Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The night was crisp.

Cold.

Fog.
A stray dog.

When will the suffering end?

A question to which Hermione held no answer.

Perhaps it was her destiny.

To lose.

Dragging her feet across empty streets, she thought — was it time to accept it?

Her life was gone.

Lost.

Forever.

Riddle had killed Hokey, and she couldn’t even accuse him to Wrenford. Only pretend to be in shock. Stay silent.

Defeated.

Truth was, there was no surprise.

Hermione knew Riddle took no chances.

And now, she became his target.

Weaker.

Lesser.

Perhaps she should’ve just confess Riddle killed the woman? Yet then, how could she explain the cup? Her own use of Imperio? She would go on trial. They would find out about the time travel.

No. Suffering simply couldn’t end.

It was engraved in her soul’s dictionary.

As Hermione walked, lost in her completely destructive thoughts, she crashed into an elderly man. Nearly knocking him over, she  sent his letters flying into the air.

“My apologies sir!” She squeaked, catching the parchments before the wind blew them away. “I should’ve been more care—“ Her voice drifted, eyes scanning the text written on the paper. “—full… Excuse me, are you selling a house?”

The grumpy man took the papers back, ready to tape them to a nearby tree. “Yes, I am.”

She took a look at the price.

Five thousand pounds.

In disbelief, and a sudden surge of hope, she extended her hand. “My name is Hermione, sir, and I would love to take a look at it!”

At the sound of her name, the man abruptly stopped. He turned around with a smile. “Hermione, you say? That’s a beautiful name.” He shook her hand, delirious from the spell. “I am more than happy to show you. Whenever suits you.”

“Would it be weird if I asked… now?” Hermione bit her lip, nervous.

The man chuckled, gathering the stack, ready to throw them all out. “Well, of course not. It is going to be quite a journey. Fiveish hours and we will be there!”

Hermione trailed behind the man, realizing he was a Muggle. She was confused by how easily he accepted the proposal, but delighted enough not to complain. “Where is it located?”

“Just outside Newquay, in Cornwall.” He stepped in front of a onyx Buick Roadmaster, opening the door for her. “Beautifully secluded by the coast. Great if you like not being arsed around.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in relish. She sat in the passenger seat, unable to hold her excitement. However, she knew a house in such a location should cost at least double. Something about it made her anxious. She couldn’t help but ask.

“Excuse me for my curiosity, but how come you are selling it for such a low price, sir? I mean… I understand if the house is not in the best condition, it’s just that—”

The man sat inside, but motioned with his hand for her to stop talking. Once he was set, he finally turned to look her in the eyes.

“My wife died.” He fixed his jacket, preparing the words. “I can’t stand to look at that house anymore. The money doesn’t even matter since she left me. I just need it gone. Wherever I look, it's her I see.”

Hermione swallowed, uncomfortable with her own nosiness. “I am so sorry… I didn’t mean to pry.”

He took a deep breath, focusing on the road. “That’s what love does to you.”

She shifted in her seat, clearing her throat. “My condolences.”

“Don’t be so apologetic.” The man brushed off. “That’s the art of life. You live, and then… You die.”

Hermione fell silent, focusing her gaze on the rising sun in the distance.

But the old fella felt like talking.

“You know we were neighbors when we met?” He smiled. “We were only nineteen.”

“Oh?” Hermione turned her attention back. Pleased the man wasn’t miserable, but rather joyful. “That’s lovely, sir.”

“Yes… Yes indeed.” He opened a window, airing the space. “Only two houses on the whole hill. And she was a beautiful woman. Such epic opportunity for someone like me could’ve happened only once. So I tried. And tried. But how stubborn that woman was? Oh Lord.” He chuckled at the memory. “Only when she saw me with another did she want me.”

Intrigued, Hermione wanted to know more. “What happened then?”

The man huffed, as if stating something obvious. “Well, I dropped the side one, of course! Marlene became my wife three months later.”

Hermione smiled, leaning against the window. She wondered would anyone ever talk about her in such way.

With so much love and devotion.

Yet she knew it was impossible.
For Hermione had nothing left to give back.

Shaking the void away, she returned to reality, reviving what he said about the neighbour’s house. “May I ask what happened to her house then?”

The fella visibly shifted. The happiness drowned away, overtaken by such emotional indifference. “She sold it a while ago. There’s one man living there occasionally, but he doesn’t like being disturbed. Fortunately, neither does he disturb me. As I’m sure will be the same with you.”

Hermione nodded, pleased. It was a bargain she couldn’t miss after all, no matter who lived across the road.

Eventually, she drifted off, falling into a deep slumber.

One second, it was dark.
The next, too bright.

The man opened her door, so fast she almost fell out of the car. With a yawn and a slight stretch, she stepped out.

Yet she wasn’t prepared for what lay in front of her.

The house was a fortress of grey, weathered stone, standing tall against the bruised sky of the Cornwall coast.

The walls were thick, draped in sprawling ivy that clung to the masonry like a drowning man. Its leaves were a dark, waxy green that shimmered with the salt mist.

It sat at the very edge, the last stop before the world ended. To the right and behind the stone walls, there was nothing but the drop; the Atlantic in every direction, a restless sprawl of silver blue that roared against the base of the cliff.

But the porch was the heart of it.

It didn't sit at the front, exposed to the road. Instead, it hugged the left side of the house, sweeping toward the back in a deep, sheltered gallery of dark, intricate woodwork.

