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Chapter Text

PART 1: CHILDHOOD

Narcissa was a woman on a mission. Her black and white hair was pulled back into a sharp, neat twist, head held high, shoulders back. She rapped on the door to her husband’s study and swept in at his call to come in.

“Cissy,” he said, surprise almost turning the name into a question. “Good afternoon, dearest.” He was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk, but came around to lean against the front of the polished solid wood surface. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She straightened herself further, pale blue eyes distancing herself from her husband as she spoke. “It has come to my attention that you used corporal punishment to discipline Draco.” Lucius nodded, arching a black brow. “Are you planning on using such means in the future?”

“It’s effective,” he responded evenly. “Perhaps your sisters would have made something of themselves had your father employed it.”

Her eyes further narrowed. “He’s a delicate boy, Lucius. Need I remind you the circumstances of his birth?”

Her husband’s jaw firmed even as he remembered how his frail wife’s heart had pattered weakly on her birth bed, the child’s breath wheezing desperately. He hadn’t cried, instead whimpering in a frightful way that caused Lucius to worry his heir would die then and there. And they’d lost so many as they tried to bring a child into the world. 

“I won’t have the boy further weakened, Narcissa.” He dragged his eyes across her face, reading something there. “What is it you suggest?”

At that, she sat primly in a cushioned seat across from him, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Some of the Twenty-Eight have taken to fostering an Institution child should they have only one heir, and physically disciplining that child in the place of their own.”

“An Institution child?” He repeated. “From one of the mud huts?”

She tsked at him. “Yes, Lucius. I am suggesting we foster a muggleborn child.” As his expression grew dark, she listed a palm to hold him off, to allow her to say her piece. “It is beneficial in multiple ways. As Draco is still young, he will be attached enough to a child his age this will be effective as a form of punishment. It will also look good, be seen as us doing our part, as it were. If the muggleborn child we take in happens to flourish and prove competent, it is a boon to our name. If not, well… Draco will have a good example as to their inferiority.”

“And if he takes this to mean mudbloods are our equals?”

“Lucius, please,” she said with a soft laugh. “Charity to those less fortunate has never made the haves see the have-nots as equals. The child’s entire life, all of their accomplishments, everything, will be at our sufferance.”

“I don’t like the idea of a mudblood in my home. My father would rollover in his grave.”

“It is a good thing your father died before we ever married,” she said. “Think on it, Lucius. I know this is how your father disciplined you, but you have always been robust. Draco must be coaxed into strength, rather than be born to it.”

Lucius rolled his jaw, then nodded. “I will consider it,” he said at last.

“Thank you,” she murmured, then rose, crossed to him to plant a chaste kiss on his cheek, and left the room. She knew her husband well; he cared for family before all else, though power and social capital were high on his list as well. He would agree.

---

The building where the mudblood children lived was neither made of mud, nor a hut. Draco was glad not to have to worry about getting dirty, but a part of him also had wanted to see a hut made of mud. Instead, it was almost as large as a manor (not Malfoy Manor, of course), grey brick, block-like, completely fenced in. Draco was six, and his parents wanted a child who would attend Hogwarts the same years as he would, so they followed the Matron of the house up to the second floor.

The mud hut was apparently split up by age; Both the very oldest children and the youngest (both of which they had the smallest number of) were on the first floor, along with classrooms, offices, a small infirmary, kitchen, and meal hall. The second and third floors were bursting with lavatories and dormitories for children not yet old enough to attend Hogwarts. Apparently the fourth floor did for the rest, since they were only at the Institution for a few months out of the year. 

This was, according to his mother, the best Institution in Great Britain. He wasn’t quite sure why, though it had a large library on the second floor. He took special notice of this as the Matron prattled on. She was eager to see a family of such prominence at her Institution, and showed the extent of her facilities. As they stood in the library, she showed them their rare book collection, all donated by families such as theirs, she said. There were four children of an age with Draco, and most of them were in the playroom. 

“We would like to see them,” Narcissa said in a lull of the older woman’s speech. 

Draco tugged gently at her sleeve. “Mother,” he pleaded as he spotted a copy of the Tales of Beedle the Bard, “Can I stay here?”

She glanced to her husband, then nodded, and he took off. Once the book was in hand, he searched out a table. He rounded a row of shelves and found one near a high window, but someone was already at it.

This someone had a lot of hair, brown and curly and wild. When she looked up, Draco met a pair of warm, inquisitive eyes that studied him with the same startled curiosity he had. The girl had a smattering of freckles over her nose, and two books open in front of her.

“Hullo,” she said at last. “You can sit here if you’re looking for a place to read.”

He nodded shyly, uncertain of the etiquette of reading beside a mudblood, but slid into the chair across from her.

“I’m Hermione Granger,” the girl informed him. “You must be new here. It’s not so bad, really.”

Draco looked down at himself and his fine robes, then eyed her rather humble clothing. “I’m not a mudblood,” he replied. “I’m Draco Malfoy.”

Her dark brows furrowed. “What’s a mudblood?”

“It’s--” he said, struggling to find the words to explain it. “Well, I mean, it’s-- it means you’re not from a proper wizarding family.”

“Oh.” Hermione puzzled over that for a moment, then nodded. “That’s right, I suppose. Mum and dad were non-magical, which is why I had to be taken from them. It wasn’t safe for any of us.” She looked back to her books and flipped a few pages of one, to a section with illustrations of mermaids, then began skimming it for specific pieces, going back and forth between the two.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked as she continued her research.

“I’m comparing muggle stories of magic to magical literature,” she said. “This is Newt Scamander’s book on magical beasts, and this is a book of fairy tales, like Beedle the Bard is for wizards, it’s stories for children.” He leaned over as she pointed at the story she was on. “This is The Little Mermaid, and I’m comparing it to the section on real mermaids.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I thought it would be interesting to see how they differ.” Draco thought about that for a moment and decided it was logical enough, so he turned to his own book.

“If you’re not a -- not going to live here, then why are you here?” the girl asked after they had spent some time in companionable silence. 

“We’re going to foster one of the children,” he answered. “The Malfoys are a prestigious family, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. It’s our duty to better the wizarding world, and that means helping those less fortunate than we are, like you.” Draco eyed her once more, and added, “How old are you?”

Hermione seemed a tad put off by his response, if her narrowed lashes were any clue, but she said, “I’m six. How old are you?”

“I’m six too.” He flipped a page, studying the illustrations in this edition, which were more colorful than in his at home. “Mum said we should bring home someone my age, so they’ll start Hogwarts at the same time, and we’ll grow up together.”

“Oh.” She paused in her reading and tapped her lips with a finger. “There are three boys here around my age. There’s Dean, who’s been here as long as I have, and Justin, who came last year. And Kevin only came last week. He’s still getting used to things, so I wouldn’t suggest him.”

“What are they like?”

“Dean is nice, but he rather talks too much about a muggle sport called football, and how different it is from Quidditch. I don’t know how he knows so much about either, or why he cares.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “He should read more. He never seems to care about classes. Justin’s, er, well, he’s nice too I guess.” Draco felt that meant he was anything but. “He and I just don’t get on. And I don’t know Kevin much yet.”

“What about you?” Draco said. “What are you like?”

Hermione blinked her large brown eyes at him owlishly. “I’m a know-it-all, according to the others. I like books and learning. I enjoy going outside getting fresh air too, but I always have a book with me.”

He nodded. He liked learning too, though he’d never been called a know-it-all. “Are you nice?”

She laughed. “I don’t know, you’d have to ask someone else. You can’t ask me if I’m nice or not, because everyone likes to think they’re nice, so I might be lying.”

“I don’t,” he retorted. “I don’t care if I’m nice or not. I don’t have to be as long as I’m smart and business savvy and a good heir.”

“What does that mean, a good heir? I mean, I know what the words mean, but what does it entail?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Entail?”

“What is necessary to be a good heir?” she clarified.

“Oh. I don’t know.” He paused. “Do you know lots of words like that?” Upon her nod, he said, “If you were my friend, you’d tell me all the things you know, right?”

“Yes.”

“That would make me even smarter. I’m already smart, but with two smart brains, I could learn even more,” he reasoned. “That would help make me a good heir. Maybe I should ask for you.”

“Can you even do that? Just ask for me? I’m not a puppy,” Hermione stressed.

Draco smirked. “I’m a Malfoy. Of course I can. Come on, then. Let’s find mother and father and I’ll let them know I’ve chosen you.” He stood, pushing his chair back into the table and holding out his hand. When Hermione hesitated, staring down at her books longingly, he said, “We have loads more books than this at Malfoy Manor. And if we don’t have something, we can easily get it. Come on, then.” Finally, she nodded and took his hand.

He led the girl into the playroom and approached the tall, well-dressed couple as they stood by the Matron, observing children at play.

“Mother, father.” They turned to face him, both of them surprised to see him holding the hand of a small girl. “Hermione, these are Lady Narcissa and Lord Lucius Malfoy, my parents. Mother, father, this is Hermione Granger. She’s quite smart, serious about her studies. I’d like her to be the foster.”

Narcissa gazed down at the girl with atrocious hair, frowning. “Wouldn’t a boy be better, Draco?”

“No, mother,” he said quite seriously. “Hermione’s told me about the boys, and I think she’s smarter than them. If I’m going to have a mudblood, it should be the best one, and not one that talks about football or some such. That’s Hermione.”

The woman turned to her husband, who was studying the small creature thoughtfully. “Are you smart, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, Lord Malfoy,” she responded at once.

“Do you know what the word ‘resilient means?” he asked.

“Able to withstand or recover from difficult conditions; also to recover or spring back to shape,” she quoted. 

“Are you resilient?” pressed the man.

She scrunched up her face as she considered, then nodded. “I think so.”

Lucius peered at his wife from the corner of his eye, then to his son, and back to the girl. “You must be quite sure, Miss Granger. Being our son’s companion means you will have to take on responsibilities that will be difficult. We need someone who can handle being responsible both for herself, and for my son. To displease us will mean punishment, and you’ll bear the brunt of it.”

The girl was not one to answer serious questions without thought, at least. She stood without speaking for a moment, tapping a finger against her lips as she stared past the small family. When she settled her mind, she nodded again and said, “I’m sure.”

Lucius held up his palms to Narcissa, leaving the decision to her. 

“You’re sure, Draco?” said the woman. He nodded solemnly. “Well, then. It’s decided.”

Chapter Text

Life at Malfoy Manor was nothing like life at the Institution, which was nothing like living with her parents in the muggle world.

Hermione was entranced by the portraits of Malfoys past (whom she didn't know Lucius had had a word with lest they scream obscenities or insults all night and day), and idyllic scenery. Paintings and pictures at home hadn't moved, and the Institution hadn't much in the way of decor. 

The grounds were manicured, blossoming, and seemingly endless. During the day, she and Draco could often be found running along the little lake and terrorizing the peacocks, or under sweeping trees as they took turns reading books of mutual interest. 

Home with her parents had been, as far as she remembered, much less opulent and much more cosy. They'd had a little house with a little yard. Hermione had had her own little room, though she often slept between her parents in their much larger bed. Helen, she remembered her mother's name was. Helen was beautiful, or perhaps it was just her childlike adoration that made it so. However, even her father had said she was a beauty worth fighting for. Hermione had her brown eyes and brown hair, which was streaked through with dark blonde from the sun currently. She couldn't remember her father's name, but she had his curls. He'd kept them fairly short, dark hair too wild when longer. But he'd tugged her curls affectionately and said they suited her. 

At least she knew they were all Grangers. The Institution didn't change names, nor did fostering. 

The Grangers all loved books, of that she was sure. The two years in the Institution had dimmed much, but she knew the evenings cuddled between her parents while they took turns reading to her weren't imagined. Her parents were loving, warm, kind, and intelligent. 

The Malfoys were not warm and loving. Certainly, Narcissa doted on her son, but in her own way. She kissed his cheek, embraced him, called him pet names. Lucius was not unkind to his son, but he was firm and his embraces were fewer. Both of them gave him whatever he wanted that money could buy without a thought. 

Thus it was that Hermione also wanted for little in the way of material possessions. She had a nice bedroom that, while not as lavish as Draco's suite, was fitted with everything she could need. It had a bed large enough that it would suit her still as she grew, a wardrobe, a dresser, a trunk for travelling, a mirror to ensure she was presentable. She had her own bathroom as well, though it was beside her room rather than adjoined to it. She rather thought this little wing had been servants quarters when human servants were in fashion. 

Draco was magnanimous with his belongings. His toys were hers, and if he didn't want to share, he asked for another so she could have whatever it was too. 

"You're my companion," he once said, as though that explained everything. 

It did, she supposed. The Malfoys were possessive people, and liked their things to reflect their high social status. They enjoyed when others envied them. Hermione, as the Malfoy family foster, was well-kept. Narcissa taught her how to manage her curls, and bought her pretty clothes in rich materials, and she looked every inch the proper young lady.

She spent her days with Draco and they passed mostly pleasantly, as Draco was rarely disciplined, so her time passed relatively easily. Until the day Draco broke his broom and pitched a fit.

Lucius came out from his office to see his son holding the pieces of his broom and screaming at his mother that he didn’t want a new one, he wanted his broom fixed. And he wanted it now.

It was one of the few things Draco hadn’t insisted on getting two of, since Hermione resolutely refused to fly. 

“What’s all this?” the man said as he surveyed the scene before him.

“Draco is fussing because he’s broken his broom,” Narcissa explained calmly. The boy was silent now, regarding his father with cheeks still red, the broken end of his broom still in-hand, even while splinters fell on the marble floor. “He was flying in the house,” she added.

He frowned at the boy. “Draco, you know you’re not allowed to fly in the house.” Draco nodded. “And throwing tantrums is not becoming behavior of a Malfoy.”

The boy blushed and looked down at the broom remnants. “I was being careful, father. I would have gone outside, but Hermione wanted to get a book and she was taking too long, and--”

Lucius raised a hand. “Whatever the reason, those are the rules and you’re to obey them.” He turned his attention to the girl now. “Miss Granger, Draco, follow me to my study.” He held the door open for them, the two children dragging their feet, Draco especially sullen, and Hermione anxiously wringing her hands. 

He observed them, noting Draco’s eyes darting at the girl with something akin to worry. The girl had her head down, as if trying to avoid notice. It was the first time Hermione would receive punishment for Draco’s wrongdoing, and Lucius was curious to see whether it would work as intended. That he’d taken to blaming her as he explained himself didn’t bode well. However, Lucius had promised his wife he would try.

With that thought, he said, “Miss Granger, please lay your hands on my desk and lean forward.” Her eyes widened to saucers, but she obeyed without hesitation. Lucius considered her uncomfortably. The girl lived under his home, but it felt strange to be disciplining her this way. Still, he realized he could not treat her any differently than he would have his son. “Lift your skirt.”

Her hands flinched on the desk, then froze for a moment. 

“Now, if you would.”

She hastily gripped the soft blue material and hoisted it up until Lucius bade her stop. He looked over to Draco, drew him to stand so he could see each hit, and said, “This is what will happen when you do something wrong from now on, Draco. You won’t be touched, but Miss Granger will suffer in your stead. Do you understand?” When the boy nodded, Lucius steeled himself and began to lay hits on her backside.

She stiffened at the first one, and by the third, he could hear her sniffling. He tried to remind himself that this was beneficial for both children-- Draco would learn his lesson, and Miss Granger was receiving everything a child could ask for and more, considering her blood status. By the tenth and final blow, he had nearly convinced himself.

He faced his son. “Now, Draco. What have you learned?”

The boy’s eyes were red rimmed as though he’d been the one hit, and his cheeks burned with shame. “Don’t fly in the house, and don’t-- don’t throw fits,” he said in a voice that threatened to break. 

Lucius nodded. “Good. Now go on, both of you. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Hermione dropped her skirt and shakily crossed to the door, where Draco hurried to meet her.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” the boy said, hands reaching out as if to embrace her, but waffling as he realized his affections might not be welcome.

The girl wiped her forearm across her face. “It’s alright, Draco.” She smiled comfortingly at him, though there was a sad edge to it. “I’m resilient, right?”

“Right,” he murmured, taking her hand in his.

That first time had been especially strange to all participants, but it grew into just the way of things over time. Lucius was loath to admit it at first, but finally confided to his wife after a year had passed that Draco seemed to take punishments for Hermione to heart more than he ever had his own. 

“I told you it would work out,” Narcissa told him, a hand laying fondly on his cheek. “She is a surprisingly good influence on him, and more intelligent than I would have thought possible.”

She was everything the Malfoy family had believed mudbloods weren’t; she was a quick learner, and retained information once she had it. Moreover, she was thoughtful, logical. 

Narcissa and Lucius had indulged the children once by letting them try a few simple spells. Draco had wanted to try dueling spells, and Narcissa had nearly been apoplectic at the boy’s destructive attempts. Hermione had asked after a spell to undo his damage, and (using Lucius’ own wand; Narcissa’s unicorn hair didn’t favor her the way his dragon heartstring did) once taught the proper movements and incantations, she set about trying it out. On her third attempt wielding the wand that was ridiculously long for her, a vase that had shattered in Draco’s rampage collected itself back together.

“The exception proves the rule,” Abraxas Malfoy’s portrait had murmured then. 

Lucius and Narcissa had both nodded at that, the latter drawing herself up with a small, prideful smile.

After that, she had insisted the girl attend any social event Draco did. If they had an exceptional mudblood, they should show her off as they would with any other exceptional thing they owned. It became common knowledge that the Malfoys favored their little mudblood and would bring her along to any child-friendly event. And the other purebloods acknowledged that the girl was well-mannered, and seemed intelligent enough. She was obedient, quiet, a model of how mudbloods should behave among their betters. She even called those fostering her Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa.

The only thing anyone could think to say negative was that she seemed a touch spirited when it came to knowledge, though that wasn’t much of a fault as those things went. And Draco Malfoy had become a bit less whinging and a little more gracious since they took her in (though no one would say that to Narcissa’s face).

By the time the two children received their Hogwarts letters, the family could hardly imagine life without Hermione Granger constantly at Draco’s side, least of all the two children.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy had the perfect life, charmed by Fate itself it seemed. He’d been born into an aristocratic Pureblood family to the most beautiful couple on Earth. His mother loved him with unconditional love like only a mother could provide. And if his father wasn’t around much, the man clearly cared for him.

If that wasn’t enough, he had Hermione. From the moment he’d met her, they’d been glued together. She was nothing like his other friends, who all came from families much like his (if less wealthy less powerful). She didn’t bother putting on airs around him since they lived together, and there was no undercurrent of rivalry in anything but academics. That area was hardly competitive either, since both were intelligent students, quick learners. If Hermione was perhaps a bit more diligent and quick to learn than he was, she always shared what she knew. The only other drawback was that she could be a bit of a know-it-all.

The morning their Hogwarts letters came, she practically glowed as the owl dropped an envelope with her name on it. She never received mail, and Draco only did for his birthday or holidays, so he was excited as well. They tore into their letters and the breakfast table was silent as they scanned the writing under the school’s letterhead and headmaster’s name.

Dear Mr. Draco Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry . Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September . We await your owl by no later than 31 July .

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Deputy Headmaster

Excitement thrilled through him. It was finally time; logically, he’d known this day was coming. He’d just had his eleventh birthday, afterall, and Hermione had turned eleven last September. Still, to hold the letter in his hand was something else entirely. He skimmed the second page, looking up to grin at his companion. 

“I’m gonna try out for Quidditch and see if I can make captain, like my father,” he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled. “You can’t try out for Quidditch as a first year. You can’t even bring your broom this year.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

The girl jabbed a finger at the parchment in his hand. “It says so right there. Besides, there hasn’t been a player our age in a century!” At Draco’s questioning look, she said, “I read about it in Hogwarts: A History. Honestly, Draco, you still haven’t read it yet?”

“I’m waiting until we’re there,” he explained. “Some of us like experiencing things as we learn about them.”

“Don’t you want to be prepared?”

“I am prepared; mother’s told me loads about Hogwarts,” he said evenly. “I’m just not a swot like you.”

“I’m not a swot,” she replied.

“You feel like you need to learn everything; you’re a swot.”

“If I’m a swot, then so are you.”

“Boys can’t be swots,” he retorted. “When boys learn things, they’re just smart.”

Her cheeks flushed and she glared at him. “That’s sexist. If girls can be swots, so can boys.”

“Fine,” he admitted, adding teasingly, “But you’re the biggest swot of them all.”

“Are you two bickering again?” They both jumped at the smooth voice. Usually they head the tap of Lucius Malfoy’s cane against the marble floors preceding him, but he’d caught them unawares this time. 

“We got our Hogwarts letters,” Draco declared, waving his.

The man was suitably distracted and took his son’s letter in hand to skim over it. “It seems Dumbledore is still hanging onto his deputy position. The man is ancient, he hasn’t a hope of becoming headmaster by now. I don’t know why Horace doesn’t replace him.”

Narcissa Malfoy finally looked up from the book she’d been reading while the children ate breakfast. “Albus Dumbledore still has friends in places; no one is likely to forget his duel against Grindewald. Besides, he is brilliant.”

 “There are other, younger brilliant men teaching at Hogwarts,” he reminded his wife, who shrugged. “Well, it seems you’ll need to make a Diagon Alley run, Cissa.”

“Perhaps we’ll go today,” she said. “We had nothing pressing scheduled.”

“Good. You can tell me all about it later; I have pressing business at the ministry today.” He bade them goodmorning and strode out, calling after his personal house elf.

As the lord of the manor left earshot, the two children returned to their conversation with glittering eyes and hushed excitement.

---

Hermione had been to Diagon Alley before, of course; Narcissa took her and Draco there almost every time she went, unless she was meeting for tea with other Pureblood socialites. However, this time she would be leaving with a wand of her own. It had taken all of her willpower not to beg Draco to ask his parents to take them early. When she’d turned eleven, she’d secretly hoped he would. When he’d turned eleven, she’d expected it. She suspected the only reason why Draco hadn’t was worry that his father would be displeased.

Lucius Malfoy’s displeasure was the only thing Draco feared. It was bad enough to upset one’s father, but Lucius’ aggravation could become Hermione’s pain. Every time Hermione took a punishment because of Draco’s actions, the boy was consumed with guilt. He would apologize profusely, offer her sweets or trinkets, anything he could think of to soothe her. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, and how careful he was not to provoke his father’s wrath, but she sometimes had to remind him that that was why his family brought her in. 

She knew her place after five years with the Malfoys. While they didn’t treat her badly, she was not their daughter. She was the companion of their son, the “whipping boy.” She’d stumbled upon the term in an old French history book in the Malfoy library. Both children were tutored in French, though it was one area where Draco superseded her. He’d heard it from the cradle, whereas she hadn’t started learning until she was with the Malfoys. 

Whipping boys were apparently stand-ins for princes who couldn’t be disciplined directly by their teachers. In return for taking the brunt of the prince’s punishments, they were educated and raised among nobility. She’d tried to find out more about the custom, but there had only been one reference, and that one bereft of much information.

Hermione also knew that, while the Malfoys didn’t treat her badly because of her blood, they still believed it was a mark against her (albeit one that made her presence possible in their manor). Lucius Malfoy particularly sometimes stared at her as though wondering where this strange mongrel had come from. And, while Narcissa never used the term, she’d heard him refer to those like herself as “mudbloods” more than once. 

Draco had long since stopped using the term.

Whether she deserved her position in life or not, Hermione accepted it as best she could, and was determined to use it to her advantage.  She was sure that she’d prove herself at Hogwarts.

The bell above the door chimed as the three of them, two Malfoys and one Granger, entered the shop. Mr. Ollivander, whom Hermione had never met, immediately appeared on the staircase to the left. 

He graced them with a smile, and Hermione felt herself returning it without thought. Mr. Ollivander was old, and had mutton chops that she was fairly certain hadn’t been fashionable even among wizards for some time. There was something otherworldly about him, standing there in his dusty clothes, amid the dusty boxes of wands. He seemed as though her stood between two worlds, but the weight of his gaze shot straight through to the heart of things. 

“Narcissa Black, black walnut, fourteen inches, unicorn hair core.” The man then directed his gaze to the two children. “This must be your son,” Ollivander said, eyes lighting on Draco.”

The older witch nodded. “Draco Malfoy, yes. He and his companion Hermione have come to get their wands.”

When his gaze landed on Hermione alone, she had to suppress the urge to squirm. He came forward and shook all of their hands, his eyes boring into her as he introduced himself. “Hermione Granger,” she said as his weathered, leathery hand took hers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” 

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Granger.” Ollivander then stood back, looking from one child to another. “Hmmm. Which of you will be going first?”

“Can I?” asked Draco, his youthful voice nearly vibrating with energy. Hermione merely smiled and held herself back, looking on as her friend was measured in ways that made sense (the length of his hand, forearm, arm to wrist) and ways that didn’t (the distance between his nostrils, the length of his face, the circumference of his ankle). 

“Let’s see, let’s see,” murmured Ollivander as he skimmed the wall beside them, a finger running over boxes as he considered. “We’ll try this one first. Eleven inches, beech, dragon heartstring. Slightly bendy.” He held out the wand in its open box.

Hermione watched, fascinated, breath held as Draco’s fingertips brushed it. When the boy waved it, she was disappointed to see nothing happen.

“Not the one then,” said the man, putting it back as that faraway glimmer returned to him. “Acacia, ten and three quarter inches, unyielding, dragon heartstring.”

Again, there was nothing. Nor was there with the next one, an alder wand that was “surprisingly bendy,” nor the next, which was a “springy” beech in opposition to the first.

The wand maker hummed to himself, considering. He faced them, eyeing first Draco and then Narcissa. “Perhaps…” He pulled out another box and presented it to the boy. “Hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair. Reasonably pliant.”

She could read it on Draco’s face the instant he touched it. This was the one. And when he waved it over his head, golden flecks shimmered in the air around him, making him positively glow in the dim light of the shop.

“Excellent!” cried Ollivander. “A lovely match.” He nodded, then turned that sharply focused attention toward Hermione. “Now, Miss Granger.” Her own measuring was shorter, as he seemed to have an idea where to start with her. Before the measuring tape could begin taking any strange dimensions, he had his first pick. “Rosewood, ten inches, unicorn hair. Pliant.”

The wand, though it felt nice enough in her hand, did nothing. He had another at the ready before she’d set it down.

“Pear, nine and a half inches, dragon heartstring, slightly bendy.” 

She thought she felt something, but whatever it was wasn’t enough for Mr. Ollivander. He examined her once more, eyes narrowing as he seemed to whisper things to himself. The moment stretched, and she shuffled her feet. He nodded, pulling out another wand and opening up the box. “This one, I think. Vine, ten and three quarter inches, dragon heartstring. Resilient.”

This was it. She could feel it even before she touched it, and her magic seemed to surge through her as she held the wand aloft. Even before she’d started the arc of her wave, it was showering them with red light that twinkled brightly as it fell to the floor. 

The rest of the trip was far less interesting, though Hermione was on a cloud, feeling unusually whole with her wand in-hand. She would have liked to spend more time at Flourish and Blotts, but there were more books than she could ever read at Malfoy Manor. She didn’t even have to be there for anything other than her wand and her robe fittings, since Narcissa just bought the best of everything for the two children without bothering to look at the rest. 

“Mother,” Draco implored as they approached the end of their excursion, “can I get a snake? I can take a familiar to Hogwarts. I promise I’ll take good care of it.”

Hermione tutted. “You can’t bring a snake with you.”

“Says who?”

“Says the letter we received.” She further explained, “It said you can bring a toad or a cat or an owl. And that’s all.”

He frowned. “Who would want a toad as a familiar?”

Hermione shrugged. “Who would want a snake ?” was her retort.

Draco rolled his eyes, playfully bumping her with his shoulder. “You’ll have a snake soon enough; I’m going to be sorted into Slytherin.”

“How could you know that?” she demanded.

“I’m a Malfoy,” he drawled. “And a Black. Both houses are notoriously Slytherin.”

As they reached the Apparition point, Narcissa held her hands out to the children. “You never know, Draco,” she said slyly. “I had a cousin who got sorted into Gryffindor.”

The horror on his face spoke volumes. 

--

They were lying in the garden an hour later, heads beside one another, bodies splayed out in opposite directions. Hermione sighed and set aside her copy of The Standard Book of Spells.

“What’s wrong?” asked her friend, turning his face toward her after flattening her curls enough to see the downturn of her mouth. 

“I’m worried about the Sorting Ceremony,” she confided in a hushed tone. “The only person I really know is you. And I don’t think Slytherin is the right house for me.”

“No, probably not,” he reluctantly agreed. He didn’t mention the other people she’d know; Blaise Zabini (who’d been his best friend before Hermione came into his life), Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle-- they were all Purebloods and probably bound for Slytherin as well. He swallowed thickly, realizing he didn’t like the idea of Hermione being alone, in another house. Without him.

“What if--” she knew this was a foolish fear, but it worried her all the same. “What if I don’t get sorted into any house?”

Draco laughed, immediately stifling it as she directed a glare his way. “You’ll be fine, Hermione. Besides, everyone knows Hufflepuff will take anyone. Even little know-it-all brats.”

“I doubt Hufflepuff would take anyone ,” she said. “Can you imagine Gregory Goyle as a Hufflepuff?”

They both giggled at that. When their laughter had fallen away, Draco reached toward her. She accepted his hand, and they lay there like that for some time.

“You know, if you’re so worried about it, maybe we can try to find a way to get into the same house?” he offered. 

