple timelines, reading newspaper articles, terrorising unsuspecting past Death Eaters and hatching his next plan”

I say nothing, aware that this may be true. Just because I was lucky and he happened to send one silver masque to Padma and appear in front of Draco doesn’t mean he hasn’t travelled or sent something else in multiple timezones. 

After breakfast we head to the Room or Requirement. 

We pace past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy three times, concentrating hard.

But nothing appears.

Draco exhales through his nose, already annoyed. “Let me try.”

I step aside.

He begins pacing—slow, deliberate. “I need a room where I can hide something. Where I can stash something dangerous. I need a version with limited access”

The door does not appear.

He tries again.

Nothing.

A third time—harder, angrier.

Still nothing.

Draco stops, eyes narrowing. “I’m doing it right, why isn't it working?”

“The Room doesn’t work the same way for everyone,” I say gently. 

He frowns. “I have done this before Granger. Or have you forgotten sixth year? I’m not asking for a bloody throne room. Just a containment space.”

He turns to me, and for the first time since he arrived, his voice drops. Not sarcastic. Not annoyed.

Tired. Cold.

“Perhaps because I’m not meant to be here.”

The air tightens and I frown.

“What do you mean?”

He rubs his arms. “It’s in the stones. The wards. They’re resisting. Like I’m pressing on skin that doesn’t want to be touched.”

I reach out, brush his sleeve with my fingers. “We’ll fix that. I’ll talk to Dumbledore. Perhaps since you are older you may require a formal invitation to officially stay in the castle”

“They were thorough when they sent you to the past. I …. Was an afterthought. I don't think they quite anticipated they would need to send a second person”

“I will talk to Dumbledore” I say again. 

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Going to ask him to adopt me?”

“No. Just to hire you.”

He huffs. “Perfect. From heir of a Dark house to assistant cauldron scrubber. Mum would be thrilled.”

I smile tiredly before I pace in front of the Room three times. 

The door melts open like wax. 

Draco mutters a low curse beside me as we step through. The Room of Requirement has reshaped itself again—walls lined in cold, black stone, sconces flickering with blue flames. A coffin-shaped pedestal rises from the center like a stage.

I hesitate.

The magic in the room tastes thick. Like syrup laced with ash.

Draco circles the pedestal warily, wand raised. “Feels like a graveyard.”

The diary in my pocket is pulsing faintly, with something very close to awareness. As if it knows I am about to abandon it and it does everything in its power to avoid it.

I walk to the pedestal and place it gently atop the stone. It doesn’t move. But something in the room does.

The torches flicker.

The air seems to retract—like the Room itself is holding its breath.

Draco edges inside, wand at the ready. “I hate this” he mutters.

“Good” I reply. “Hate keeps you sharp.”

I step toward the pedestal. The diary doesn’t move. But the air around it hums faintly—like static. I cast a reinforcing ward, then another. Draco does the same.

We begin warding the room—tether-blocks, intent-filters, object-bound entry clauses.

I whisper the final failsafe: Access: Hermione Leclair, Draco Malfoy, or any individual whose sole intent is the diary’s destruction.

The room seals shut. The door folds back into the wall, vanishing.

He smirks, but it’s thin. Tired. Like the edges of all our humor are going blunt with repetition. 

“I still don’t get it” he says. “If it’s sealed, if it’s locked in here—why do you look like it’s breathing down your neck?”

“Because it still is” I say softly, aware the diary's presence is still at the back of my mind.

Dark magic always leaves traces, I think but don't share it with him. 

Perhaps when we leave this room things will go back to normal. 

Chapter Text

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.”

— folk wisdom

Tom is still gone.

Two days now. No message. No sign. No explanation.

No goodbye.

I keep telling myself that’s good. It gives us space. Time. But his absence hangs like smoke—too much of it, lingering in the curtains, caught in my lungs.

I sit across from Draco near the fire, books piled between us. Spells, blood rituals, destructive runes, ancient venom-binding curses. Nothing feels right.

Later that day we go to the Bathrooms in the Second floor where Draco tries - but fails - to open the entrance with Parseltongue. 

Some of my original suspicions may be true. Tom must have done something, changed the incantation to the entrance. 

Maybe I'd been too bold claiming I understood Parseltongue. Maybe I should have said nothing. 

Regret tastes bitter in my mouth. 

Snow falls lightly across the battlements, melting on the stone before it can settle. I sit cross-legged, gloved fingers curled around a steaming mug of tea that tastes slightly less like mildew today.

Draco’s been working quietly, nose buried in a book on wand resonance. I think it’s a distraction. I don’t blame him.

Below, the grounds lie silvered in moonlight.

I feel it again.

A ripple in the air.

Like someone’s plucking the threads of the timeline—too gentle to see, but not too gentle to feel.

Slytherin students appear in the Tower but their uniform is new. I catch a flash of a familiar face, dark, oily hair and crooked nose. 

“Snape?” I ask, forgetting all about politeness. 

The boy doesn't look at me, simply returns to his notes about potions and a small letter that has been signed by L.E.

I blink and Draco is the one staring at me intensely.

“Time’s bleeding again” I say quietly.

Draco’s jaw clenches. “Is it because of me?”

“Maybe. Or maybe Tom.”

He nods slowly, and closes the book.

“We need to talk to Dumbledore,” he says. “About me. I can’t keep loitering like some displaced tourist.”

“I’ve been thinking the same,” I say, standing. “We’ll go to him tomorrow. Before the Christmas party. I’ll make up something. Or... not quite make it up.”

Draco sighs. “Can’t wait to be your charming assistant.”

“I’ll write you a forged résumé.”

He grins. “Make me a war orphan. Bit of mystery. Big wand.”

“Draco.”

He shrugs, smug. “Go big or go home.”

Later, we make our way to Dumbledore's office and the smells of lemon drops and quiet suspicion hangs in the air.  Sunlight filters in through the tall, arched windows, illuminating dust motes that dance in the air like lazy charms. Draco stands just behind me, his posture stiff, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe like a student awaiting expulsion. He hasn't said a word since we stepped inside.

Dumbledore watches us from behind his desk. His half-moon glasses reflect the morning light, hiding his eyes.

"Miss Leclair," he begins, his voice soft but not without gravity. "And… Mr. Malvois, is it?"

Draco nods tightly.

"From Paris," I say quickly. "Transferred for... health reasons. Magical convalescence."

Dumbledore’s eyes flicker to me, amused. "Magical convalescence now requires two?”

Draco clears his throat. “We’re engaged. Spiritually. Not… legally.”

I shoot him a glance. He shrugs.

Dumbledore steeples his fingers. "And what brings this spiritually bonded pair to my office this frosted morning?"

I straighten. "I’d like to request official clearance for Mr. Malvois to remain at Hogwarts. Ideally in a capacity that won’t disrupt the school's enchantments."

"Aha," he says, voice light. "So you’ve discovered the castle has begun to resist him."

I blink. "You knew?"

"Hogwarts is a living thing, Miss Leclair. It remembers those it has not yet met, and forgets those who don’t belong. Your companion walks between cracks. It makes the foundation… uneasy."

Draco shifts beside me. "So what do I do? Apply for magical residency? Register my wand with the staircases?"

Dumbledore chuckles. "A formal role may pacify the castle’s logic. Order, after all, soothes disruption."

I nod quickly. "We were thinking assistant to Professor Slughorn. He’s often overwhelmed. And Draco has extensive knowledge in Potions, Herbology, and... poison-related charms."

Draco coughs. “Academic interest only, of course.”

Dumbledore considers him for a long moment.

Then: "Very well. I will speak with Horace this evening. In the meantime, you may lodge in the South Wing—formerly guest quarters."

Draco relaxes a fraction. "Thank you."

But Dumbledore isn’t done.

His eyes find mine. Sharp. Knowing.

"You both carry time like bruises. Some wounds haven’t bled yet, but they will."

I swallow. "We’re doing our best."

He nods. "That’s why you’re still here. The moment you stop trying, Miss Granger, the moment you choose what is easy instead of right. .. the castle will know."

My breath catches. He used my real name and I am not entirely certain it was a glitch. 

But he simply leans back, offering a warm smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes

"Now. Off with you both. Before the Yule feast begins and I’m forced to taste-test pumpkin pasties for poison again"

Outside, in the corridor, Draco exhales. “That went… well?”

I eye him “'Spiritually engaged?'”

He rolls his eyes. “Better than claiming we’re distant cousins"

I smirk. “You sure? It could have explained your awful hair”

Draco scowls. “Merlin's beard, Granger. I've time-travelled and been without a comb for nearly seventy two hours. Of course my hair is bound to look awful”

Here he pauses, a twinkle in his eyes. “My wand on the other hand… It's as big and great as ever”

I jab him in the ribs. He yelps, laughing. And for a moment, the weight lifts.