A Gothic ribcage of black timber.

Wicker chairs sat in the shadows, ghost like and silent, while moss covered pots dripped with the humidity of the sea.

Hermione walked to the edge of the railing on the left.

She’d never seen anything so beautiful.

The garden was an open stretch of wind swept grass. Her eyes tracked a hundred meters across the flat expanse, slightly to the right, where the only other house sat.

Dark windows. Still.

For a moment, something in her quietened with it; as if the air itself had paused, waiting.

Then it passed.

Her attention slipped away, caught instead by the sweep of the horizon. From the side porch, she had the perfect view of the sunset, light spilling molten gold across the water.

The Atlantic roared, wild and entirely free.

Somewhere behind the glass across the way, Riddle watched that light settle over her shoulders.

Every small shift of her posture. Every quiet movement of her hands.

Studied.

As though he had every right to it.
As though she were already his to watch.

How oblivious she was.

Hermione shifted, absently curling her fingers tighter around the keys. The metal pressed cold into her palm, grounding.

“My deepest apologies, sir,” she said, her voice finally steady as she turned back to the paperwork. “I haven’t even asked for your name.”

The man took the signed papers, his eyes still slightly glazed, his smile a permanent, dreamy fixture. "Arthur Naurey. But you can call me Archie, miss."

"Then I’m pleased to say we just made a deal, Archie!"

Minutes later, once they finalised everything, she watched him climb back into his black Buick. He waved, a man five thousand pounds richer and a house lighter, and drove away.

Hermione didn't waste a second.

She stood on the porch, her wand out, already humming with magic.

Salvio Hexia.
Protego Totalum.
Repello Muggletum.

She layered them thick. Anti detection, sound dampening, blood locking. She turned the stone house into a blind spot to the world. A fortress where no one could see her, hear her, or touch her.

Except, perhaps, for the man who was already watching.

But she wouldn’t know that. Not yet.

Not until it was too late.

Euphoric, Hermione focused on the rest of her errands. One crack of apparition later, and she found herself in London.

The bank was a blur of parchment and gold. The paperwork was filed. The check cleared.

Hermione officially owned a house.

Finally.

She walked down the street, stopping at the bulletin board where she’d first post her own ad. She ripped it down, the paper crumpling in her fist.

Discharged.

As she turned the corner, heading back toward the safety of the Black estate, a familiar, portly figure appeared from it.

"Professor?"

Horace Slughorn stopped, his wool hat nearly falling off as he squinted at her. "Hermione, dear? Oh my! We have to catch up!"

He extended his arm, inviting her to tuck hers underneath his, the way old couples did. He led her toward a small, quiet coffee shop, his face etched with a rare, genuine worry.

"I don't have much time," Slughorn whispered as they sat down. "I have a little meeting, but I have to ask... Hermione, are you all right?" He leaned in, his voice dropping. "I heard what happened with Dumbledore. The state of the house; broken furniture, pools of dried blood? You vanished. I sent letters, but my owl couldn’t find you. What happened?"

"Don't worry, sir," Hermione said, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "Everything is all right. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve sorted my things out."

Slughorn’s eyes searched hers. "Did he do anything to you? Any of them?"

He didn't say the names.
Didn't need to.

"No, no. I have everything under control."

"And are you getting anywhere with… you know who?" Slughorn whispered, leaning in as if the very walls had ears. He meant it simply, a shorthand for the boy they were both monitoring, but the words struck Hermione, bringing out her deepest memories to surface.

The title echoed in her ears, cold and suffocating. It tasted like ash. It smelled like the Great Hall full of bodies.

"Do not call him that," Hermione hissed. The words were out before she could stop them, ground out through gritted teeth.

Slughorn recoiled, his eyebrows jumping toward his receding hairline. "My dear, I only meant… You know who I am referring to, surely—"

"His name is Tom," she interrupted, her voice a low, trembling rasp of redirected trauma. She wasn't just defending a boy; she was fighting off a ghost. She stared into her coffee, her hands shaking so violently she had to press them against the table. "It’s taking time. But I have it planned out. I will make it happen. Somehow."

“I am sorry.” Slughorn sighed, reaching across the table to take her hands in his. "Please, just be cautious. Even Albus has gone mad. He  attacked me the other day when the Halloween news broke. Demanded a name, everything! I have never seen him like that."

"I know," Hermione whispered. "He did the same to me. We cannot believe anybody these days, sir. Anyone can change overnight."

"You're very right, my dear. Very right." Slughorn checked his watch. "What are you doing now?"

"Settling errands. I’m actually invited to Avery Junior's birthday tonight. But I’m not sure I should go. To be honest, I’m not so sure about anything now."

Slughorn squeezed her hands, his expression suddenly sharp. Tactical. "Hermione, you’re a very smart girl. Do not slip now." He leaned in closer. "Connections are everything that matters in this world. Do not miss a chance like this. Infiltrate them. Join the circle, Hermione. Once you have the social power, you will have his power. Be smart."

Hermione blinked. The clarity washing her like a cold drench of water. "You're right, sir. Thank you."

"It was a pleasure, my girl." They shared a quick, friendly hug before he bustled out to his meeting. "If you have a problem; anything like the business with Albus — do not hesitate to contact me!"

And so on, Hermione was left alone on the pavement. Yet lost in her own thoughts. Slughorn was right, after all.