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. You’re my best friend, Hermione.” He gave her hand a light squeeze, which she returned, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

Chapter Text

Hermione was nearly vibrating with nervous energy. The castle was everything Hogwarts: A History had promised and more. She and Draco had kept to themselves during the train ride, both silently worrying they’d soon be separated and kept apart by the Pureblood ideals of Slytherin. Draco had vowed to her that he would never turn his back on her, but neither of them suggested looking for others they knew when boarding the Express.

Chapter Text

The morning before classes Hermione and Draco walked into the Great Hall together. They were both early risers, so there weren’t many other students up and about then. Hermione surreptitiously glanced around and slid into the seat across from her friend, wondering if she was perhaps breaking a rule by sitting at the table of a house other than her own. When no one looked askance at the pair, she let out a breath and began to fill her plate.

 “We’ve only Herbology together on Wednesday,” Draco winged as he studied their timetables. 

 Hermione shrugged. “We’ll just meet every day after classes. Besides, we’ll get to choose classes in our third year, and we can choose the same ones; if they’re small enough, all the houses are taught together.”

 The boy wrinkled his nose. “That’s two years away though!”

 “Is it? I wasn’t aware.”

 She looked from her eggs when Draco sighed and slumped into his seat. “I’d have been better off in Slytherin. It’s where the hat wanted to send me, you know. We’d have more classes together and father wouldn’t disown me.”

 “Lord Lucius won’t disown you, Draco. You're his only heir and he loves you besides.” Hermione considered him, her warm eyes roving her friend. “How did you get put into Hufflepuff?”

 His face burned red and he mumbled, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 “It’s alright, you know,” she told him. “Hufflepuff is an upstanding house. It’s also closest to the kitchens, so you can more easily get sweets.”

 The corners of his mouth tugged upward despite himself. “I do like sweets. Though mother promised to send chocolate throughout the year. I made her promise enough for you too.”

 “You’re always so kind to me,” she said, returning his smile with a bright one of her own. “Generosity of spirit is a trait valued by Hufflepuffs, you know.”

 Draco sneered at her. “I’m generous with you. Only because otherwise you’d be insufferable. So it’s really selfish.”

 “Prat.” She gently kicked at his foot and his sneer became a grin. 

 The two of them were eating and discussing possibilities for their first few lessons when owl post came. There was a small package for Draco that Hermione had no doubt was from Narcissa. The boy plucked the small envelope from the top, breaking the seal and immediately reading. He didn’t notice the other letter with his name. Hermione had a twin of it, the same purple ink in the same pleasant writing.

 She opened it curiously to find Hogwarts stationary and a short missive.

 Ms. Granger,

 I would be obliged should you and Mr. Malfoy come to my office after classes this evening. You should have time between that and dinner. I will not require much of your time.

 Regards,

Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore

Deputy Headmaster

 “What’s that?” Draco had paused in his picking through the package to ask.

 “You’ve one too. Why not read it?”

He rolled his eyes but pushed a few chocolates her way. “Those all have those weird fillings you like.” She eyed the brightly wrapped candies, smiling and sorting through them as Draco read his own note.

“What do you suppose he wants?” 

“I don’t know-- Draco!” He paused right as he was about to plop a small truffle into his mouth. “You can’t eat chocolate during breakfast.”

“Who’s going to stop me?” He retorted.

“I’ll tell your mother. That’s ghastly.”

He giggled in a decidedly undignified way. “You’ll tell mother on me? Really? What’ll she do, tell you not to have dessert for a month?”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Don’t blame me when you develop cavities,” Hermione sang.

The pair of them walked out of the Great Hall bumping shoulders and still laughing as they sought the staircases where they would part ways, one going up and the other headed into the dungeons.

Hermione entered the Potions classroom and took a seat up front, pulling her textbook and parchment out before setting her inkwell in one corner, deftly holding the quill she’d prepared this morning. She was nervous, stomach tumbling as she tried to ignore the tingling sensation that she was doing something wrong. She wished Draco had gotten into Gryffindor or that she’d been sorted after him, because she was sure she could have talked her way into whatever house he got into (so long as it wasn’t Slytherin).

If only they’d known beforehand, they could have figured it out together.

There was no use fretting over it now, so she dated the top of her paper and waited for the professor to arrive, seats around her slowly filling with fellow first years.

She was frowning at the board before them when the door opened with bang, commanding words following as every student turned to watch the thin, sallow man with lank black hair striding through the room. “There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.” As he stood before the lectern, her stomach flipped in fear. He had black eyes and a stern face as he gazed out over them. “For the precious few who possess the predisposition... I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death.”

Hermione was captivated. She held her quill poised above her inkwell, stopped in midmotion as she went to ink it by this man’s

“Then again, given the innate cockiness some of you have no doubt been born into…” Those dark eyes flickered over to one of her classmates, a rather runty boy with dark hair and green eyes. “My expectations are not high.”

Despite the professor’s clear irritation with teaching students in general, Hermione squirmed in her seat, eager to begin. There was something about Professor Snape that made her certain she would learn much in his classes.

They sat together at lunch, though another Gryffindor had called after her, “Oi! Way to show house loyalty, Granger!” 

She rolled her eyes at that. “Weasley doesn’t like me because I’ve actually read our books and know something,” she informed Draco in that tone he associated with Hermione in the classroom. 

“Has he called you a know-it-all yet?” Draco asked.

“Yet?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll get around to it eventually. Let me know and I’ll jinx him for you.”

Hermione huffed, but didn’t respond that. Instead she cut to what she wanted to know. “Tell me all about Transfiguration.”

Draco pulled a plate of rolls to himself. “The professor is an animagus. She seems fairly stern.”

“An animagus, really? How do you know?”

He smirked. “She was a cat when we all came in.”

Her eyes grew round as saucers. “You saw her transform? What was it like?”

“Er, fast? She leapt off her desk a cat and landed a woman.” Draco shrugged.

“It would be too much to ask you to pay attention to something so interest,” she said with a sigh. “What do you have next?”

Draco consulted his timetable as though he hadn’t memorized it already. “Potions. And you?”

“Defense Against the Dark Arts. Watch out in Potions; Professor Snape seems brilliant, but I think he might play favorites. And he’s rather, erm, prickly.” She tapped her cheek, considering. “I wonder how the professor for Defense will be.”

“That’s Riddle, isn’t it?” he said.

“Professor Riddle, Draco,” she corrected, the boy rolling his eyes in response. “And yes. I feel like I’ve heard that name before.”

“I’ve heard he’s brilliant.”

A tremor of eagerness fluttered through her. Hermione had read and heard that Hogwarts was the best magical institution in the world. Everyone seemed to think so, except for Lord Lucius. He’d wanted to send Draco to Durmstrang, which didn’t take muggleborns. Narcissa had asked what he planned to do with his son’s companion and Lucius had retorted that she could stay home or perhaps go with Draco as a servant. Narcissa had put her foot down, so that was that.

Lady Cissa rarely insisted upon anything her husband might disagree with and Lucius knew to pick his battles when she did.

“I suppose we should get going then,” Hermione said at last. “It’s a bit of a trek into the dungeons.” As before, the pair walked toward the stairs together before parting ways. “I’ll meet you outside Professor Dumbledore’s office?”

“Of course.”

Hermione turned after watching her companion head down the stairs, climbing her way toward DADA.

This room was the antithesis of the dungeon with its airy windows and clean, neat walls. Hermione was, of course, the first student in the room. However, someone else was present when she entered.

She took one look at him and her face flushed crimson. There was no way this was Professor Riddle. She’d pictured someone older, someone with grey hair peppered in at the very least, with a beard like many wizards were wont to have after a certain age. If she were being honest, she’d imagined someone much more like Professor Dumbledore.

Professor Riddle wasn’t young exactly, but neither was he old. Thinking on it, she couldn’t decide what his age might be. Thirty? Forty? As a wizard, he could even be sixty and she would be none the wiser.  He was tall, around the same height as Lord Lucius, who quite enjoyed being able to frown down at everyone he encountered; he was slimmer than her lord, though his shoulders still had breadth that spoke of strength and balanced out his height. However impressive his stature, it was his face that had caused her reaction.

His eyes were so dark the color was indiscernible from her distance, lined with thick lashes and accented with perfectly arched black brows. His hair was the same shade, neatly styled curls that felt onto his forehead in way she was sure had to be purposeful. A patrician nose and well-defined lips completed the features. He was almost too beautiful with his square jaw and the sharp angle of his cheekbones somehow reminiscent of a statue.

He stood there facing her in his white button-down, black slacks and open robe and Hermione suddenly realized he’d spoken to her.

Her cheeks colored again; she had never actually gaped at someone’s appearance before. It was embarrassing. What had he said? Ah yes.

“You’re a bit early, aren’t you? You must be an eager pupil then, Miss…?”

“Granger,” she murmured. “Please excuse my, er, delayed response. Hermione Granger.”

He smiled and the expression was every bit as breath-taking as one would imagine. “It’s quite alright, Miss Granger. I have that effect on some.” Rather than seeming arrogant, the statement was disarming, almost bashful as he shared the knowledge of his own beauty. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I’m Tom Riddle, professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“I should hope so. Otherwise I’m in the wrong room!” Hermione flushed again. “I’m sorry, you must think me terribly rude. I didn’t mean to—”

Tom Riddle chuckled and silenced her with a raised palm. “Not at all. It’s charming to hear a student young as yourself show such wit. Most first years are terrified their first few weeks.” He leaned against his desk and studied her as she went through the same ritual as she had in Potions; textbook and parchment side-by-side on the desk (former left justified and latter right), inkwell at right top corner, quill. She dated the top of the parchment and added the subject for good measure. “Granger. Any relation to the legendary potioneer, Hector Dagworth-Granger?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head, glad that she had taken the extra time to tame her curls this morning. “Not that I know of. Probably not. I’m, er, muggleborn.” She blushed once more, gaze down on her neat print.

“I see.” His tone did not belie his opinions on the matter of blood, so she changed a glance up to see him studying her. “You’re not an Institution muggleborn though, are you?”

“How can you tell?”

Once more he laughed, and she wondered how he did it without seeming to poke fun at her. “Your belongings are much too fine to come from a government run facility. Dragonhide satchel, quality parchment, not to mention the potion you use for your hair. You’ve been taken in.” Those dark eyes were weighing her carefully and she felt unbalanced under them. “Not adopted. Fostered?”

“I’m Draco Malfoy’s companion,” Hermione said.

Riddle’s brows rose at that. “Lucius Malfoy is raising a muggleborn?”

Was she mistaken or had there been the slightest hesitation before that last word? Hermione pushed back the thought. “It’s for Draco. Lord Lucius doesn’t particularly care for those of my blood status, I know, but he and Lady Narcissa decided that it would be best to bring in someone like me for, for Draco’s sake.”

“Yes, I think I have heard of a few Pureblood families partaking in the practice.”

Hermione didn’t like discussing the nature of her being with the Malfoy family, so she was relieved when other students suddenly flooded into the classroom and Professor Riddle’s attention was diverted from her. She wrung her hands beneath the desk, wishing once more Draco were there; when they were together, she didn’t feel as much like she didn’t belong.

“Ah, Mister Malfoy, Miss Granger. Please come in.” Albus Dumbledore gestured for the children to sit at two plush chairs in front of his desk, a kindly smile on his face. “Lemon drop?” he offered, extending the candy bowl.

Feeling it would be rude to decline (especially as Draco eagerly partook), Hermione took one of the little yellow candies. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now, I hope your first day at Hogwarts has gone well?”

“Tremendously!” Hermione said before she could stop herself. “That is…” Draco grinned at her embarrassment. “Yes, thank you.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy added.

“Good, good.” His brilliant blue eyes looked between them. “Do you know why I’ve asked to see the two of you?”

They chorused, “No sir.”

The old man hummed to himself contemplatively. “The two of you have a unique relationship,” he began. “I am aware that your family, Mister Malfoy, took in Miss Granger some years ago.” At their nods, the professor continued. “I’ve been informed that when you commit a transgression, Mr. Malfoy, you, Miss Granger, are the one who receives penance?”

Draco immediately took her hand in his.

“Yes,” she said quietly, squeezing back the boy’s hand in gratitude for the comfort.

Something seemed to soften on the man’s face as he took in the action. “That is not the way of things at Hogwarts. Here, the one who does the act receives punishment. Usually it is in the form of detention or restriction of a sort. We have not engaged in corporal punishment for some time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hermione as Draco said, “Perfect, sir.”

“And that will not be a problem for you? Either of you?”

Hermione looked to Draco, who emphatically shook his head. “Not at all,” said the boy.

“Good. I know that out in the world there are many who believe blood status is part of the measure of a witch or wizard. You will find that Hogwarts prefers to give its students all equal consideration.” At their nods of understanding, he smiled. “I’m glad we could have this moment to chat. Please come to me if there is anything you should need, both of you.”

They thanked the professor and bade him good evening.

As they walked down the corridor, the locked gazes and smiled.

“Equals?” Hermione questioned.

“Equals,” agreed Draco, squeezing his hand around hers.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts was everything a magical castle should be. It was bright and strange and mysterious all at once and more. There were ghosts and moving staircases throughout the entirety of it, that terrible poltergeist, Peeves, the ever-enchanting ceiling in the Great Hall that reflected the sky outside. She’d heard rumors of secret passages and strange rooms that appeared out of nowhere. It was warm and wonderful, and it was quickly becoming home.

As long as she kept her time in the Gryffindor common room short, that was. Her fellow Gryffindors were not enthused with her company. She’d heard her dormitory mates making fun of how her hair looked in the morning, and boys complaining she was a know-it-all (just as Draco had predicted); moreover, many called her a traitor for her friendship with Draco who, while a Hufflepuff himself, was from a notoriously Slytherin family. It was an annoyance, but at least she had Draco.

And the professors had taken a shine to her for the most part. Professor Snape was not overly fond of anyone, though he slightly favored Slytherins and slightly disdained Gryffindors more than any other house. Professor McGonagall was fair but had high standards when it came to excellence. The tiny Charms professors, Professor Flitwick, was friendly with just about everyone and adored Hermione’s enthusiasm. Professor Sprout was much the same as Professor Flitwick, though perhaps slightly less strict. Professor Binns was… well, he was a ghost, as much history as the subject he taught.

Professor Riddle was something in and of himself. His notes on her essays pushed her in a way mere corrections did not (telling her to cut anything not pertinent and be more concise); it was frustrating, especially since he didn’t guide her in how to do that. Her made her figure it out on her own. Draco found it amusing. He’d said as much when she complained that Professor Riddle would only call on her once per class period.

“You are the biggest swot, Hermione. He’s trying to give others a chance too.” He shook his head. “I think he’s good for you.”

“How does he mark your essays?” She glanced over at his satchel, which he then held closer lest she grab for it. “He’s always writing ‘you don’t need to define every term’ and ‘use fewer words’.”

Draco tried to hide a laugh and Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “You do go on,” he said with a shrug.

“But all of my information is correct,” she insisted.

Draco sipped his breakfast tea and lifted one of his pale brows. The Expression was every bit his mother whenever one of them said something she wanted to contradict. “As you say,” he responded at last, when he was sure she had gotten the message. “We should get to class.”

She sighed a long-suffering sigh but stood and shouldered her bag, following him out. It was foolish as his class was on the opposite side of the castle, but Draco escorted her to Charms. “Do you want to meet at the common room to walk to the feast together?”

Hermione nodded. “That would be great. I’ll see you after classes?”

“Yes,” he agreed. After watching her successfully enter the room, he continued on to Transfiguration.

--

Hermione was late. While they hadn’t agreed on a set time, he and Hermione spent every free moment together, usually in his common room or at the library. While other students weren’t traditionally allowed into the common rooms of other houses, Hufflepuff was the loosest with the rule. As long as you were there with a Hufflepuff and you abided by their standards you were welcome. Most students didn’t take advantage, but Draco had made sure to check with the prefects before bringing Hermione in the first time.

“Alright there, Draco?” Ernie, a fellow first year, asked. He was a bit pompous, but he never balked at Draco as a snake-turned-badger. The same could not be said for everyone.

“Hermione and I were going to walk to the feast together. She was excited for our first Hogwarts Halloween.”

“Perhaps she thought you meant to meet outside?” the other boy responded.

“Perhaps.” Draco ran a hand through his hair nervously. “I’ll go check. Thanks, Ernie.” He brushed past the other boy, determined to find his friend and companion. As he suspected, she was not in the corridor. He thought through her schedule. She’d had Charms this morning, DADA, then Transfiguration. He darted up the stairs toward the classrooms, hoping he could catch students outside of them. Most of them were out and the students were slowly trickling toward the Great Hall. He frowned and thought through possibilities.

The DADA professor’s office was on the same floor as the Transfiguration classroom, so he decided to try there first. He was winded by the time he reached the door, cheeks red and bright on his pale face. Draco rapped sharply at the door, which opened after the slightest pause. Professor Riddle sat at a desk, sorting through parchments.

“Mr. Malfoy, are you unwell?” the man asked with a frown.

“Looking for Hermione,” Draco puffed out. “Have you seen her, professor?”

The frown deepened. “No. She missed class this afternoon. I was planning to discuss it with her Monday.”

Draco took off before the sentence had ended, heading back toward the Great Hall. One of the first year Gryffindors had to be going that way by now. He skidded to a halt as a swarm of red drifted by. “Weasley!” Three redheaded boys looked back at him. “The young one,” he clarified irritably.

“What?” said the lanky boy, his dark-haired friend Potter having stopped to speak to him as well.

“Hermione— we were supposed to meet before the feast, Professor Riddle said she wasn’t in class—”

“Can’t walk to the Great Hall without having her hold your hand, Malfoy?” Weasley sneered.

Draco nearly growled at him. “She’s missing, you daft ginger.”

“So?” the other boy said. “How is that my problem?”

He was getting impatient, tempted to grab the weasel by the robes and shake him until he told Draco what had happened. “I had hoped one of your lot might have noticed the only one with any brains was missing. Too much to hope for—”

“Oi!” Weasley took a step closer to him but Potter extended an arm in front of him.

Potter looked thoughtful. “Actually…” He looked over at Ron, then back to Draco. “He didn’t mean anything by it, you understand,” he said. “Ron’s mouth just gets away from him sometimes.”

“What did he say?”

“Don’t blame me for this—”

“Ron,” Harry said evenly. “Hermione is smart, a bit of a know-it-all, yeah, but she’s not all that bad, is she?”

Draco’s gaze flitted between the pair. Honestly, Weasley was one of the most hopeless of their year and he couldn’t understand why Potter (whom he grudgingly admit wasn’t a complete waste) put up with him. “I’m not going to wait all day, Potter.”

“You see, Hermione corrected Ron during Charms and he said something a bit— a bit mean about her after class and she must have heard it, because she ran off.” Potter looked distinctly uncomfortable and rubbed behind his neck. “She hasn’t been in any classes since.”

“What did he say?” Draco repeated in a low voice.

Potter side eyed Weasley. The latter sighed. “I might have made fun of how she corrected me and called her a nightmare.” At the quicksilver glare, he said, “I was just blowing off steam, Malfoy, I didn’t expect her to hear it. It’s something you say to your mates, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Draco said bitingly. “Since Hermione is my friend, and she is not half so much of an arsehole as you are.”

“Whoa—”

Draco continued over the protesting boys. “Do you have any idea how much she endures every day? She’s a muggleborn living with a Pureblood family, going to Pureblood events where most of the people there call her a – a – you know what! And she gets here and hopes that maybe, just maybe she will be treated with a modicum of dignity and you have to go and be a prick!”

He ended quite a bit louder than he’d started and it was probably a good thing most of the students were already in the Great Hall. The two boys were gaping at him; had Draco’s mother heard him, he was certain she would scorgify his mouth within an inch of his life. He wasn’t sorry for it; his father still used ‘mudblood’ without a thought and Draco had decided that word was worse than any other he could say.

Potter recovered first. “We’ll help you find her.”

Weasley nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry, mate. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Draco stared at them, trying to calm his heavily drumming heart and the roar of anger through him. “Good,” he said at last.

Chapter Text

By the end of their first year, Hermione had formed a friendship with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The two often joined her and Draco in the library; Draco refused to let them into the Hufflepuff common room, so the library became their usual spot. Ron especially appreciated Hermione’s work ethic, or at least how she would look over everything and help him along. Draco was a bit more reticent, but he had reluctantly accepted the two of them in his and Hermione’s little circle.

His father was not happy with his placement in Hufflepuff and continuously changed the subject whenever it came about.. His mother was far more understanding.

Hermione wrote both of her friends regularly over the summer, even sending a gift for Harry on his birthday. By the end of their second year, Draco had gotten comfortable enough with the two that he even found himself spiritedly debating Harry rather than arguing outright.

Third year added in all of those classes Hermione had been so eager to attend. Hermione wanted to take them all, but Draco was not as eager. “Arithmancy and Ancient Runes?”

“It’s only three additional classes, Draco,” she said evenly. “Besides, you’re intelligent enough. Push yourself a bit. Or do you want me to academically outshine you again?” He grumbled. “You can always drop some classes after your OWLs so you can focus on your future career with your NEWTs.”

“Future career?” Draco laughed. “I’m going to help father manage our estates, work with the Ministry, and all the other business he attends to during the day.”

“Not all of us are so blessed,” Hermione reminded him.

Draco wrapped an arm around her and held her close. “You know I’ll take care of you, Hermione. You’re brilliant; with father’s recommendation and your flawless record from Hogwarts, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were one day head of a department at the Ministry.”

“Really?”

It was rare for muggleborns to do well in politically-related jobs, but Draco knew Hermione was an exceptional witch; she would manage.

“Yes.”

--

Fourth year began with a surprise for the students of Hogwarts as Horace Slughorn announced the return of a long-forgotten tradition: the Triwizard Tournament. It was all anyone could talk about for months, especially Ron.

“I’m just saying it would be nice to try,” he complained. “Is fourteen really so young?”

“Yes,” said Hermione at the same time as Draco. Harry smiled at is friend sympathetically but shrugged. He’d barely accepted the limitation himself. It was all rather irritating to Hermione; almost every other Gryffindor under the age of seventeen was of the opinion that they could be the Hogwarts Champion if given the chance. Hermione was fairly certain the Weasley twins were conspiring ways they might be able to enter.

“I’m more excited about the international students,” Hermione said. “It’ll be fascinating to talk to students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Lord Lucius wanted Draco to go to Durmstrang, but Lady Narcissa was dead set against it.”

“Thank Merlin mother put her foot down.” Draco shuddered. “I can’t imagine enjoying any place Hermione would be treated as less than a house elf.”

Ron curled his lip at that. “That’s revolting. My dad thinks it’s wrong, the way muggleborns are torn from their families now. He says muggles are dead smart and could handle learning about magic just fine. The way Pureblood families use muggleborns is just wrong.” He eyed Draco, who shrugged uncomfortably.

“I have no say,” the blond muttered.

Hermione arched a brow at Ron until the boy squirmed and dropped the subject.

This was about the best the boys interacted together, and it was all for her sake. Draco and Ron in particular disliked one another; apparently the feud stemmed back at least to their fathers, if not further. Ron’s father worked in the Ministry in what Lord Lucius considered a lowly position. Moreover, the family had little money and a great number of children. They were everything the Malfoys were not. Hermione and Harry often had to play interference between the blond and the redhead, though Draco didn’t care much for Harry either. She was grateful that her friends all played nice for her sake, but it was tiring at times.

“Mione, could you help me with my Potions essay?” Ron asked after a moment of unusual quiet between the students.

She could see Draco straining to keep in the correction of her name, so she smiled at him before turning to Ron. “Certainly. Where’s your draft?”

Ron blushed beneath his plentiful freckles. “Er…”

“You have started it?” At his sheepish grin, she sighed. “It’s due tomorrow, Ronald. You can’t possibly write a seven-foot essay on Blood Replenishing potions in a night. You’ll need to pull in at least four references,” she chided.

“C’mon, Mione. I know you have it all figured out already.”

At the widening of his bright blue eyes, she sighed and pulled out her own essay. “Alright. But you are not copying mine. We’ll just… use it as a reference.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” His smile was relaxed and relieved as he pulled out his own parchment and started working on his header.

--

The students were told to sit at their house tables for dinner that evening; Hermione was slightly put out, but she sat between Ron and Harry gladly enough. When the Durmstrang students entered, it took only a moment for students to start whispering amongst themselves.

“Harry, Harry, it’s Krum!” Ron reached over her to shake their friend, who was wide-eyed as he watched the fur-clad students marching in. “That’s Viktor Krum!”

“Merlin’s balls,” whispered Harry.

Hermione frowned. She’d heard the name, but couldn’t match the name and the large, brooding young man to whom it belonged to anything else in her mind. “Who?”

Ron gaped at her. “The Bulgarian seeker, Viktor Krum? The one who caught the snitch at the Quidditch World Cup? Blimey, Mione, you were there!”

Her cheeks reddened. “Oh. Right.” She liked Quidditch well enough; both Harry and Draco were on their respective teams (Harry as seeker and Draco as a chaser), so she attended about half the Hogwarts games. However, she didn’t make it a point to follow the professional league (though she knew Ron was fanatic about the Chudley Cannons, Harry’s favorite team was Puddlemere United, and the Malfoys all supported the French Quiberon Quafflepunchers).  She had gone to the World Cup and sat beside Draco, but there had been much more to do than just watch the game. And certainly the seekers were so fast she hardly got a look at them even from her vantage point in the Minister’s box.

Krum gazed around the Great Hall and she smiled brightly when his eyes passed over her. She hadn’t realized students could play professionally and she wondered whether it was contingent on having decent grades, like playing for a school team often was.

When the headmaster introduced the usage of the Goblet of Fire and the age line around it drawn by Albus Dumbledore himself, Ron stage whispered, “I’ll bet you ten Galleons Krum is the Durmstrang Champion. He’s massive, he is.”

“Not gonna take that bet, mate,” Harry responded, eyes glued to the cup where it glowed from its pedestal. Hermione could see the desire in his eyes. While mostly a modest young man, he had a streak of adventure and a longing to prove himself that Hermione sometimes glimpsed. It called to something not dissimilar to a secret she herself bore.

Her eyes roved the Hall, returning the smile Draco threw her way, gazing at the reflected awe in all of the students’ faces, and then lighted on the foreign visitors again This was going to be a year to remember.

--

It was no surprise when Viktor Krum indeed proved to be the Durmstrang Champion. A lovely, veela-esque girl named Fleur Delacour was the Beauxbaton Champion, and the Hogwarts Champion was Cedric Diggory.

There was no end to Draco’s bragging about that. “That’s right, Potter, a Hufflepuff beat out all your Gryffindor seventh years.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I think he heard you the last three times, Draco.” She stood from her seat between the two. “I’m going to try and find a reference for that Arithmancy paper Dumbledore assigned us.” Before any of the boys could say a word, she had left their preferred library table (toward the back-corner opposite of where Madam Pince’s desk was) and began to wander the shelves.

She heard the incessant giggling when she paused at the Potion’s section, having remembered she wanted to cross-reference something Professor Snape had said in class. This was becoming a regular occurrence. Usually the library was Hermione’s sanctuary away from romance-addled girls, but it appeared Viktor Krum was indeed a studious young man, as he spent more time in the library than he probably did his own bed on the Durmstrang ship.

The giggling became louder as he stopped beside her, pulling out a book titled Potions of the Amazon and a Comparison to British Counterparts. One of the corners of his usually stern mouth tugged upward when he caught her looking, and she turned red.

“Hello,” he said in a low voice.

She reluctantly returned the expression, eyes darting between his and the girls hovering in the distance. “Hi. That one’s pretty good.” Hermione nodded to the book at his furrowed brows.

“Oh, thank you.”

She nodded again and turned away, confusion and warmth swirling through her stomach.

Chapter Text

Hermione gasped as the handsome young man barely avoided the whistling ball from the nostrils of the brilliant red and gold creature thrashing about. She’d grabbed Harry’s arm without noticing and the boy merely grinned when she finally realized and apologized. It was a relief when Viktor Krum finally swept the golden egg into his arms from where it had lain amidst the broken shells of the others. She thought they might be real, and the loss of the little creatures that had possibly been inside was a painful thought, though lasted only until the judges called out the scores for the three champions.

Krum and Delacour were officially tied at forty points apiece-- Krum having lost points from the destruction of the eggs and the Beauxbtons’ student from the slight singe she’d received from her own dragon. Cedric was only two points below the pair, though it galled the Hogwarts students that that technically meant he was last place.

For days all anyone could talk about was the first task and the harrowing ordeal the Champions had overcome in defeating the dragons, as well as speculating on what the next task might be. As was her wont, Hermione spent her time in the library and with her boys. While the three often accompanied her, she managed to find herself alone amongst the books now and then.

And when she was, she’d notice an uptick of tittering girls wandering the shelves as they followed behind the hulking figure of Viktor Krum.

He seemed to be everywhere Hermione looked these days-- in the library when she was looking for references or reading material, walking around the lake when she sat in the grass of the cooling autumn as the boys flew during their free time. She thought she caught his gaze on her a few times, her face flushing hotly whenever their eyes met, but surely it was coincidence.

That was what she had to tell herself, knowing that she, while pretty (Lady Narcissa had told her as much and emphasized the importance of appearance in society, teaching Hermionehow to deal with her unruly brown curls, shrinking her over large front teeth, imparting the most important of self-care regimens and cosmetic spells upon the girl), she as no great beauty. Who would look twice at the wide-eyed bookworm when there was a stunning young woman like Fleur Delacour around?

She saw the way Draco, Ron, and Harry had all looked at the pale, slender blonde. Hermione couldn’t blame them. Like the woman with whom she lived, Fleur enchanted everyone around her. She even shared the coloring of the Malfoys, her refined French features even more delicate and lovely.