Our laughter echoes down the eastern corridor. It's light, easy, unguarded. I don't have to pretend with him, always wondering if I've said the wrong thing or if I am one step away from death. 

Draco and I walk side by side, our shoulders brushing occasionally. We just passed through the courtyard and snow clings to us as if forgetting we are now indoors. I can feel the snowflakes on my eyelashes and hair. 

As we round a corner near the old tapestry of Morgana’s Duel, Draco pauses. 

“Halt Granger, you have got snow all over” he says leaning in to cast a charm.

I feel hot air hover above me. 

A flick of snowflakes cling to his collar, and I go on my tiptoes so I can flick them away with a smirk. His hair is disheveled, his nose and cheeks a rosy shade. 

"You look like a drowned ferret," I tease.

"I aim for arctic nobility, Granger. You wound me."

I roll my eyes. "Please. You look like you lost a bet with a yeti."

He gasps theatrically. "How dare you."

I laugh—that rare, startled laugh that escapes before I can tamp it down. He grins, smug.

And then the air shifts.

Behind us, footsteps.

I turn first.

And freeze.

Tom stands in the hallway—not five feet away. Cloak dusted with frost. Shoulders square. Expression unreadable.

But his eyes—those terrible, violet, elegant eyes—are fixed on us. On me.

And then—on Draco.

His gaze flickers between us, slowly, deliberately. The faintest furrow appears between his brows.

The silence feels glacial.

I straighten immediately, all trace of laughter vanishing from my face. Draco shifts beside me, jaw tightening. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smirk.

He simply stares back.

We both do.

Tom takes a step forward. He stops just short of us.

“You're back early," I say coolly.

His voice, when it comes, is calm. Almost courteous. "I wasn't aware I needed permission."

"Of course not," I reply. "Just... surprised. That you left at all."

Something cracks in his expression. “Goodbyes are permanent. I don't bother with them.” The corner of his mouth twitches “My intention was always to return … Even if you choose not to, becoming otherwise spiritually engaged”

I swallow unsteadily, his dark eyes pinning me. 

Draco clears his throat.

“This is Mr. Malvois, he's Slughorn's new assistant” I say awkwardly, fully aware that Tom will not believe me. 

He's seen Draco already in the future. He must know who he is. 

But Tom ignores him. His gaze remains locked on me. Something unreadable churns behind his expression.

"Wasn't aware Slughorn had adopted a new pet" he murmurs, the words dipped in something too sharp to be jealousy.

Draco shifts next to me but I take a step forward. 

"How was Malfoy Manor?" I fire back. 

A long pause.

Tom’s smile is slight. Icy. “Enlightening. Selwyn and Abraxas were most accommodating. The manor has changed much since I was there last. It's filled with ghosts, present and past”

Draco doesn’t flinch. He holds Tom’s gaze like a duelist awaiting the first move.

"We were just heading to the celebration," I say after a beat, voice clipped. "You might want to freshen up. You look... tired."

Tom's lips part, but the smile that forms is not pleasant. Not cruel either. Just... wrong.

"Tired," he echoes softly, as if tasting the word. "It has been a long few days. But I find... some things are more exhausting than others."

My breath catches.

He steps closer—just slightly. Just enough to make my spine go rigid.

Draco instantly moves forward, his fingers hovering over his wand. 

But I don't see him, all I see are Tom's eyes, near drowning in the dark, violet abyss.

Then without warning he steps back, his lips thinning into a tight line. 

“See you at dinner Miss Leclair.”

I follow Draco in quick steps, briefly making the mistake of looking back. 

Tom stands in the open yard, the snow slowly melting from his cloak.

And the fury, quite and deliberate, settles beneath his skin.

Chapter Text

“Jealousy is a disease. Love is a healthy condition. The immature mind often mistakes one for the other.”

— Robert A. Heinlein

Draco doesn’t say anything until we’re well past the Grand Staircase. His silence is brittle, sharp as ice in the wind. I don’t blame him.

We’d barely made it past Tom when he turned to me and said, low but urgent, "Don't go back to Slytherin tonight. I don’t trust him to be alone with you."

I don't argue because I know he is right. 

So now I follow him through a narrow corridor that feels older than the rest of the castle, the stones more porous, the torchlight flickering in strange patterns. The South Wing.

Dumbledore must have done something. Because when Draco presses his hand to the brass plate beside the door, the wards ripple softly and allow him through.

He lets out a breath. "Well. Hogwarts hasn’t spit me out yet."

I step in behind him.

The quarters are old but elegant—likely guest housing, long disused. Two adjoining rooms stand, connected by a single door. Dust floats in the corners, but the air is warm. A fireplace crackles to life at our arrival.

I drop into a velvet armchair while Draco moves to inspect the bookshelves, brushing a few cobwebs aside with absent distaste.

“At least it's got a private bathroom” Draco mutters in appreciation, 

"We need to prepare," I say, instead. 

He nods. I can feel the tension bleeding from Draco’s shoulders, even if he hides it well.

"Do you think he’s made another one?" he asks finally, voice low.

I blink. "Another what?"

He looks at me. "Horcrux. You said the diary was the first. But if he's seen his future—if he knows how far he falls—he might already be trying to solidify himself."

“In the baths, he said it was just one Horcrux,” I say softly.

Draco’s laugh is sharp and humorless. “Right. And I’m the tooth fairy.”

I sigh. “You think he was lying?”

“I know he was lying,” Draco says. “Because if I were building a contingency plan to cheat death, I wouldn’t risk it all on one object. He’s a megalomaniac, not an idiot.”

My heart sinks.

Because, again—he’s right.

I chew the inside of my cheek. "He’s wearing the ring."

Draco stiffens. "The Gaunt ring?"

I nod.

“Brilliant. So now we’re dealing with a self-aware sociopath actively armed with a Horcrux.”

I glance at him. “You sound like you’re enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying the moral superiority,” he corrects. “And the chance to maybe, finally, tell you what to do.”

“Oh, joy.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Then: "That ring is exuding dark energy. You know that, right?"

I nod. "It’s old magic. Blood magic. I am not sure if it's turned into a Horcrux. I’ve been meaning to examine it, but..."

I need to get close enough. 

I don't say that out loud, dread coiling in my belly, because I know exactly what I need to do and I can't share that with Draco.

He leans back against the edge of the desk. The firelight plays off the angles of his face. "So what do we do?"

I press my hands to my knees. "We go to the celebration. We act normal. We watch him. Carefully.

Draco raises an eyebrow. "And if he tries something?"

"Then we try something back."

He grins, tiredly. "Brilliant strategy, Granger. So act first, think later? That sounds more like the girl who punched me in third year."

I smile faintly. "Oh no. That was a long time coming. I'd been planning on punching you since the first year. "

He smirks and I feel my own lips tugging upwards to match his. 

Outside, the bells begin to chime the hour. Yule celebrations have arrived.

And the war is only just beginning again.

December 24th, 1944 – Great Hall, Yule Celebration

The Great Hall is unrecognizable.

Snow drifts thick against the towering windows of the Great Hall, its enchanted ceiling mirroring a sky of inky velvet scattered with glittering stars. Twelve ancient fir trees, taller than trolls and heavy with frost line the stone walls, their branches adorned with shimmering iciles that tinkle softly in the warmth of the air. Frosted branches spiral up from the pillars, twined with ivy and candles that float in slow, elegant loops. 

The four house tables have vanished, replaced by a dozen circular ones draped in deep green velvet.  In the center of the hall, a polished dance floor reflects the snow falling from the skies along with glittering stars. 

The few Hogwarts students who have stayed over for the holidays enter in clusters of two, robed in finery and soft perfume, their voices hushed with awe, their features stable with no more static and time magic. Ever since Tom returned there have been no further time glitches all but confirming that he was the one causing them.

I stand just outside the entrance, watching.

Draco adjusts his cufflinks beside me, dressed in slate gray and emerald-trimmed robes that we found in the Room of Requirement's “storage room” earlier today. They make him look like he belongs here. I, in contrast, wear something simpler—a deep burgundy gown, velvet and sleeveless, high at the collar and backless beneath the spellwork I etched into the lining - also procured from the Room of Requirement.

Minimal glamours. Nothing elaborate.

I didn’t dress for seduction tonight.

"You ready?" Draco murmurs, offering me his arm.

I take it.

We descend the steps into the Hall together, a dozen heads turning in our wake. I feel it like static. Curiosity. Envy. Suspicion.

And then I feel him.

Standing at the far end of the Hall, speaking to Slughorn and Professor Vector, half-listening. But his eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t smile.

His gaze slides down my form and back up, pausing where my arm is now clasped around Draco’s. Calculating. Possessive. Hurt.