She couldn't hide forever.

It wasn’t a smart move to do, anyways. Not when Riddle already targeted her. No. She had to show up, break through his strings.

Infiltrate.

She apparated to 12 Grimmauld Place.

The front door had barely shut before Walburga was in her face, looking like she was ready to commit a murder. "Where the fuck were you?"

"Walburga," Hermione breathed, exhausted but smiling. "I bought a house."

Walburga froze in disbelief. "What?"

"I’d show you, but if I apparate one more time, I think I’ll split open and die. Tomorrow."

"Well then,” Her eyebrows narrowed, sceptical. “At least enlighten me on HOW."

"I went for a walk last night. Bumped into a man taping up stickers. It’s a lovely place on the coast. Can you imagine? Only five thousand pounds. I couldn't say no."

Walburga crossed her arms, her lip curling in that signature sassy tilt. "I’m delighted for you. And deeply offended I wasn't included. But I’ll trust your judgment for now."

She scanned Hermione from head to toe. "Did you perhaps remember to buy a dress as well?"

Hermione looked down at her battered coat. "No. But I can make one. We have time." She checked her watch. Six in the evening. “Three hours, that’s more than enough now?"

"THREE HOURS! ENOUGH?" Walburga shrieked, already turning toward the stairs. "I have no idea how we're going to make it!"

She dragged Hermione into her bedroom, flinging open the closet doors. Silk, velvet, and lace flew through the air as she emptied half the wardrobe onto the bed.

Moments later of scavenging, and she pulled out a gown.

"This one," Walburga declared. "It will suit you perfectly."

"Walburga, there's no need. I can make one—"

"That’s out of the fucking question! Look, I appreciate your 'fashion skills,' but here is the damn dress. Get it on."

Taking another look, truly, Hermione couldn’t deny how beautiful the gown was.

It was a custom piece, woven from a deep smoke blue silk that looked as if it was made from the very mist that rolled off the Cornwall cliffs.

The silhouette was regal. The fitted bodice featured structured cups, holding its own shape, sweeping down into a natural, flowing fall of ruffles that pooled around her feet. The organza layers moved with a mind of their own, like the restless ocean waves she now owned.

Beside it, a matching silk scarf awaited. It was very light, soft against her fingertips, but robust enough to effortlessly conceal the bruised, weeping, messy healing process of the scar Riddle had left on her neck.

"Walburga," Hermione breathed, her fingers ghosting over the neckline, realising there are no sleeves. "The runes. You know what happens if anyone sees."

Walburga sighed, her eyes locked onto the fabric. "Don't worry about it."

"What do you mean, don’t worry about it?" Hermione’s voice snapped, loud with a sudden edge of rudeness. "Don’t you understand? If anyone sees this, I’ll be burned at the stake!"

Walburga turned, her expression shifting into something haughty and fashion aggressive. She bristled, her chin tilting up.

"Don’t you dare lack trust in me," she hissed. "I have spent the last twelve hours both worried sick about your whereabouts and scouring through my family’s private archives."

She reached for an old, leather bound book, muttering as she opened it to a page marked with a dried flower. "I found a concealment spell. It’s far more than a simple disillusionment charm. It’s... slightly dark, I suppose. It creates a physical barrier, like a second skin. It’s painful, but everything is worth it for the sake of beauty. I was willing to learn it for you, so you had better show me some respect."

She stopped then, her gaze dropping. Her brown eyes flashing with a rare, desperate vulnerability. "I swear it will work, Hermione. Please... you have to trust me."

Hermione looked at the dress, and then at the woman standing before her; a woman who, in this moment, felt far more like a sister than a friend. "I trust you, Walburga."

The spell was excruciating. It felt as if Hermione's own skin were being stripped away and replaced by a thin, invisible layer of ice. But when Walburga finally lowered her wand, the mottled, bruised, glowing runes on Hermione's arms were gone.

Her skin was flawless.
Smooth.
Empty.

They spent the next two hours turning the girlhood moment into a strategic briefing. Makeup, hair, the loud, rhythmic click of heels. Hermione stepped into the smoke blue dress, the fabric cool against her new, artificial skin. As Walburga fastened the light silk scarf around her neck, combing Hermione’s curls to the side and hiding the mess of the healing scar, the transformation was complete.

Hermione stood before the full length mirror. Beside her stood Walburga, a vision in laced, dark emerald satin that hugged her figure in an elegant mermaid silhouette.

Walburga smoothed the front of her dress, a wicked, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. "Merlin," She whispered, her eyes meeting Hermione’s in the reflection. "Everyone had better fall at our feet when they see us."

Hermione laughed, taking a bottle of perfume and spraying it generously. A second later, she was grabbing her purse, the next, she was pulled through the crushing vacuum of the Floo and deposited into the reception hall of the Avery Estate.

She glanced at the crowd, nervous. “Don’t get too friendly…” She turned around, whispering. “Just try the find some information.”

"Chin up, Hermione," Walburga hissed, her voice a blade of aristocratic steel. She adjusted a lace cuff, her eyes scanning the room like a general surveying a battlefield. "We can work and have fun at the same time."

They moved into the main ballroom, a cavernous space of gold leaf and floating candles that bled wax like slow, honeyed tears. Walburga’s schoolmates were scattered throughout the hall like pieces on a board, their laughter loud and curated.