Hermione was proven wrong in her doubts when, the day after the Yule Ball was announced, someone tapped her shoulder as she perused the books in the Arithmancy section.

She turned, brows furrowing as she prepared to tell whichever of the three-- blond, brunet, ginger-- had interrupted her and stopped short as she peered up into the dark eyes of the Durmstrang student.

At her no-doubt shocked expression, he said, “I am sorry if I haff startled you.”

Hermione closed her mouth sharply and shook her head, trying to regain herself. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

He smiled shyly, wringing his large, calloused hands. “I haff noticed you here in the library. You are quite studious.” At her nod, he continued. “I am Viktor, Viktor Krum. From Durmstrang,” he added hurriedly.

A curious smile had started pulling at Hermione’s mouth as well, her fingers playing nervously against the edges of the book she held to her chest. “I know,” she replied without thinking, cheeks instantly flaring. Hermione introduced herself hurriedly to cover the faux pas. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

They stared at each other for a moment, neither quite still, nor comfortable with breaking the tension. Viktor ran a hand over his closely cropped hair and cleared his throat. “I vas vondering if you might, ah, accompany me to the Yule Ball? If you are not vith one of the boys-- that is, I imagine a girl like you might haff someone-- if you haff no date yet.”

“No!” She said quickly, then stumbled out, “I don’t have a date, that is. And I would love to. Go with you.”

A grin slowly unfurled across his face, lighting up his dark eyes, and Hermione’s stomach fluttered warmly. “Oh. Good. Great. I vill meet you outside the Great Hall before the ball, yes? Ve vill haff to dance to open the ball.”

She beamed up at him, having slowly moved close enough she could almost feel the warmth radiating from the large young man. “Yes. I look forward to it.”

He murmured another, “Good,” awkwardly and finally wandered away, leaving the fourth year student giddy and dizzy in his wake.

--
Professor Riddle had asked her to stay after and speak with him, which was never a hardship. Besides being her favorite professor and Hermione being the consummate teacher’s pet, there was also the matter of his appearance.

“What did you want to see me for, professor?” She asked, suppressing the urge to fidget as she stood in front of his desk. She had finally admit to herself last year that she had a slight crush on Professor Riddle. He was brilliant, charismatic, and beautiful beyond what any human being had the right to be. He was artwork, like da Vinci’s David made flesh. Draco had teased her about it and she suspected Harry knew; Ron was oblivious.

He smiled a slightly crooked smile at her that made him seem younger somehow, almost like a student himself. Hermione had no idea how old he actually was, but he couldn’t be too old. Twenties, maybe thirty? “Yes, thank you for staying behind.” He gestured for her to follow him and they stepped out, walking to his office as he started to speak. “I wanted to discuss this before the holidays, since I’ve no doubt you we will want ample time to research. I’m working on a proposal for the concept currently, but I’ve no doubt Horace-- the headmaster-- will approve it, especially with you as my student assistant.” Hermione frowned, but stayed quiet. Upon entering his office he bade her have a seat across from him at his little seating area. “I’m starting an advanced DADA club at the school, open only to fifth years and above. I would like you to be my student assistant. As such, you would help draw up the proposal, the charter for the club, and the range of its purview.”

“Oh!” Hermione clapped her hands together excitedly, eyes shining. “I’d be honored, Professor.”

The smile returned to his face, a touch brighter now. “I’d hoped as much. You’ll want to look into the organization of other clubs and the history of various organizations in the school, of course. We will be submitting the proposal late next semester and I expect to hit the ground running next year.”

She nodded, mind already drawing up a list of items to look into and books she could reference in the library. “Thank you so much, professor. I’ll get on researching immediately.”

Professor Riddle chuckled. “Don’t worry yourself too much over it; we have plenty of time, after all.”

“Worry?” Hermione blinked, pulling herself out of her whirring thoughts. “Not at all! This is just the project I need for the year. I’ve been wanting to get more involved somehow.”

“You are the most organized student I know, Hermione. I knew you were perfect for this task.”

She beamed, something warm expanding in her chest as he called her by her first name. He only did that with his very favorite students, and not often. “You won’t regret it, Professor.”

His charcoal eyes weighed her. “I know I won’t.” He shuffled some papers, then glanced up at her as if in afterthought. “Will you be going to the Yule Ball? I am to chaperone.”

“Yes,” she said. Hermione had thought their meeting was at an end and had started for the door already, but turned back to Professor Riddle.

“You’re being escorted by Draco, I assume?” His eyes were scanning the essay currently at the top of his stack. At Hermione’s light laugh, he looked back up at her.

“No,” she replied. “I don’t think Draco has even thought of asking anyone yet, let alone me.”

“Do you not have a date yet?”

She shifted from one foot to another, flushing red. “I’m going with Viktor Krum.”

Professor Riddle’s head snapped up at that, lips pursing, the slightest crease forming between his brows. She fidgeted under his scrutiny, suddenly wondering if he thought it disloyal, going to the ball with the Durmstrang Champion. The entire tournament was supposed to be about international camaraderie, wasn’t it? Surely she wasn’t doing something wrong. After a long pause, Professor Riddle nodded. “I am sure he will be a perfect gentleman,” he said at last. “Go on, Miss Granger. I must get to these essays.”

Hermione parted his office, puzzling over the interaction as she made her way to study with the boys.

Chapter Text

Ronald Weasley was an arse, Hermione had concluded. For the last week, he’d pestered her non-stop about who her date to the ball was. He’d even insinuated that she was lying to save face, and that she would probably not appear rather than have them know the shameful truth.

“I’ll take you, Mione,” he’d graciously offered. “It’s no bother, really.”

Her jaw had stiffened, hand tightening on her quill dangerously. “It’s not my fault you’ve waited till the last minute to ask, Ronald. I told you, I’m already going with someone. And, no. I will not tell you who.”

“Give it up, Weasel,” said Draco. “She won’t tell me, so she sure as shit won’t tell you.”

At that, her narrowed gaze had flicked to her best friend. “Language, Draco. What would your mother say?” Since becoming friends with Harry and Ron (though Draco’s relationship, especially the latter, could only loosely be called that at times), his vocabulary had expanded in the worst of ways. Ron was the more foul-mouthed of the two, but Harry had apparently learned some choice verbiage from his father’s group of friends, the Marauders.

Draco colored slightly, but favored her with a smile. He’d badgered Hermione long before Ronald had made his half-arsed offer to escort her the first time, having made an off hand comment about the two of them needing to coordinate a time to meet before the ball. He’d taken it for granted that Hermione would be his date, as she was his best friend and constant companion. While he’d been happy to hear someone had asked her and had immediately sought out Susan Bones for her company that evening, he’d burned to know who would have Hermione on his arm. He did not let the curiosity show in front of Ron and Harry, though.

“Honestly, Ronald, go ask someone else. I heard Padma hasn’t a date yet,” she drawled.

Harry tipped his head and blinked at her, a slow grin spreading across her mouth. “And she has a twin in Ravenclaw. Hold up, mate,” he said to Ron. The twins were studying at a nearby table, and the scrawny boy crawled out of his seat and over to them. Hermione watched as he first spoke to Padma, then Parvati. The Ravenclaw peered around him at Ron, then nodded with a casual shrug. That settled, Harry returned. “You’re going with Parv and I’m with Padma.”

A smug smile graced Hermione’s face. She’d overheard Padma and Lavender discussing the ball this morning, and a lucky thing. The Patl twins were beautiful and, while Padma was a bit vain, not at all horrible or annoying. Her boys should have a good enough time if they behaved themselves.

When she adjourned for the evening, Hermione mentally went over everything she would have to do the next day to prepare. She was nervous, knowing everyone would be staring at her as she was the little bookworm who was somehow being escorted by Quidditch star and Durmstrang Champion Viktor Krum.

There was one person in whom Hermione had confided. The same day she’d sent the owl, Narcissa had responded. The lovely pink, fluttery gown they’d bought Hermione at the start of the year would not do, she insisted. That was a dress for a girl who was attending a ball as an ordinary guest. Now, she would need something more, something worthy of a lady on the arm of an important man. And if there was one thing Narcissa knew, it was how to command with her appearance.

Thus, Hermione had received a gown that would hug the newly-developed curves that had appeared in recent months (a close fitting in Hogsmeade during a weekend had been necessitated to ensure the clothing would fit perfectly), hair products and instructions on charms to use dictated in a long letter, new shoes, everything a fifteen-year-old girl could desire and more.

She should have felt ready; instead, she could hardly sleep with the thundering, nervous tattoo of her heart in her throat.
---
Lucius Malfoy detested attending events at the school (excepting the occasional Quidditch game he’d watched in Draco’s second and third years; he saw his son so rarely that seeing the boy play had been a rare delight). He had told Narcissa not to bother tonight, as he would make an appearance and then be on his way. The woman had insisted he at least check in on Draco and-- much to his chagrin-- their ward.

It was easy to forget the girl during the school year. As he sat with the faculty during games, he did not see her in the sea of student faces. Only during the holiday breaks and summer holidays did she stay in his home. He’d come to breakfast the morning after Draco had returned from his first year at Hogwarts and nearly started when he saw the little Mudblood. The previous years all fell neatly back into his mind.

Lucius didn’t spend much time at home, however. He had a business to run, as well as his duties as seat on the Wizengamot, and as a board member at Hogwarts. He’d made it a point to set aside a little time for his son and heir, but distanced himself otherwise. The girl was Narcissa’s responsibility, except when discipline was necessary. His wife was the one who ensured the girl was fed and clothed and taught her manners. While Lucius knew she attended events with his son, he rarely saw her himself as the pair got older and spent more time doing whatever adolescents these days did.

He confessed (if only to himself) that he did not recognize her when the doors of the Great Hall swept open and the Champions led their dates inside. He stood beside Horace, dressed in grey dress robes that suited his coloring, touched with silver and green brocade. The pompous Headmaster wore some garish black and purple thing that was as outdated as the man himself. No matter.

There was the Hogwarts Champion, Cedric Diggory. He was a handsome lad, athletically lean, a shining example of what a Hufflepuff should be, apparently. If they were all like him, the House wouldn’t be such an embarrassment. Seeker and Captain of his Quidditch team (which was not quite a joke under his management, as Lucius had to admit), Prefect, and now Champion. According to Draco, Diggory was grooming him to be replacement as Captain and Prefect once the seventh-year graduated. If his son had to be a Hufflepuff (and how positively irritating was that to Lucius; the first summer his son was home, he’d found every excuse to punish the boy and the damnable reason why he could), at least he could be the best among the Badgers.

Diggory’s date was the Chang girl; Lucius knew her mother from the Ministry, a dainty little Halfblood, as the girl’s father. They made a pretty pair.

And next came the Beauxbaton’s Champion. She was a lovely thing, partly thanks to her unfortunate heritage, though at least she had no juggles in her ancestry. Her date was another Quidditch player, to his amusement. A Pureblood peacock he was sure was as useless as his father.

Lucius smiled to himself as he spotted, easy to see even the crowd, the Durmstrang Champion. There was a strong young man. Viktor Krum looked commanding in his militaristic uniform and closely cropped hair. The man wished his son had gone to Durmstrang and been under the young Champion’s tutelage. He had heard nothing but good about Krum, talented, intelligent, Pureblood, world-class Seeker. And on his arm…

At first, he did not recognize her, and only appreciated her for her appearance. She was a small young woman, especially beside the massive figure that was her date, icy blue gown hugging her curves without being immodest. It was the sort of gown Narcissa would wear, the sharp vee of the neckline displaying delicate collarbones and the daring hint of décolletage. Had there not been the sheer flare of over skirts over the hip-hugging skirt, the gown would have flirted with impropriety (for a student during a school ball).

Having trailed his gaze over the beautiful, expensive, frost-embroidered gown and the figure it hinted at, Lucius returned to the face he had not immediately known. The girl’s thick brunette curls were tamed and falling down her back elegantly, her brown eyes bright and framed with thick, darkened lashes. He frowned as she laughed, nose wrinkling. He knew that laugh. It was his ward, the mudblood, Hermione Granger.

Lucius thought back to the last time he’d seen her, rather uncomfortable with his previous praise of her figure. She had not looked like this, he was sure. Granted, he’d spent less time home this summer than before, as he’d had meetings at the little organization Bella was creating (though Rodolphous was the supposed head of it; his brother-in-law did little without his wife’s consent, contrary to the way Lucius lived his life), but he was sure the girl had been as mousy and inconsequential as ever. What, then, merited her looking like this and on the arm of a noble scion to Pureblood family?

Suddenly infuriated, and sure his wife had known and not told him of this little dalliance, Lucius slid closer to the headmaster of Durmstrang. He’d met Igor Karkarov in the past and knew the man shared certain beliefs.

“Igor,” he intoned as evenly as he could manage, “I was under the impression that your school did not take kindly to those of… Muddied birth.”

The dark man frowned. “I do not take your meaning,” he said, words gruff with his thick accent. “You know we do not.”

Lucius gestured with one pale hand toward the young couple now swirling across the dance floor. Miss Granger’s over skirt flared out behind her and around her as Krum led her over the shining surface. He watched as understanding dawned on the headmaster’s face.

“How can you be sure?”

“The girl is my-- ward, companion to my Draco for matters of discipline. Did we not discuss the matter when I inquired about sending him to your institution?” Lucius’ words were as cold as his manner. At least his son had had the forethought to stay within his own class for this event. Whilst Amelia Bones was a thorn in his heel at times, she was a formidable and well-bred woman.

Igor’s face reddened. “He must not know. I-- I will inform him once he fetches them drinks.” Igor began sidling toward the refreshments at that.

Lucius kept watch even as he subtly followed to stay within earshot. His ward excused herself as Krum headed toward the table and his headmaster, throwing her arms around Draco, a redhead who painfully reminded him of Arthur Weasley (complete with the utterly ridiculous dress robes the boy wore), and the unfortunately well-liked Potter boy. Whilst Draco and Potter beamed at the lovely girl, the Weasley boy was grim faced.

He turned back to Igor just as the man tugged his student a little away from the line of those waiting for drinks.

“What do you think you are doing, bringing that girl as your date?”

Krum frowned, puzzled. “Herm-me-own-ee? Vy do you ask?”

“She is a mudblood, Viktor!” Igor ground out after surreptitiously checking the area around him. “You are embarrassing Durmstrang with her.”

“I did not know.” The young man squared himself, running a hand through his short hair. “Vat does it matter? Hogvarts has all kinds, and she is a clever student, and beautiful and kind and--”

“Viktor!” The older man hissed. “She is the mudblood ward of the Malfoy family, little more than a house elf or a slave. Would you bring a house elf to a ball?”

Krum’s jaw tightened. “I do not care. I-- I like her.” Before his headmaster could complain, the young man tugged his arm away and stalked back toward his date.

Igor called once again at Krum’s back, then collapsed into himself against the wall furiously. Lucius, having expected the boy to cast Miss Granger aside, humiliating her and putting her back in her place, shook his head.

Chapter Text

Hermione was floating on air. People kept approaching her and telling her how beautiful she looked and how lucky she was to be with Viktor Krum, how they didn’t even recognize her. And Viktor was such a gentleman. He was happy to share her attention with her friends, Harry and Draco both claiming dances themselves while he sipped his punch and watched, talking with Susan or Parvati and Padma. Poor Parv looked miserable, as Ron was an abysmal date.

When Neville approached, bashful Neville who had bloomed over the summer into a handsome young man, Hermione told Ron he should dance with his sister.

“Sod off,” said the grumpy boy.

Ginny rolled her eyes and sat beside Harry instead.

“Er, Hermione?” Neville’s voice wavered and almost cracked. “Would you, er, maybe like to dance? If it’s alright?” He added the last hurriedly as he glanced over at Viktor.

“Of course. Do you mind, Viktor? Neville is a friend,” she said.

Viktor, who had seemed tense since he returned with their first drinks, but was slowly settling back into himself, nodded. So Hermione placed one of her hands in Neville’s much larger one and he led her onto the floor.

His other hand was the lightest touch at her waist. “You really look beautiful tonight, Hermione,” he whispered. Then his eyes widened. “Not that-- I mean, you’re always pretty. Just, tonight, everyone can see it.” He was steadfastly not looking at her face, color high on his cheeks.

“Thank you, Neville,” she murmured. He spun her deftly and, when his hand returned to her waist, it was a little more firm. As the song ended, she leaned up to hug him. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

A soft cough sounded beside them and she and Neville jumped apart as though they’d been caught doing something. A sly half quirk was on Professor Riddle’s lips. He was beyond handsome in his black dress robes, emerald tie, silver vest. Hermione swallowed and returned his smile, cheeks flushing. “May I cut in, Mr. Longbottom? Miss Granger promised me a dance before my chaperone shift ends.”

She had done no such thing, but did not gain say him as Neville politely excused himself and Professor Riddle’s long, tapered fingers wrapped around her own. He pulled her in closer to how Viktor had held her, a far cry from Neville’s careful distance, and the other hand was just a touch lower than her waist, curling around the soft curve of her hip, thumb against the top of the bone through her gown. This was the closest she had ever been to him and his scent encircled her so she became heady with it. Clean, sweetly spiced like cinnamon, something earthy like sandalwood underneath it all.

“You’re all the buzz in the castle now, Hermione,” he said after a short silence before the song kicked up.

She shrugged as best she could while in his arms, the hand on his bicep a fluttering thing. “It’s all the makeup and the dress,” she insisted.

The hand at her side left suddenly, her skin there oddly cool. The professor turned her chin toward him, curling along her jaw. Once she met his eyes, it returned to its previous place. “Nonsense. They’ve all just been blind. You’ve become a pretty young woman.”

Hermione’s heart was pounding her throat and she was sure he could see it. His dark eyes bored into hers and she suddenly realized they were blue. The darkest, deepest sapphire of the Mediterranean at night. She’d seen the sea somewhere, though she could not remember ever having been to Greece or Rome or Egypt. Her red lips parted to deny the compliment, but Professor Riddle swept in again first.

“You’re as beautiful as you are brilliant, sweetheart, just accept it.” There was something both sibilant and commanding to the words, and she nodded, blinking to pull herself out of the haze of his scent and his drowning eyes. The smile returned to his face, his teeth flashing white in his face. The rest of their dance passed with his unyielding hands on her, guiding her effortlessly. When it ended, he swept into a bow over her hand, lips just brushing the back of it to skirt propriety, jolting her core. “Thank you for the dance, Hermione.”

She stood on the floor alone, watching him walk away, until a touch at her elbow pulled her back into the present. Viktor stared curiously don at her. “Are you alright, Her-me-own-ee?”

“Yes,” she said unsteadily. “I just got a touch lightheaded from all the spinning. I didn’t expect Professor Riddle to ask.” Her date nodded and escorted her back to their table so she could sip her drink and gain her footing once more. Then they danced again, a bit more closely than before, Viktor’s thumb stroking her side through the thin material of her gown.

Between songs, he hesitated to take her hand again and instead studied her face. “Her-me-own-ee,” he hesitated. “Vould you care to go into the gardens?”

With Viktor's gentlemanly attention and the aftermath of Professor Riddle’s unexpected touch, she nodded. Outside the Entrance Hall was an enchanting rose garden, with pockets of shadow away from the fairies lighting up the world around them.

Viktor’s fingers twined with her own, pulling her into his side. “Headmaster Karkarov is unhappy with me,” he said at last.

“What?” Surprise flitted across her expression. Viktor was clearly a favorite of the brooding man. “Why?”

They halted after a turn around a fountain and she could see him waffling indecisively. “He-- he does not like that you are muggleborn.” At the the hurt flickering across her eyes, he said hurriedly, “I do not care, Her-me-own-ee.” Viktor took both of her hands in his and drew her from the main path. “You are beautiful and good and smart.” The back of his knuckles skimmed across her cheek. “I vould very much like to take you out to Hogsmeade the next time ve are able. And perhaps find time to see one another around the castle?”

At the rise in his voice, she nodded. “Yes,” she murmured. It felt so wonderful to know this boy, this man really, liked her regardless of her blood status. He didn’t just want her on his arm for the night, but genuinely desired her company and admired her. They had not gotten to talk nearly enough, and she relished the idea of a date in Hogsmeade away from his exciteable fans. His hand cupped her jaw and she saw his eyes lingering on her lips after she’d said the word, then darting back to meet her own gaze curiously.

Hermione slid closer, laying her free hand on his shoulder, and he took the invitation slowly, so she had ample time to pull away. As his gaze was firmly fixed on her lips and her eyes fluttered shut, it was no real surprise when his warm mouth planted over hers. His lips were gentle at first, and the masculine scent of his aftershave permeated the air. When her hand stroked up to the soft grain of his short hair, Viktor tugged her body against his and his tongue swept against the seam of her lips. She parted them with uncertainty, then made a little sound as his tongue stroked hers.

The world around them swam away in the sweet press of his mouth and warm touches on his waist, her hips, her neck, never deviating to a place of danger, but delicious all the same.

--
The rest of the holiday break passed in a whirl and soon the second task was upon them.

While Viktor made sure to spend time with her, the lead up to the day found him tired. It didn’t help that Ron had been an utter prat the entire time and was now steadily refusing to speak to her, saying she was a traitor and if she wanted to show her true colors, she should just go and snog ‘Vicky.’

Draco, who had more reason than the redhead to be loyal to Cedric, worked with Harry to act as a buffer between the two. “Really, Weasel, she’s still cheering Ced on. How is she a traitor?”

Ron blazed crimson and muttered something under his breath that Hermione was sure wasn’t flattering to anyone.

“Yeah, Ron,” Harry piped in. “Besides, didn’t you ask Fleur Delacour to be your date?”

“What?” Hermione had yet to hear the story of how her friend, besotted by the beauty of the Beauxbaton Champion, had dreamily strode up to Fleur and mangled words together so badly it wasn’t even clear exactly what he was asking. Harry regaled her while she and Draco practically fell out of their seats from laughter.

Thus was the time between the Yule Ball and the Second Task probably the best she’d had in her fifteen year life.

Chapter Text

"Merlin, ‘Mione, you look like a drowned rat!”

The fifteen-year-old, who had been trying to push her sodden curls from her face, glared up at her gangly friend. “Thanks, Ronald.” She was finally warm, thanks to the warming charm Professor Riddle had cast, but the sharp cold of the Black Lake had penetrated far inside her, bone-deep.

Hermione finally managed to tie her hair back, then cast a drying spell (really, how had no one thought to do that before?). The loose little curls frizzed out in a halo that would have given Lady Cissa a conniption, but Hermione ignored them, feeling much more herself now that she was dry and warm and out of the water.

“I am so sorry, Her-me-own-ee,” Viktor said, pulling her into him. His head was finally fully transfigured back to its normal rugged handsomeness; when she’d surfaced beside a strange shark creature, she had nearly drowned herself in terror, despite having been told what was happening before she was put under (preening at the idea that she was the most precious person to Viktor at Hogwarts).

Hermione felt oddly beloved for the first time she could remember, surrounded as she was by people who cared for her. Draco, Harry, and Ron had all three crowded her the moment they saw her flop out of the water. Professor Riddle had already been there with blanket in-hand, assisting the Heads with managing the task, and Viktor had clung to her throughout his transfiguration and discussion with Karkarov over the events that had occurred underwater as Fleur Delacour finally surfaced with her sister.

“For not only being the swiftest of all Champions, but also assisting his fellow Champion, Miss Delacour, we have awarded forty-seven points to Cedric Diggory! For brilliant use of transfiguration in rescuing Miss Granger, we award Viktor Krum with forty points! And finally, for resilience in the face of almost certain defeat, we award Fleur Delacour with thirty points!”

“I’m surprised they gave her so many, considering she wouldn’t have been able to finish the task without Cedric’s help,” muttered Draco.

“Zee grindylows proved too difficult for Fleur to handle on her own,” Hermione said with a laugh. “Perhaps they are not on the curriculum for Beauxbatons students.” That was the only explanation she could see, as the swarming creatures were not native to France.

Professor Riddle, whom she’d assumed was focused on the announcements Mr. Crouch was intoning, chastised her gently. “Not all students are so blessed in their professors, Hermione.”

She reddened, but nodded.

That evening it seemed half of Hogwarts celebrated in the Hufflepuff common room. Hermione and the boys were welcomed in by Draco, who led them into his dorm to collect the special chocolates his mother had sent in anticipation of the win. They were infused with honey from magical bees, who produced the golden syrup that had the edge of euphoria.

Hermione felt slightly guilty for not celebrating with Viktor, but the one time she had gone aboard their ship, the whispers and stares had blanketed her in a melancholy the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since her first social event with the Malfoys. Oddly, Professor Riddle had gone with Headmaster Karkarov after the task, the latter looking almost nervous to her eyes.

Three mornings later, The Daily Prophet brought with it the most ridiculous bit of libel Hermione had ever read. Which was saying something, as she often perused the society pages to keep up with Pureblood happenings.

“Miss Granger, a passingly pretty young witch of unfortunate birth most notable for her know-it-all attitude, has a history of ingratiating herself to those above her station. She is currently a ward of the Malfoy family, and reportedly has the Pureblood heir wrapped around her little finger. Young Draco Malfoy was no doubt heartbroken to see his own constant companion on the arm of Quidditch star Viktor Krum.

“Additionally, she can often be seen fawning over famed Auror James Potter’s oldest child, Harry Potter.”

Hermione growled in irritation and disgust, lip curling as she tossed down the wrinkled paper. “Rita Skeeter is a gossiping cow!”

“I dunno, ‘Mione, Malfoy is looking mighty peaky lately.” Harry glanced over at the Hufflepuff table, where Draco was elbowing Susan Bones with a mischievous grin. “You can see it in his eyes. You’ve positively broken him. Right, Ron?”

The redhead grinned. “Oh yeah. And Harry’s been absolutely wrecked. Wails every night, he does. We have to silence the whole dorm--”

“Oi!” Harry poked Ron. “I do not wail.”

“Do too,” Ron said adamantly. “Sounds like a dying kneazle, it does. Drives Seamus batty.”

Neville snickered, distracted from his own conversation with the mentioned boy. “He weren’t far from it. But why’s this now?”

Harry and Ron eagerly explained the article and how Hermione was stringing along all of them, and they were now heartbroken at her treacherous, lecherous (Ron was proud of the rhyme) ways.

“Oh, yeah,” Neville chirped. “We Gryffindor boys are all in love with Hermione, right Seamus?”

“Wot?”

The girl, who was laughing in spite of herself, threw up her hands. “Honestly, you’re insufferable, all of you!”

While those who knew her, like the Gryffindor boys in her year and Draco, knew the Prophet story was rubbish, too many others were glad to see the muggleborn scholar brought low, and indulged in whispering and name calling. She was an early riser by nature, but started waking even earlier, to make her morning ablutions in peace and be out of the Great Hall before most of the student population had risen.

Some of the professors were even keen on the rumors, like Professor Snape, who made snide allusions whenever she paired with Harry at Potions (thus, she was prone to pairing with Neville instead, though that wrought its own difficulties).

She masked herself behind perfectly quaffed locks and shining leather shoes, every inch of herself the ward of Narcissa Malfoy, who believed appearances were the first line of defense in battle or politics. However, not even Lady Cissa could have prepared her for the unexpected bite that came in DADA one day.

Professor Riddle had asked a question to which Hermione did not know the answer-- she would later find the information about the Unforgivable wasn’t readily available outside of the restricted section-- and she had said, “I’m afraid I don’t know, Professor. I thought there wasn’t a way to counter the Killing Curse?”

“Perhaps, Miss Granger, if you spent less time canoodling with Viktor Krum and more time studying, you would have read about the rumors that a sacrifice borne out of love may shield the intended target,” he’d responded coolly. The Slytherins with whom they had class had hissed in wicked glee to see the lioness called out.

The truth was that Hermione did little with the Champion since the task, put off by the article, the rumors, and how very interested in her Viktor seemed. It wasn’t a relationship that could continue, with the daunting distance between them. Narcissa had cautioned her to be careful, that some Purebloods were happy to mix with muggleborns while younger, but would discard them when marriageable prospects became available.

“Time will only tell what sort Viktor Krum is, my dear,” Lady Cissa had written.

Hermione hung back after class the day Professor Riddle had humiliated her. He was about his business and seemed not to notice her, forcing her to clear her throat and begin, uncertain, “Professor, I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to offend--”

His dark eyes hit her like a dart and the words stuck in her throat. “Offended? Because a bright young woman like you is proving even the clever students of today aren’t above hormone-driven foolishness? Not at all, Miss Granger.”

Her brows crinkled. “I’m not that sort of girl at all! I’ve hardly seen Viktor--”

“Is that so?” Professor Riddle walked around to lean his backside against the desk, looming over her more effectively. “You have not wasted yourself snogging away with Krum? Karkarov certainly thinks you have-- what was the phrase-- ‘sunk your filthy claws firmly into the boy so that he has eyes only for you.’ And a stubborn young man like that, whom witches throw themselves at so easily…” He shrugged. “What is one to assume?”

Feet frozen in place, face flushed red with horror, Hermione did not know where to begin. She knew Viktor liked her, but this implied he was besotted, bespelled almost. People were-- people thought she was-- that she was-- “I’ve never engaged in more than a little kissing,” she whispered at last, her gaze having fallen to her leather shoes. “A little more, erm, enthusiastic during the ball, perhaps, but all rather harmless and fully clothed, I assure you. I’ve no idea why Viktor likes me so much; I’ve caused him nothing but trouble.”