I look away first.

We find our seats near the corner of the Hall. A low table half-hidden behind an ivy-wrapped column. I breathe easier with the barrier between us.

Golden goblets sparkle in the candlelight, filled with warm mulled pumpkin mead and trays of roasted chestnuts, sugared snowberries. Spiced pastries float gracefully towards the delighted students and I grab one without much thought, chewing on it quickly.

Draco fills my glass with mead and it takes me all but two seconds before I drain it, sliding it down like borrowed courage. The spices catch at the back of my throat- caramel and smoke. Draco raises an eyebrow as I set the goblet down with a soft clink.

“Easy there, Granger,” he murmurs, his voice all wry amusement. “Celebrating the end of the world?”

“Just... hydrating,” I mutter, tugging at the edge of my gloves.

My leg bounces beneath the table—too fast, too tight.

Draco frowns before his hand goes under the table to rest upon my knee, almost reflexively. 

Tom.

His eyes flicker toward us like a curse disguised as curiosity, pausing on Draco's fingers upon my knee. 

I look away. 

“Stop bouncing,” Draco says mildly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

I still.

Just in time for a younger Hufflepuff—sixth year, soft-faced and bright-eyed—to wander over to our table, cheeks pink with wine and nerves.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wide-eyed, looking at Draco. “But… I don’t think we’ve met. Are you a professor? Or a... visiting dignitary?”

Draco straightens, all aristocratic poise and polished charm. “Ah, yes. Well spotted. I’m Lord Malvois, of the Franco-Danish Wand Accords. Here on official observation and to offer Professor Slughorn some much-needed... hands-on assistance with cauldron and wand polishing”

The Hufflepuff blinks. “...You are?”

“Indeed,” Draco says, lowering his voice to something velvety and suggestive. “Tasked with evaluating Hogwarts’ defensive back doors and identifying... potential penetration of the wards”

I choke on my pastry and my second glass of firewhiskey, coughing into the napkin. The alcohol burns my nose and I inhale butter and smoke. Draco offers me a gentle pat and I glare at him. 

He continues, entirely unfazed. “I’ve already drafted two scrolls of damning critique-one on the tragically stiff enchanted armours”

The poor boy stares, frozen in place.

Draco leans in, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial purr. “But between us, I’ve found Hogwarts to be full of... moist delights. One just needs the right touch.”

The Hufflepuff nods far too quickly and scurries off, face scarlet.

I snort into my goblet, then bite my lip, trying to contain the shaking in my shoulders. I lean in, voice breathless with amusement. “You’re impossible.”

Draco lifts his chin, smirking. “I prefer... versatile.”

Our eyes meet—and for a moment, something lingers.

It's warm and wicked and brings a flush to my cheeks. 

For a moment, I forget where I am. Who I am.

I forget the spellwork etched into the hem of my dress. I forget the ring. The diary. The deadline of history that ticks louder with each breath.

Until I glance up, feeling the weight of Tom’s gaze falling over me like shadow through frost.

And just like that, the air changes.

After the tables are cleared Professors and students gather in small circles. Slughorn holds court at a velvet-draped table near the hearth, goblet in hand with his own special brew, his cheeks already pink with drink as he regales a circle of sixth-years with a story he likely invented on the spot. Dumbledore, perched in the shadow of a tall fir tree, remains still, no drink at hand—his gaze sweeping the Hall with quiet precision, a smile on his lips and unreadable thoughts behind his half-moon spectacles.

The music starts. A string quartet, delicate and haunting. The dancing begins. Hestia Carrow lurks near the refreshments, eyeing the mulled wine with suspicion, while Professor Merrythorne leads a clumsy waltz line of first-years in a doomed attempt at etiquette.

Tom does not approach. 

But he watches. Every moment.

I speak to a few classmates from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Laugh when appropriate.

Draco shifts beside me, rolling his neck like he’s weighing something dangerous or deeply irritating. Maybe both.

Then he stands and turns to me, one hand extended in a gesture that manages to be both dramatic and faintly mocking.

“Well, Granger,” he says, voice low. “Dance with me. Before someone less interesting tries.”

I blink at him. “That’s your pitch?”

“Would you prefer I serenade you? I could sing something tragic and French.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You know, I used to think you didn’t have a romantic bone in your body.”

He grins, infuriating and confident, his eyebrows wiggling once in a suggestive manner. “Just the one. But I keep it in reserve. For very specific emergencies.”

I glare at him before rolling my eyes at his innuendos. 

His hand is still outstretched. Once again, I almost forget the ache behind my ribs and the ring on Tom’s finger.

I place my fingers in his.

His grip is warm. Steady. And as he leads me toward the dance floor, he glances back with a crooked smile.

“Try not to fall for me, Granger.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say. “But I make no promises.”

Draco's hand settles low at my waist, but not too low, at the exact space between familiar and daring.

His other hand clasps mine—not too tight, not too formal. Just steady. Like he’s holding a secret between us.

We fall into step easily, to a rhythm slower than the others on the floor. Strings hum above us, full of old winter charm before the melody picks up, becoming more erratic. 

Draco leads us easily, as if we’ve done this before in some other life, under some other ceiling.

“You really can dance,” I murmur.

“Please. I was raised by a woman who choreographed family brunches. I can dance, duel, and debone a Cornish game hen—often at the same time.” he replies, eyes gleaming.“Multitalented. Tragic waste, really.”

I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me.

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Yes. Is it working?” Draco says, smirking.

I huff a quiet laugh.

I look up at him. And for once, his grin falters.

Because I’m smiling, too—but it’s different.

Smaller. Real. The silence that settles between us isn’t awkward.

It's warm.

He twirls me once, his hand skimming from my waist to the tips of my fingers and back again—fluid, practiced, intimate.

When he catches me again, his palm settles at the small of my back, warm through the velvet.

“Draco,” I whisper, just on instinct.

He tilts me, just slightly, just enough to dip my head back and make me look up at him—closer than I meant to be.

The world narrows.

It’s just his hand, my breath, the music curling around us like smoke.

Then his voice—amused and close to my ear:

“Steady now, Granger. You’re starting to look like you might enjoy this.”

Draco’s gaze drops to my lips for just a breath too long.

My fingers tighten in his.

Until the temperature drops as if Dementors have entered the Great Hall. 

Only slightly.

Barely perceptible.

Draco’s jaw tightens—just a fraction—before his head turns.

I follow his gaze.

And there he is.

Across the floor, Tom takes a step forward.

Tonight he is wearing dark green robes contrasting wonderfully with his hair and skin tone. The fabric is tight against the toned muscles of his arms and despite myself my gaze lingers. 

The music changes—something older, slower. He stops before me and Draco tightens his hold on my waist as if reluctant to let me go. 

A beat.

Then: "May I?"

His voice is low, civil. It would be polite, if not for the burn beneath it.

Draco looks at me and I take a deep breath, nodding. 

His hands flex at his sides as he walks away. 

I look up. Tom.

"Are we dancing or dueling?"

A smile curls at the edge of his mouth. "Whichever keeps you closer."

He holds out his right hand. I see the Gaunt ring flashing on his index finger and I don't hesitate to take it.

The moment he touches me, magic hums under my skin.

We move slowly, elegantly, the steps remembered from a hundred formal lessons. But this isn’t dance. It’s interrogation.

His fingers flex around mine. "So. The Malfoy prince."

"He’s not a prince."

"No. But you looked rather... enchanted."

"You left " I whisper.

His voice lowers and his eyes darken. “Could you not have waited for me?”

The words land like heat between us. Not quite accusation. Not quite regret.

My pulse skitters.

"You disappeared without an explanation only for me to find out you had travelled into the future!”

He leans in. His breath brushes my cheek. “Don't look so surprised. It wasn’t as if you didn't know exactly what I was doing. I went looking for answers."

"And did you find them?"

"Some," he murmurs. "But more questions. Like why the girl who kissed me now laughs with my future Death Eater"

I meet his eyes. "Because maybe I trust someone who hasn’t tried to kill me and isn't trying to mess up my future "

That lands.

He pulls me closer, just enough to make my breath catch.

"You wound beautifully, Hermione."

I whisper back, "And you bleed like a liar."

His gaze darkens. “You would know. You have bled me twice already”

The candles burn lower now, shadows pooling across the polished floor like spilled ink. I make to move but he holds onto me, near forcing me to keep dancing. 

I glare at him, purposefully stepping upon his toes. 

He doesn't react. 

This isn’t just a waltz. It’s reconnaissance.

Draco stands at the edge of the floor, watching us. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes never leave us. His wand hand rests against his hip, taut with caution.