Aside from that one individual she was constantly scanning for, there were only two more faces Hermione had prayed to avoid. Fate, however, wasn't on her side.

Because one of them, already stood squarely in their path.

Sebastian Nott was leaning against a fluted pillar near the champagne tower, his tie slightly askew and his eyes already glassy. The moment his gaze landed on them, Hermione felt a wave of visceral nausea.

They had strictly forbidden him from coming anywhere near them after that betrayal, a decree backed by the full weight of Walburga’s wrath. But Nott was seemingly persistent, fueled by a mixture of pathetic guilt and a desperate need to remain in the orbit of the attention. Seeing them, he began to drift forward, his expression a frantic sort of pleading.

"Hermione, Walbuega, please, I just—I need to explain—" Nott stammered, his voice trembling as he stepped into their path.

Walburga didn't even slow her stride. Her eyes narrowed to lethal, emerald slits. "Not another step, Nott. If I hear your voice again, I will make sure it is the last thing you ever use."

Nott hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Hermione with a look of desperate apology, but before he could utter another syllable, Antonin Dolohov materialized from the crowd. He didn't look at the girls, but he stepped directly into Nott’s path, his shoulder knocking the other boy back with purposeful, bruising force.

"Leave the ladies alone, idiot. Take a hint," Dolohov muttered, his voice a bored, low drawl as he sipped a dark liqueur. He didn't move, just simply stood there like a stone wall, cutting off Nott’s line of sight entirely. Nott bristled, looking small and broken, before slinking away into the shadows of the buffet table.

Hermione caught Dolohov’s eye for a split second, in a brief, silent acknowledgment. He walked away, without even saying a hello. However, she appreciated the intervention more than she could say; even though she loathed every single one of Riddle’s puppets.

They continued their sweep of the room, searching for the birthday boy. Soon enough, they caught him, strangled by so many of his father’s friends, in a desperate need of saving.

Walburga stepped in through the crowd, ready to hand over their gift. It was a white gold watch, engraved with details of snakes. The second gift contained tickets to quidditch world cup, which he probably already bought. Still, it was a meaningful gift nevertheless.

He took the bag, throwing it behind to a servant, and hugged Walburga. She quickly moved away, pretending to be disgusted although there was a playful smile on her face. “No need for touching, you twat.”

He laughed, looking over to Hermione. “You came too!”

Hermione stepped closer, offering a kiss cheek. “Well you did say “no” is not an answer?” She pushed away, taking a place by Walburga’s side. “Happy Birthday Marcus!”

“Thank you!” Avery turned around, scanning his next guest. “I have to leave you now, but over there,” He gestured toward the bar, “You will find all the fun you need.”

Seconds later, and he was already gone, stollen away by his father. Hermione pulled Walburga, whispering at her ear. “I don’t see Riddle anywhere.”

Walburga continued walking, reassuring her friend. “Relax. He rarely comes to gatherings like this.”

However, the words didn’t offer her no comfort. She looked around, still anxious.

Yet at the same time, she wasn’t entirely sure, did she actually maybe want him to show up.

From afar, Hermione caught a glance at a man who could not be anyone else but Abraxas Malfoy himself. A vision of pale silver and gentlemency, something which to her memory, Draco clearly lacked.

He intercepted them near the orchestra, bowing over Walburga’s hand in a way friends would never do. His eyes, silver and clear, lingered on Hermione for a moment too long, as if he were trying to calculate her net worth in a single glance.

"A stunning addition to the evening, Walburga," Abraxas murmured, his voice like silk over gravel. "Though I must confess, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your friend."

Hermione put on a fake smile, extending her hand to the man who asked for it. “Name is Hermione, mr Malfoy.”

Abraxas chuckled, shaking her lightly. “Well then, I believe there is no need for interdruction from my side.” He let go of her arm, tapping Walburga by her shoulder before leaving. “Have a beautiful night ladies.”

Once he left, Walburga shared a quick glance at the room, already pulling Hermione behind. Walburga’s thoughts were ahead, calculating connections nessecery to Hermione’s plan.

However, the mind of the second girl, was completely lost. Still searching for a pair of dark, piercing eyes.

Maybe he really won’t come.

Behind them, Cassius Mulciber stood with a group of wizards who looked twice his age; Ministry heads and high ranking officials. He was perfectly groomed, his manners impeccable but completely detached. He was currently deep in a conversation about "work," discussing the shifting tides of the Wizengamot and international trade agreements with such professional efficiency that suggested he had never been a child.

When Walburga introduced them, he acknowledged Hermione with a nod that was so clinical it felt like being examined by a healer. He was polite, yes, but entirely detached, his mind already three moves ahead in a political game she wasn't yet invited to play.

“Oh fuck no.” Walburga breathed out, annoyed.

Hermione spun around, searching for the reason behind her friends irritation. “What?”

“That peasant.” Walburga nodded her head toward one golden hair girl, who genuinely seemed to have less clothes on than even the poor elves. “I can’t stand her guts.”

Druella Rosier.

She moved through the crowd towards them, blowing a kiss at Sebastian, who happily returned.

A nauseating scene, both of the girls thought.

Druella was Walburga’s sworn nemesis, a creature who fed on the attention Walburga discarded. She had spent years pursuing every man who had ever dared to look at a Black daughter, and tonight, she was already hard at work.