Tom Riddle’s much larger, just as perfectly polished, leather shoes appeared at the upper edge of her vision, followed by his hand as he tipped her chin up. Her eyes shook with sudden hot tears that trickled down her cheeks. Whereas he’d been cold and sharp the last few weeks, his features were warm and interested now. “You’ve only exchanged a few kisses?” She nodded furiously and he chuckled, cupping her cheek. “I forget sometimes what it’s like to be so young. And I confess, there were never any girls worthy of attention when I attended Hogwarts. Vapid and concerned mostly with engagements. Perhaps I’m being unfair. You’re mature in so many ways, but not this one. When it comes to physical charms, you’re still a child.”

She wiped away her tears, frowning. “I’m not a child. I know about things.”

He laughed and leaned back again. “I’m sure you do, sweetheart. You’re clever. What did Albus say? Ah, the cleverest witch of your age.” His narrowed, suddenly sly. “You know, that’s what they called me. Some still do. And others call me even greater titles.”

“Like what?” Hermione was suddenly aflutter, butterflies sweeping away the sorrow that had weighed her down, eager to see more of this version of her professor, intimating to her as though they were equals.

“All in good time, Hermione. Now get along, before Draco thinks I’ve murdered his companion.”

Chapter Text

A pregnant silence permeated the stands, the crowd staring, every set of eyes wide and every mouth agape. No one had predicted this result. No one. And then a single student began to clap, then another, another. Pockets of students cried out amid the multitude.

Hermione was the first in her friend groups, though Ron’s sister Ginny soon joined in. The red head elbowed her brother and finally the boys picked up the cheer.

In front of the now-roaring crowd stood Fleur Delacour, the Triwizard Cup in-hand. While she had been at the rear of the Champions, the one who ahead need assistance to get through the second task, she had seemingly floated through the maze that covered the Quidditch field. Clever enough that the Sphinx's riddle didn’t have her, confident in spelling away the boggart, all the while the two male Champions had been distracted by trying to figure out how to get ahead of the other. While they had worked to waylaying one another, neither had given a thought for the Veela-esque girl herself.

“So does this mean she wins?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ronald. This means she wins. Didn’t you pay attention to the announcements before the task began?” He didn’t respond. If anything, he seemed rather put off that the girl had won over his fellow Hogwarts student and a Quidditch superstar.

Cedric was second out of the maze, but Viktor was a close third. When Hermione was finally allowed to join him, he was muttering something about the Sphinx. She gathered that the riddle he’d been given was based on wordplay. As a non-native English speaker, he felt he’d been at a disadvantage.

However, he did not want to complain since Fleur was also not a native English speaker and she had managed well enough. “If it were between me and the Hufflepuff, perhaps it would haff made a difference. But Fleur, she is far more clever than both of us.”

It was a fair admission, and Cedric probably would have wanted a just adjudication in such a situation.

The next few days were a flurry of finishing up schoolwork and repairing for the end of term, all the while trying to spend time with new friends. Hermione and Viktor promised to exchange letters until they could meet again, and they shared a few stolen kisses before he finally had to sail away.

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin, a hand flying to her chest in relief as she recognized the smooth voice of her favorite professor. “Professor Riddle, you startled me.”

“My apologies, sweetheart, it wasn’t my intent.” She blushed both at the endearment and his smile that showed just a hint of the perfect teeth beneath. “I just wanted to wish you well before you leave for the summer. And, of course, let you know to expect some correspondence in regards to our little project.”

Her eyes shone at that, all teenage self-consciousness forgotten in the face of academic pursuits. “Oh, yes! I’m so very excited for that. I’ve already drawn up drafts for the club charter, pending your revisions of course, and have a list of proposed rules and restrictions based upon past clubs of a similar nature-- particularly previous dueling clubs. Will there be dueling, professor? I know it is a Defense--”

Warm laughter like chocolate down her throat interrupted the verbal stream from the girl and her face burned hot once again. “Hermione, Hermione, if you keep up like this, you’ll miss the train.” Riddle laid a hand on her shoulder, and that part of her anatomy nearly sang at the contact. “I’m sure you have it well in-hand. I gave Horace the proposal earlier-- or tried to, at any rate-- and he’s already approved it.”

She beamed up at him, clapping her hands together excitedly. “I’m so happy to hear that! When will the first meeting be?”

“We will talk about that over the summer, or perhaps when you come back after summer hols.” He tipped his head, an errant curl dropping over his forehead. “I daresay you’ll have plenty to think about when you return next year, hmm?” His dark blue eyes twinkled knowingly. “Are you sure you aren’t biting off more than you can chew?”

“Professor, I hardly think assisting you will put me over my limit, even with studying for my O.W.L.s”

“You don’t think that’s all the additional responsibility you’ll have surely?” His thumb stroked the length of her collarbone. “It is your fifth year, after all. And you’re an exemplary student in every way.”

The words settled heavily in Hermione’s chest, a pleasant, heady weight. “Oh.” She suddenly found herself unable to meet his eyes, staring instead at his starched white button-up shirt. “Well, books and cleverness. There are more important things-- bravery and-- and--”

“Ah, yes, always the good little Gryffindor.” He tipped her chin up so she would meet his gaze again. “I’ll put some ambition in you yet, Miss Granger. Bring out your inner Slytherin. Now get going; you’ll be hearing from me soon.”

She was already halfway to the common room before she realized Professor Riddle had revealed his own house-leanings. He always strived to be so fair that she’d wondered if he’d been a Hufflepuff. Common rumor was that he’d been a Ravenclaw. But a Slytherin? Then again, he’d worn silver and green with his dress robes at the Yule ball.

She pondered her dealings with Professor Riddle, wondering if she was reading too deeply into his words, all while gathering her things to meet with Ron and Harry in the common room. Draco was waiting for them just outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, though he’d had to come up all the way from the Hufflepuff dorms and they were just going back down again. Usually she would have lectured him on wasting time, but now her brows were knit and she was distracted. While her two Gryffindor mates hadn’t noticed, Draco did.

“What’s got you all in your head, ‘Mione?” He bumped her shoulder with his arm (his own shoulder now well above hers thanks to growth spurts that made his bones ache).

“Hm?” She allowed the boys to help her with her trunk as they loaded into the train and found their own compartment. “Oh, just a conversation I was having with Professor Riddle before leaving the castle.” She settled by the window and blinked out at Hogsmeade before turning to him. “Did you know Professor Riddle was in Slytherin as a student?”

Draco frowned, clearly not expecting that question. “What? Er, yeah, I think Father mentioned it before.”

Hermione drummed her fingers again her skirt. “He doesn’t seem like much of Slytherin. He’s never treated me differently.”

Across from her Harry laughed. “He treats you differently alright, Mione. But not because you’re muggleborn.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re his favorite, bloody know-it-all.” Ron’s smile took the edge off his words.

“I’m not his favorite,” she insisted, though butterflies batted their wings in her stomach and she was secretly pleased that even Ronald had noticed how Professor Riddled liked her.

The boys all started joking at her denial, and that turned into talk about teachers’ pets in general. Somehow, despite not even taking his class, Professor Dumbledore adored Harry. Professor Snape liked exactly noone, though he seemed to hate Slytherins slightly less than Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors significantly more. Harry’s parents had gone to school around the same time and his godfather and Snape had loathed one another.

“Mum felt kinda bad for him though, so she begged Sirius to leave off him,” said Harry between bites of chocolate frog.

“With that nose, anyone would feel bad,” Ron mumbled.

She tutted. “Seriously, Ronald, his nose isn’t that long. Why did she feel bad for him?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair thoughtfully. “He was, well, a bit out of place. Apparently he was poor and everything he owned was secondhand. And he’s not a pureblood, which is almost asking for trouble as a Slytherin.”

“Is he a halfblood then?” She hadn’t known, though she’d never heard of a wizarding family by the name of Snape.

“Must be. Muggleborns are rather rare in Slytherin from what I understand,” Draco remarked. “I can’t actually think of any offhand. And I am definitely not going to ask Father to expand on that topic.”

Hermione cringed at the thought, though another soon followed on its tail. “What about Professor Riddle? I don’t think he’s a pureblood.”

“Must be; I’ve never met another Riddle.” Draco rubbed at the faint fuzz on his chin. “I don’t have the faintest what his blood status is, but he’s rather well respected even amongst Slytherins.” He sighed and shook his head. “It looks as though we are coming into Kings Cross, so…” He trailed off, but they all knew what he meant. Discussing blood status, particularly in a group of mixed status, was not polite, though they were all friends.

“Right.” Harry nodded and stood, leading their group as per his usual, and they trudged out much the same as they’d come in.

Mister and Missus Potter were the nearest parents to them with Harry’s sister trying hide from the noise and crowding, and they greeted the children eagerly. “Hermione, dear, you’re absolutely blossoming!” was Lily Potter’s hello to the girl. The fellow muggleborn was everything she aspired to be-- clever enough that many called her the exception to the rule (as though blood status meant anything about intelligence), particularly skilled in charms and potions, warm, and undoubtedly beautiful.

Hermione shrugged uncomfortably. “Thank you, Mrs. Potter, but it’s all Lady Cissa’s doing…”

“Hardly, dear. Oh, and there’s Molly!”

Molly Weasley was busy herding the twins while looking over people’s heads as best she could to find Ginny. “Ronald Weasley,” she cried out over the hubbub. “There you are. Why you children can’t all arrange to stay together on the platform, I don’t know. Oh, hello Harry, dear. And Hermione, of course. Draco, you’ve sprouted another foot, I swear!”

The Weasley matriarch always somehow included everyone. She was soon swept up in chatter with her fellow redhead about how exciting next year would be with Violet finally joining her older brother. Harry puffed up when he overheard something about him looking after her.

“Draco, stop lollygagging.”

It was instinct that had Hermione jumping this time. She knew that voice, that tone, and had heard her companion’s name said that way enough times that she was instantly on edge, teetering onto her toes to find Lucius Malfoy staring over at them in annoyance.

He never came to gather them from the station. Hermione roped an arm through Draco’s and pulled him along toward his father, eyes already downcast and demure.

“You should know better than to crowd the platform. Do you have everything?” He surveyed the pair and Hermione could practically feel his gaze roving over her disapprovingly despite not having acknowledged her. “Good, come along.”

They hurried toward the apparition point after exchanging a glance behind Lucius’ back. The man laid a hand on one shoulder each, and the tug behind her navel announced their travel to her. With a jerk and a lurch, they landed outside the gates of Malfoy Manor.

Home.

It did not feel like a homecoming.

Chapter Text

"Draco! Darling!” 

The shrieking exclamation grated down Hermione’s spine like nails against a chalkboard. She knew that voice, hated that voice. And surely enough it was followed up by the voluptuous, cruel beauty that was Bellatrix Lestrange nee Black. She wore one of her numerous black, frilled, corseted ball gowns that displayed a perfect expanse of pale cleavage that Draco visibly flinched away from when she threw herself at him for a hug. 

“Oh, look at you,” she simpered, ruffling the young man’s pale locks. “You’ve grown up. You must be as tall as I am now. And I still think of you as the little tot who just wanted to twirl with Aunt Bella. Well, dear, give me a kiss.” Bellatrix presented him with her cheek, which he dutifully pressed his lips to before extracting himself under the guise of greeting his mother.

Hermione had frozen just inside the door, unsure whether it was safe to move forward. Often not moving was the best way to deal with Slytherins; evade notice, evade tongue lashings, evade the chance of punishment.

Alas, as soon as Draco had passed to the relative safety of his mother’s arms, the black-eyed woman turned her burning gaze to Hermione.

“I see the mudblood has also returned.”

The girl straightened up to her full (short) height, forcing her features to remain smooth. “Lady Lestrange,” she greeted with a nod that was not quite a curtsy. It was always best to be especially polite and dull with Bellatrix.

“Indeed.” Lucius sneered as he passed his ward and exchanged an air-kiss with his sister-in-law. “Though of late her value has decreased. She may soon prove more trouble than anything.”

This was the point at which Narcissa intervened, taking Hermione’s hand to her own and interrupting whatever her sister might have said in response. “Hermione, dear, I believe an owl arrived for you recently? Your correspondence is in your bedroom.”

“Thank you,” she murmured as the woman pressed their cheeks together, then excused herself to the stairs.

There was a letter from Viktor detailing his journey home. She flopped onto her bed and skimmed through it, her heart not quite in reading. Bellatrix Lestrange was here, and it seemed she had been for a little while. How long was she going to stay? And what would she do while she was here?

She glanced at her clock to see there were only two hours until dinner. She still needed to unpack; Hermione preferred to do that herself rather than have the elves do it, since that way she could organize her things and properly decompartmentalize her year. However, with Bellatrix there it was best she focused on getting ready for that ordeal.

---
Dinner had been an uncomfortable affair for everyone except the guest of honor. Lucius had adjourned to his study as soon as was appropriate and was now sipping brandy at his desk. 

Bella’s visit was ostensibly to spend time with her sister, but in actuality she was securing Malfoy support in hers and her husband’s political agenda. They were throwing their weight behind Augustus Rookwood for next Minister for Magic. Lucius could not personally see why, as the Unspeakable was hardly the most liked candidate in the running. Still…

In the last year his sister-in-law had been inviting close friends of similar beliefs to her home for dinner parties. It was mostly men, a few wives in tow, but they always wound up drinking and discussing the state of things in the country. 

“We allow mudbloods to essentially buy their way into our world,” she’d complained once. “And while I… appreciate… certain usages for them in society,” and she nodded to him then, “but working in our government? Owning property?” With a long-suffering sigh, Bella had dropped into the seat beside her husband. 

She was right, of course. Lucius had seen the insidious ideologies of mudbloods who attained authority in wizarding society; the Potter family had diluted itself with that redheaded muggleborn and he’d heard enough from Draco to know that family had a television and watched cinema on it. Their son had shown off some of it to Draco and even speculated on how to bring it into the wizarding world. 

“Here you are, Lucius, I almost thought you’d gone to bed already.” Bellatrix stood at his door, a hand on her tightly corseted waist. “You practically fled the dinner table.”

He quirked a brow at her red pout and took another swig of his drink, the pleasant burn running down his throat. “I saw no point in drawing out such a stilted meal.”

“I was having fun.” She sauntered to him in a gliding sashay of voluminous skirts and swept the tumbler from his hand to take a drink. “It is so disappointing to see my sister and my nephew taken with that mudblood, but at least it is slightly amusing to watch the girl’s inability to control her expressions.” Lucius took back his drink, eyeing his sister-in-law flatly. “She’s pretty enough, your little mudblood. Is that why Draco likes her?”

He coughed out brandy onto his chest. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged innocently and reached over him (her corseted bosom on eye level) to pour herself a drink, settling in the chair across from him. “He’s at that age. And you mentioned trouble…”

Lucius flicked his wand to rid himself of the mess and smoothed back some of his hair. “No, of course not. If anything, his feelings are… Familial.” He sighed. “She has been getting attention of that nature.”

Bella tipped her head in question.

“She has caught the eye of the Bulgarian seeker, Krum. You heard he was the Champion for Durmstrang?” It was common enough knowledge and she nodded, dark eyes sparkling. “You should have seen it, Bellatrix. The girl was all glamoured up in a gown I’m sure Narcissa spent at least a hundred galleons on, and she’d tamed that ridiculous hair further. There was a picture in The Prophet. I’m surprised you did’t see it.”

She tapped a manicured nail against her crystal tumbler. “Do you have your copy on hand?” He accio’d it and handed it over, a picture of the girl demurely looking away from date with a blush as he murmured to her gracing the front of the society section. “Well.”

“Karkaroff didn’t even know she was a mudblood, and apparently Krum has taken after the Weasleys.” He sneered and poured more of the amber liquor in his glass. “I have heard about it nearly nonstop. We took her in, gave her a place in our world, and she has taken it upon herself to elevate herself to our level.”

Bella tutted. “It is the worst sort of filth, a little muddy social climber. I quite understand your anger, Lucius, but what do you intend to do about it?”

“Do?” He blinked at her. “Considering the position mudblood a have begun taking recently in our ministry, what can I do?”

“Well, she is still your ward until sheiks of age. That’s, what, two years off?”

“Mm.” He hummed and shook his head. “As the law is written, it extends to graduation for mudblood wards. A layer of protection since they are without inheritance or position upon coming of age.”

“Perfect.” The way she purred the word had him leaning toward her in expectation. “You need to use your position as her guardian to put her in her place, Lucius. Punish her for her audacity. And throw your support behind Augustus.” She held up a hand before he could interrupt. “I know you are hesitant, but he has the same values as we share. He does not wish to see our society crumble into a muggle mess either. And he has even drafted laws to keep them at the appropriate level.”

“And what is that?” He swirled the glass, dangling from long fingers, alcohol forming a small whirlpool.

“Not dissimilar to what you have here. They would be cared for by the government in exchange for labor. Some might be sponsored by decent families. And those who don’t wish to be a part of a society would have the Trace kept on them out in the muggle world.” 

“And when fools like James Potter marry their mudbloods?” 

Bella’s wild curls shook with her head. “Lucius, Lucius, they wouldn’t be allowed to marry. In fact, they should either be allowed to procreate only with their own, or be sterilized entirely. With that last, those with weaker self control wouldn’t have to worry about bringing half blooded bastards into the world.”

He shuddered to think of ending a lineage as old as his with Draco marrying a mudblood. Still… “Sterilization is rather final, is it not?”

She waved the paper with his ward’s blushing visage on it. “Given the reaction to your ward, do you not think it a smart move?”

Lucius shrugged. “Perhaps a long-term contraceptive for mudbloods that could only be lifted by the ministry?”

Bella thought about that for a moment. “That is at least a step in the right direction. And more easily supported; they do breed like rabbits.” She simpered indulgently at him. “See? You are already contributing invaluable ideas to the cause. Say you’ll join us, Lucius. Please?”

He downed the rest of his nightcap. “Alright. Consider me in.”

As he stood, she threw herself at him in an eager embrace. “You won’t regret this.” He extricated himself from her arms and headed toward the study door. Before he could reach it, one of her pale hands gripped his forearm. “And do work on punishing your mudblood for her impertinence. She will never learn otherwise.”

Chapter Text

Hermione spent most of her time without Draco in the library. Those times were infrequent and the boy joined her in the library more often than not, but other than her bedroom or the bath, it was one of the few places she could ever be found alone. 

Draco was off visiting Blaise Zabini, whom she could hardly stand in classes, let alone during her free time. So she had opted to stay and study.

She was deep in a volume of the history of House Elves and their connection with wizarding families when there was a slight prickling at the back of her neck, that eerie feeling of being watched. She resisted the urge to look behind herself or squirm, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Hermione was fairly certain she knew who it was, and ignoring the interloper was the best option. 

Of course, some pests refuse to be ignored.

One of Hermione’s smokey brown curls rose from its place around her face, twisting and twirling. The girl slowly looked up to see Bellatrix curling it around her finger.

“Cissy really has taught you how to play yourself off like a real lady, hasn’t she? All tamed and demure. Hmm?” Mischief glinted in the wild woman’s eyes. 

“Lady Narcissa has taught me a great deal,” she responded evenly. “If you please, I’m studying.” She backed away so the lock eased from Bella’s pale finger, but the maniac caught it before it could slip away.

“Now don’t be rude, mudblood. I just wanted a little chat.”

Displeasure coiled in Hermione’s chest; before Draco’s mad aunt visited, that term had not been said in Hermione’s presence in some time. Narcissa did not like it said in her home, and Draco and the boys would jump on anyone who dared use it in their earshot. It had created quite the rift between Draco and some of his previous Slytherin friends.

“I would prefer if you did not use that word.” Hermione was proud at how indifferent her voice came out.

Bellatrix grinned, her white teeth flashing brightly in a brightly painted mouth. “What word is that, mudblood?” Her black eyes twinkled at the heat in the brown eyes of her conversation partner. “It’s too bad that you’re just hired help and I’m family, then, isn’t it?”

Gryffindor fury roared through the teen and, before she could think better, Hermione stood so abruptly her chair flung out from beneath her with a stuttered screech. Her wand was in her hand as she faced down the older witch. “You will not call me that.”

“You would raise your wand to me?” Bellatrix lifted one black brow, the smile falling from her lips. “Do you honestly think you could hold your own against me, mudblood?”

Hermione’s nostrils flared. “I am not without talent.”

A hint of crow’s feet crinkled as the pale witch’s eyes narrowed. Before she could open her scarlet mouth, though, a cold voice cut through.

“Is that so, Miss Granger?” 

Hermione went rigid, white knuckling her wand as the unmistakable rhythm of Lucius Malfoy’s steps approached. The end of his cane tapped at the robes she had on and she turned obediently, wand hand dropping to her side. 

Lucius was not a small man. He easily stood a head taller than her and seemed of an even greater height, his shoulders broad and his appearance immaculate. His white hair was tied back with a silver ribbon and his icy eyes bespoke irritation. With her.

“Did I just hear you threaten our guest?”

Hermione rolled her lips, considering her response. “No, my lord--”

“Really?” She held herself from flinching back. “That is not how it appeared to me when I happened to walk past the library just a moment ago. Imagine my surprise, Hermione--” And here she did flinch. Lucius almost never used her first name. “-- when I heard you telling Bella you were, what was it, not without talent? And given your aggressive stance and the words my sister-in-law had just uttered, I am most certain I did not mistake the context. Or am I an idiot?”

The last word was spat out harshly and she knew better than to agree. Instead, she was quite stuck. “I-- I’m sorry, my lord.”

“It is not only me who needs to forgive you.”

Bellatrix rose, a cat staring at a broken canary. “I think she’s only sorry she got caught, Lucius.”

“I think you may be right, Bella.” He pondered the girl coldly, then shook his head. Hermione thought he almost looked disappointed, and guilt churned in her stomach. She’d let her Gryffindor pride get ahead of her. “It seems discipline is in order.”

Her eyes widened to galleons. “My lord, please. It was a foolish mistake. I didn’t mean-- I would never --”

“It was foolish, yes,” the man interjected. “And you will thus be corrected. Come, girl. Stand and bend over the desk.”

Her face flushed red. It had been years since Lucius had taken a hand to her bottom, most infractions small enough to warrant nonphysical punishment or just a rap of wand across her palms or knuckles (she could never decide which was worse). But she knew better than to disagree. The more quiescent she was, the quicker it would all be done. 

As the large man moved beside her, Bellatrix tutted. “She’ll hardly feel anything through all of that clothing, Lucius.”

“Robes off,” he commanded, and Hermione grudgingly did as ordered, neatly folding the deep navy robe on the desk before laying forward once more in her cream dress.

“Skirt too, mudblood,” purred Bellatrix.

Hermione bolted back up. “Absolutely not!”

A hand pressed at her back. “Get back down.” The words were bitingly harsh and she slowly lowered her front half once more.

“I will not lift my skirt,” she grumbled as she laid her cheek on the wood of the desk, head turned away from her guardian. “It isn’t appropriate.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Lucius responded evenly. “And it was Bella whom you wronged. I think she is entitled to an opinion on your correction.” He shifted and she saw the dark haired woman nod. The weight of her skirt lifted and a slight draft wound its way over her exposed bottom. Hermione pressed her lashes shut, tears of mortification sticking them together. 

Her knickers were blue, simple. At least she wasn’t wearing something particularly childish today. And how fortunate that she disliked the idea of thongs or other minimal undergarments.

Lucius was standing over her, shifting in what she imagined was discomfort. One large hand rested weightedly on the small of her back and the other lifted in the air.

“Wait,” came Bella’s silky voice. “She threatened my life, Lucius.”

Silence.

“Use the cane.”

A strangled sound wormed out of Hermione’s throat, eyes popping open, and she tried to rise again. But Bella waved her wand and the girl was stuck in place. She couldn’t even kick her legs. 

“Ten strokes?” said the man.

“I suppose,” replied the witch.

The teen closed her eyes once more, scrunching her face as she tried to prepare for the impact, but nothing could have readied her enough. The thin black cane whipped through the air and hit upon her skin with a sharp whack!

Heat bloomed a blink later, right along the line beneath her buttocks. She gasped at the searing pain, breath forced from her body in shock. 

The second stroke whistled and whipped, just slightly crossing the first. She thought she would cry, the pain sharp and white hot and making her toes and fingers curl in what little movement her body was allowed. 

By the fourth, tears of pain and mortification streamed down her cheeks.

Seven finally forced a scream out of her, and by eight she had thrown off the curse keeping her still. She arced rigidly at the ninth and Lucius had to lay his forearm across her back, leaning his weight into her.

“Keep still ,” he hissed. His elbow was digging into her, but it was nothing to the heat of the cane. He held her there until she stopped fidgeting and only then brought down the final stroke.

Hermione collapsed onto the table, the tension leaving her body as she realized the ordeal was over, skirt drifting back over her thighs. She was just managing to hold back full-throated sobs, instead pathetic little whimpers coming out, hopefully too soft to be heard.

“You will never threaten anyone in my family again, is that understood?”

She blinked through the tears to see Lucius had lowered himself to stare directly into her eyes. His face was stern. 

“Well?”

Hermione nodded succinctly. 

“Good. Then we should never have to repeat this experience.” He murmured a cleansing charm for his cane and stalked toward the door. “Come, Bella. Leave the girl be. I feel the sudden need for brandy.”

Bellatrix’s black eyes shone as she watched the girl silently cry, hesitantly tearing away from Hermione. “That sounds delightful.” She glided to him and slipped a dainty hand on Lucius’ arm. “I’ll see you at dinner, mudblood.”

When they finally left, Hermione scurried to her room, making sure no one saw her on the way. She threw herself on her carefully made bed and tugged the drapes around it closed before curling into a ball.

There in the dark, close comfort of her bed, she broke into throaty, whole-body sobs. Her lower body, especially her backside, throbbed with heat.

Chapter Text

PART 2: ADOLESCENCE

“Hermione, our Hogwarts letters are here!” She was trudging tiredly through the hall when Draco’s peppy voice ricocheted off the walls. “I think… I think I’ve been made prefect! Hurry up or I’ll open yours for you.”

The witch shook her head and slipped into her seat across from him. “Really, Draco, you’re impossible. Some of us like to have a lie-in every now and then.”

He frowned. “You’ve been sleeping quite a lot lately. Are you alright?”

She had not told her best friend about what happened between her, his father, and his aunt. She had been having dreams about it, strange dreams that woke her drenched in sweat and flushed to her bones. She was usually able to drift back off, but the dreams were disturbing enough that she had privately asked Lady Cissa for Dreamless Sleep, citing nightmares. Narcissa has fortunately taken pity on her.

“Yes, I just had a headache last night and didn’t sleep well.” 

He nodded, studying her face before deciding to let it go.

“There’s another letter for you,” he said offhandedly as he returned to his own, sliding the envelopes toward her. One was in Professor Dumbledore’s flamboyant ink. It was oddly weighted and a badge fell out as she opened it.

The badge was red enamel and gold border with a ‘P’ on the front. She grinned, all of her recent worries momentarily lifting as she held it aloft.

“Ha!” Draco held his own, black and yellow, beside it. “I knew you’d be a prefect. Now we just have to aim for the Heads.”

She rolled her fawn-brown eyes at that. “Like there is any competition?” 

He shook his head at her faux confidence; she really was a shoe-in, whatever she may think. Hermione Granger, most brilliant student in decades, rule-abiding (mostly), eager to help… Draco couldn’t imagine them giving the spot to anyone else.

“What’s the other letter?”

Hermione pressed it to her chest. She had immediately recognized the efficient, perfect penmanship that was Professor Riddle’s. “I am assisting in some research.”

“A professor?”

She pursed her lips. “Yes.”

“Which professor?”

“Really, Draco, can’t I do anything in private?” she needled, turning red.

She saw the spread of his lips as he said, “It’s Professor Riddle, isn’t it?”

“Draco!”

“Alright,” he acquiesced. “But everyone knows you’re his favorite student. And I, at least, know he’s your favorite professor.”

She didn’t respond, sipping her tea instead. It was darkly steeped and touched with cream. Hermione would wait until she was alone in her room to open the missive from Professor Riddle. And for this moment she would focus on breaking fast with Draco and celebrating the two of them becoming prefects.

Hermione,

I trust your summer holiday has gone well and that you are celebrating your newest title. I’d be remiss if I did not appropriately congratulate you. Thus:

Congratulations on your status as Gryffindor’s newest Prefect! There is no one more deserving.

Now, dearest, we have some business to attend to. We need to set a schedule for the DADA club’s meetings (and possibly come up with a more practical name; I will entrust that to your capable mind), as well as an itinerary. 

I would like to work closely with you on this; I know your academic knowledge of defense is among the highest of your year, if not among all the students of Hogwarts. However, and take this not as a slight against you, but as an opportunity, your practical skills (while admirable) could be improved. I would like to meet with you once weekly so that we may elevate them to the level I know you can reach. 

We can discuss this after the feast, should your duties not monopolize your time. Otherwise, send me your schedule at your earliest ability (not your class schedule, love, but that immaculate personal schedule you must make every year to ensure adequate study time). We will make you the greatest Defense student of your era under my tutelage.

Let me know if there is anything you should need. I shall be sending some advanced reading on the Dark Arts and defense. I expect you’ll read them long before the semester begins, my brilliant girl.

Always,

T.M.R.

Professor of DADA

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Hermione’s heart felt too large for her chest as she finished the letter, her professor’s words echoing in her head. It was far too easy to hear it all in Tom Riddle’s smooth cadence, and her stomach swooped at the endearments and compliments sprinkled throughout.

She was “his brilliant girl,” “dearest,” “love.” And he was going to privately tutor her! That enough was to overshadow the acknowledgement that Hermione was not the best at the subject. But he would make her the best. A promise from Tom Riddle was as good as done. 

Hermione read and re-read the letter, practically squealing when she realized he was also going to send her books. Some of those books were about the dark arts.