Tom leans in slightly, enough that I feel the warmth of his breath along with his essence, smoke and pine and everything fine. His hand slides around my waist, settling against the bare skin exposed by the backless burgundy gown.

"Tell me something" I whisper.

"Anything" he answers too quickly. 

"That ring you wear. Is it one of them?"

He stills for half a beat. The rhythm falters and resumes in the space of a blink. His eyes remain locked on mine.

"No," he says at last, voice low. "I learned my lesson."

"Did you?”

He nods once. "I saw what it did to me. What I became. I won't make that mistake again."

His hand tightens on mine, just slightly, just enough to feel it.

I falter.

Because what if he's telling the truth?

What if he—this moment—is still teetering at the edge, not yet fallen?

"Where is the diary?" he murmurs, hand brushing slowly against the small of my back.

My heart jumps before I force it to steady.

I bring a smile onto my lips. Tilt my head. "Hidden"

His eyes darken. "You ought to be more careful, Hermione. You do not know what it's capable of."

"It belongs to you. Doesn't it?"

"Once," he says. "But not anymore"

I don't answer.

His hand moves again, brushing over my ribs as we turn in a slow spiral. I shift slightly, one hand drifting down his wrist. My fingers ghost over the fabric at his sleeve. Just enough pressure. Just enough intent.

We glide another turn across the floor, eyes locked, breath mingling.

Across the hall, Draco shifts.

Watching.

The ring remains on Tom’s finger.

But so do my intentions.

My fingers skim the back of his hand—light, deliberate. “Let me see it,” I say softly. “The ring. Up close.”

He laughs—low and amused, the sound curling down my spine like a spell that knows exactly where to land.

“You can examine it… thoroughly,” he says, voice smooth. “Later tonight. Come alone, without your guard dog. The Slytherin dormitories are all but empty.”

I freeze at the implication. 

A beat passes.

Then—coolly: “Are you propositioning me?”

His smile widens, sharp and utterly unreadable. "Is that what it would take?"

My breath catches.

He's watching me too closely. The firelight dances in his eyes.

I can't tell if I'm baiting him—or being baited.

Chapter Text

“Lust’s passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.”

— Marquis de Sade

The moment I step away from Tom, the air feels thin again—less electric, less charged. I make my way back to our table, my spine straight, trying to will my expression into neutrality. I can feel his eyes on me still, like a weight pressing between my shoulder blades.

Draco watches me approach, his brow raised, the ghost of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. But there’s tension there too—tightly controlled.

I sit.

"Well?" he drawls, reaching for his drink. "Did you get what you needed, or are we back to plotting murder over dessert?"

I don’t answer immediately. My hand curls around the goblet in front of me, though I don’t drink.

Draco narrows his eyes. “Granger.”

I shake my head slightly. “He asked me about the diary.”

Draco goes still.

“He knows it’s not on me” I add, voice low. “And he asked where it was.”

“And you told him...?”

“Nothing,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. "I deflected. He didn’t push. Not yet."

Draco exhales, a humorless sound. “Of course he didn’t. He’s probably waiting until you’re more… pliable.”

I look away.

“What else?”

I hesitate.

Draco leans forward. “Granger.”

“I—I mentioned the ring,” I admit quietly.

Draco’s eyes flash. “And?”

“I asked him if it was a Horcrux. He said no. Claimed he learned his lesson after seeing the future.”

Draco scoffs. “Convenient epiphany.”

He sighs, grasping the bridge of his nose as he nurses his drink, watching Tom laugh and charm the Professors along with some young Hufflepuff students. 

By the time we return the corridors are quiet, most of the remaining students are still lingering in the Great Hall, lulled by music and wine. The fire’s burned low, and the room is dim, flickering. I pretend to busy myself with removing my shoes, my cloak. I wait until he disappears into the adjoining room.

And then I move.

I ease the door open, wand in hand, footsteps quiet against the old stone.

But I don’t make it two steps before a hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist, spinning me around.

I gasp as I’m pinned lightly—but firmly—against the wall.

Involuntarily my stomach clenches around itself and my breath comes out fast. 

Draco’s face is inches from mine, smelling faintly of firewhiskey and something sweet, like toffee. I briefly consider darting my tongue out to taste him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he says, his voice deep and grating, reverbating down my spine like a caress.

I hesitate.

He leans in closer. “Let me guess. A midnight stroll? Or is this a romantic rendezvous with our favorite snake?”

“Draco—”

“Don’t lie to me, Granger.”

I draw a breath. “He asked me to meet him. In the dorms. He said he’d let me examine the ring.”

Draco blinks. Then snorts, incredulous. “The ring,” he repeats flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it now, Granger?”

“Yes. We need to make sure—”

“Oh, we need to make sure, do we?” he snaps. “Is that what this is? Or can you just not wait to be alone with him again?”

I flinch.

His voice lowers, biting. “Need I remind you what he did to your dear Potter?”

I look up, something hard rising in my throat. “And what would you have me do? Walk away?”

Draco doesn’t speak. Not right away.

And then, slowly, he lets me go.

The space between us yawns wide.

“Fine” he says. “Go. But don’t pretend you’re just doing this for the mission.”

I stare at him.

“Because if you are” he says quietly, “then we’re both already lost.”

He turns away. And I stand there, the echo of his words lingering longer than his touch.

***

The dungeons are quiet.

I move through the cold corridors with silent steps, my heart beating just a little too fast, wand pressed close to my palm. I reach the serpent statue and whisper the password, stepping into the Slytherin common room. The fire crackles softly in the hearth when I enter, its glow flickering across the greenish stone and tall-backed chairs. 

He's there. Sitting in the green-velvet armchair beside the fireplace, one ankle crossed over the other, a book open in his lap. Firelight plays against his face, casting flickering shadows across the sharp lines of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbone. The flames lick gold against his eyes, catching something molten in the dark.

I pause. Watch him. Wondering if he knew exactly when I would arrive.

I should go.

I should turn around, climb the stairs, bury myself in the Guest bed and wait for Christmas to come and pass.

Instead, I walk toward the fire.

"You're late" he says without looking up. His voice is soft, almost amused.

"You're reading" I say, taking a step closer. "What is it?"

"A speculative volume on time travel. Published in 1885. Mostly nonsense. But charming nonsense."

I swallow, gaze lowering to the book’s title: Theories of Time Travel. 

“It speculates time is either a line or a sea” he says, tilting his head. “What do you believe?”

I say nothing as my blood hums against my veins, the smoke from the fireplace causing my eyes to drift to the dying logs.

“The single-continuum model is quaint, of course. You go back, change something, and it ripples forward. Cause and effect. Very Newtonian” he continues, referencing muggle studies along with magical ones.

I know what he’s doing, he’s baiting me with intellectual conversation.

“But terribly flawed” I murmur with a quick exhale, unable to hold myself back “Time’s not that brittle. If it were, the world would collapse with every misstep”

His eyes gleam. “So you believe in the branching theory, then? Every change creates a fracture—one world becomes two. Infinite variations”

“Multiverse theory” I say, swallowing “It’s the only explanation that accounts for paradox. But I am not sure I believe in paradoxes. For time travel that lasts no more than five hours I believe the single continuum model explains it best”

He smiles. “And yet, paradox persists”

“I used Time-Turners before for short time travel when I was a student” I say softly. “They fit the single continuum theory. I did it mostly to keep up with classes”

“They gave a time turner to a student?” he gasps, eyes growling larger. “You must have been exceptional even as a child”

I say nothing but feel my spine straighten a little at his praise.

“Typical of you” he adds and his smirk sharpens. “A device capable of warping the universe, and you used it for homework.”

“It’s how I passed twelve N.E.W.T.s” I shoot back, leaning against the fireplace and finding his eyes.

He chuckles—genuine this time. It’s disarming.

“You know of Eloise Mintumble?” he asks, stretching his legs. “The witch who traveled to 1399 from 1899. And promptly broke time itself.”

“Of course. She is a cautionary tale” I say. “Her presence disrupted forty-two timelines. The calendar lost several days. Magic thinned in Austria for decades.”

He leans forward slightly, his dark purple eyes sparkling. “So how did you do it?”

My spine stiffens.

“You’ve stayed longer than Eloise ever dared. And yet...” 

He gestures at me with a flick of his fingers. “...you’re still nineteen. Physically, at least.”

I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Perhaps if you tell me how you managed to cast protective wards against Fiendfyre on the diary I might share a titbit of information”

His smile fades, just a little. He has unbuttoned the first three buttons of his white shirt and the fire casts dramatic shadows against his collarbones. I feel my cheeks heat.

“If I tell you, you will destroy it” he says in a matter of fact tone, watching me carefully. 

I shrug. “If I tell you how I travelled to the past while staying young you will attempt to physically go to the future yourself instead of in your ghost form. You see my conundrum, then?”