Hermione watched as Druella first tried to "glaze" over Abraxas, leaning into his space with a high, tinkling laugh that sounded like breaking glass. When Abraxas remained politely indifferent, his gaze wandering back to the room at large, Druella shifted her focus to the center of the hall.

Finding no immediate purchase there, the blondie turned her sights on the "new girl." She glided toward Hermione and Walburga, her face twisted into false politeness, yet the bitterness beneath it lay quite evident.

"Walburga, darling! You look... radiant. Emerald is such a brave choice for you," Druella purred, her eyes flicking dismissively over Walburga’s gown before turning her miserable gaze to Hermione. "And you! I simply must get to know you. We should be the best of friends, shouldn't we? It must be so overwhelming, coming from... wherever it is you came from."

Druella reached out, her hand aiming for Hermione’s shoulder in a gesture of fake intimacy, her long, manicured nails glinting in the candlelight.

Hermione didn't move away. She stood her ground, her gaze level and freezing, the "ice skin" on her arms feeling suddenly very, very hot. She saw the game Druella was playing, and the way she desperately needed someone to humiliate, just to keep herself high.

It was pathetic.

"Such strong thoughts for such a small mind," Hermione proclaimed, her voice a low, clipped rasp that carried perfectly through the sudden, expectant silence of their immediate circle. "I would have thought you’d be too exhausted from throwing yourself at every man in the room. Tell me, does it get tiring, constantly pleading for men’s attention?"

Everyone around turned, slightly gasping in suprise. Druella’s face seemed to pale as a violent, ugly flush crept up her neck, staining her skin like spilled wine. Walburga let out a sharp, genuine bark of a laugh, her fan snapping shut with a sound like a pistol shot. "Oh, Druella," Walburga smirked, her eyes gleaming with a rare, dark joy. "I think she’s found your pulse."

Hermione didn't give Druella the satisfaction of a second glance. She turned to Walburga, whose eyes were wide with a rare, shimmering triumph.

"I think I need a drink, Walburga," Hermione whispered, her voice steady even as her heart pulsed with the ghost of a flare. "The air in here is getting a bit... thin."

"Indeed," Walburga smirked, casting one last, lethal look at stunned Druella. "Let’s find something top shelf. We have a long night ahead of us."

All at once, goosebumps prickled along Hermione’s skin. It felt like a weight of someone’s stare, yet it wasn’t Druella’s.

No.
This one was indescribably heavier.

Turning around frantically, from across the room, she caught a set of dark, piercing eyes, scanning her from head to toe.

Riddle.

Just in time, her friend handed her a drink, and without even a glance at its contents, she gulped it down in one sip.

The firewhiskey sat heavy in Hermione’s stomach, a slow burn that didn't help the rising pump in her chest. Sooner than the expected, the ballroom became a blur of faces she no longer wanted to know and conversations she didn't care to have. Every time she turned, there was another pureblood heir or a Ministry official, ready to chat endlessly.

As the night dragged on, the old guard finally started to thin out. They moved toward the Floos, leaving the estate to the younger crowd. That’s when the energy shifted.

It got louder, less restrained.

Marcus Avery suddenly appeared, moving like a whirlwind, his tuxedo jacket gone and his tie hanging loose around his neck.

He leaned in close to Walburga and Hermione, whispering with a manic grin. "Downstairs in ten minutes," Avery said, clinking his glass against Hermione's with a sharp thud. "No more fathers, no more mothers, no more politics. Just us. Just fun. Don't you dare say no."

He didn't wait for an answer before disappearing back into the crowd to spread the word. Walburga didn't spare the time either, already grabbing Hermione’s arm, pulling her toward the stone stairs that led to the lower lounges. "Finally," Walburga muttered. "Let’s go."

The basement lounge was a different world. It was dark, paneled in heavy oak, and smelled of tobacco and Dream Fumes. A record was playing Elvis Presley at a volume that made it hard to think, the bass thumping through the floorboards. Hermione sat on a high leather stool at the end of the bar, trying to steady her breathing from rushing.

To her left, Walburga was already deep in conversation with Abraxas Malfoy, the two of them whispering in a way that looked far too friendly to be disturbed.

Antonin Dolohov was sitting two stools down, staring at a glass of dark liqueur. He looked bored out of his mind until he noticed her.

"So," Dolohov began nonchalantly, his voice deep and gravelly. "I heard you were homeschooled."

Hermione reached for a fresh glass, not looking at him. "Yeah. But I don't think I missed much."

Dolohov huffed, a dry sound that might have been a laugh. "Except the drunkenness and the company, I guess not. Most of these halfwits haven't realized the world is moving past them."

"It’s always moving," Hermione replied, the liquor making her bold in philosophy. "Our people think magic is the only thing that dictates power, but there are physical forces... tiny, invisible things that don't care about your blood status or your wand."

Dolohov turned, his eyes narrowing. "Forces? You mean like the atoms? Those little specks the scientists are so obsessed with?"

"The ones that hold enough energy to level a city if you snap the bond," Hermione said, her voice dropping. "No spell. It’s just how the universe is built. A bomb made of existence itself."

Dolohov leaned in, intrigued. "A bomb of existence. I like the sound of that. I mean, it sounds like Dark Magic, but maybe it’s just the same thing with a different name."

They continued talking, from magic to the world wars, and its arts. However, although she was lost in a surprisingly pleasant conversation, Hermione could still feel every inch of Riddle’s presence.