“Oh. my.” The weight of that hit her fully. Hermione was no stranger to dark books; the Malfoy library had a whole section on them. However, many were cursed and she knew better than to try and touch them. Most of the Malfoy ancestors had detested muggles and muggleborns, so some of the curses were specifically aimed at her status. Since that whole area was drenched in dark magic to the point it was hard to pin which might be safe to peruse, she avoided them all other than skimming the titles.

And dark books were kept in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. This would be her first real exposure to the topic. 

That night Hermione’s dreams were full of Tom Riddle’s smooth voice, Lucius Malfoy’s snake-head cane, and books in flight all around her.

 ---

“But father, why are you taking us to Kings Cross?” Draco queried as the patriarch guided the two students to gather their belongings.

Lucius Malfoy’s jaw was sternly set. “Your mother is spending time with her sister as Bella will be returning home tomorrow.” He’d been cooler with his son the last few years; since the sorting, truthfully. 

Draco should have been a Slytherin. It was in his blood. While there may have been deviations in his wife’s family, there were none in the Malfoy lineage. Perhaps he could have overlooked a Ravenclaw in the family, but a Hufflepuff of all things! 

Lucius eyed the reason why, smoothing over his features to hide his contempt. Bella was right; this insidious little mudblood was poisoning his household. Draco was a badger and his wife doted on the girl as she would a daughter. And he, Lucius Malfoy, had enabled it all.

As head of his house, he should have set the tone for Hermione’s treatment. Yes, since she was acting as a companion to Draco and the whole punishment to her in lieu of him had worked tremendously, he also should have made it clear the girl was not one of them. She should have been treated like an instrument or a pet.

Yes, a pet. It was natural to have fondness for one’s pets, even if those pets served an important purpose other than companionship. Lucius was fond of his hunting crups, after all. Perhaps…

His eyes became more speculative as he watched the girl tugging her trunk along. Draco had picked her out of the orphanage like one might a pup; she was chosen for her intelligence and good manners. 

Despite the recent Gryffindor fire he needed to put out, she was an ideal specimen of a mudblood. She was healthy and well-groomed, and knew how to behave in public. She might require a bit more training in how to approach her betters, but that could be easily remedied when next she returned home. 

And she was… attractive. In the way one’s pet should be aesthetically pleasing, of course. 

An ideal mudblood , he chuckled to himself. Now that was an amusing concept. If only there was a way to make them that way.

An idea came to him and he smiled.

Chapter Text

Hermione straightened her robes as she stared at the door. It was an hour before curfew and she was finally finished with her duties. As one of the two newest Gryffindor prefects she had had to help the first years before left to her own devices. Then there was the division of labor for typical duties, giving the boys their study schedules (Ron had summarily shoved his away and Harry had done her the courtesy of pretending to be interested; she had reminded him that he was a prefect now too and he had to present himself as such).

After telling herself there were no more excuses, she rapped on the wooden office door. It opened of its own accord, revealing the small, neat space of her favorite professor. 

“Hermione.” Tom Riddle smiled, his dark eyes sparkling at the girl as she stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a flick of his hand. “Sit, please. How was your summer?”

She blushed under the scrutiny of his gaze as it slid down to the shiny new badge. “It was fine, though I’m happy to be back. As always.”

“Looking forward to studying for your OWLs, I presume?” He chuckled, the warmth of it trickling like hot chocolate to her stomach. Had professor Riddle always been so blindingly handsome? She was sure he had, though the effect of his presence seemed magnified somehow. “Now, I’ve looked over the notes you sent. I rather like the idea of more advanced students working with those who could use more work on their defense abilities. And while I assume it will often fall along year lines, this will also reinforce the abilities of those who are ahead of their peers. And perhaps encourage those lagging behind to push forward.”

The praise lanced through her and she shrugged. “I just… well, I’ve seen some of the seventh years in practice and some could use work.”

“I quite agree.” 

Hermione shifted in her seat. “And, erm, our private lessons, Professor?”

“How would you feel about Saturdays? I know they are your free days, but that would give us a bit more freedom from constraints.”

Her jaw gaped. “Oh, no, I would love that! I mean.” She flushed down to her chest. “There’s no other way I’d like to spend my free time than, than, ah, studying. Bettering myself academically.”

His lips twitched. “I’m sure. Shall we begin this weekend then?” She nodded eagerly. “I’ll want to test your abilities at first, gain a proper understanding of where you are, sweetheart. While your theoretical understanding is perhaps beyond my seventh years, I’ve yet to fully assess your practical capabilities.”

The endearment nearly made Hermione faint. He’d called her that before, hadn’t he? Was it appropriate? Then again, Professor McGonagal regularly called her students things like “dear,” so why was this any different? 

“I know my practical abilities could use some work, but I've never been afraid of working hard,” she said evenly.

“That I know quite well.” He studied her quietly for a beat. “Tell me, will your… group of boys be joining the club?”

“The boys?” She blinked, brows twitching together. “Well, Draco is almost as studious as I am; I’m honestly surprised he wasn’t in Ravenclaw instead of Hufflepuff… though he should have been a Slytherin.” She shook her head free of that line of thought, Lucius Malfoy flashing through her mind in grim warning. “But the others? Well, Harry has it in his mind to be an Auror like his father, so he definitely will. And Ronald follows Harry, so I suppose he’s in as well. And Neville, well, he could use the help, though he’s really growing into his own lately. A little more confidence and I think he’d actually be quite a strong wizard.”

“Oh.” The professor lifted one of his perfect brows. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Longbottom was a member of your little crew.”

“He is a good friend; I help him in potions; he’s dreadfully afraid of Professor Snape-- oh, please don’t let on that you know, sir, he’d be mortified!” She clapped her hand over her mouth before removing it to plead with the man. 

“No worries, darling. I think it’s obvious in any case; Longbottom is not the bravest Gryffindor, is he?” Riddle patted her hand. “You are a kind young woman, to take him under your wing. Now, you should probably get to bed early if you want to get your usual early start tomorrow, hm?”

She pulled her attention away from where his cool long-fingered hand laid over her own much smaller. “Oh, yes. Well, thank you so much for meeting with me, Professor.”

“Tom,” he corrected.

“What?”

“Tom. If we are to be working together, it’s only fitting that you address me by name, yes? In private only, of course.” There was something sharp and tense lingering between them suddenly and Hermione could hardly breathe, but she nodded obediently.

“Yes. Tom,” she repeated softly. “Well, er, goodnight, Tom.”

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

“You’re getting tutored on a Saturday? You’re absolutely barmy, Mione,” tutted the redhead. 

“Some of us enjoy bettering ourselves, Ronald,” she responded coolly as she applied butter to her toast. “Besides, learning straight from Professor Riddle one-on-one? It’s practically a dream come true.”

“Ah, yes, Professor Riddle,” came a voice behind her. “He’s just the dreamiest, innit he, Freddie?”

"Too right, Georgie. Why, he’s even more handsome than Viktor Krum.”

Her doe-brown eyes narrowed as a hand swept in to pluck the apple from her plate. “I just wish he’d pay me the same attention. You know, I tried for months last year to catch his eye and all i got was a lousy detention with Filch.”

“Alas, George, he has eyes only for our Hermione.”

“If you’re done mocking me,” she said, head held high, “perhaps you’d like to know that the reason Professor Riddle is tutoring me is so I can help him in my role as student assistant for the defense club he’s starting this year.”

“Student assistant!” one gasped.

“The absolute honor, higher even than prefect.”

“Can you imagine, George?”

“Not in my wildest.”

“Are you two going to be joining? We’ll be having dueling tournaments throughout the year and everything,” she informed.

The twin with her apple shrugged. “Dunno. We kinda have our own thing going on this year, Mione,” he said around a chunk of half masticated pulp.

Harry groaned beside her. “Just please don’t do whatever it is around us. I’m a bloody prefect this year and I’d rather not have to explain to mum why I’m the first in history to get demoted.”

The twin without the apple shook his head in disappointment. “The absolute shame of it, the child of the Great and Noble Prongs not involved in Gryffindor mischief.”

“Well,” said the other, nudging his twin. “Not openly.” They shared a smile before winking at the bespectacled boy.

“Harry,” Hermione warned.

“Yeah, yeah,” he griped. “I promise I won’t get in too much trouble this year. And I won’t leave you doing all the work either, I guess.”

It was a well known fact among the friends of Harry Potter that his father was one of the legendary Marauders, heroes to all mischief makers at the school. His godfather was another, and their family friend Remus Lupin was yet a third. Only Hermione, Ron, and Harry himself knew that the latter was a werewolf however; she hadn’t even told Draco. She’d guessed it while staying with the Potters for a week over one summer and Harry had begged her to keep it quiet, so she had.

“Harry’s going to be in the group,” she told the twins. “And Ron too.”

“Really, Ronnikins? Following in Perce’s footsteps after all?”

“Sod off,” he retorted, shrugging off the hand messing his hair.

“Some of us actually care about our futures,” she said.

George (at least she thought it was George) laid a hand on his chest. “We take offense to that, Granger. Freddie and I care very much.”

“Yeah.” Fred puffed himself up. “It just so happens that mischief is our future.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

The twins turned to one another, communicating with brow twitches and eye movements. “We’ve said too much,” said one.

“We will be going now,” said the other.

And off they went.

Hermione shook her head. Those two were going to be the death of Molly Weasley at the rate they were going.

“Right, well,” said Ron once his brothers had disappeared. “What’ve we got first this morning?”

“History of Magic,” Hermione said evenly. Both boys groaned. “Oh, buck up. You have a study period after that, so you’ll be able to skive off then.”

“That’s not bad then.” He perked up.

“Double potions before lunch, though, mate,” Harry pointed out. Ron’s bubble burst and the fellow Gryffindor attempted to sink into his robes in misery.

“Double Defense to end the day,” Hermione sang.

“Yeah, yeah,” the dejected boy grumbled. “Let’s get this over with then.”

Chapter Text

He’d sent an owl to meet in the empty classroom which he had cleared for the purpose. It was on the larger side, dusty from disuse. Tom had always wondered if there was a time the castle had ever filled the space allotted to it; it seemed every year there were fewer students roaming the halls. 

He dispersed the dust, vanished the useless furniture, and transfigured the teacher’s desk into a thick mat for dueling. By the time the shy knock sounded exactly seven minutes before the appointed time, the stage was set.

“Enter.”

She was in a light robe thrown over a blouse and fitted trousers, every inch the pureblood ward. 

“Hermione.” He smiled at her, widening to a grin when she blushed prettily at his welcome. “No need for robes today. I’ll be inspecting your form first, and they may get in the way.”

“Of course, professor.” She swept off the lengthy cloth and draped it over a chair he’d left for that purpose; his own was already set there as well. 

Tom allowed himself to look over the girl as she was distracted; Hermione would turn sixteen this month, and she had bloomed further during the long summer. Her long hair was glossy with care, the curls tamer with weight as they fell to her waist. She was braiding it now, and twisting that into a bun on the back of her head. It was streaked with honey blonde from the sun, her skin dusted with freckles and tanned to a warm peach. Her breasts sat high under the silky white blouse, and the high-waisted trousers emphasized the smallness of her waist and the soft curve of her hips. 

“Now, show me your dueling stance.”

It had been some time since they had covered dueling; this little club would be the first time most of them would duel in truth, as that was typically reserved for seventh years. Horace believed it would be too limited for younger students and too dangerous for those who weren’t or would not soon be adults. It had taken only a little effort on his part to get special dispensation for the club.

“Mm, you want to bring your non-dominant foot back and in line with the other, create a smaller target for your opponent.” She circled the leg back. “Wand up so any shield you cast will be in place in front of you. Now keep your weight evenly on your feet. Many assume you want to be on the balls of your feet for quickness, but you are harder to knock over if you’re balanced.”

Tom walked around her, hand on the flat of her back to help nudge her in place. “Cast the stinging hex.”

Her shoulders squared up. “Stupefy!”

He nodded as the practice dummy flew into the wall. “Not bad. But would you like to hear a secret?”

Her doe brown eyes lit with eagerness. “Please, professor,” she implored.

“You are thinking of your wand as a tool. And it is, of course.” Tom slipped into lecture mode as he raised his own wand and twirled it before her. “It is a conduit for our magic, an amplifier and focus. It helps us direct, shape, and increase our spellwork. But the magic does not come from the wand; it comes from within us and moves through the wand.” Tom gestured silently, his arm moving elegantly and a red spark flew at the dummy, the fluff inside the limp thing bursting. “But your wand is not just a tool, Hermione.” Her lips were parted, breaths shallow, so enraptured. “It is an extension of self. And you should treat it as such. Do not cast with a flick of the wrist. Put your whole self into it. And you will find your magic further amplified.”

He tipped her chin up with the tip of his bone white wand. “Do you think you can do that?”

A pink tongue flitted across Hermione’s bottom lip. “I can try.” Her voice was soft, intimate. It made the corner of his mouth tug up in a smirk. 

“That’s my girl.” He stepped away and she seemed to deflate with the removal of his wand, her breath rushing out of her. Tom absently righted and repaired their practice dummy, eyes never leaving the girl.

Hermione blinked, righting herself and turning to the dummy. Her eyes fluttered shut, the smallest frown forming between her brows as she got into position, wand up before her. When her eyes opened once more, she seemed determined. With a swish of her wand, she cried out, “Stupefy!”

It knocked against the wall violently, certainly more powerful than previously, but not significantly.

“You’re too tense,” he murmured, stalking around her. “You need to relax, Hermione. You need to feel your magic, trust it. It’s there. You don’t need to force it through your wand. You need to let it flow.” 

This time his wand was tucked away and his hands laid on her shoulders. She flinched slightly under his touch and Tom resisted the urge to clench his jaw; she was perhaps not used to casual touch, he had to move slowly with the girl.

His thumbs massaged into her trapezius muscles, urging her to relax in his grip. “I know there is power locked away in there, Hermione. It shows in your perfect control, how your spells always hit their mark. And it shows in that fiery Gryffindor temper of yours, flaring out around you with your wild curls.”

“Really?” It was more of a whisper than anything, her insecurities written across her face.

“Yes, dear girl. You're stronger than you know, stronger than the paltry restrictions your pureblood masters would place on you.” Her breath hitched. “I would see you find that power within yourself and learn how to harness it.”

“You make it look so simple,” she countered.

“Years of practice.” The downplay came smoothly to his lips; Tom had had a muggle lifespan practically to blend in among the rest of the wizarding world. He might plan for the little witch to see the truth someday, but she was not quite there yet. “Now, sweetheart, try again.”

He had her fling the spell at the practice dummy until her beauty charms wore off and her hair fuzzed out of the tight braid in defiance, until a vein pounded in her forehead with frustration, until the poor girl was ready to toss her wand across the room.

“You are attempting to learn a new way to cast,” he reminded her gently as they leaned against side-by-side desks. “It won’t happen in a day.”

“I could cast spells when I first got my wand and spell books,” she complained.

It was adorable, really, her eagerness to prove herself. As well as her abilities in magic, of course. But that fire was the core of who she was. Had the girl not been muggleborn, she might have made a decent Slytherin.

“This is more than that, Hermione.” He stroked an arm down her back, relishing the smooth silk over her warm skin. Tom didn’t produce much warmth himself, so the girl nearly burned hot as she was with exertion. “Have you ever been particularly athletic?” At her flush, he smirked. “As I thought. You’re using your whole body. Dueling isn’t just mental and magical, sweetheart. It is intrinsically physical as well. And you have not cultivated your body quite the same as you have your mind.”

She was chewing on her bottom lip in a most unladylike way, a habit he had noticed she disliked in herself, given how Hermione would freeze, flush, and otherwise carefully monitor her mannerisms when she caught herself doing it. “I take care of myself.”

He hummed, eyes flicking down her shapely form and back to meet her abashed gaze. “I’m sure you do. And you’re hardly in poor shape, darling. Running up and down these stairs all day does wonders. But you could still benefit from exercise. Running, swimming, stretching. Anything that works agility and endurance.”

She nodded earnestly up at him, head tipped to one side, showing the long line of one muscle, eyes wide. 

“It will help. I take a run myself every other day, and swim in the lake when I can manage the time.”

“You do?” She went to bite her lip again, but paused. “Do you think, sir, maybe…”

One brow quirked in encouragement.

“Perhaps I could run with you sometimes?”

Tom practically purred. “You know, that is an excellent idea, Hermione. Shall we start with once a week while you get used to it? As you progress, we can add in more time, sprints, et cetera.”

Hermione glowed. “Oh, thank you, sir! Thank you so much. For-- for all of this.”

Tom stroked a hand over her shoulder. “You are a remarkable young woman, Hermione. You deserve this and much more.” Her cheeks stained red again and something flinched about her eyes. “Do you not realize that?” He tipped her chin up when she tried to look away, fingers gentle against her smooth skin; it wouldn't do to frighten her.

“I know I’m smart. Academically, I mean,” she amended hurriedly. “And I work hard to ensure my grades stay high, and that I perform to the highest of my ability. But I know I’m not much of a witch naturally. It’s all hard work. And I cause problems. Harry, Ron, Draco and I get into trouble. And I cause as much at home as Draco does. More, maybe.” Her eyes shone suddenly, almost staring through him.

“Did something happen this summer?”

She blinked, refocusing on him as the tears spilled over. “Oh.” Hermione pulled back, hastily wiping away the tears. “Nothing. Really.”

The hand that had been on her shoulder tightened, the other flying up to mirror it, holding her near him. “Did Malfoy do something? I was under the assumption that he thought of you as a sister.”

She jolted in his grasp. “He does! Draco didn’t do anything. He wasn’t even there.”

Tom rolled his jaw, lowering his face closer to hers and staring into those deep brown eyes. “What. Happened.”

“Please, sir,” she murmured. “It’s nothing--”

“Don’t lie,” he hissed. “I despise liars, Hermione. You don’t want me to despise you, do you?” She shook her head minutely, as though afraid to turn her head too much away from him, frozen by his stare. “Now, tell me.”

She glanced down, eyes flicking back up instantly when his fingers tightened just a little on her small frame. He would have shaken her, but he could see her piecing together the words, trying to push them into sentences. A flash of pain and, even more intense, humiliation screamed through her mind to him and his nostrils flared.

“I…” she began, then swallowed. “One of Lady Narcissa’s sisters visited, and she and I got into a bit of a, er, tiff. I threatened her, and Lord Malfoy--” he noted her use of surname for the man, whereas she was more familiar, affectionate, speaking about the woman-- “saw and punished me. That’s all.”

“Is it?” Tom lifted a brow. “How did he punish you, Hermione?”

This was the crux of the situation, he could see it in the way her pulse nearly jumped in her throat. Tom’s thumbs soothed along her collarbones, inching toward where the collar of the shirt ended and her warm flesh shone.

“He, erm, used his cane.” The words became softer until the last was only breathed in the air between them.

“He used what?” Tom’s voice was deadly-low. 

“His cane?” Her eyes danced down to stare at his throat rather than his own gaze. Tom had to remind himself she was still a soft little thing, and eased the grip of his hands a touch.

“He caned you?” the man repeated. She bobbed her head. “He did it standing, had you lean against the wall? How did he cane you and where?”

Her hands slid down her thighs. “Not exactly.” 

Tom was growing weary of her hedging around the topic. “Tell me everything, or I will go in and fetch the details myself.”

Her breath caught, but she nodded, more tears falling across her cheeks. She was such a quiet little thing, hardly making a noise. He vaguely wondered if she was always so silent in distress. 

He was so patient, so very gentle with her in this moment, allowing her the time to put it all together for him. And he’d seen the belief in her eyes when he’d told her he would use legilimancy. That had been rash, but his girl had taken it in stride.

“He had me brace against a desk in the library. That’s where the altercation took place.” This part was not too difficult for her by the steady cadence of her voice, but she was trying to compartmentalize, trying to push down the pain. “Bellatrix insisted I pull up my skirt so I could feel the blows adequately. Since I threatened her and she is family.”?

“She watched, did she? She always was a little sadist, sent plenty of her peers to the infirmary when she was a student.” Tom had liked the darkness in her, though her pureblood obsession made her somewhat unreasonable at times. She had only begun respecting him when she heard a rumor Tom only allowed to circulate among the Slytherins. 

“Yes, she was practically goading him.” Hermione’s nose wrinkled in distaste. 

“What did you do to provoke her, hm?” It mustn’t have been difficult with Bellatrix’s infamous temper.

“ She provoked me, ” she insisted. “Kept calling me a--” Hermione shook her head. “Implied my magic was not good enough to defend myself as well. So I raised my wand and said that I am not without talent, and Lord Malfoy saw, and that was that.”

Tom huffed out a chuckle and stroked her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “You most certainly are talented, Hermione. And they would do well to be wary of invoking the wrath of a witch such as you.”

Her lips parted, pupils blowing wide to shadow those sweet brown eyes. “I’m not…”

“You are , sweetheart. You are a force, Hermione.” Tom sang to her, voice deep and eyes burning into hers. “Someday witches and wizards will fall over themselves to proclaim your brilliance. You just need to learn how to let your power out.”

All throughout the little speech Tom’s hand was roving, ghosting over her jaw and down her throat, dancing at the notch where her collarbones met, trailing so that, at that last word, he laid his palm against her thumping heart.

“Will you let me help you, Hermione?” Her nod was drunken with his words. “Will you help me change this world so it will recognize you for what you are? Will you stand with me against this unjust system?”

“Yes,” she promised.

He smiled, thumb once more sliding over her softness. “Good.”

Chapter Text

“Did you have something to add, Lucius?”

The pale man tapped his cane ponderously against the floor. “If it’s not too much trouble, Augustus?”

Rookwood was currently an Unspeakable at the ministry, department head and looking to rise in the ministry. While he was theoretically the head of their little group, it was understood that Bellatrix was the driving force. She cultivated the members, eased them into the meetings, and drove the ideas, as well as backing those she particularly liked quite vocally. 

“Please.” The other man swept an open hand in welcome.

“Well.” Lucius was sprawled in his chair, but slowly unfolded and rose to his full height. “We have spoken of the proper place for mudbloods, as a servile force beneath a pure class. And we have talked about sterilizing those muggles who produce mudbloods once we’ve tracked them down, lest they force more upon us.” 

The men-- for Bella was the only woman currently among them-- nodded and murmured agreement. Her eyes were practically glowing with delight; they’d spoken about his ideas before this little presentation.

“But what should happen if we sterilize the mudbloods as well? Are we to go back to the lowly jobs that cannot be done by house elves, but are so beneath us?” He turned in a slow circle, considering each member in turn. Here they were, scions of the 28, all of them holding the majority of the power and wealth among Wizarding Britain. “No, we need to ensure the continuance only of the mudbloods most suited for service.”

“You can’t be saying we allow them to breed, Lu.”

“Ah, Antonin,” he purred. “Dear old friend. Of course they should breed; but only in so far as we control it. We breed the most servile mudbloods with one another as we do house elves or crups. Eventually they will all know their place and retain it on instinct.”

“And what about those deviants who produce halfbloods?” said the ancient Lord Black.

His lips curled into a cruel smile. “Any child born of a mudblood mother will be classified as such. And any child found to have a mudblood father will also be declared when found. We fine the families to poverty for denying the liege family of the mudblood a servant. No one will dare. Only special dispensation will be given if a mudblood child can be proven more than fifty percent wizarding stock.”

Enlightenment widened Rodolphus’ eyes. “We’d be breeding them into a controlled population.”

“That is the idea, yes,” Lucius crooned. “What do you think, honorable leaders of wizarding kind? Shall we endeavor to push through these changes for our society?”

There was blanket agreement as the idea took hold; they would be lords once more in more in the true meaning of the word, owed allegiance and service of a lower class that would amount to serfs. Who among them would not desire such?

The meeting broke up soon thereafter, the men drifting away in small groups to discuss other business. Bellatrix sashayed to him, her husband sipping wine and chattering with his brother, hardly turning an eye to watch his wife.

“So, Lucius, you’ve thought on this quite a bit more since we last talked, haven’t you?” She pouted those generous burgundy lips at him, just hinting at a smile. “What else have you decided?”

Lucius chuckled. She was a shameless woman, something repulsive in a partner, but refreshing in certain other respects. What a man she would have made. “Not much more than that, I fear.”

She trailed the edge of her wine goblet under her fat bottom lip. “You haven’t found the perfect stud for your mudblood yet?”

He considered her, brow raised and fingers drumming against the arm of his seat. “What mischief are you suggesting now, Bella?”

The woman leaned against the scrolling elegance of the chair’s arm. “Such interesting details, fifty one percent? More than half. Essentially getting rid of the idea of halfbloods entirely, but still allowing for the weaknesses of men.”

The shapely line of her cleavage was at the level of his eye, no doubt intentional. Bellatrix was half mad in her zealotry, and a creature of her appetites, but she was also intelligent and viciously predatory. Too many had underestimated her and paid the price. “And women. How is your niece?”

At mention of the metamorphmagus halfblood, she hissed. “Not nice, brother of mine. Not nice at all.”

He hummed. “If she breeds with a pureblood, perhaps her child can be added into the Black family line. Is that not glad tidings? Your cousin does not seem the sort to breed well.”

Regulus Black should have been wed and expecting an heir at this point at the least. But the man had managed to avoid marriage, his mother doting on her only heir (after having disowned the other for his blood traitor ways).

“It doesn’t seem likely,” the witch responded coolly. “But we are not discussing my family; lucy, we are discussing yours. ”

He rolled his jaw. “Hermione is my ward, not my family.”

“Does Draco know that? Or my sister, for that matter.”

“You have a point, Bella, or are you trying to rile me up?”

A finger slid up the thick black material covering his bicep. “Your breeding program. You were inspired by something, I assume, and I had thought perhaps it was your mudblood that had such notions swirling in your head. Despite her little infraction during my visit, she is a well-trained little thing, isn’t she?” He tipped his in acknowledgement. “No doubt you wondered how other mudbloods might be made as docile, and came to the conclusion all good breeders of livestock inevitably do: blood. We recognize it in every other creature, why not mudbloods.”

“And you’ve agreed,” he drawled.

“Thus, as originator of this idea, I thought you might also start in your own home. So who are you considering?”

Lucius considered his reply; he had glanced through prospective partners for the girl, but there was a disappointing dearth of potential. Those who were not married away were either too rebellious, as was the case with a musician roughly a decade older than his mudblood, or too stupid and lacking in any possibly redeeming traits, such as the boys currently at school with his son. 

It seemed Draco had chosen well all those years ago; Malfoys should have only the best, and his son had procured for the family the best mudblood.

“We shall have to decide who has rights to mudblood progeny,” Lucius mused. “The mother’s guardians or the father’s. They are not heirs, as such, but still…”

Bella was staring into him with those liquid black eyes. “Worried about losing your girl?”

“She is the best among the low born,” Lucius huffed. “And if she is well-bred, her child will be the same. I would not leave my house with a less than stellar asset.”

Her fingers played at the ends of his hair where it rested against his shoulders. “Then do not look only at mudbloods. More than fifty one percent was the agreed upon amount. Halfbloods, bloodtraitors willing to sell off one of their little leeches? The Weasleys have a palatable enough boy. He’s at the Ministry now as some errand boy, but more than happy to scurry after his betters.”

His nose wrinkled in disgust. “A Weasley . Honestly, Bellatrix, are you trying to make me sick? No, that one is a freak mutation from their ill reputed bloodline. I want to improve the quality of my stock, not riddle it with muggle obsession.”

A laugh like the sweet melody of church bells rang over him. “She’s not a bad looking little thing, for what she is,” the woman remarked, gazing over Lucius’ head in thought. “I wonder if I could convince Sirius to give her a shag or two, he’s the freak in our family. And you can’t complain about the Black breeding stock.”

“One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?” This was proving to be quite the mental exercise. “You would sully your line?”

She scoffed, affronted. “Not at all! Perhaps a private breeding could be arranged. Unless a permanent partnership is arranged, why shouldn’t those responsible for their mudbloods have the ability to breed them privately. Only those involved in the act need be privy to the details.”

“But a pureblood.” He tapped his cane on the floor. “Merlin forbid that child does the same.”

“You did say we should breed them like crups, did you not?” Her red tongue slipped across her lips to lick away the remnants of a sip of wine. “Keep the pedigree locked away, let no one know the secret of producing high quality mudbloods.”

“You would know,” he murmured, glancing askance at her. 

A wicked smile unfurled across her face as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. “But I know how to keep a secret. Haven’t I proven that, darling?”

Lucius’ nostrils flared at the reminder. It had been a moment of weakness, passion overwhelming reason as the two had fought with tongues first through words and progressed to sharing breath. Bella was beautiful and Lucius was hardly expected to stay faithful in sexual relations; only familial loyalty mattered. He would never sire a bastard who could argue the legitimacy of Draco’s claim, nor ever fail to provide for Narcissa. Still, it had left a bad taste in his mouth, coupling with Bellatrix. Since confirming his attraction, she had done her best to weaponize her luscious body.

He favored her with the fullness of his attention. Bellatrix’ eyes flitted between his own and his mouth, simmering with violent, succulent promises. “After all, Malfoys deserve only the best.”

Chapter Text

“Excellent, Potter!”

Harry flushed under the professor’s praise. He had a natural proclivity for Defense which had started to peek through his lazy persona as he stepped up to the challenge of the Defense Association. His stag Patronus pranced through the room, horned crown cutting through the air at every beat.

“That was spectacular, Harry,” Hermione echoed, wrapping an arm around her best friend in glee. “That was, what, your third try?”