He watches me for a long moment, the fire catching in his eyes.

"Curiosity is a difficult thing to unlearn" he replies, closing the book with a soft thud. "Especially when it arrives cloaked in burgundy and secrets."

I don’t rise to the bait. "Why are you still so interested in the future, Tom? If you’ve truly abandoned Horcruxes—if you've really changed—what else is there to see?"

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Because you came back. And you wouldn't have done that just to stop a boy from splitting his soul. No... there’s something else. You saw the end of me . And still, you returned. That’s what I can’t make sense of"

My throat tightens. I feel the weight of the truth teetering on the edge of my tongue. The muggle world—the dying magic—the collapse of the arcane veil.

But I say nothing. 

Tom watches me carefully, eyes narrowing just slightly. "There’s something more."

"You always want more" I murmur.

"Only when it matters."

I shift my gaze to the fire. "And what did Malfoy Manor teach you?"

Tom stands. He closes the distance between us in measured, quiet steps.

"That I don’t like ghosts" he says. "Not even my own."

I turn to him slowly, heart thudding.

He raises a hand, fingers brushing my cheek with surprising gentleness. "All I could think about while I was there… was you."

I freeze.

He steps closer until he's in front of me. "I thought I wanted to see what I became" he murmurs. "But I only wanted to understand what you saw in me. Why you kissed me. Why you stayed."

His hand rises, and his fingers graze my cheek, a soft brush that feels far more dangerous than any spell.

"Do you still want to see the ring?" he asks, his voice a breath against my skin.

I nod, swallowing. "It could still be cursed. I need to examine it" 

And figure out if it's a Horcrux. 

He offers his hand.

I take it.

My fingers brush the metal of the Gaunt ring, cold against the heat of his skin. Slowly, carefully, I begin to lift it.

And then his other hand finds my waist, fingers digging into exposed flesh.

I stiffen. "Tom. What—what are you doing?"

He doesn't answer. His gaze is on my lips.

And then he's kissing me.

Softly, at first—tentative. Like he’s asking. Testing.

Then deeper. Urgent.

My breath stutters. My free hand finds his chest, not to push him away—though it should—but to steady myself. The ring slips loose, forgotten for a moment between our bodies.

I kiss him back.

Fervently. Desperately.

And I hate how much I want it.

His fingers fist my hair, pulling tentatively at the roots as he exposes my throat, his lips finding skin. 

And nipping. 

I gasp, my body arching like a bow as my own hands push his robes to the side, beginning to explore the taut flesh of his stomach. 

He growls as I begin going lower, desperate for more. 

Tom pushes me down to the nearest couch, my back hitting soft cushions as he comes to lean between my open legs. I revel at his weight pressing against my core. 

A moan escapes me and he pauses, his eyes shimmering with lust and curiosity, 

“Do it again” he demands as his right hand, fists my dress lifting it over my stomach, 

“Make me" I hiss as one of my hands grabs onto his shoulder for balance, the other digging into his trousers. 

His throat bobs and his head falls back as my exploration becomes more rapid. 

A hiss and a growl escape him in succession before his eyes darken and suddenly he is kneeling over me and my wrists are pinned under one of his hands while the other slowly slides along my body. 

The sensation of his hand ghosting over my sternum and along my stomach makes me arch my back needing …. More. 

Tom captures my lips again, the kiss almost gentle as his hand cups my breast, his breath making goosebumps form along my arms. Fire slips away from my skin gathering into a pool in my lower abdomen. I can feel it overflowing. Warm liquid slipping from between my legs as Tom deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue along my lips before delving in and caressing my tongue. 

I moan against his mouth and twist my body trying to press myself against him.

He draws away from my lips, breath ragged, lips red and swollen. His eyes are as dark as onyx as he stares at me. 

I whimper, arching my body against his again, demanding friction. My core has begun throbbing and I can do nothing but grind myself against Tom's hard length looking for relief. 

I feel his magic caressing the edges of my own, asking for permission, and in a moment of pure madness I allow our magical essences to mix. 

We both inhale suddenly at the sensation, looking at one another in something akin to shock and disbelief. 

I can feel him hardening against my leg and my own core becomes slicker by the minute. 

He dips his head down and breathes in along the skin of my throat. The mere sensation of air across those sensitive spots of mine makes me tense and I can feel a fresh wave of liquid heat escape my legs as I press against him. 

Tom's hand suddenly leaves my breast and reaches down between my legs. 

His eyes grow larger and darker at what he finds because he looks at me in something akin to astonishment. 

“Please” I whimper, twisting to release my hands from his grasp. 

But he only tightens his hold as his fingers slide through my liquid heat, my need building, the mere touch making my vision vanish.

Pleasure shudders through my nerves. 

“You are so ready for me, Hermione” he says, his voice sounding choked. 

I feel myself abandoning all logical thought and sliding toward instinct. My legs open wider and I arch my head back. He releases my wrists with abandon, moving between my legs. 

I stare back at him in a daze, bringing my fingers to slide through his dark, luscious curls as his hand applies pressure to my core. I gasp and he is staring at me, his face growing predatory and possessive in a way that thrills something deep inside me. 

He runs his hand over my abdomen again before caressing the sensitive flesh on the inside of my thigh. His eyes are fastened to my body as though he is drinking me in. 

“Na gi ni, Hermione” he promises in English and Parseltongue, his voice deep and primal. 

My mind supplies the translation. 

You are mine. 

He begins caressing me between my legs again as he speaks, sliding his fingers through my wet folds until the hollowness in my lower abdomen grows almost agonisingly sharp. My whole body begins trembling as he rests his hands over my pelvis, continuing his administrations. 

My hands are now fumbling between his trousers, pulling them down in my haste to get him closer, my eyes on his as he leans forward and I feel something long and hard prod between my legs. 

We both hiss at the sensation, my head falling behind me in abandonment as he grabs my wrists bringing them to his mouth where he drops quick kisses. 

But I don't want to be teased, I need-

His member slides along my entrance and I gasp, trying to push my hips upwards to take him in. I can feel him pulsing against my core but he doesn't enter. 

“Please” I moan, my eyes wild, my hair in disarray. 

His throat bobs as he takes me in for a few seconds before -finally- he nods. 

I spread my legs further, trying to open up for him. He pushes in me and I can feel the semblance of pain as my body shifts to accommodate him. This is soon replaced by pleasure as he presses in deeper. And deeper. 

He leans forward until his chest crushes mine, gathering me into his arms and kissing me deeply. 

“You.. This- This is so good.  You have no idea-” he says, groaning. 

I lay limp beneath him as he is - finally - buried to the hilt inside of me and we both pause to take a breath, revelling at the sensation. 

Somewhere at the back of my head my logical self screams about the consequences and contraception but I ignore her, lost in the sensation of having Tom inside me.

After a brief rotation of his hips which makes me gasp, he speaks. 

“Hermione… “ he says, my name like prayer upon his lips, his eyes briefly flashing with concern.  “We need…”

His words get lost as I bring my hands to his hips and push him forward and he grips the sides of the couch to hold on, his expression a mixture between pleasure and pain. 

Then he leans to the side and I see him grabbing his wand.

For a brief moment my heart hammers inside my chest in perplex and fear, the pleasure near forgotten. My walls tighten around him in response and he hisses, looking at me in perplex before understanding falls over his features. 

“No.. This - it's not-” he says, grasping for the words, uncertainly “I want us to be protected”

Realisation dawns and I gulp, swallowing as he presses the tip of his wand on himself, fingers shaking. “Concepta nullus”

I feel a cooling sensation spread forth over both of us and I frown, wondering why I'd never heard of this spell while still at Hogwarts. The other girls in Griffindor always spoke of contraception potions. Was this spell taught only to pure-blooded and Slytherin students? I should ask Draco if that is the case when I next have the chance, not that I would have any idea on how to go about the subject or should be thinking about him now-

Tom swallows, looking at me uncertainly and I remember where I am and what I am doing. 

His eyes briefly flick downwards to our connected bodies and I feel a moment of hesistation. 

It comes to me then. 

He's never done that before.

The uncertainty passes quickly, however, and he drops his head down to my neck, running his lips over the aching spot under my ear as he begins to pick up pace. 

And I -

I get lost in the sensations, the feeling of fullness and pressure slowly bringing me to the edge.

His voice and scent are everywhere. Smoke and pine.

Something begins building inside of me. He is driving into me with hard, deep strokes and I wrap my legs tightly around his hips. The pounding is driving me upwards and I mumble something incomprehensible against his skin as he groans. 

But then the pounding grows abbreviated and I can feel all the muscles in his chest and arms straining and taut. He is breathing hard, looking at me.