Oppressing.

"Riddle," Hermione overheard Mulciber talking. "I didn't expect to see you here. Didn't you have a meeting with the Experimental Charms committee?"

"I had some spare time after all," Riddle answered dryly, looking rather through him than at him, straight to where Hermione sat. Scanning her every move, even as he pretended to listen to his so called, friends.

The second she tried to catch his eye, he looked away, turning to a group of younger Ministry women with a fake, charming smile. He was ignoring her on purpose, yet still tracking her every breath.

As the night deepened, the room was getting more crowdy.

Avery was now standing on a chair, his shirt almost torn open, pouring a bottle of liqueur into his mouth while everyone cheered.

Nott, accompanied by Selwyn, sat in the furthest corner, both high out of their minds, stumbling over a girl who looked like she’d had way too much of every substance available.

Druella Rosier was hovering near Riddle now, her high pitched laughter cutting through the music. She was practically throwing herself at him, her hand ghosting near his arm, doing everything, just in hope for him to notice her.

Hermione saw the scene, a genuine, mocking laugh escaping her lips.

But then, in a second of Hermione’s lack of attention, he disappeared from the spot. She stood up, subtly searching in which direction did he leave.

Just to be casious.

Merlin knew no one could predict the man, after all.

Suddenly, high and stumbling Selwyn crashed into Hermione’s side. He hasn’t even apologised, nor acknowledged her. Just took a few steps back, changing his route. However, the force sent Hermione flying off her heels, catching on the rug as the room tilted.

But she didn’t hit the floor.

Instead, two cold, large hands caught her by the waist. She was pulled hard against a chest which felt like stone.

She looked up, only to find herself staring into Riddle’s dark obsidian, eagle eyes. The mask was beneath them was long gone. There was a real emotion lay on open, yet she couldn’t decipher which one was it. He held her there for a second too long, his fingers digging into the fabric at her waist.

"Watch your step," he advised irritated, his voice a low vibration that she felt in her bones.

Setting her back on her feet with a cold, effortless movement, Riddle walked straight back to the ladies and a few gents, leaving her standing there, with a heart hammering against her ribs.

The “Love Potion No. 9” track that had replaced the jazz wasn’t just music anymore; it was loud, relentless, shaking through the paneled walls so hard Hermione could feel it in her teeth.

Walburga’s so called “ice skin” charm started to feel thin under it, like it was beginning to lose its melt. Especially now, with the firewhiskey heating her blood and blurring the edges of what she was still trying to keep under control.

She wasn't present anymore. No. She was slowly drifting into a dangerous, delirious, state of mania.

Walburga was a million miles away, locked in a trance with Abraxas, their mouths moving in silent, secretive motions.

Reckless, she reached for another glass, ignoring the food beside. What would’ve happened if she threw an Avada at him?

No, no. She couldn’t lose her grip already.

But what if?

A thought lingered, tempting the desperate part of her mind. She leaned in, enjoying the peacefulness of her imagination.

"Do I… Do I have a chance with her?"

Hermione spun around, her vision blurring for a second before landing on a younger Rosier. He looked like a wet dog, staring at Walburga with a longing that made Hermione want to vomit.

Irritated, she reached out, her fingers grazing Dolohov’s hand as she snatched a burning cigarette right from his grip. She took a drag, the smoke searing her lungs, and blew it directly into Rosier’s face. "You want her? Go get her. Be a man or get out of my way."

She didn't wait to hear anything else, instead, she pushed off the bar, her heels stumbling once before she caught herself, wandering toward the back of the room where the noise was loudest.

"Butterbeer pong!" someone screamed.

Hermione threw herself into it. She ended up paired with a brown haired boy from the Prophet; a guy whose name she forgot the second he said it, but whose laugh was loud enough to drown out her thoughts.

They were winning.

She was cheering, throwing her head back, the scent of spilled alcohol and sweat cloying in the air. For a moment, she felt alive again.

Not in any special way—just that dull, numbed version of it where everything went quiet, including the part of her consciousness that usually wouldn’t shut up. It was easier like that. Lighter.

But it didn’t last.

The second Riddle joined them, the feeling dropped off completely, like it had never been there to begin with.

He slid into the circle at the table without asking, already shrugging off his jacket like the space belonged to him. His movements were slow, deliberate; unbothered by the fact that everyone else had to pause around him.

Hermione’s breath hitched, stunned and unwelcome.

Mostly anger. That was the first thing she felt. Hot, immediate, familiar.

The sheer audacity of him apparently had no end.

But then her eyes dropped, and it only made it worse.

He rolled his sleeves back with maddening ease, exposing forearms lined with lean muscle, the pale skin stark against the dark wood of the table. There was nothing accidental about it, nothing careless. And she hated, absolutely hated, that she noticed.

He started playing.
And he started winning.

Every shot he took was a mockery of her effort. He was surgical, destroying her streak without breaking a sweat, and every time he scored, his eyes flickered to hers, as if he were pinning her to the wall.

"Don't worry, darling," the Prophet boy whispered, his hand sliding a bit too low on her waist. "I’ll set us straight."

Hermione didn't even feel the boy’s hand. She was staring at the way Riddle’s veins stood out in his arms. She was losing her mind. She was losing the game. Pissed, she turned away, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, and headed for the bar to find more fuel.