The blushing young man ran a hand through his ever-messy hair. “I think so? I’ve had some fantastic teachers to guide me. Really, Hermione, your wand work has gotten brilliant. Maybe I should ask Professor Riddle for some private lessons.”

“I don’t know if I could handle you one-on-one, Potter. I worry I’d find myself waking up in Brazil after, courtesy of you and your infamous pranks.” Riddle’s cobalt eyes flitted between the two students and it was Hermione’s turn to blush.

As Potter turned back to his Patronus, Riddle gently brushed Hermione’s hair behind her back. “And you, Hermione? What shape has your Patronus taken?”

Her cheeks flushed hot, chin tipped down in shame. “I have not managed a corporeal Patronus as of yet.”

His warm hand dipped into her vision and cupped her jaw, lifting until her warm eyes locked with his. The world was narrowed in that moment; the other club members were distracted by flashes of light and dancing, fanciful creatures. One cool thumb stroked along her cheek, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You know, sweetheart, not every witch or wizard is capable of casting the Patronus charm. Strong wizards.” She looked a question at him and he acceded with a gentle nod. 

“But-- why?”

“Hm.” The low hum danced along her spine as she thrilled under the force of his attention. “Patronuses require a certain amount of joy and purity. I have never experienced a moment of joy and light pure enough to overcome the otherwise darkness of my life. You see, I was an orphan, born among muggles.”

The soft, “Oh,” that fell from her lips held all the understanding of one who has walked through parallel hardships. 

He made to speak again, but chaos broke out complete with the yells of angry teenage boys, so he extricated himself to deal with the skirmish. The Weasley twins’ magpies were darting and flittering around Blaise Zabini’s elegantly hovering black swan. The pair themselves were egging the boy on, trying to get him to retaliate, but the professor made quick work of them.

Hermione set about correcting stances and encouraging peers, puzzling over the mystery that was Tom Riddle all the while. He had implied the two of them were tied by their unfortunate pasts. Hermione had been told since she came to the Malfoys how fortunate she was, privileged among her kind. The Malfoy family spoiled her, took seriously the duty of raising her properly so she reflected back their generosity and nobility. And she was well-raised, had rarely (and here her stomach jolted in remembrance) received punishment for her own transgressions. People often complimented Narcissa on her bearing. Hermione was sure she could receive the proper recommendations to have a career of some sort, rare though they were in those of her blood status. 

But the words he had used… Hermione was not sure what qualified as pure in terms of magic; unicorns would still approach her and she was still innocent in most ways. Joy and lightness, however, were more difficult.

She rode with Draco, horses both winged and grounded (much preferring the latter, thank you very much), had obscure books readily at her fingertips, attended galas and charity auctions. 

And every happy moment was laced with the knowledge that she was there at the sufferance of the Malfoy family and wizarding society itself. 

Had Professor Riddle been left in the orphanage after his incidents of accidental magic, or had he gone to an institution. He was unbelievably handsome and somehow more intelligent than beautiful; she could not imagine any family looking to sponsor a child would pass him by. It was only by happenstance that the Malfoys chose her over another child. Had a young Tom Riddle been among the children of the institution, they would have plucked him from mundanity and raised him to his appropriate position.

He was undoubtedly brilliant in every way, perhaps as brilliant as Professor Dumbledore, yet he had little other accomplishments outside his illustrious teaching.

Hermione was still pondering her professor as the other students trickled out. She transfigured dummies back into desks, lining them appropriately with little flicks and barest murmurs.

“What spells have you mastered nonverbally?”

Hot breath stirred the little hair at her nape and the blood in her veins leapt; she peered back at her professor, surprised not only at his proximity, but also at the way his body curved toward hers so his lips were inches from her throat.

“A few,” she admitted, cheeks blossoming, ears rosy. “Lumos and finite and reparo. Lower level spells.”

He considered her with those cool, marble perfect features. “What are the principles of spellcasting?”

Hermione squinted before Narcissa’s training smoothed her brow. “Wand movement, incantation, concentration, and intention.”

As he gently guided her to sit, himself leaning against the desk before her, he said, “How does wandless magic work, then?”

“Well,” she mused, “I suppose more would have to go into incantation, concentration, and intention?”

Riddle nodded. “And nonverbal?”

“The same, but wand movement replacing incantation. Though I suppose thinking the word links to both it and intention. Perhaps concentration as well.”

He considered her with the eerily blank face she had only seen when they were discussing magical theory outside of class; his features were neutral as a Roman bust, though his eyes were wells, hungrily drawing in rather than quenching. As Hermione pronounced the final word, Riddle held an empty palm toward the room. His eyes never leaving hers, a book whipped into the expectant hand.

“What do you think is at the root of magic, Hermione? Where does the first burst of accidental magic manifest? Is it just a burst to relieve pressure? Think of your own, and those your peers have imparted. A bullied child may find those who harm him falling over themselves; a girl whose mother chops her hair short might find it suddenly grown back. Are these random?” She was breathless and doe-eyed as she shook her head with him. “No. They are the yearnings of children incapable of accomplishing what they desire on their own. And so the desire feeds into intent, and the magic springs forth to grant their wishes.”

A flash of a memory, the coffee table waist-high to a little Hermione as she stared longingly at the bookshelf. That was the book she wanted, the book her father promised her he’d let her read tomorrow. When he could help her as the vocabulary might be too advanced for a four-year-old. She’d fallen asleep with it that night.

A soft brush against her cheek drew Hermione from her past and she blinked up at her professor. He had set aside the book, entirely focused on her.

“At its core, magic is strength of will, determination. A truly powerful wizard can create a spell from intent alone, should he have the strength to shape the magic to his will.”

Hazy with the clean pine and citrus and firelight scent of him, the strange weight of his nearness, the force of his consideration, Hermione was near breathless. A question fluttered behind her eyes and he canted his head, raised a brow. “Do you think,” Hermione faltered. “Do you think perhaps one day I might…”

“I think.” He leaned toward her, voice low, intimating, “Hermione, that you will someday be a with to make all who belittled, dismissed, harmed you tremble.” 

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He saw into her and she swore she could almost feel him stroking the walls of her mind, brushing ermine-soft with a core of steel. “Professor…” Was that her voice? It was a whimper, shy and brimming with a word she could not find.

“Tom.” She balked, cheek jerking in his embrace before it became iron. “Tom when we are alone.” The tension eased as her body remembered to breathe. “After all, we are working together toward a higher purpose now. Aren’t we, darling?”

The bobbing agreement could have been imaginary, it was so slight, but his lips curved into a severe smile. Tom’s thumb brushed the sensitive skin below her lips. “We will show them that it is not blood, but power, that makes a wizard. That a muggleborn or halfblood can achieve the greatest heights of what it offers. That magic is might.”

It was not until Hermione had been discharged of her duties as his assistant and dreamily padded to Gryffindor tower, not until she had brushed out and braided her waist-length smokey curls, until she had changed into a nightgown and laid encased in the scarlet sanctuary of her bed, that Hermione wondered what her place in this new world might exactly be.

The intensity of his gaze darted through her like lightning, still alarmingly wonderful in memory. His perfect cupid’s bow lips had softened, his dark well-blue eyes had flicked to her mouth, and his thumb had stroked her cheek before he had finally drawn back from her. She had not imagined that. Her mind was not so fantastical that she could manufacture romantic ideations.

Did he, Hermione hesitated to ask herself, want her?

Chapter Text

It was nearly winter hols. Hermione was anxious as last year they’d stayed at Hogwarts and the summer had been tense, uncomfortable. She wanted to stay, but there was no way Narcissa would allow Draco to miss Christmas two years running, and where he went, Hermione followed. She prayed to a deity she wasn’t sure existed that Bellatrix was not in attendance.

At least she had an excuse to ignore everyone with OWLs swiftly approaching. Draco had expressed a desire to spend time in the Malfoy library and take advantage of all the books they would not find at school, so she would not have to endure the once-beloved room alone. She had already made a tentative schedule, though she knew she would have to re-write it upon Lady Cissa’s itinerary. The woman had missed them the previous year and seemed set on taking full advantage for this upcoming season.

Hermione sighed to herself, knowing she could not avoid Lord Lucius or Bellatrix (she refused to add an honorific in her thoughts to that hated name) for the entire break; there would be events the near-harpy would attend. And Lord Lucius would be forced to spend some time with his son and thusly her as well. She would just have to make herself inconspicuous; perhaps she could bury herself in books the whole break and use OWLs as an excuse. Lady Cissa would understand.

Indeed, while Lord Lucius seemed to blame her for Draco’s sorting into Hufflepuff, both parents were appreciative of her study habits. Hermione never allowed her best friend to get distracted by Quidditch or holidays, trips to Hogsmeade, or dating. With how eager he could be at times with any of those subjects, she thought they struck a good balance.

There was additional strain during holidays or anything involving family and friends, as the two of them were often the sole splashes of color in otherwise green-and-silver (and black) society. The occasional Ravenclaw wasn’t an issue, but a Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor? It was outrageous. (“We both assumed you’d be a Ravenclaw, honestly,” Narcissa had told her. “But you do have a touch of fire in you,” she’d added, fondly combing Hermione’s curls.) Draco often kept to black, as it was the safer of his house colors to represent, but Hermione was a lion and had slowly adopted more scarlet and gold around the Pureblood aristocracy. Last year, as he was at Hogwarts, Draco had embraced yellow as well. She hoped he’d forget and wear his scarf at least.

“Ah, here she is.” The silky voice raised hairs at the nape of her neck. She knew before she turned that she would see her favorite professor. The spicy scent of clove was heavier on him than usual, and his hair was charmingly wind-swept. “I was hoping I’d see you before you left. Would you mind terribly coming to my office with me, Miss Granger?”

A blush stained her cheeks as she glanced around; there wasn’t anyone necessarily close, but better safe. “Of course, professor.”

He laid a hand at the small of her back and swept her along with him. 

As the door clicked shut, he was leaning against his hardwood desk with his long legs out before him in a more relaxed pose than she had surely ever seen him in. “Come here, dear, I won’t bite.” She had been nearly against the door, but inched forward. One of his perfect brows arched until, holding her breath, Hermione took one full pace forward and finally within arms’ reach. “There. Much more conversational.”

Conversational. Hermione felt  encased by him, trapped with his long legs on either side and pinned by that Mediterranean deep stare. “Is there something you wanted to discuss, professor?”

He tilted his head and that brow rose again. She realized her mistake then.

“Tom” His voice was more a puff of air than a word.

“Better. I understand it may be difficult to remember, as you’re used to a certain amount of deference to others even outside of school. But on occasions such as this I do not want formalities between us, dear.” He brushed her hair behind her ear with a soft smile gracing his lips. “In the muggle world, you’d be an adult, wouldn’t you?”

Hermione nodded, then clarified, “In the UK, yes. Mostly, I suppose.”

Tom hummed. “And nearly grown by wizarding standards as well. At the start of next school year. I can hardly see the shy little dove that flittered in so early more than five years ago.”

She was warm to her core, embarrassment and more fluttering through her belly and flushing her to her collarbones. 

“I so enjoy our moments together, you know.” One finger stroked her cheek before alighting on her shoulder. “You’ve flourished the last few months especially. I daresay your wandwork is the best in your class now.”

“Thank you, prof-- Tom.” Once more the niggling idea that maybe there was something more behind those polite words and slight touches. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Your one-on-one tutelage is incredible. Even my charms are stronger, and I know I owe that to you.”

The corner of his mouth tugged. “I am professor, Hermione.” Tom removed his hand at last, leaning back on his palms. “I am glad to be the instrument of your growth. And I am sure you will help me when I reach out to you.” She nodded, eyes wide. “On that note, there is a small something I would ask of you over the winter holidays.”

“Of course! Anything.” The words spilled out before she could think better of them, a wave of heat flooding over her. 

“Careful what you promise, love,” Tom admonished with a chuckle. “But this is just a little thing.” Hermione frowned at the reiteration and nodded again. “Given the vents the last time you were home, I would like to maintain communication throughout. I have a journal for you that links to one of my own. If you would kindly write in it every evening so I know you are well, I would be grateful.”

Her lips parted and released air she hadn’t realized she’d kept back. “You are worried about me?”

“Of course, Hermione. You are precious to me, my most prized student, and growing into a powerful, beautiful young woman. I will not allow the likes of Lucius Malfoy to taint you.” He pulled a slim black leather journal from further back on the desk, holding it out for her. Hermione felt as though she were moving through jam, her arms thick and heavy as she laid fingertips along the tomb, careful not to touch him. He had no compunctions, and laid his free hand over one. “Do you understand, Hermione.”

She nodded, tongue flitting nervously across dry lips.

His palm weighed on hand, tightening as he leaned toward her. “I’ll be very cross if you miss a night. You don’t want to upset me, do you?”

“No, never,” she breathed. The air stuck in her throat, hardened with his attention.

His gaze softened once more and she felt she could breathe again. “That’s my girl.” Tom released her hand to stroke her cheek. “I look forward to your return. Go on, then. I suppose you have packing to do.”

Hermione nodded and clutched the journal to her chest. Before she turned the handle, she said over her shoulder, “Thank you, Tom.”

Tom stared at the door for moments after she’d left. He was pleased with her responses to his words and actions, though he would eventually have to train her out of being so easily read. Hermione would be too important one day for others to know her thoughts at a glance. Now, it was charming. How prettily she blushed for him at any touch or smile. Especially when she picked up on possible insinuations. He wouldn’t take it too far, not while she was both underage and his student; though he worried about the possibility of another encroaching where he was slowly making his claim. That the Krum boy had kissed her, flaunted her, was irritating enough. 

He’d heard disturbing rumors from some of his Knights. Tom had once toyed with the idea of reaching out to Bellatrix Lestrange, the obvious true head of her family, but the woman was turning out to be more unhinged than he’d realized. In school she’d had moments of obsession and that had stayed his hand before; now he knew her to be a risk.

Like Tom had considered, she and hers had taken Pureblood supremacy as their cause. He could have salvaged something between them perhaps, steered them a touch here and there until they were under his thumb, but then the bitch had compelled Lucius Malfoy to touch his girl.

A jab of pain brought him from his thoughts as a splinter cut into his thumb. Tom sucked away the blood and tried to quell the anger that had had him clenching at the wood. He had thought, with two Horcruxes, his fury would have lessened; instead it had become an inferno just beneath the surface. Perhaps three soul pieces, despite mirroring the trinity of the Deathly Hallows, were not quite as stable as he’d hoped. He would have to think on this.

In the meantime, he would find out what Lestrange was planning and how it might involve his sweet little lioness.

Chapter Text

Winter hols had been blessedly quiet the first few days and Hermione had jotted down bare details each evening for her professor’s peace of mind. Lucius Malfoy was absent so often she had only spent two meals in his presence, and the odious Bellatrix Lestrange was only a whisper; that whisper contained the rumor that something was bubbling beneath the surface of Pureblood politics and both Lord Malfoy and the House of Lestrange were taken up by it.

That was all well enough for Hermione who really was intent on her upcoming OWLs.

“You know mother will expect you to leave the library at some point, don’t you?” 

“Hm?” Her amber eyes tore unwillingly from the aged vellum she’d been reading and Draco hid his amusement behind a cough. Perhaps had he been more Slytherin she wouldn’t have noticed. “I leave the library at least twice a day.”

The pale young man dropped into his familiar seat across from her; this was their usual workspace in the manor and they’d passed weeks of their lives sequestered there with books and parchment and eager conversations. “To be sure. Not enough, judging by the bruises under your eyes. Have you been using a glamour to hide those? I know mother hasn’t seen them or she’d be beside herself. You know--

“‘A lady’s beauty is her first weapon against wizardkind and often the blade that keeps them unwitting of her intellect.’” She rolled her bloodshot eyes heavenward as they recited the adage together. “Yes, yes. But I can worry about my looks after NEWTs.”

Draco dragged her book toward him to scan the page, brows knitting as he made out the upside down words. “Transfiguration is arguably your best class, Hermione. I don’t think you need to read this. It’s practically a primer.”

She pursed chapped lips and tugged the book back into place. “What do you want, Draco?”

“I think mother is planning on formal introductions during the party.” At the lift of her brow, he continued, “To the parents and heads of houses of those she deems acceptable partners to us.”

That stole her attention at last. “Us?”

Sardonicism laced his smile. “We are both her responsibility. You perhaps even more than me, considering father should be taking me under his wing as his heir.” 

Lucius Malfoy had spent increasingly less time with his son over the years, contrary to most Pureblood fathers. While Theo Nott and Greg Goyle and every other heir of every other house was learning the ins and outs of their family’s work, Draco was left to his own devices. It couldn’t last; Draco was his father’s only heir and would always be, since Narcissa could no longer carry. But while he’d been somewhat of a doting father throughout Draco’s childhood, he’d become distant. Hermione knew a good portion of it was Draco’s un-Slytherin behavior. First sorted into Hufflepuff, then close friendships with Gryffindor families such as the Potters and Weasleys. And she knew it had somewhat to do with her influence.

If there was one trait Draco had above all others it was loyalty to those he loved. To his parents, certainly, but also to her. She was the one non-Slytherin from his pre-Hogwarts life, the only spot amidst solid green. Of course it was her fault.

But it could not be helped. Draco had made his choice and he was happy despite the growing chasm between himself and his patriarch.

“Why is she looking for a partner for me? I’m a mudblood. I hardly think some pompous git who can trace his lineage through ten generations of purity will deign to wed me.” Her cheeks flushed at the very idea of someone like Vince Crabbe standing at the end of an aisle for her. Unlikely.

“I don’t know.” Draco swept a hand vaguely as her. “You’re smart and pretty, I suppose. And not all Purebloods are gits. Cousin Reg isn’t so bad.”

Her jaw dropped. “Regulus Black? You’re joking. His mother would smother a halfblood infant in its sleep if someone tried to call it an heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

Laughter bubbled out of pressed lips as Draco stopped trying to pretend it wasn’t a horrid joke. “No?”

“And he’s old,” she insisted, lip curled.

“Reg isn’t that old. He’s, what, eighteen years older than us?”

She swatted Draco’s shoulder as his face broke into a grin. “You’re having a go at me. Besides, no one Lady Cissa would approve of would sully their line.”

Joy slipped from his grey eyes as his mouth took a solemn turn. “Mother will want to make a good match for you before we graduate, Hermione. She’ll not hesitate to use the Malfoy name to secure you a place in the world.”

“I don’t need to get married.”

“But it is the best way she knows to keep a woman safe.” He plucked her hand from the soft vellum and held it in both of hers. “She loves you. You know how some muggleborns are treated. You’ve been sheltered from the worst of it by the Malfoy name and she will want to provide you safety for your future as well. It’s no less than she would do were you actually her daughter.”

Were she actually a Malfoy she would probably be engaged already. “Well. I suppose that’s true.” She grimaced. “There’s no hope of me getting out of the party, is there?”

“None,” Draco informed. “In fact…”

The slim silhouette of Narcissa Malfoy neé Black appeared in the doorway. “There you are. I’ve been searching the manor for you all day. Hermione, dearest, we must get you fitted for your gown.”

She exchanged a look with Draco who was just the humbler side of gloating, then stood. It was best to indulge Lady Cissa when she was bent on preparing for an event. “I was thinking perhaps the gold I wore during Yule my third year,” she suggested, rising and approaching her guardian. “It can easily be altered to this season’s cut and--”

“Mm, no, that won’t do at all.” Narcissa stared down at her with raptor cunning, eyes measuring the nearly grown young woman she’d become and weighing her assets. She stroked one charm-tamed curl and smiled. “This is your last Yule before you come of age. It is time the wizarding world started recognizing you for the woman you’ll become.”

Chapter Text

The lead up to the Longest Night was busier than any Hermione could remember, including the chaos of the Yule Ball at Hogwarts. Narcissa dragged Hermione to every magical seamstress in England before she decided just days before the event that only Paris would have something worthy. That meant they had to spend at least a night in the Malfoy family loft, an oddly modern flat that encompassed the entire top floor of a high rise. 

Hermione had attended a number of shopping trips to the city alongside Narcissa, but it was usually for the woman herself. Lady Narcissa, generous as she was, often bought items for Hermione regardless. She had scarves of finest silk, designer shoes, couture jewelry… Money was not an object to the Malfoys and thus she lived in fashion. 

However, this was the first time she had been the focus of all the designers herself. Lady Cissa was a woman on a mission, and she would suffer nothing short of perfection for her charge.

“No, no, no,” the woman decried, rubbing at her temples as she gestured for the gowns presented to disperse. “She needs something unique, something other women could not wear. We are highlighting her exceptionality and nothing but the exceptional will suit. Hermione is a lovely girl, yes, but she is fiery. Passionate. She is a lioness in a house of serpents. She is not some spring flower ripe for picking.” It was a testament to her irritation that Narcissa had slipped back into English rather than the native tongue.

Like all good wizarding designers, Monsieur LaFavre did not comment upon the faux pas and instead allowed his wealthiest patron’s words to rush over him contemplatively. “ Lionne parmi les serpents .” His sharp eyes danced over the teenager, thick brows pulling together until they snapped up in inspiration. He Summoned a length of cloth of gold which wrapped itself around Hermione’s knees to trumpet to the floor. The girl frowned at the distinct lack of cloth otherwise, but mischief glinted in his eye and she kept silent.

The set of downy white wings easily spanning longer than she was tall affixed at the back of her hips to fold over her according to the whims of its director. The dip of the secondary feathers fanned out over her thighs and lower stomach then the wings bent impossibly up her chest with a modest space between them where a sliver of her undergarments showed. As they feathers contoured better to her form a flick of a wand bled golden veins up from the silk around her legs until all the white was glimmering like the finest sculpture.

It was a mermaid gown, she believed the shape was called, and quite daring in how it formed to her. Golden feathers tickled where they grazed the hollow of her throat, coming together to leave a keyhole that started as a whisper just there and scooped wider at her natural waist. The back was low, revealing an expanse of her warm skin which was set off beautifully by the rich color. 

“ C’est magnifique! ” Narcissa rose to inspect the details of the gown, the richness of the fabric and feathers. “Goose?”

“Swan, madam.”

She circled the girl, eyeing the train. “A little longer in the back, like a calla lily. And of course you will need to neaten and individually place the feathers on the final gown, as well as layer in the usual spells for it to remain in place lest her modesty be slighted. Anti-tripping charm for the length, impervious to repel dirt from the no-doubt clumsy men who will be falling all over her. You’ll have it to us by Thursday evening?”

A mix of relief, pride, and eagerness fluttered through the man’s expression before he settled on professionalism. “ Oui, madam. ”

While he and Lady Malfoy discussed pricing and other details, LaFavre’s apprentice assisted Hermione back into her day wear. The young woman was perhaps five years older than she was and she stroked reverent fingers over the materials that would become a gown. She placed the garment-in-the-making behind a curtain and appeared a moment later with a curious look in her eyes.

“You are Hermione Granger, yes? The Gryffindor who attended the Yule Ball with the Durmstrang Champion?” Cobalt eyes flicked over Hermione, both astute and friendly.

“Ah, yes,” she replied after a hesitant silence to ensure she’d heard correctly. “That’s me.”

“It was such a sweet story! Muggleborn witch with a Pureblood celebrity, one from the school which sired Grindewald, no less.” The apprentice was bright with excitement, clasping the younger girl’s hands in her own. “Will he be at your Lady’s gala?Is he your paramour?”

Hermione’s cheeks flooded with heat. “I am not sure if Lady Narcissa invited him. But not, Viktor and I are only pen pals. We are far apart and I’m still in school while he is touring with his team.”

“ Mais non! But you are such a lovely couple. Perhaps when you have graduated he will invite you to visit.”

That was the fortunate moment Narcissa called for Hermione to join her, and she made her goodbyes to the excited French woman (who winked slyly as though they shared a secret).

“Now,” the older woman told her in a tone that matched the authoritative click of her heels, “We will find you accessories, undergarments, and shoes.”

This would be a long hunt.

Hermione managed to fall into bed early Thursday evening, spent after a week of preparation for the day to come. Her guardian had the entire day scheduled for the family so they would be in place at their appropriate times. 

“While Draco, Lucius, and I will be ready to welcome guests at the door, I wish for you to arrive only when most have arrived.” She combed elegant hands through Hermione’s bronze curls. “I want everyone to see your entrance. A glowing, golden lioness.” 

The Malfoys were all her silver foils. Narcissa wore a gown that draped over body like a second skin, tiny silver beaded designs in a geometric pattern that emphasized her graceful form, hair falling down her back in long coils. Draco wore charcoal dress robes with silver lining the cuffs and collar, while his father bore a paler grey that made him exude icy regality. It was also the first time Hermione had seen the patriarch in days.

She bade the family well as she cloistered herself in her room for the house elf to finish preparing. Her hair was already in a deceptively loose looking bun, coiled curls tumbling artfully out and around and through it all. Every inch of her felt scrubbed, preened, and polished, and soon she would be painted.

How a woman could endure such an endeavor willingly was beyond her. Hermione herself preferred subtle beauty charms when she took the time at all, and this was not subtle. Her lips were charmed a deep, velvety scarlet, and her eyes were lined with golden paint that stretched beyond her lashes in sharp parallels. Black edged at her lashes themselves, thickening and lengthening until they fluttered like butterfly wings, and honey hues toward the inner lids deepened to burgundy in her crease. 

And those were only the most obvious changes. The elf had also sculpted and rosed her cheeks, highlighted her features and set powder so she nearly glowed. And then the gown went on, all hugging metallic feathers and liquid golden silk that reminded her of Felix Felicis, a potion she had only seen in Professor Snape's personal stores.

Tippy placed a crown of golden laurels-- no, those were feathers, she realized-- atop her head and a braided gold bracelet with dangling diamonds on her left wrist. Now all that remained was the shoes. 

They were utterly ridiculous, horribly expensive, and so impractical Hermione had both practiced walking in them and placed a charm on them for her comfort. Four inches tall, golden straps running from the outside of the foot to the inside along the curve, and bearing that tell-tale red sole to match both her Gryffindor spirit and Narcissa's insistence on the best. That they were a muggle brand didn't matter in luxury and fashion. 

"I feel like the Golden goose," she murmured, tottering as she adjusted to her tilted height. 

"Miss Hermione looks like a golden goddess," countered Tippy, and conjured a mirror for Hermione to view herself. 

She certainly didn't appear the bookish, frazzled girl she'd seen lately. There were no circles under her eyes from studying into the night after a day of shopping with Narcissa, and the fire of the metallic gown resonated over her so light reflected on her skin from seemingly impossible angles. 

"Oh."

Perhaps the evening would prove magical after all. Hermione thanked the elf, her mind dizzied by the lovely stranger in her reflection, and stepped out into the hall. It was time.

The Gown

The Shoes

Chapter Text

The house elf at the entrance to the ballroom bowed low, favoring her with an inordinately fancy flourish. He then faced the dancers again and raised his voice to call, “Miss Hermione Granger, ward of the Malfoys.”

Throughout the milling crowd individuals stopped and looked at her. She was flushed under the paint and the faint glow of her golden ornamentation, frozen at the top of the stairs until Draco appeared at the bottom and proffered a hand. 

“You look incredible, Hermione,” he murmured to her as he laid her hand on his forearm. Eyes darted toward her, whispers following in her wake. “Potter and Weasley actually came this year.” 

She brightened; the boys had been invited since joining their friend group, but never partook. Harry thought it was too stuffy and Ron complained he didn’t want to deal with posh arseholes. Really, she knew he didn’t want to embarrass himself with his horrifying dress robes, which had thankfully been replaced after the Yule Ball. “Is anyone else here I might find diverting?”

Draco peered askance at her, a sly smirk unfurling. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Narcissa appeared at her elbow soon after, positively radiant among the partygoers and carrying an extra glass of champagne for the girl. “Hermione, darling, you are even lovelier than  I’d imagined, and my imagination had set a rather high bar.” She kissed the air beside the girl’s cheek, beaming down at her. “Come, let’s show you off.”

The glamorous woman escorted her to a group of young men, some of whom Hermione knew on sight, such as Theodore Nott and Regulus Black. 

“Narcissa!” The latter greeted her warmly; he’d been about the manor enough times as both the Black family heir and her cousin. “And Miss Granger, hello. You both look like stars fallen straight from the Heavens.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce the rest of us?” This was from a young man of an age with Regulus and looked like he could be a Weasley cousin (though nearly all Purebloods seemed to be cousins of some degree) with his straw blonde hair and the freckles dusting his cheeks.

Narcissa’s melodious laugh rang out like the bubbles in her champagne. “You’ve met me before, Mr. Crouch. Don’t play coy.”

“Forgive me, my lady, if I am too blinded by your splendor to recognize you.” He smirked and added, “And Barty, please. I can’t stand being called ‘Mr. Crouch.’ I hear quite enough of that at the ministry.”

“If you insist.” Narcissa’s eyes sparkled and then her perfectly manicured hand slipped between Hermione’s shoulder blades. “However, I suppose some introductions are due. Gentlemen, this is Miss Hermione Granger, my ward. She is currently attending Hogwarts and is both a prefect of her house and the brightest student in her year, if not the entire school.” 

Hermione smiled shyly, pushing down the embarrassment threatening to overwhelm her.

“Hermione, dearest, these are Messieurs Bartemius Crouch, Junior, and Alexander Selwyn. Barty is the lead Obliviator for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and Selwyn is the financial manager for Selwyn and Smith Industries. And of course you know my cousin, Regulus Black, and young Theodore Nott is in your year, I believe.”

“Indeed.” Regulus took one of her hands in both of his. “Lovely to see you again, Miss Granger.”

Barty Crouch took her hand next, eyes gleaming. “Miss Granger, I am beyond charmed. You are a vision.” His lips skimmed the back of her knuckles. “Are you, by chance, a Hufflepuff?”