I grab his head and bring it back to my lips, lapping my tongue against his. This seems to bring him to the edge and I feel hot liquid bathing the inside of me as Tom groans again, an expression of shock etched onto his features. I feel magic spark between us, a zapping sensation that pebbles my nipples and then I am following along with him, feeling a pulsing sensation from our connected bodies. 

I writhe against him, breathing hard and he does the same, forehead reaching mine. 

Then he slumps down against my body and kisses me softly, cradling my head in his hands. 

I open my mouth to say something but no words come out. My body is still tender after our lovemaking and every time he moves, I shudder. 

I have never… felt like this. 

I've had sexual interactions in the past but this…

It felt different. Raw and real.

And the worst part? I still crave more. 

I make a move to slip from under him but his hand rests lightly between my shoulder blades and I arch into it. 

He smiles, a smile that is soft and human and the most tender expression I have seen him make. 

Something in my heart fractures. 

He swallows, looking uncertain as he tries to remove himself from inside me. I help him with a small smile before going to grab my burgundy dress and robes. 

Tom's hand hovers mid-air, looking at me carefully, his eyes round. “Stay”

I say nothing as I take in his features, that expression that almost resembles vulnerability. 

After a few moments of quiet contemplation I nod. “I will leave at dawn”

He nods, his arms tightening around me as I listen to the beat of his heart.

With a flick of his wand a blanket appears to cover us and we fall asleep like this. 

Chapter Text

“The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.”

— William Shakespeare, As You Like It

I wake in the early hours of the morning, feeling Tom's warm breath against my cheek. My hand caresses his collarbones and his lips part. I shouldn't feel desire, not after last night, yet here it is stirring into wakefulness, as if it is intimately aware that we are both naked. 

I feel the heat of his body even as I know the chill of everything he is capable of. I lie there, turning to stare at the ceiling in contemplation before brushing his hair back. Ask myself if I am already too far gone. 

Reason finally returned, I stand, slipping under him quietly. I dress quickly and pause when I find the Gaunt ring under a wooden chair. My heart hammers inside my chest as I bend to pick it up, turning to look at him. 

He is still sleeping, eyelashes casting shadows under his eyes, lips slightly parted. In sleep he looks… truthful. 

Mind made, I shake my head and place it on the glass table next to the fireplace. It makes a clinking sound and I turn to find Tom stirring, his eyes open, watching me like a panther ready to pounce upon its prey. Yet, he makes no move to stand and I give him a single smile before departing.

I shouldn't expect him to tell me something or run after me but here I am fantasizing about this even though I have no reason to. Should I expect that just because we had sex, that just because I was likely his first, he's suddenly become possessive over me? 

No, that does not sound like Tom at all. 

My steps back to the Slytherin entrance are slow at first but then I pick up speed as if wanting to put as much distance as physically possible between Tom and I. I walk the halls aimlessly for a good thirty minutes, trying to persuade myself not to return, my body already begging to be in close proximity to him.

With a resolve that is admirable I return to the guest rooms, shutting the door behind me and leaning against it. 

Images of Tom’s hands flash behind my eyes, our bodies pressing together. 

I raise my arm and the velvet gown slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I don't bother to pick it up. My thoughts are splintered, scattered like the frost against the windowpanes. 

I enter the bathroom. It is old but elegant. Black tile. Brass fixtures. A tall mirror fogged by memory. I turn the taps until the water runs nearly scalding. Steam fills the space within seconds, curling around my like a shroud. I step in.

The first hiss of water against my skin is a relief—cleansing, grounding. I close my eyes and let the heat strip away the confusion, the tension, the look in Tom’s eyes when he said, "Stay”  

The water beats down against my spine, scalding and rhythmic. I brace one hand against the slick tile wall, the other tangled in my dripping hair. The steam clouds everything—my thoughts, my logic, the echo of what I’ve just done.

I’d left Tom’s quarters without a word. Walked straight out, cloak half-buttoned, cheeks flushed. I couldn’t stay. Not after the way he looked at me. I don’t know what I expected, returning to the guest wing. Clarity? Relief?

I scrub my flesh, trying not to think of Tom's kisses and his hands. My pulse races inside my chest as images begin appearing behind my eyes of our entangled bodies out of breath, regardless. 

What the hell is wrong with me? That can't be just hormones. 

Infatuation? 

The door to the bathroom opens and I pull the shower curtain to the side, my hands shaking. 

“Draco?”

Standing just beyond the threshold, his silhouette lit by the flickering sconces. His robes hang open, boots wet with melted snow. His eyes—bloodshot.

“What- What are you doing?” I gasp as I see him approaching.

He stands there, pale and rumpled, steam curling around his collarbones. His gaze pins me in place—intense, fevered. He smells like fire whiskey, candy, wind and something darker, coiled tight beneath his skin. It's a scent that makes my skin feel just a little warmer. 

His voice is rough, hoarse. Not drunk. Not quite.

“Were you successful?” he asks with a voice that breaks at the end. 

He leans in closer and I catch the hint of something sweet and spiced again which makes me want to lean closer to him. I swallow unsteadily, pressing the curtain to my body to conceal my nakedness but even the faint feel of the fabric is enough to make me gasp. 

What in Merlin's beard is going on?

“I-”I pause, biting my lower lip, unable to answer. 

He follows the movement with careful consideration, his brows furrowed. 

“I see.. So all of that for nothing, then?” he says, his fingers digging into his blonde hair. 

I say nothing, staring down at the black tiles. 

“Granger…” he says with a hiss before shaking his head and pressing his hand against the dark tiles above the bathtub. “I have had time to think about this long and hard . About your hormones and urges. And I am going to try something out ‘kay?”

I blink at him, feeling his dark grey eyes drinking me in. 

Then without warning he leans in and kisses me. 

No hesitation. No ceremony.

Just lips crashing into mine, heat flaring like Fiendfyre in my veins..

I gasp, stumbling back into the wall of steam and tile, pulling the curtain aside as my arms wrap around him. My body grinds against his, slick with water, skin pressed to soaked fabric.

His voice echoes against my lips, mumbling something. 

I don't hear it, instead pressing my chest closer against his, my fingers digging into wet fabric in an attempt to find skin. 

His hands catch my wrists—not rough, but restraining. Anchoring.

Draco pulls back, just enough to speak. Breathless. Shaking. His cheekbones look as if they have been pinched, a storm behind his dark grey eyes. 

"Granger," he whispers. "In the bloodcasting they performed on you. Did they use... Veela blood?"

I blink at him, dazed.

"Veela blood?" I echo, the words barely forming.

His grip tightens for a moment, his jaw clenched as if fighting something off.

"Yes."

The word is a thread. A lifeline. A warning.

I stare at him, my body still pressed to his, my mind racing.

Memories surge—Luna, Nevil and Chen discussing how best it could be done, looking through various files of information until finally zeroing in on the ritual that had taken place during Hogwarts fourth year, the end of the Triwizard Championship and had given Voldemort back his body. In truth it had been what had inspired them in the end for my own bloodcasting spell- beautiful, poetic irony, really. 

My eyes flutter and I see images of the ritual, the blood, the merging with my past shelf - her breathless plea to save everyone-, the aching pull of magic in my bones since arriving. The way proximity with Tom had me respond in a different manner than anticipated. They’d been the one who had made me, built me like a honeytrap. I wouldn't be even remotely surprised if they’d added Veela blood into the mix. 

I look up to Draco, acutely aware I am still naked and he's standing there, disheveled, out of breath, his silken white-blonde hair falling in disarray. 

“Maybe” I whisper, wanting logic to win over lust. 

But it doesn't. 

Because this is Draco, the boy I thought I could never have. Too many memories, too many stigmas. In a world where it would have been impossible to be together I'd allowed him to move on. 

But now-

I grasp the back of his head and pull him back to me, needing to taste that fire that he kindled within me.

Draco Malfoy – Christmas Night, 1944

Draco Malfoy has always prided himself on two things: his impeccable taste… and his dangerously precise sense of smell.

So when Hermione slips out of the South Guest Wing under the pretense of needing air and to see Tom’s ring , he lets her pass.

He just lifts his firewhiskey, watching her go with the same expression he’s worn since third year: slightly bored, vaguely judgmental, entirely alert.

But the moment the door shuts, his grip tightens.

She smells different.

She always smelled like parchment and berries—like ink-slicked theories and forest fruit jam, like late nights in candlelight and breakfast on a warfront. But now…

Now there’s something else under it.

Something warmer. Wilder. Sweet and ancient and wrong.

It hits the back of his throat like smoke from a hearth fire that shouldn’t be burning.

He knows that smell.

He’s smelled it once before. Fourth year. Fleur Delacour walking past him in the corridor, her hair gleaming like winter moonlight, her skin radiant and unholy. A half-step too close, and he’d felt it: the hook, the pull, the way the world tilted toward her like gravity had been rewritten.