Riddle was there before she could even reach for a glass.

She grabbed a bottle, but his hand—larger, colder, stronger—snatched it right out of her grip. Yet he didn't look at her. He poured the amber liquid into his own cup, took a sip, and then leaned down.

His lips brushed the sensitive skin of her ear, his breath a hot, menthol scented contrast to the chill of the room. "I'm afraid if you drink one more time, you’ll turn maniac," he rasped, his voice vibrating in her skull. "You’ll try to kill someone. Or worse... you'll show them who you really are."

Hermione didn't pull back. The mania flared, hot and bright. She snatched the cup from his hand and downed it, the liquid burning a trail to her gut. She slammed it down, leaning into him until their chests were inches apart.

"Maybe I should do it now," she breathed, her eyes wild. "The right person is right in front of me, anyways."

The air between them snapped. His hand dropped beneath the bar, and suddenly, he wasn't just touching her; he was possessing her. His palm slammed against her thigh, his fingers digging into the leather of the holster and the soft skin around it. He squeezed so hard she knew there would be bruises.

"By the time you even think about taking that wand out," he hissed, his face so close she could see the dark, eagle obsidian depth of his eyes, "I would already have my hands wrapped around that throat of yours."

Her hand flew up, a reflex to strike that smug, mocking look off his face, but before she could connect, the world exploded.

"SHOTS!"

Marcus Avery lunged between them, a shirtless, sweating force of nature. The Isley Brothers screamed through the speakers, playing a ‘Shout, Pt 1&2’ and the beat became a riot. Avery grabbed Hermione’s hand mid air, his face flushed and wild.

"DANCE!" he roared.

Avery hauled her onto the center table, kicking glasses and bottles into the crowd. Hermione didn't fight him, she actually wanted to kiss him out of gratitude.

She needed to drown out the feel of Riddle’s hand on her leg. She ripped the scarf from her neck, wrapping it across Avery’s bare back like a leash. She pulled him in, leaning back and forth, chest to chest, their sweat mingling as they moved to the tribal, screaming rhythm.

She looked down from the table, her hair wild, her eyes blown wide. She saw Nott and Selwyn rolling on the floor in a pathetic, drunken brawl over a girl who didn't care. She saw Mulciber, pure with unadulterated rage, grabbing them both by the collar and dragging them toward the door like trash.

And she saw Riddle.

He was standing perfectly still in the middle of the chaos, perfectly composed, his gaze locked on her as she danced. He looked obsessive. In a way where he was memorizing the way she moved so he could kill her for it later.

Hermione didn't care. She leaned into the noise, her body pressed flush against Avery’s bare chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair as they swayed sensuously to the heavy, grinding beat. It didn't mean anything; it was just the heat, the booze, and the desperate need to feel something that wasn't Riddle’s stare; but she knew how it looked.

Avery took a long, messy swig of gold liqueur straight from the bottle, holding the liquid in his mouth before leaning down. Hermione met him halfway, tilting her head back as he tipped the alcohol into her mouth, the burning sweetness spilling over their lips. It was reckless and filthy, but Merlin, how she loved the way it made the room spin.

Avery pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, his hands shaking too much to find a lighter. Hermione didn't reach for her wand; she simply snapped her fingers, a spark of raw, wandless magic flickering from her fingertip to the tip of his smoke. He took a deep drag, the cherry glowing bright in the dim light, before pressing the filter to her lips. She inhaled, the smoke hitting her lungs like a punch, then blew it back into his face before he took it back.

The boys from the pong table roared, climbing up to join them. For half an hour, it was a blurred riot of sweat and silk. Hermione was the center of it, dancing with a frantic, beautiful energy that seemed to defy the very gravity of the room. She was a vision of chaos, and it was exactly what she needed.

The music finally hit a jagged, dying note. Avery slumped, his strength vanishing as he passed out cold on the table, his head hitting the wood with a sickening thud.

Hermione stood over him, checking for pulse, and gasping for air herself. She confirmed the boy was alive, just passed out. Simultaneously, the heat attacked her too, choking and threatening to follow the way Avery fell. The smell of the room suddenly became unbearable. She felt dizzy—the world spinning into a blur of dark oak and amber light.

She needed fresh air. Immediately.

The heat of the basement followed her up the stairs, sticking the silk of her dress to her skin. Hermione stumbled as she hit the ground floor, her vision swimming. The ballroom was a graveyard of empty glasses and a few lingering stragglers, but Walburga was nowhere to be seen. Likely long gone into the shadows of the estate with Abraxas.

Her lungs felt tight. She needed the world to stop tilting.

She reached the heavy oak doors leading up, to the gardens, but her knees buckled on the stone steps. She braced for the impact of the floor, but instead, a hand clamped onto her upper arm with the strength of a shackle, jerking her upright.

The moment Riddle’s skin made contact with hers, the magic snapped.

The alcohol, the mania, and the sheer proximity of his power acted like a catalyst. Beneath the icy layered concealment, the spell didn't just fail.

It ignited.

A violent, jagged pulse of silver light erupted from the runes etched into her skin, bleeding through the room. It was blinding, a magical flare that screamed of forbidden arts and something far more terrifying than anyone in that house could understand.

Hermione’s heart hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm. She looked at her arm, hyperventilating as the light pulsed against his pale fingers. "What? No, stop—"

Riddle didn't let go. If anything, his grip tightened, his eyes flashing with a mixture of shock and anger. He glanced toward the few remaining guests in the hall, his jaw tensing as he yanked her into the shadow of a heavy velvet curtain.