A laugh far less melodious than Narcissa’s punctuated the conversation. “A Hufflepuff would not survive among the Malfoys, Barty!” Bellatrix, a vision in tight black that held her body like an offering, appeared between her sister and the group of men. Her mouth dramatically turned down in a sudden pout. “Oh, dear me, other than Draco, that is.” She smiled at her sister in an empty apology. “Little Hermione here is a Gryffindor. That’s right, gentlemen; a mudblood Gryffindor. And she cleans up so well.”

The iciness of her coloring seeped into Narcissa’s next words. “Bellatrix, you will kindly refrain from such language while in my home?”

“I’m sorry, Cissy, I didn’t mean to offend your delicate ears.” 

“Perhaps you could apologize to Hermione as well?” The girl nearly started at that, but Bellatrix just laughed.

“And Regulus! Look how you’ve grown.” The shameless witch petted a hand down his lapel. “You ought to be careful; many young women will be on the hunt for a husband as eligible as the most handsome and noble heir of the House of Black.”

Hermione did not miss the way her dark eyes skittered in her direction; nor, it seemed, did anyone else. It came as a shock when Theodore Nott broke the tension.

“Granger here really is an exceptionally bright witch.” He nodded at her grateful expression. “To hear Professor Riddle tell it, she may be the brightest student since he attended himself.”

That earned a round of stares, as all of the men were Hogwarts Alumni ( Slytherin alumni). But the name itself was what caught Bellatrix. “Oh, is Tommy here?” She finally released her cousin, rising to her full height to peer through the crowd. Her dark eyes sharpened. “I haven’t seen him in a dog’s age. If you’ll excuse me…”

Regulus brushed his lapels. “Insufferable-- pardon, Narcissa, I mean nothing by it.”

She waved it off. “Think nothing of it. I know exactly how insufferable my sister is at times. Especially where Hermione is concerned.” Narcissa smiled at the young woman. “After all, Hermione is always top of her class in every way, and that means she surpasses Draco as well. And I don’t think she’s quite forgiven our lovely Gryffindor’s influence over him.”

“You’re that brilliant, are you?” Alexander Selwyn’s eyes were a color nearly as green as Harry’s, Hermione realized as he turned to her.

She shrugged, feeling the exquisite gown swish with the movement. “I wouldn’t say that. What I am is highly logical which allows me to look past extraneous detail and perceive clearly that which others overlook.” Hermione struggled not to allow her words to trail into oblivion as the men watched her. It wasn’t bragging, she told herself. It was an intellectual habit more than anything.

The green eyes were bright with amusement as Selwyn said, “Brilliant, got it.” He turned those glinting eyes to Narcissa. “I take it she has been a positive addition to your household, then?”

“Beyond measure. Hermione is like a daughter to me. I daresay she has driven Draco to be more gracious and studious than he otherwise would have been.”

He hummed. “And you haven’t noticed any drawbacks from her unfortunate parentage?”

It shouldn’t have hit so hard; Hermione had grown up hearing slurs about her lineage, her people, her magic. But here she was, having finally let down her guard enough to feel like she was worthy of being among them, and this man acted as though she was a horse he needed to inspect rather than a person. 

“Hermione is nothing but an absolute treasure.” The chill breezed once more through her voice.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Granger get in trouble,” Theodore added. “We aren’t exactly friends, but she’s a stickler for the rules at school.”

“I like order,” she countered, glad to have the academically-minded Slytherin there. 

“Have you finished your Arithmancy work for the break?” 

“Oh, I finished it Thursday before we left; but I do think I am going to double-check the sources in the library here and revise before we return. And I think I saw an article concerning vectors in Ethereal Equations. ” 

The boy tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Would you mind if I owled you about that after Christmas? I’d love to borrow the article when you’re finished.”

Narcissa watched the back and forth keenly. “Didn’t you take Arithmancy, Regulus?”

“I did. It’s a good subject for business, you. Unfortunately, I’m rather mediocre at it.” He shrugged and slipped a hand into his pocket, falling into the softness that was behind his perfect heir mask.

“Well,” Narcissa said with one brow arching, “you could borrow Hermione’s clever mind. I am sure someone as gifted as she is would be quite the asset to the business-inclined. Or those who have any academic interest.”

“My dear, I’m certain the gentlemen don’t wish to spend all evening standing in a circle.” Lucius Malfoy slipped to his wife’s side, shoulder brushing his ward as he took Narcissa’s hand in his. “This is a party. They should mingle with the other guests as well, perhaps even take a turn around the dance floor. I know I,” he murmured, Hermione hardly able to hear his low, intimate voice, “want to dance with my stunning wife.”

“Very well, Lucius.” Narcissa peered around him to her ward. “Hermione, love, please enjoy yourself tonight. Gentlemen, it was a pleasure.”

She gave her best to Narcissa and took a sip of her champagne as the two otherworldly Purebloods spun away.

“On that note, perhaps you would join me for a dance, Miss Granger?” Barty Crouch, Jr’s eyes were sharp as icepicks and she did not want to say yes, but there was no polite way to beg off.

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Crouch.” She swallowed down the remaining champagne with all the grace she could manage and took the proffered hand.

“Barty, pet. I’m hardly old enough for all those formalities.” He drew her to him, their bodies far closer than Hermione would like, but not altogether obscene enough to protest. “I’d feel like an absolute lech flirting with a pretty young thing like yourself if you call me ‘ Mister. ’”

“How old are you, Barty? I’m sure you’re not surprised to hear I, myself, am sixteen.”

His thumb stroked along the line of one feather. “I was in the same year as Reg at school, though his birthday is earlier than mine. I was an April child.”

“So you’d be, what, thirty-four?” 

“Why, Hermione.” Barty Crouch leaned into her. “Are you teasing me?”

Her cheeks flooded hot enough she thought it might radiate to his own over her and Hermione was lost for a reply. A hand to the man’s shoulder tugged her mind from her mortification.

“Ah, Mr. Crouch, could I possibly cut in?” The smooth voice soothed over her like the scent of home. “I haven’t seen my favorite student yet and I was promised a dance.”

It was the same excuse he’d made last year, but now it saved her instead of merely adding to her evening.

“Professor Riddle.” Barty Crouch’s eyes flared with something, but he acquiesced. “Hermione, I’ll be seeing you again.”

Tom took up the man’s spot, his lithe body falling into the lines of the leading dance with ease. He held her nearly as close as Barty had, but it was far more comfortable and less unsettling the way he did it. 

“Thank you so much for that.”

He chuckled warmly and she could feel it vibrate through the hand on his shoulder. “My pleasure. Barty has always been a bit too eager in his attentions. Intense and perhaps predatory.”

She snorted. “Predatory indeed.”

Tom’s lips quirked and his gaze roamed appreciatively over her figure. “I can hardly blame him. You are a vision. Narcissa Malfoy certainly knows what she is doing. For the most part.”

“She wanted me to feel beautiful, special.”

“Perhaps.” He led her more closely against him, voice tickling against her ear. “She mostly wants everyone here to see you special. You are, sweetheart. Do not mistake me; you’re an exceptional young woman in every way. But that will be wasted on the blood-blinded aristocracy here. Theodore Nott’s family would never allow him to be involved with a muggleborn; he is a descendant of the Cantankerus Nott, the consummate Pureblood supremacist. Regulus’s mother not-too-quietly thought Gindewald had the right of it, and Regulus is too much of a coward to go against her. There is hope for him once the dreadful woman has passed, but that’s yet to happen, more’s the pity. Selwyn might hire you-- or fuck you--” Hermione’s mouth hung agape. “But both would be done discretely. And Barty… well, he’d take you as a mistress, certainly. Perhaps he could manipulate his mother into allowing him to wed you, but either way you would be a whore to him and nothing else. No, love, it will be difficult for Narcissa to find a suitable match for you. She prizes you too much to sell you off like livestock, but most Purebloods will see you as such to a degree. Half-bloods, perhaps, like your friend Mr. Potter…”

“Narcissa isn’t trying to sell me.” The horrified words slipped out before she could censor herself. 

“Hermione, sweetheart.” Tom stared down with those solemn midnight blue eyes. “Unless they decide you will remain an old maid of a servant, the Malfoys will inevitably give you away. You are far too valuable to tiptoe around this manor like a house elf.”

“You think Mr. Selwyn might hire me if I prove good enough at Arithmancy?” That hadn’t sounded quite so horrifying; Hermione wanted to work, after all.

His expression flattened. “You are capable of so much more, Hermione.” She bit the inside of her bottom lip and his eyes darted to observe her worrying at it. “I will help you achieve that. I promised you that, remember?”

“How?”

“Not everything is as it seems, sweetheart. The Pureblood faction is a vile weed that would have us hiding away like shadows. But there are some of their status who think, perhaps, the status quo could be better.” The song came to a soft end and Tom escorted her aside and plucked a champagne flute from a floating tray. “I will ensure your future if you stay with me, Hermione.”

She read the unspoken command, her warm eyes wide as she stared at the man. “Of course.”

The professor lifted her chin with his forefinger, his own eyes heavy lidded. “Say it.”

“I will stay with you…” He nodded, raising one expectant brow. “Tom.”

The smile across his face was painfully beautiful. “That’s my girl.”

Chapter Text

“Your little Ward is looking quite grown up. Have you thought on what you’ll do with her next?” Selwyn’s bottle green eyes watched as the girl whirled in the well-taught arms of Draco Malfoy.

“Why?” The host himself was drinking brandy with a few associates; his own gaze had been drawn across the ballroom to her golden visage more than he cared to admit. “Interested in making an offer?”

The other man considered him. “And if I am? Your wife seems to think quite highly of her. Are you not worried she’ll try to marry her to your son?”

Lucius nearly choked on his brandy. It was one thing to have halfblood bastards unnamed in the world, but to sully the family proper? “She wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re not as fond of the girl?”

“Narcissa might love her enough to want to overlook her blood status, but I have no such blinders. Miss Granger is intelligent and obedient, yes, but she is still limited by her blood. She could perhaps prove to be an improvement on some halfblood lines, but I would certainly not allow her to marry into one of the twenty-eight. A well-kept mistress for the right man, but…”

He cut himself off with a shake of his head. 

Selwyn tapped a finger against his own crystal tumbler. “What if he begat bastards on her?”

That sent a lance of inspiration through him as sharp as it was bright. “Then there would be a handful of halfblood brats superior to the Potter boy. Draco would still be expected to marry well and produce an heir.”

“I have no interest in keeping her as a mistress,” Selwyn said at last. “But I was curious as to your thoughts, especially with the way Narcissa is pushing the girl.” His lips pursed as he had a thought. “She said the girl is brilliant, inferred she might be useful as an employee. Do you plan to use her in your business? Or would you consider letting her go for such a position?”

Had Selwyn asked even a year ago, Lucius might have lept at the chance to negotiate a position for his charge at the benefit of his own family. Now that he’d had other ideas, he was… reluctant.

“She is some time from finishing her education. Perhaps we could speak once her OWL results have come in.”

The other man marked him with shrewd eyes, nodding slowly. “Narcissa was not wrong that my business could benefit from another strong mind. I hope you will owl me once her scores are in.” His expression lightened as they darted past Lucius’ shoulder. “Ah, Tom!”

Lucius turned enough to open himself to the new addition. He’d been fascinated by Riddle as a student; who hadn’t? But as he’d grown older he’d seen why his own father was reticent to follow the young man. There was something about him not quite right. For one, he did not adhere as closely to tradition as he would have the other Purebloods believe. Lucius had noted the way he treated Hermione. He couldn’t necessarily fault the professor for acknowledging her intelligence and aptitude, but would he elevate her over Purebloods if given the chance? 

It was a distinct possibility. 

No, it was not magical blood that Riddle ascribed to, but power and the means to accrue it. It was… respectable, but not aligned with the Malfoy principles. 

“Alexander, hello. Lucius.” Riddle nodded to his host.

“We were just discussing one of your pupils.”

Lucius could have hexed the man. 

“Oh? And which pupil is that? Draco?” By the coy lilt of one brow, Lucius had a feeling the man knew exactly to whom Selwyn referred.

“Ah, no. Miss Granger.” Selwyn nodded toward the girl, who was now taking a turn about the dance floor with the Potter boy.

“I hear she has quite the mind.”

Riddle’s eyes lingered on the spot of gold. “She’s perhaps the brightest student I’ve come across in my teaching; apt mind, eager to learn, open to experience. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I, Lucius?”

“Indeed. Exceptional for a muggleborn.” The words settled heavily between the trio.

“There is that old adage, ‘the exception proves the rule.’” Midnight eyes snapped from the girl to Lucius’ own. “If ever there was an exception, Hermione would be it.”

Lucius’ cheek ticked. “Why, Professor Riddle, I had thought you were the exception?”

For an instant he could swear the other man’s eyes flashed red before settling back into that cool blackest blue. “Myself, I see it as my mother’s line overcoming the weakness of my father’s. Not unlike young Draco in that regard. You can see he is a Malfoy, certainly, but he has so much of the Black family in him. After all, there’s never been another Malfoy outside of Slytherin.” 

Lucius’ gloved hand squeezed the cobra head of his wand-laden cane. “Draco will soon be shadowing me on family business. I am certain he will learn to rely on his inner Slytherin.”

“And Hermione?” The professor was as still as a serpent, and Lucius reminded himself that Riddle was a consummate Slytherin.

“She has served her purpose well,” he professed. “Draco is quite motivated where she is concerned.”

Riddle’s eyes narrowed. “And when you no longer require a whipping boy?”

“Malfoys know the value of their possessions.”

The cord of tension snapped taut between them. Riddle betrayed his fury with only the tensing of his jaw, but it was enough to satisfy Lucius that he had gotten beneath the man’s skin. Why Riddle was concerned with his Ward, he did not know. But perhaps he should find out.

“Ah, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…” Selwyn had stood there awkwardly throughout the exchange. The moment of silence finally propelled him into action, relieved to leave the conversation behind. 

Riddle excused himself as well, and Lucius found himself blissfully alone and able to study the girl who was suddenly creating so much chaos in his life.

Narcissa had outdone herself. The girl shone. The gold of her gown gave her flesh an ethereal quality with the subtle accents of warmth across her skin. She had, while Lucius immersed himself in work and politics, blossomed. 

“Pretty little thing, innit she?” That insidious voice truly brought out the worst in him. “All these boys flocking to her, tempted by that shiny packaging. Not just boys. Men as well wondering if they can get a hold of her, even for a night.”

His jaw firmed. “Is there a point you’re trying to make, Bella?”

Ink black eyes shimmered as she twittered. “Don’t you just hate when others covet your possessions? You should show them she belongs to the Malfoys. She’s not for others to use.”

“Why does it concern you?” He was genuinely curious; Bellatrix had always found the girl distasteful, but she had only pushed the issue once before. 

His sister-in-law pouted, a pretty, if irritating expression. “She’s distracting.” She stroked a hand down his arm, rested her chin on his shoulder. “Even Tom seems smitten with her, and he cannot be swayed by her. I won’t allow it.”

“Why should it matter if a halfblood Hogwarts professor is overly fond of a mudblood?”

Her curls tickled his throat as she murmured. “I know you dislike him, Lucius, but he’s essential to our plans.” His eyes narrowed. “Besides, she’s yours. Will you let him take her from you? She may be a mudblood, but she has some value. And everything she is belongs to the Malfoy family.”

Her lips were against his flesh now, sending tingles down his spine with each seductive word. No one was near enough to hear, no one was looking, but she was still tempting fate as well as him. 

“So you would have me be distracted by her instead?”

Bella’s chuckle slithered over him. “You will put her in her place.” Her hand began to wander.

“Bella,” he warned, his fingers wrapping around her slender wrist. 

“But I’ve missed you. You play the best games.”

The woman was a maelstrom, but no one could deny her appeal. He never should have given into her the first time, as it was harder to resist thereafter. 

“It excites me, thinking of you teaching her how to mind her betters. Certainly preferable to them fawning over her.” There was that pout again, though now her Lucius lips whispered against him. 

“What would you have of me?”

“I would have you keep the mudblood as her people should be kept: servile, unobtrusive, something to own and little else.”

That last was spat as she backed away. “You rule your family, Lucius, yet you allow them to carry on as though she were a part of it instead of serving it. You do this as a member of the Sacred twenty-eight, publicly, no less. Do you not think it shows weakness? Shows a lack of dedication to the Pureblood cause?” Bellatrix scoffed. “Cissy is a soft thing; I know that softness has created tension, but I had hoped you would stand strong against my sister. Instead you let it infect your son, infect you. The wolves can sense weakness, Lucius, and they are circling ever closer. Get your house in order, or they will pounce.”

She pushed off at the last, sashaying through the party-goers as though she had not just been flush with her sister’s husband, whispering madness into him.

Chapter Text

“How are you enjoying yourself, dear?”

Hermione’s head whipped up at that; she had begged off dancing again in favor of resting near the balcony for fresh air. She had expected someone would happen upon her soon, but had not thought Lucius Malfoy would himself be the one.

“It is a lovely ball,” she demurred, her heart rate picking up in the presence of the intimidating man.

His lips quirked momentarily. “It is. Cissy outdid herself, though the results will not be as she wished.”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

I mean that you will not be leaving the service of the Malfoy family any time soon, Hermione.” Lucius loomed over her, considering her in all her frippery. “I will not sell you off to Selwyn for his business, nor to Crouch the lesser as his mistress. Are you not grateful?”

“Grateful?” Her eyes widened so that white shown completely around the amber of her irises. “Should I be grateful that you would rather me stay here as an old maid with which to control your son, than to leverage me for power or wealth to your friends?” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “I am grateful for Draco’s friendship and Lady Narcissa’s care. But I am not grateful to be treated as a means, a tool. To be treated like less than a human being and witch.”

He rolled his silver eyes toward the heavens. “Oh, so melodramatic. You are lesser, Miss Granger. You are a mudblood, and thus you are a tarnished thing. It would take generations to breed out the flaws from your blood.”

“I am not a dog either,” she spat.

“What? You dislike the idea of your descendants possibly being worthy of magic? And I thought you were a practical creature.”

“That is not practical; it is demeaning,” she objected.

The blaze of his fury should have been a warning. “Know your place.”

“It is not your right to decide what my place is.” With that Hermione turned from him, trembling with rage and terror. 

She had fought with Lucius Malfoy, her guardian, the arbiter of her fate.  How foolish could she be, antagonizing him that way. It was beyond error. 

Hermione heaved as she leaned against the doorway to the library, where she had retreated for a moment of respite. Lucius would not leave the party to find her, not when he was the host.

“You will cease this nonsense.” The voice was sharp, familiar, layered with anger.

“It is disgusting. You have enough difficulty maintaining position as a halfblood, and you dare draw a mudblood to your side? Can you not see how this will ruin you?” And that voice was one Hermione hated.

She laid her back flat to the wall to listen to a conversation she most certainly was not meant to hear. 

Professor Riddle hissed. “Do not touch me right now, Bella. I am in no mood to play.”

“Tooooooom. Do you care so much for the girl that you would risk decades of work for her? That you would replace me with her?”

On the contrary, she is very much integral to my plans. I know you do not understand that yet, but you will.”

“You think Lucius will just let you take her?” Bellatrix pouted.

Tom scoffed. “You think I will give him a choice? No, he will fall in line or he will fall. Draco may have a weak constitution compared to his father, but I have no issue with replacing the head of the Malfoy family.”

You wouldn’t dare.” Bellatrix’s voice dropped to a low lover’s growl. “The support you would use would be too great.”

Tom chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down Hermione’s spine. It was nothing like she’d heard from him before. “You would be surprised what I dare, darling.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“Oh?” Hermione’s heart was tight, though she couldn’t reason why. The pair of them sounded so close and she could just imagine the luscious woman staring up at the gorgeous man, adoration on a doll-like face. “Weary of seducing your brother in law?”

A “hmph” from the woman. “I have to influence him somehow, don’t I?” Clothing rustled, and Hermione strained her ears.

“So eager for me. What would your sister’s husband think of you, falling to your knees like a ready whore for a halfblood .” 

“You are my lord,” came Bellatrix’s muffled groan. “And I will serve whenever, wherever, in front of whomever you wish.”

A slow, soft sigh was the only response.

Hermione’s eyes trembled with tears and she scurried away as fast as her heels could take her.

“Hermione?” 

Harry was standing near the entrance to the ballroom and concern swept his features as she came into sight.  

“What happened?” He drew her hands from her face and tipped her chin up. “Why are you crying?” 

“I—” Her panic froze her, no words coming to mind to describe the situation she had just eavesdropped upon. She couldn’t tell Harry about that. It was absolutely appalling. So she cast her net and dragged in, “I had a disagreement with Lord Malfoy. It overwhelmed me is all.”

Harry unfurled his handkerchief and began to dab gently at her cheeks. “You’re not in trouble, are you?” Concern furrowed his brows.

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. The thought seemed ludicrous in face of her situation and she laughed abruptly. “It will be fine. Lady Narcissa won’t allow me to be hurt, not really.”

He nodded, but did not seem convinced. “You look beautiful tonight,” he hesitated after a brief moment. “I meant to tell you earlier, but it seemed you were always occupied.”

Her cheeks heated at his genuine compliment. “Thank you, Harry. Narcissa went through a lot of trouble to ensure I would stand out.”

“You’re always pretty though,” Harry corrected. “It’s just that you usually hide behind a book.” He allowed her a moment to collect herself, then said almost offhandedly, “You know why she’s doing all this, don’t you?”

Hermione sighed. “She is trying to do what is best for me in the only way she knows how.”

“Yes, well. I suppose marrying you to someone who is high in society would be her method, but what do you want for your future, Hermione?” He leaned against the wall beside her, staring into her with too green eyes.

“I…” This was a question she was rarely asked. And while Hermione had begun to dream of what lie outside the present, insidious words whispered my a deep, rich, sibilant voice, that prospect had been dashed against the marble floors of Malfoy Manor and shattered like so much spun sugar already collecting ants. “I don’t know, Harry.” Tears warmed her eyes again and she pressed her hands against her chest in panic. “I don’t know. But I’m tired of it.”

He drew her hands into his own, grounding her with palms that were warm, and calloused from Quidditch and wands. “What are you tired of, love?”

“Of— of— of this,” she wailed. “I am grateful to Draco and Narcissa, truly. They have done nothing but treat me with love, but that does not negate why I am here. I am lesser. I am a tool. I am something to be bought and sold.”

Her friend tugged her closer, his grip fierce. “You are not.”

“That’s how they see me, and I don’t have the power to change it.”

“They’re wrong.” His jaw firmed. “You are worth so much more. This world isn’t worthy of you .  You deserve… you deserve better. I’ll help you any way I can, Hermione. You’re brilliant, and my friend, and I love you.”

The tears shimmered in amber bright eyes. “I love you, too, Harry. But what could we possibly do?”

“I’ll.” He blushed, but continued, determined. “I’ll marry you and we’ll use everything the Potter family has to work toward change.”

She choked, her eyes widening and the tears draining. “Harry! Don’t even say such things.”

“Why not? It would appease Mrs. Malfoy, give you a ‘place’ in society, and we get along well enough, make it a political marriage to change thing,” he argued.

“Don’t you like Ginny?”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s not important, not like this.”

“I don’t want you to think you have to take care of me, Harry,” Hermione urged. “I’d be perfectly fine as an old maid as long as I’m allowed to do something. ”

He was pensive for a moment. “What about Professor Riddle? He would take you in as an apprentice or something, surely?”

Bile choked her again and she turned solemn. “No.” It was almost silent.

“Let me help you,” Harry pleaded. “It’s my choice to make this offer. I am not sacrificing anything, because helping my friend right injustice is so much more important than anything else I could do in this world.”

“This isn’t your fight.”

“Like Hell it isn’t!” She knew that Harry had a temper, but rarely had she seen him express it, and never at her. “My mother is muggleborn, Hermione. I’m a bloody halfblood. More than that, I am a part of this world, and I see what you go through. I see what others go through. I see how it impacts Ron and my father and Draco bloody Malfoy. I’ll make the offer to Mrs. Malfoy. Let me at least do that. Let me try.”

Hermione sighed and leaned her head back, trying to think through the cloying events of the evening. All of the people looking at her, all of the men who had flirted or insinuated something, Lord Malfoy’s cruel words, and the cutting liaison she had overheard. And now Harry was offering to join their futures. 

“Can— Can I think about it a bit before you do anything? We can talk about it at school.”

He nodded. “If that’s what you need. It’s not like I’m chomping at the bit to get hitched or anything.”

She laughed.

“Are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Oddly insightful at the worst moments, that was Harry.

“Not right now.”

They shared a short silence. 

“You know, it wouldn’t be so bad being married to me, except I think you’d be a widow rather soon,” he said.

“What?”

He grinned, turning to face her again. “If Ron didn’t kill me, then one of the twins definitely would.”

Her face turned scarlet. “Why would any of them do that?”

“They’ve all three had a crush on you for ages,” he informed her.

“There’s no way.” Hermione was baffled and brilliantly red.

He grinned toothily. “You are kidding, right? Fred and George either would take you out on a date, maybe even both, both Ron would drop to his knees and swear himself to you if he weren’t such a self-conscious idiot.”

Hermione scoffed. “You’re having a laugh.”

“Just at them, love.” He took one of her hands in his again. “Ready to give me a dance or two?”

She nodded. “Alright.”

They danced three times, and Harry escorted her to Narcissa Malfoy after to heap praises on how lovely she was, how brilliant, and how she was so dear to him. Hermione allowed it, and Narcissa basked. 

“I think tonight may have planted a few seeds,” the woman murmured as the event began to die down. 

In her heart, Hermione felt a chilly wind foretelling frost.

Chapter Text

She didn’t write in the journal for the rest of winter hols. Why should she bother, when every time she glanced toward the journal, her heart ached? All Hermione could think of was the conversation she overheard, how Bellatrix Lestrange prostrated herself before the man, and that long, sweet sigh that come to her ears before she fled.

She knew the implications, and they tore at her heart.

Just what did Bellatrix and Tom have, anyway? Bellatrix was a Pureblood supremacist, and Tom believed in Hermione was— was—

Or he’s using you, she thought bitterly. She was integral to his plans, he’d said.

Draco tried pulling Hermione from her languishing, but she merely buried herself in books and told him she needed to study. OWLs were on the horizon.

Narcissa, for her part, seemed content to let matters lie. She was busy with correspondence for the remainder of break. Lord Malfoy was out of sight, just where Hermione preferred him.

It was with a great deal of trepidation that she boarded the Express back to Hogwarts after the New Year. 

She shared a compartment with her friends, as usual. Harry and Draco sat on either side of her, while Ron, Ginny, and Neville sat opposite. The twins stopped by in the manner a tornado might pass through a neighborhood, then were gone, and then Hermione had to go to the Prefect car with Draco and Harry as escort.

“I talked with mum,” the brunet said as he brought up the rear. “About a proposal, that is.”

Hermione tutted. “Harry, I told you I’d think about it.”

Draco halted, and she bumped against his shoulder. “What’s this? What proposal, Potter?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Your mum is looking for someone to marry Hermione, right?” was her friend’s response.

She wanted to shake him.

“Yes,” said Draco. Then his eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. “You? You want to marry Hermione?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m a better choice than most of the stuffy old codgers who flirted with her at your party.”

“That’s true. But… wouldn’t it be weird?”

“We are not having this discussion,” she said, a hand on either boys’ shoulders. “Not in the middle of the train, not before school has even restarted.”

They exchanged gazes over her head, a long moment of silence passing before Harry nodded and Draco murmured, “Alright.”

And then they continued to the compartment to discuss business with the heads and other prefects.

It was mostly logistics about the patrol schedules and reminders in case anyone had forgotten rules or directives between the end of the semester and now. 

“Granger, you’re still receiving lessons with Professor Riddle on Saturdays, yes?”

She startled at the question, her pulse rising with the anxiety washing over her in deep waves. “Er, I—” What was she supposed to say? She didn’t want to see her professor outside of classes now, but there was the club and her tutelage and her future and—

“We’ll update you as soon as Hermione’s spoken with the professor,” Draco cut in smoothly. He squeezed her hand before releasing it, and she was grateful.

Prefect duties kept her busy that first night, but classes began the following day, and those made her increasingly nervous until she found herself outside the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

She leaned against the wall to await the arrival of others, knowing that if she went in alone it would be to face him, and she couldn’t do that right now. She didn’t know what to say. 

Should she fling the journal at him and tell him she’d heard everything? Should she make a petty excuse and hope he bought it when she batted her eyes at him? 

Nothing seemed right. For the first time in her five years at Hogwarts, she was truly frightened.

She avoided his gaze during the lecture, but sometimes she could feel his eyes on her like a crimson veil, a haze, a weight across her shoulders. Her heart pounded, and her head began to throb.

“Hermione, stay back a moment.”

Her shoulders stiffened and a chill ran through her. She nodded and resumed packing while other students began to file out.

Soft tapping preceded the appearance of shiny black shoes in her field of vision. Professor Riddle’s fingers touched her desk, but she still kept her gaze down.

“Hermione.”

Her fists tightened.

“Look at me when I speak to you.” It was a hushed, but unbreakable command, and she lifted her eyes to meet his own. “That’s better. Now, why did you stop writing in your journal?”

Her gaze began to drift with the desire to pull herself from his orbit. “I didn’t feel like it anymore.”

His fingers tapped once, then rose to grip her chin and turn her face forward. “You didn’t feel like it anymore?” She gave the slightest nod she was able with his hold on her. “So you disobeyed me.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” she responded evenly. Her throat was steadily growing tighter, and she could feel the burning, prickling threat of tears if she let herself slip even a little bit.