Veela.

It’s Veela blood.

On Hermione.

It wasn’t there before, he would have known. 

They used Veela blood on her and must have it activated it tonight; the specifics of it don't really matter at the moment. 

He doesn’t let himself feel.

Not yet.

He sets down the glass. Smoothly. Calmly.

But inside, something starts to split.

She’s going to him. To Tom. To the future Dark Lord, the future tormentor of his family. The same creature that branded his followers with the Dark Mark as if they were cows ready to be taken for slaughter.

For Merlin's beard, she's dressed like sin, smelling like seduction, walking into a serpent’s den on legs that don’t even know they’ve been weaponized.

He swears under his breath.

She told him she needed to get close to retrieve the ring.

Right. And he’s supposed to stay behind. Wait. Drink firewhiskey. Maybe knit a scarf.

Not bloody likely.

Draco stands. Smooths his sleeves. Picks up his wand.

If she’s going to face a predator, she’s not doing it alone.

Besides, it's not every day that the girl you’ve been in love with since the age of fourteen decides to walk into your enemy’s den with the intent of seducing him. 

Again . 

He’ll need to be there. Monitor her since that’s part of the mission, isn’t it? 

Even if watching might kill him. 

***

The hallways are too familiar. Every stone groans like an old secret. His footsteps echo like curses.

He slips inside the dormitory undetected, whispering the password to the snake statue at the front. 

The fire is low. Gold and flickering.

And there they are.

Hermione and Tom.

Entwined.

She’s pressed to him, her head tilted back, his lips trailing down her neck with the reverence of a monk and the hunger of a beast. Her fingers tug at his collar. His hand spans her waist. Her breath—ragged, uneven—makes Draco's spine turn to ice.

He should leave.

He should.

It seems consensual and Tom does not seem interested in killing her

At the moment, anyway. 

But he doesn’t.

Because the thing rising in him isn’t just jealousy.

It’s something else.

It’s possession. It’s promise. It’s need.

To show her. To remind her. To match him.

This is his Hermione . The same girl who stopped replying to his letters after watching the latest star movie back in May of 1999. 

His Hermione yet , not. 

She’s been altered into this new version of her but she is still familiar. The way she laughs at every small sarcastic thing he says reminds him of what they had. Still have. 

Even if a serpent has decided to intervene. 

He doesn’t make a sound. Just leans against the pillar, watching from the shadows like a ghost still tethered to the living.

Her gown falls halfway from her shoulder. Tom kisses the spot beneath her collarbone like it holds a prophecy. Hermione’s eyes flutter shut.

Draco blinks and Tom is above her now, pushing in her with a punishing speed and his head falls back momentarily while shivering, obviously in an attempt to control himself from spilling into her. As his eyes drop back down onto Hermione’s form, Draco feels them pausing. 

Draco's heart beats unsteadily inside his chest as Tom’s dark eyes find him, freezing him in place. Shock is quickly replaced by arrogance as Tom smiles sardonically at him before the muscles of his abdomen coil and he growls. 

Draco looks away. But not before the image is burned into him—permanent, savage, sacred. The sound of their entwined bodies is certain to be the soundtrack of his future nightmares. 

After, she falls asleep on the Slytherin couch. The tension fades. Their breathing slows.

And Draco still stands.

***

She leaves quietly.

But Draco is quieter.

He follows at a distance. Down the hallway. Past the first stair. Into the bathroom.

Steam curls from under the door.

He pauses. Breath shallow.

She’s inside.

He can smell her. Still sweet, still sharp. But underneath now— him . Tom’s scent, musky and dark, clings to her like a curse.

And still—still—there’s that other note. The one that twists in his gut. The one that raises every hair on his arms.

Veela.

He knocks once.

She doesn’t answer.

“Granger,” he says, too low, too level.

Silence.

Then the curtain shifts.

Her eyes meet his. Barely.

She peers through the steam, wet curls plastered to her temples, lips flushed, neck blooming with bruises like stars fallen in the wrong sky.

“Draco?” she asks uncertainly. 

He steps closer and she gasps, her honey coloured eyes drinking him in. “What- What are you doing?”

“Were you successful?” he asks with a voice that breaks at the end. 

He leans in closer, her scent overwhelming him. Hermione presses the curtain around her body, perhaps in a futile attempt to conceal her nakedness because he has already seen it all. 

“I - I” she says, biting on her lower lip and Draco follows that movement with wild fascination, wondering how it would feel like to be biting her lips. 

“I see.. So all of that for nothing, then?” he says with a deep sigh, his fingers digging into his blonde hair. 

“Granger…” he says with a hiss before shaking his head and pressing his hand against the dark tiles above the bathtub. “I have had time to think about this long and hard . Your hormones and urges. And I am going to try something out ‘kay?”

She blinks at him, her large honey-coloured eyes drinking him in. 

He doesn’t waste time, leaning in and kissing her. 

Draco was aiming for something gentle, something quick, something to show that she is affected not only by Tom but every other male body around. 

What he doesn’t expect is her enthusiastic return, her warm tongue slipping between his lips and caressing his own. He should feel repulsed, knowing full well what she had been doing with it only hours prior yet the only thing he can think of is that this is Hermione. 

His Hermione. 

Currently kissing him. 

Under the influence of Veela blood. 

That stops him in his tracks and he grasps her hands to stop her from continuing. 

Honestly, they should build him a bloody statue with all the willpower he has displayed today. 

“Hermione, Hermione” he mumbles against her lips but she doesn’t hear him, too lost in whatever daze she’s in. 

Draco pulls back, just enough to speak. Breathless. Shaking. 

"Granger," he whispers. "In the bloodcasting they performed on you. Did they use... Veela blood?"

She blinks at him, dazed.

"Veela blood?" she echoes. 

Chapter Text

“Lust is the craving for salt of a man who is dying of thirst.”

— Frederick Buechner

His grip tightens for a moment, his jaw clenched, desperately fighting against himself to keep her still and stop himself from bringing his hands down to her perky breasts. 

"Yes" he tells her, feeling his throat bob. 

For a few seconds she looks lost, then looks up to Draco. 

“Maybe” she whispers, those lips of hers puckering at the word. 

Her eyes have grown darker in desire as if she doesn’t fully comprehend what’s happening to her or what he’s told her has simply not registered.

She grabs the back of his head and brings him down to her, lapping her soft lips against his own. Before logic can wrestle him back into shape, he leans in and kisses her.

It’s not soft.

It’s not gentle.

It’s a question dragged across teeth.

And the worst part?

She gasps into his mouth, wet and wanting, and pulls the curtain aside with a flick of her wrist. Her body presses against him again, slick and searing, her hands curling into his robes.

He lets her.

For one heartbeat. Then two. Then—he stops her.

“Granger” he mumbles, cupping her face gently, while her hands are fumbling under his robes. “I need you to tell me you want this. That this isn’t just the Veela blood”

Her iris has completely engulfed her eyes and her cheeks are flushed, her body arching towards him but there’s something like anger behind her expression. 

“I’ve wanted this since you ate popcorn at my house and insulted my coffee” she whispers and he swears, his eyes growing larger.

Then he kisses her again.

Because what else is there to do?

There’s fury and betrayal and desire in him that has nothing to do with Veela blood and everything to do with the girl in front of him.

She kisses him like she’s breaking. He kisses her like he wants to win.

If Draco is being honest with himself, and he always strives to be honest with himself, he knows this is a bad idea. 

Yet her hair is wet and plastered across her forehead, her breasts pillowy enough for his hands to comfortably fit around them and suddenly he forgets all about the future and duties. Her hands are quick and insistent as she undresses him and he is more than eager to oblige her. He slips into the bath with her and pushes her against the cold tiles, his lips trailing a hot path down her throat. 

She moans and writhes against him, her eyes half shut with desire. 

A distant part of his brain reminds him his Death Eater tattoo is now visible to her - and he has gone to extensive lengths to make sure it’s covered at all times - but the witch in front of him barely pays any mind to it, her thoughts suddenly elsewhere. Her hands glide down wet skin, trailing his taut stomach in lazy circles as she smirks against his lips. 

He gasps and braces against the tiles as Hermione’s honey coloured eyes near wink at him. 

She’s …playing with him. 

And Draco finds he doesn’t mind that at all. 

He kisses her again, feeling her wet tongue slide inside his mouth and he wonders briefly about how it would feel if she was doing that with another part of his. As if able to read his thoughts Hermione drops to her knees and glides her tongue against the tip of him. 

“Merlin’s beard” he hisses, feeling his eyes roll behind him as pleasure begins mounting and Hermione does it again. 