"Why didn't you wear gloves, you ignorant woman?" he hissed, his voice a low, lethal vibration. He wasn't disgusted, just frantic to hide a prize he hadn't fully decoded yet.

"I have to go. I need to find Walburga!" Hermione choked out, the panic rising in her throat like bile. She tried to twist her arm, her mind reaching for the sensation of Apparition. She closed her eyes, ready to splinter the very air of the Avery estate.

"Don't you dare," Riddle commanded, his face inches from hers. "You try to Apparate in an anti Apparition ward and you’ll leave half your limbs on these stairs. Shut up and move."

Before she could protest, he threw a Disillusionment charm over her. It was cold, like a bucket of ice water being poured over her head, blurring her form into the shadows. He grabbed her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers in a grip that left no room for escape, and began navigating them through the upper level.

They passed Druella Rosier near the exit. She was draped over some older wizard, her eyes lighting up when she saw Riddle. "Tom, where have you—"

"Not now," Riddle cut her off, his voice a blade of emotional indifference that left her standing there with her mouth open. He didn't slow down, dragging the invisible Hermione through the doors and out into the biting night air.

He didn't stop until they reached the edge of the grounds, where the manicured lawn gave way to the wild, tangled path of weeping willows that bordered the black glass of the lake. He cancelled the charm with a sharp flick of his hand.

Hermione immediately snapped away, the cold air hitting her face and clearing the fog in her brain just enough to trigger her flight response. She kicked her heels off into the dirt, grabbing the hem of her dress to lift it above her knees, and bolted. She ran toward the willows, her bare feet hitting the damp earth, the violet light of her runes still flickering like a dying heartbeat.

She didn't get five steps.

He caught her by her wrists, his arm swinging her around with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. He pinned her back against the rough, cold bark of a willow tree, his body a wall of heat against her shivering frame.

For weeks, she had been a rot in his life. Causing agonising static in his mind. Crawling through every time he closed his eyes.

He knew every single inch of her face, not from observation, but from the haunting, unbidden dreams that plagued his sleep. He was a man of logic, of order, yet he was being dismantled by visions and a reality he couldn't control. Now, she was even bleeding into his followers, into his society, a chaotic anomaly he couldn't predict.

She was the reason behind his insanity, a glitch in the world he was building. He hated her.

And because of it, he wanted to devour her.

"You're a mess," he spat, his voice flat and dangerous, though his grip on her was bruising. "A loud, drunken, leaking mess. Did you really think you could just walk into my circle like that?"

He leaned in, his hands coming up to bracket her head against the trunk. His sleeves were still rolled up, the lean muscle of his arms caging her in. He looked down at her, with an intensity that seemed to strip the very soul from her body.

Hermione tried wiggling around, but she couldn’t move an inch. Frustrated, with the whole scenery spinning around her, she yelled out, “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT!”

He leaned in, his nose brushing hers, the cold scent of his skin clashing with the heat radiating from her skin. “You're going to tell me exactly what you've done to your blood to make it glow like a common street lamp,” he whispered, his voice a jagged edge of a promise, “or I will peel the truth out of you myself."

There was no way out.

Her horizon was solely focused on Riddle. He was the sky, the trees, and the air she couldn't quite catch.

The panic in her chest had crested into something visceral, ready to burst out. As his lips hovered a fraction of an inch from hers, still mocking her with that predatory closeness, Hermione didn't shrink back.

She lunged.

She clamped her teeth onto his lower lip and bit down with every ounce of manic, drunken spite she had left.

The copper tang of blood exploded on her tongue instantly.

Riddle made a low, guttural sound; half snarl, half gasp—and jerked his head back. He was stunned. Like a living statue.

The physical shock of the contact, the first time he had ever felt the heat of another person’s mouth, sent a jolt through him that was more violent than any curse. He froze, his hands trembling against the bark of the tree.

In that split second of his paralysis, Hermione wiggled out from under his arms. She didn’t look back. She scrambled toward the dark, mirror like surface of the lake, her bare feet splashing into the freezing water, her dress heavy and sodden as she tried to lose herself in the fog of the weeping willows.

Riddle stood by the tree for a heartbeat, paralyzed by the sheer audacity of the sensation. Slowly, almost gingerly, he raised his thumb to his mouth. He passed it over his lip, feeling the wet, metallic warmth of the blood she had drawn. He stared at the crimson smear on his skin, his breath hitching.

In that moment, he felt something snap, completely blurring out his sanity.

He turned toward the lake, faster than any human should be.

Hermione was mid thigh in the water, the cold numbing her legs, when the surface behind her exploded. Riddle didn't just catch her; he tackled her, his weight dragging them both down into the shallows. He hauled her up by the waist with one arm, pinning her arms to her sides as he dragged her back toward the muddy bank, his chest heaving against her back.

He spun her around in the dirt, his fingers digging into her shoulders so hard she gasped. He loomed over her, his hair disheveled, his lip still bleeding, and his eyes glowing with a dark, obsessive madness that eclipsed the moon.

"Oh no, no," he rasped, the words catching on the blood in his mouth. He looked at her like she was no longer a person to be questioned, but a possession he had decided to cage.

"You’re not going anywhere, little witch."