Then she puckers her lips and takes him, slow by slow inch and Draco can do nothing but watch slowly, his heart near stammering inside his chest as her eyes stay locked on him. His left hand goes to her luscious dark brown hair and suddenly she swallows him whole. 

He could stay like this for a long time but if nothing else Draco Malfoy prides himself in being a gentleman. He gingerly pushes Hermione back and she gives him a puckered expression, her lips red and swollen before lifting her so she’s against the tiles again. 

“Thats-” he whispers with a smile “Fuck, Hermione, you have no idea. But I know how to make you feel good too. And it will be nothing like what he did…”

For a second clarity returns to Hermione’s eyes along with a brief flash of guilt and Draco wonders if he said the wrong words, if she regrets -

But then she’s back to kissing him and his hands slide down her stomach, pausing slightly at her soft skin and curves, marveling at how right she fits between his hands. Then he brings them further down, towards her core and by that point Hermione is panting, her eyes glazed and her hips bucking towards him. 

He smiles lazily, confidently, enjoying how he’s making her feel before he presses his thumb at the apex of her thighs. Hermione hisses and bucks her hips towards him once more but it’s Draco’s turn to go down to his knees. The witch looks at him with confusion before he drops lazy kisses across her smooth stomach, trailing a path downwards. 

“Draco” she says, almost as a warning and he raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” he inclines, playing coy. 

She’s inhaling quickly now, her skin pebbled and her nipples at full attention. 

His eyes are locked on her, unable to look anywhere else as he brings his thumb further down and hisses when he realizes how wet she is. She is practically dripping, liquid going down her thighs. 

His tongue flicks out and collects some of her honey and Hermione bucks towards him with a hiss, her nails raking down his scalp and grabbing onto his hair. She is so soft and perfect. 

So ready for him. 

He does it again and she moans. One hand slides underneath her folds, finding her opening and he slips a finger inside while continuing to slide his tongue lazily against her clit. 

It doesn’t take long before her breathing increases, her face flushed, lips parted and Draco knows she’s close. Two more licks and he feels her walls clutching around his finger. He laps up her desire, watching her becoming undone. 

Only when her eyes are fully glazed does he rise, a smirk on his lips as he brings his finger to her and she pushes her mouth around it, watching him intently. He feels his member stiffen all the more and suddenly he is grinding himself against her wet folds, unable to resist. 

“Draco” she moans, her head falling back against the tiles in a near hiss. “Please”

He almost consents, giving her what she wants but not just yet. He intends to play with her a little more, overjoyed at the sensations she is causing within him and drunk by the sight of her.

He pushes more of himself through her folds, not yet entering her but easily finding that sweet spot of hers and she grinds her hips against him. Draco wants to delay this for as long as he can but she is wet and ready but with a sudden movement of hers he suddenly finds himself impaled inside her. 

They both groan at the sensation, eyes dark in desire as they stare at each other, unable to comprehend exactly what’s happening. 

“You feel so good” he whispers against her ear and Hermione shivers, arching her body closer to him. 

Draco has had sex before. Of course, he has. Not so much in sixth and seventh year due to he-who-shall-not-be-named but by fifth year he and Pansy had explored every hidden passage behind a tapestry. 

But it’s been a while. He’d been to a few dates back in the summer of 1999 after Hermione had stopped replying to his letters but those dates only got so far. 

He is trying desperately to stop himself from spilling inside her because the sensation of her tight, hot walls around his cock is not something he can fully comprehend. 

Draco takes in a deep breath and begins rotating his hips, watching as Hermione writhes below him. One hand braced against the tiles for balance, the other goes between their connected bodies to push against that sweet spot of hers and she’s groaning again. 

Her legs rise and tighten around him and Draco is holding onto her weight now, pushing her against the tiles with a new, punishing speed. She is moaning loudly now, eyes half closed. 

“Look at me” he demands and Hermione opens her honey-coloured eyes, taking him in. 

He pushes in her more slowly and she gasps, her hands on his shoulder, as he begins establishing a rhythm. It takes all but a few more pushes before she is clenching around him and Draco is really struggling now, near panting. Hermione kisses his neck, her teeth nipping at his skin and the brief pain makes him near lose himself. 

He lifts her off briefly so there’s just the tip of him in her before she slowly sinks down again, moaning. Draco is panting from the effort, his right hand tunneled through her hair, holding the back of her neck tightly. She makes a keening sound and he smiles. 

‘Oh, you like this?” he hisses, tightening his fingers against the back of her neck. 

“Yes” she moans and slips one hand down to begin touching herself. 

Draco growls and pumps his hips harder meeting her thrust for thrust. She is bouncing on top of him, when he feels her walls tighten around him again. 

Shit, he thinks to himself. He can hold on a little longer, surely? 

But as he feels himself cuming along with Hermione, mind-numbing pleasure mounting at every crevice of his, the strangest sensation starts on his left forearm. 

It starts as a tingling before it grows to burning. At first it’s just uncomfortable but suddenly pain overwhelms him and he hisses, every thought evaporating. 

***

Hermione Granger

My body is humming with pleasure and Draco is looking at me as if I am the most precious thing in the world. I can feel him getting harder inside me and I can do nothing but look at his dark grey eyes as he whispers sweet promises to me. 

This… It feels so right. 

Even if it’s so wrong. 

Not even an hour ago I was sleeping in the arms of another man and now…

But I don’t allow myself to think. The Veela blood has dulled my reasoning and my current thoughts are replaced mainly by lust and need. A need that is being fulfilled each second as I feel myself ascending, my vision turning white-

I feel it before I see it.

A shift.

Not in the air, not exactly.

Magic.

But not just any magic.

Draco straightens just as I feel his hot seed spilling inside me. “Did you—”

“Yes.”

It’s subtle. A low thrum, like the press of a second heartbeat beneath the floorboards. Like a tether drawn tight.

Not sound.

Not sight.

Feeling.

A jolt.

Cold. Wild. Feral.

Something inside me cracks open.

My spine arches, breath catching as if someone yanked an invisible cord that threads through my core and pulls.

Draco jerks upright inside me, his hand flying to his forearm.

He hisses. “Merlin—what—”

His Dark Mark burns black against pale skin, glowing faintly. Not alive—but lit.

And I—

I feel grief.

Rage.

The raw, acid sting of regret twisted so tightly it could snap bones.

It’s not mine.

It’s his.

“Tom,” I whisper, trembling.

Draco’s eyes meet mine, wide now. Fearless—but frightened all the same.

“You feel it too,” he says, hoarse.

I nod, heart pounding.

Something in my chest constricts. I feel a pressure behind my sternum like a thread being tugged. No—not a thread. A braid.

Three strands.

One is mine.

One is Draco’s.

And the third…

I don’t say it. I don’t have to.

Draco exhales, shaking. He pulls away—but only just. His fingers still ghost against my hips. The water keeps falling. The heat doesn’t fade. But for the first time in days—

—I start to feel cold.

***

The steam curls from the tiles like something alive, ghosting around my ankles. I exit the shower and fumble for my robes, pulling them hastily around my shoulders with shaking hands. The material sticks to my skin, damp from the shower—or maybe just from the way my body hasn't stopped feeling since we stepped out of it. It hums - less from the water, more from everything else that happened in it.

I dress in silence. 

Draco’s already ahead of me, fastening his trousers with one hand and grabbing his wand with the other. He exudes rigid composure, jaw set like he’s physically biting down the words. His eyes won’t meet mine until they do. 

I reach for my wand.

The tether between us doesn’t just hum now. It howls.

“Something’s happened. I need to -” I begin unable to find the exact words. 

Draco glares at me, cheeks hollow and pale, eyes deadly cold. 

“You can't go to him. Not now… Not like this-” he says, pausing at each word, as if finding it difficult to explain exactly what it is he is feeling. 

He doesn't need to say more. 

I understand.

We just shagged. Under the influence of Veela blood -perhaps- but Tom Riddle does not forgive or forget betrayal and he will know. There's no hiding what we did. 

Guilt clouds my thoughts. I've just shattered that tentative peace between us. 

He trusted me. 

And I went along and slept with someone else a few hours after I'd shared his bed. 

Why?

I have no answer. 

I am fucked up, overwhelmed by hormones and emotions and -

He is in pain. 

I can feel it. I need to go to him -

Draco must see the decision in my eyes because he nods with a sigh, his dark mark visible against the pale skin, positively burning

We waste no more time. 

We sprint through the castle, barefoot and breathless, robes half-fastened and hearts pounding as one.

Down the corridors. Past the Grand Staircase. Toward the dungeons.

The walls are too quiet.

Too still.

And as we reach the Slytherin entrance, the snake slithers to open up the passage. 

The door groans open.

And inside—

The common room is empty.

Silent.

Except for one tall, pale figure.