His dark brows twitched. “Of course it matters. Did we not have this discussion before you left? I told you to write me so I knew you were well. It seems after your party, perhaps you decided you were too good for me? Is that it?”

“And if it is?” Her jaw was clenched so that each tic sent a wave of pain through her head.

She’d never seen his eyes so hard. “I am the only one who knows best for you, Hermione. You know that. Narcissa Malfoy will sell you off unless her husband decides to keep you locked away. Do you realize that?”

It was too much for her. She was only sixteen. “What do you want with me?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed to study her more closely. Tears had welled at last, trickling from the corners of her eyes and resulting in clear snot from her nose. But she held back from sobbing, kept still and proud as she asked this man his intentions.

He lowered himself to her level, closed the distance between them until his eyes burned like the night into her mind. She could almost feel him there, running deft fingers through her memories, shuffling through pages of her thoughts. Until he stumbled upon that moment, upon the overheard conversation and her heartbreak.

“Oh, Hermione.” His voice was laced with finesse and pity. “My dear girl. Bellatrix Lestrange is a means to an end.”

She frowned, and he read the question there.

“You are so much more. You are an end in and of yourself, something worthy— some one worthy of being elevated beside me.”

“But Bellatrix—”

He shook his head. He was kneeling in front of her seat now, clever hands wiping away her tears. “Darling, Bellatrix Lestrange is a desperate lackey whom I must manage with great delicacy lest she lay wreckage to my plans and make things worse out of pettiness.” His hands felt so nice as they soothes her, his voice imploring her to understand. “She has been infatuated with me since she was a schoolgirl herself, but I have never wanted her. It’s always been her pursuing me. I didn’t touch her until she was an adult, and even then it’s only to keep her on the line and under some semblance of control.”

“You— you’re intimate with her,” she stuttered out, cheeks heated with the word.

Tom chuckled. “I’ve allowed her some liberties, but not as many as you might think.” Soft fingertips caressed her cheek and encouraged her to lean closer to him. “Darling, I have been planning for so long, missing something and waiting, and not knowing, until you stepped into my classroom. You are everything I need, Hermione. I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

“Why?” Desperation cracked the word in her throat, homage to her broken heart.

“Because I need someone I can trust, someone strong enough to hold a piece of myself, powerful enough to face my enemies, and clever enough to understand my vision and carry it out should I find myself waylaid. And you, Hermione, are the only person I’ve met that encompasses all of that.”

His words were beautiful and hypnotic, like the elegance of his features and the resonance of his voice. She was so blown away by the admission that he needed her, had sought her out for his whole life. But she kept hearing that sigh.

Tom echoed it, but born out of frustration. “I had hoped to wait until you were older.”

Before she could ask, his lips were against her own.

They were cool and smooth, the skin soft, but the muscle behind it forceful as they plied her own until she gasped. His possessive tongue swept across her bottom lip teasingly before it retreated, then he sucked it between his teeth and rolled it through, moving back until it popped from between his own lips slick with spittle.

His eyes were black, the pupils indistinguishable, and she felt dizzy.

“You are mine, Hermione.” One of his hands curled around her nape to cradle her closer, and he pressed his forehead to hers. “You have been mine from the moment I saw you. I will abjure all others if you wish, so long as you are mine.”

She swallowed through her fiercely beating heart where it thickened in her throat. “Yours?”

“Yes.” He smiled, a soft curl of kiss-reddened lips. “I told you, I aim to change the world. And I will do so with you by my side.”

She blinked and tried to grasp the thoughts that had flown when he pressed his mouth to hers. “But—”

“We will discuss it soon, dearest, but there is much that must happen first. And today is not exactly opportune.” His eyes skimmed toward the door and back. It had been unlocked this whole time, and she could only be glad for their continued privacy. “Saturday we can perhaps talk more.”

She nodded and allowed her professor to assist her to rise to her feet. 

“Write in your journal for me, love,” he said, tipping her face up once more. Gently, this time. She nodded. “That’s my girl.”

Chapter Text

The rhythm of her life returned to normal as much as it could. She attended classes, herded the boys, studied, patrolled, and assisted Tom with club activities.

The Saturday after her return, she and Tom didn’t have a serious discussion, but instead focused on what to do with her OWLs swiftly approaching.

He wanted her to do well, he said, to surpass everyone else. In his day, he’d gotten thirteen OWLs. There were only twelve available now, and she would take eleven of those examinations, as the twelfth wasn't all that important. 

“You’ll get Outstandings in them all,” he’d told her. 

She desperately wanted to talk about his plans more, but Tom was firm that it could wait until after the exams. They were too important; his plans required her to be beyond reproach. There would be plenty of time after OWLs and before NEWTs. Tough, he reminded her, it was imperative she not slack in that regard either.

Those Saturdays became grueling work in every field. And she would drop into bed at night and sleep straight through breakfast. Draco, dear friend that he was, always snagged something for her from the kitchens to eat Sunday morning.

Those were the only days Hermione didn’t write in her journal, since she was with Tom for so much of it.

Monday through Friday saw her reading as she walked the halls, taking notes as she ate, and in the library after classes. Unless she was patrolling that evening, she was studying until curfew. Only Tom's insistence that (and Draco's pleading, and Ron and Harry bribing Parvati and Lavender to keep an eye on her in the girls' dormitory) kept her from staying up to the quiet hours of the dark morning. And even then, the other girls weren't perfect. Neither was Hermione.

The day before exams were set to start, she paced in his office and lamented that he would no longer help her prepare.

He leaned against his desk in that too-attractive, casual way she knew well by now, amused by her anxiety. “I cannot prepare you anymore because you are ready, my love. All you can do is rest.”

Amber eyes honed in on him and narrowed. “Rest. What good will rest do me? I am rested.”

“Are you?” He smirked, then gestured her toward him. One arm snaked around her waist to pull her close, confident that he needn’t worry about interruptions on this Sunday evening. “Darling, you look exhausted. I know you stayed up late last night despite my orders to go straight to bed. Didn’t you?”

She blushed and ducked her head.

“As I thought. Do I need to tie you to your bed for you to stay in it?” His tongue flitted across his lips and he stared hungrily at her blush. “Although, if I had to do that, I don’t know that I would allow you to sleep. You would be quite the sight, spread out like a meal for me to enjoy.”

Hermione covered her mouth in mortification as she let out a squeak. It was a strangely appealing thought, having him do such a thing. She was worried he’d see her desire, so pressed her face against his shoulder.

He chuckled, a warm, masculine sound that fit in with the clean, spiced scent of him. “I will do that one day. You’ll look so pretty for me. Perhaps I’ll tie you in green silk ribbons to unwrap like a present.”

“Tom,” she murmured. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Am I? You’re absolutely precious, love, if even that little makes you squirm. You’ve no idea what I have in store for you.” One large hand soothed down her back to settle on her hip and squeeze. “You tempt me too much, Hermione. I try to behave and wait until you’ve graduated, but you make it so difficult.”

She pulled back enough to glance at his face and judge if he was serious.

His eyes were midnight black and heavily hooded as he gazed at her. The curve of his lips was like a knife blade with how it cut her to her core. She wanted him to go further, to push more, so she was adrift in him.

It was as heady as it was terrifying.

“How are you feeling now, sweetheart?”

She shrugged. “Not quite as anxious, I suppose.”

He hummed. “That’s good. You know.” These words were said so off-handedly, like it was a turn from the current conversation, and she wasn’t sure whether she should be grateful. “You can take matters into your own hands to relax, since I’m unable to assist how I would like.”

“What?”

“I mean that you could touch yourself, Hermione.” The hand on her hip squeezed again, the one on her nape sifting through her hair so he could sweep his thumb across her lips. “Orgasm is therapeutic at times. I would very much like it if you used it to ease this stress tonight.”

She knew what masturbation was, and had, like almost every other teenager in the history of humanity, explored. But to be told she should touch herself to orgasm by someone else, by an adult, her professor, Tom, took her breath away.

“You can do that for me, can’t you? If you need any assistance, I could even provide instruction.”

Her lips were parted, and she felt like she still couldn’t breathe. 

“Have you done it before, love?”

Slowly, she nodded. 

Tom hummed. “That’s good. So, you should already have found what feels best. Do you pluck your little button, or use these pretty fingers to slide inside yourself?” As he spoke, the hand on her hip glided up and over her arm to touch her own. She couldn’t talk in the face of his bluntness. “I asked you a question, love.”

“Tom,” she said plaintively. “I— I can’t—”

“Do you use your fingers on your clit?” he interrupted coolly, staring at her to await her response. When she nodded, the corner of his mouth twitched. “And inside yourself?” She nodded again. “Good girl. That’s all I wanted to know, sweetheart. I want you to do that tonight before you fall asleep, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her forehead. “Go on, then. Sweet dreams, Hermione.”

She felt like she was dreaming when his hands slowly drifted from her flesh as he sent her on her way. “Goodnight, Tom.”

She laid in bed for long minutes after completing her task, sweaty and panting and staring into darkness as black as his eyes.

It occurred to her just before she fell asleep that she was as firmly in the palm of his hand as she’d even been before.

The OWLs were two long weeks of essay followed by practical back-to-back-to-back. At lunch, she’d commiserate with Draco and the other boys about the written portions, though her complaints and worries were far from, say, Ron’s. And then they'd all face practicals that left them drained of magic and tired to their cores.

After dinner, she would write about the examinations in her journal, imagining Tom at his desk, chuckling over baseless ramblings on what she might not have gotten right, and how maybe she wouldn’t get an Outstanding on the subject of the day. And her last thoughts, as she drifted to sleep, were of his hands on her flesh and lips against her own, of unspoken promises, and plans he'd soon whisper to her in the darkness.

Chapter Text

“Wait, you’re not dropping Care of Magical Creatures, are you?”

Hermione scowled at her redheaded friend as he leaned over her shoulder. “I can’t take every class, you know,” she responded. “I’m already taking on such a heavy class load as it is. Look, assuming I do well enough on the OWLs, I’ll be taking nine NEWTs level courses. Nine,” she repeated. “How many are you taking, Ronald?”

“Er, five,” he muttered, turning pink up to the tips of his ears. “Same as Harry.”

“Five? Let me think. Defense, of course. Potions, since I heard Harry complaining about Professor Snape’s standards. Transfiguration, Charms.” She ticked off each class after a moment of thought, then clicked her tongue. That’s right; Harry wanted to be an Auror like his father— if being a professional Quidditch player didn’t work out. “Herbology? So, you’re not taking Care of Magical Creatures, either.”

“No,” he admitted. “But, er, I had thought you’d want to since my brother is gonna be teaching and everything.”

“Your brother?” She frowned. “Charlie, the draconologist?”

He nodded. “And I know you got along when you met.”

“Oh, well. Is Ginny taking it?” she asked. This was quite the unexpected happening. She had liked Charlie. He was friendly, funny, and strong. He had a stockier build, and the thickest arms among any of the Weasleys she’d met. 

Ron shrugged. “Are you still assisting Riddle next year?”

“ Professor Riddle,” she corrected, although she felt a touch hypocritical considering she called him Tom when they were alone. “And yes.”

“You spend more time with him than you do with us.”

This was Harry. When he’d sat down, she didn’t know. 

“I do not,” she said.

He nudged her with an elbow. “Do, too. I’m gonna get jealous if you keep that up. Will you be studying under him after you graduate, too?”

“Of course not. I’ll have work to do.” She nudged him back. “We have two more years at Hogwarts, Harry. I have to get everything I can out of my education.”

“I daresay you’re ready to pass your NEWTs right now,” Harry said. He leaned against her and favored her with one of his lopsided smiles. “You already know everything. You’re just staying to keep us in line.”

She sighed. “You’ve figured me out.”

“I’m gonna miss you. You should come out to Godric’s Hollow for a week. Ron visits every summer, and I usually go to the Burrow for a week or so,” he said. “I know you can’t visit the Weasleys, or Mr. Malfoy would have conniptions, but he doesn’t hate my family that much.”

“No, but your god father is a menace,” she retorted. She’d never met him, but the letters and stories were enough to go by. 

“You mean he’s amazing,” was the counter. “And he would love to meet you. C’mon, at least ask. You can bring the badger, too.”

The badger, Hermione’s pet Hufflepuff, Draco. It was said teasingly, of course. They had no problems with Draco by now, well, except minor tiffs on occasion. 

“We’ll see. Perhaps Narcissa will be amenable.”

Summers were always hard, not only for the loss of her beloved school, but also because she would go back to having only Draco for company. She loved seeing Lady Narcissa, having access to the Malfoy library, the beautiful grounds, but…

Malfoy Manor had never been home in all the ten years she’d been the family ward. Hogwarts was home. 

She thought on this while she prepared to go back. A few days of packing and organization, meetings and checking off boxes for the end of the school year. 

As always, her last stop was at Professor Riddle’s office.

He opened the door, perfect smile shining down on her. “Come in, dearest.” Tom gestured for her to sit with him on a conjured sofa. “I knew you’d be coming soon.”

“Oh.” It was nice to curl up beside him. He laid an arm across her shoulders and tugged her into his side. 

When she was younger, Hermione would sometimes cuddle with her parents and, later, with Draco. She always overheated at some point, but it didn’t feel like that with Tom. He had body heat, but it was nothing compared to a young boy. It certainly wasn’t enough to make her want to pull away.

“I’m glad. It pleases me that you seek me out.” He tilted her chin up and brushed his lips across her own. “You are such a wonderful girl, my dear. You’ll write me, yes?”

“In the journal?” Hermione breathed in his air and exhaled her own into him through the bare space between them. “Of course. Every night.”

He studied her with those hard eyes. “If you don’t, I’ll have to punish you.”

“Punish me?” she repeated.

“Mm, yes. I can’t encourage disobedience. Don’t worry, love. I wouldn’t hurt you.” He laid his cheek against hers to speak into her ear. “It’s only to help you continue being good for me. You want to be good for me, don’t you, Hermione?”

The liquid chocolate of his voice tingled across her sensitive skin and melted into her stomach. “Yes, Tom.”

“Wonderful.”

He pulled her head against his chest and for long moments she listened to the rhythmic thumping of his heart. It was slow, much slower than she would have thought even for a young, healthy man, and perfectly steady. Soothing.

With one hand on the back of her head, the other was free to roam. At first it did nothing more than hold her own. Eventually it trailed across her arm, mapped out her cheek, played along her collarbone through her blouse, and finally laid upon her thigh. 

“You’ll tell me immediately if Lucius Malfoy does anything,” he said.

She nodded, enjoying the way he stroked and soothed her.

“I’m serious, sweetheart.” He lifted her head so he could peer into her warm amber eyes. “If he touches you, if he crosses a line either sexually or in discipline, you will immediately inform me.”

“How?”

Tom’s hand squeezed her thigh. “The journal. I know when you write in it, Hermione. If he does anything, you go straight to your room and write in your journal. Or, even better, don’t go anywhere without it.”

She nodded solemnly. “I won’t. I’ll take it everywhere, Tom.”

“You are such a good girl, Hermione.” The fingers at the back of her head carded through to stroke her neck. “You know, when I was a lad, I never thought there could come a girl intelligent enough to be worth more than a quick shag. Oh, don’t grimace, darling. I’m just being honest. 

“There were some intelligent young women over the years. Your Potter friend’s mother, Lily Evans, was quite bright. Narcissa was lovely, too, of course. But neither of them could hold a candle to your brilliance. And to how beautifully malleable you are.”

She watched his face as he spoke, his unreadable eyes and soft lips, wondering where he was going with this.

“Malleability is so important, you know. How many muggleborns do you suppose flourish as you do, even in circumstances where they are not free to be themselves? Yet you managed to capture the attention of the Malfoy family when you were only six years old. Beautiful, intelligent Hermione. How did you manage such a feat?”

“I—” She frowned, unsure of how to answer. It had been so long ago.

“Go on, love.”

“Draco came into the library at the Institution and we started talking about books.” Hermione could tell he wanted more by how his midnight eyes stared into her. “I think I was reading about magical beasts and myths from the muggle world, comparing them.” She didn’t forget much, so Hermione knew that’s exactly what she was doing. “Draco and I started talking, and then I told him about the others— Dean Thomas was there, you know, and Justin Finch-Fetchly. He didn’t think they were interesting, but he liked me. He liked that I was smart, and thought it might be good for him, so he asked for me.”

“He asked for you, like a puppy?”

Her cheeks burned scarlet. “Well, he didn’t know any better. He was only six.”

“What did his parents think of him choosing a girl as a companion?” 

“They asked if he wouldn’t rather have a boy, but he said I was smart, and that made me the best. Malfoys only get the best, after all. And Lord Malfoy asked me if I was resilient.” She remembered staring up at the severely handsome man with eyes as sharp as glass. She remembered thinking that she should be scared, but she had never had problems with adults, only other children. Draco was somewhat of an exception. In time, Harry and Ron had warmed to her primness.

Tom brought her back to the present, asking, “And what did you say?”

“I told him I was, and that was that.”

“Do you regret that decision?” It was so quiet, like the touch of his lips as they’d skimmed her own before.

“How could I, living the way I do now? Draco is incredible, and Lady Narcissa has always been kind. So, what if I’ve endured a little pain on the way? I don’t think it’d have been better had I stayed.” 

He stroked through her curls and stated proudly, “You are truly extraordinary, Hermione. I see why you were placed in Gryffindor, you fiery little creature.”

She blushed. “I hate that I have such a desire to prove myself worthy.” Her voice softened with the admission. “I know it’s a weakness, and that I cannot change the minds of others just by being better , but it’s something I’ve always struggled with.”

“It isn’t weakness, my dear. It’s merely the urge to make them acknowledge you, the true you. You are worthy. You are so much more than all of them, and they are just too blind and scared to open their eyes and face it. I wouldn’t have chosen to elevate you if I did not see greatness there. You are second to none among those who clamor for my attentions. Regardless of blood status, you are better and worthy, and you will be by my side as we reshape the world to our vision.”

He was always so beautiful like this, when passion and ambition dripped from his silver tongue. Praise was a vein of molten gold that had her melting against him, while her eyes remained wide and focused on his visage and her ears attuned only to his words. He was all-encompassing, and if she didn’t know better, she’d be tempted to think it was spellcraft.

But Tom didn’t need to use a charm or a potion to have her fall for him.

She had fallen long ago of her own accord.

He sighed, suddenly wistful. “It’s late, love. You should get to bed.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I know.” He cupped her cheek and drew her to hover over his lap. “However, we cannot have you getting in trouble for staying out too late. Nor should we draw attention to our relationship.”

She breathed in his scent and nodded, leaning closer still.

“So be my good girl and go back to your dormitory.” His lips pressed to hers at the last, and she groaned and fell against him. 

Warm, she was so warm, and her skin was tight and sensitive. She wanted to part her legs, to sit properly on his lap, wanted to feel his body against hers, lay her skin on his own—

His mouth parted from hers with a masculine chuckle. “As much as I’m enjoying this, we shall have to continue another time.” Tom stroked her cheek one last time. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

“Goodnight, Tom.” She didn’t know if the desperate whisper of her words was audible but let them lie all the same. It seemed he had stolen the breath for more, and she was left panting on her trek across the castle.

Chapter Text

The holiday wasn’t so bad, she thought. She saw the lord of manor maybe twice a week, always at meals, and always because he would be dragging Draco off somewhere before, or had brought him back from a meeting or the like.

It seemed he was finally getting on teaching his son everything needed to eventually take over the family affairs.

Narcissa was glad. Hermione knew the rift between father and son worried her, and the woman could have no other heirs for the man she’d married. Draco was the only Malfoy heir unless Lucius did the unthinkable and cast her aside.

Divorce was rare in the wizarding world, and nearly unheard of among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but a house scion would do almost anything to ensure the continuance of their line.

Had she worried Lucius would sire a child on a mistress? That was another rarity, but slightly more common than divorce. The child of such a union could be acknowledged if the father so chose. 

Hermione didn’t lie to herself by imagining the lord was perfectly faithful to his wife, not even before she’d overheard Tom and that awful woman whispering the night of the gala, though infidelity with his sister-in-law was especially repulsive to her youthful sensitivities. Mistresses were an unfortunate part of the heavily patriarchal system.

“If a man is to have a mistress, it is best he does it properly,” Narcissa told her when they discussed such things.

“There’s a proper way?”

The woman smiled sardonically and sipped her tea. “Oh, yes. There’s a proper way for almost everything under the sun.”

She nodded and waited for her guardian to continue. This was a lesson, she could feel it, and she sat straighter and folded her hands to indicate her full attention.

“If a man takes a mistress, it is imperative he keep his wife satisfied. She must not feel neglected. Moreover, the mistress should not attend any events where a wife is the appropriate partner.”

Did this mean there were events where the mistress would be the proper partner? That was… odd. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase ‘kept woman’ used for mistresses?” Hermione nodded and Narcissa continued, “That’s an important aspect. You see, a man should only take a mistress if he is affluent enough to provide for her. After all, being a mistress is damaging to one’s own marriage prospects. She risks everything by laying with a married man, while the man will be forgiven by society the moment he turns away.

“Thus, having both a satisfied wife and a well-kept mistress is a sign of prestige when it is done correctly. The two should never meet, even if they are aware of one another.” Narcissa paused to allow the lesson to sink in. “However, an affair is an entirely different matter.”

“How is that?” the girl asked, unable to help herself.

“You see, Hermione, an affair occurs when a married woman takes up with a man who is not her husband. There is rarely forgiveness from society if that comes to light. The only way to handle the situation is to keep it in complete secrecy.”

She frowned. “So if a married man and a married woman are caught with someone not their partner, the woman is the only one who pays?”

“The man will undoubtedly lose face as well, but not to the same extent, no.”

“But that’s unfair,” she protested.

“Indeed it is, but that is the way of society,” Narcissa conceded.

“Is there no equivalent for the mistress when it comes to women?” she asked after a moment.

“Well,” the lady murmured, a sly curve coming to her lips. “When widowed, it is a woman’s prerogative to have as many lovers as she wishes. After all, she has played the dutiful wife to its natural end. She has earned her freedom.”

“I think,” Hermione said after a brief deliberation, “that I’d rather be a widow than a wife or mistress.”

Narcissa’s laughter was beautifully melodious. “Unfortunately, one must come before the other.”

They sipped from their respective cups as the topic unfurled to its fullest in their minds.

“I tell you this, my dear, because of your particular place in society. You are lovely, and intelligent, and will fascinate many men. Of those men, you will have offers to become a mistress. Even should you find a man desirable enough for a relationship, he might be disinclined to publicly wed you. In that case, should you choose to be with him, it’s imperative you take full advantage of the system that provides a mistress protection.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Narcissa raised a hand to keep her silent.

“You may fall in love and be unable to wed because of his family, for instance. Do not judge the circumstances, darling, just accept the possibility. Now, in the case you choose to be a mistress, you should insist on certain things.

“The first is a home of your own. You should not be kept in his vacation home in France or some such. The moment he sets you aside, you’d be homeless. No, if he is affluent enough to properly keep a mistress, he should provide you with property of your own you can inhabit in case of the worst.

“Secondly, you should procure from him an allowance. If he wants you to look pretty for him, he should be willing to keep you dressed and pampered. After all, should the relationship end, it is far more likely you will be a mistress again rather than affianced.

“And thirdly, you should acquire a means of gaining independent income, so that you will not be left destitute if your reputation is ruined and you are untouchable.”

“That’s all… a lot,” Hermione murmured.

“Yes.” Narcissa laid a hand over the one she had on the table. “But I wish to prepare you for any eventuality. I want you to have options, dear. And know that, whatever your choices, you may always call on me. I am here for you, and I suspect Draco will feel much the same. I can only hope his eventual wife is understanding of the unique friendship the two of you share.”

She was genuinely touched by the kindness of this lesson and Narcissa’s words, and turned her palm up to squeeze the perfectly manicured hand against her own. “I will do my best to make you proud, Lady Narcissa.”

The older woman waved her off. “I do wish you’d dispense with the title, Hermione. ‘Lord and ‘Lady’ is outdated as it is in these modern times. Narcissa is fine, or even Cissa or Cissy. After all, you—”

“Well, isn’t this cozy.”

Her heart dropped from where it had buoyed in her chest and back to its proper place, if not lower. Of course, Lucius Malfoy would walk in on them while they were having a heart-to-heart.

“Lucius, darling, welcome home” The willowy woman rose to exchange a greeting kiss with her spouse. “Hermione and I were just having girl talk.”

His cool gaze struck roved from his wife to his ward. “So I see. Miss Granger.”

He’s taken to calling her that more often, especially whenever it wasn’t just the pair of them speaking, which was so rare as it was.

“Lord Lucius,” she rescinded in kind.

Narcissa huffed. “Oh, the pair of you. Ridiculous. Lucius, you have known Hermione since she was a small child. Surely, you can use her first name. And Hermione needn’t use such an official title. It’s so old fashioned.”

“What should she call me then?” He said it playfully, but in the way a knife might play over the flesh in a fight. “Mister Malfoy? No, I suppose that’s too distant in the house. Perhaps in public. But not while at home, certainly. Master Lucius?” His eyes shone as he smirked at his wife.

“Do stop with your teasing, my love. Hermione is not a house elf.”

Her cheeks had begun burning the moment the word left his lips, the same thought Narcissa voiced passing through her. She was human, a witch. Not only that, but she’d always found the subservience of house elves vaguely off-putting, though she understood there was a deep connection between the elves and the wizarding families they served that she didn’t fully understand.

It was humiliating, and the gleam in his eyes made her suspect he was aware of the impact of his statement.

“Well,” he said after a beat passed. “If Hermione is comfortable calling me by name, then I suppose it’s harmless enough.”

She swallowed thickly, moisture from her tea evaporating into her frayed nerves. Comfortable, she most certainly was not. 

But Narcissa seemed pleased her husband made the concession, so she smiled and nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I am going to the library. Good afternoon.”

Lucius’ eyes followed her until she passed through the hall.

“What were you discussing with my wife earlier?”

She glanced up from her book, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to looking beyond the near pages. Lucius Malfoy leaned against a shelf, staring at her with a pale intensity better suited to a leopard than a serpent.

“It was nothing, my lord,” she murmured softly.

Lucius tutted and stalked closer, the click of his cane an ominous accompaniment to his footsteps. “You’re supposed to call me Lucius now, Hermione. Or did you forget that?”

“R-right.” Had her cheeks ever been so hot?

The cacophonous stuttering of a chair being pulled out catty-corner to her own snapped her from her mortification. Lucius was sliding into the seat near her. “Of course, I understand it’s quite difficult to be so familiar with your lord and master. You’ve served my family for a decade, and unlike my family, I have kept an appropriate distance.”

She laid the book on the table and smoothed her hands over the extended page. Her heart beat rapidly and heavily in her throat, and she didn’t know what she was supposed to say.

“If you are more comfortable calling me master, I would not mind. After all, that’s the term human servants use, as well. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir,” she said at last, hoping that was suitably polite.

Lucius hummed. “I think I’d like to hear it.” Her eyes widened to amber saucers. “That way we can ascertain the appropriateness. Here, between the two of us.”

She swallowed and licked her lips nervously, wondering if he was serious even though she knew the answer. “M-master Malfoy—”

“Lucius, pet.” The endearment was more of an insult, a reminder of her place. “After all, my son shares the same surname. Let us be specific, shall we? Now, again.”

The order left no room for disobedience, but she struggled to keep still beneath the ice of his gaze.

“Master Lucius.”

He regarded her for a moment, tilting his head as he considered the epithet, then nodded. “Not so terrible, is it?”

“No, sir.” She cringed. “No, Master Lucius.” It felt somehow more intimate than calling him lord, but also felt debasing despite the truth that it was what a butler might call the one he served. Like it was an acknowledgement of something she didn’t want to fully know.

“Now, Hermione.” His smile was as sharp as it was saccharine. “If you would kindly inform me as to the discussion between yourself and my wife. I caught something at the end. A conversation about your future options?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s it. N— Lady Narcissa was teaching me about different relationships among the upper classes.”

“Relationships as in husband and wife, or perhaps more servant and master?” She could feel the edge of his curiosity prickling against her.

“Yes, but also…” She didn’t want to say it, but there was no actual harm in the discussion. It was perhaps a bit sexist, and uncomfortable to discuss with an older man much the way discussing her menses might be. But that was all, right? It was just a little embarrassment. “We discussed mistresses.”

His dark brows rose as that, apparently not at all suspecting that particular topic. Thoughtfulness followed surprise, then he nodded. “That was perhaps wise of my wife to teach you. She’d feel it important that you know the treatment of a proper mistress, since I doubt any respectable Pureblood will marry you.” When she began to draw up her shoulders, he added, “You needn’t worry about that. You will remain in service to the Malfoy family.”

A frown flickered across her features as she processed the words. “But once I’ve graduated, I thought—”

“Yes, I’m sure you had many thoughts. However, legislation will soon pass which states mudbloods are to remain wards of their families until and unless such a time as they are released.”

“Well, if I get married and—”

“You’ll need our permission to wed,” he interjected smoothly. “And should you have children out of wedlock and while in our service, they will be similarly retained.”

“But, that’s, that’s ridiculous,” she protested. “Why would the children of a witch—”

“If their mother comes from muggles, then are they not of that same lineage?”

He was so cool about it in the face of her utter disbelief. “Children are not chattel.”

“Oh?” Here, his cruel lips curved upward. “Did we not buy you as such? Really, Hermione, I’d thought you were cleverer than this. You’ve lived in this world for more than a decade, and you’re still surprised that we are endeavoring ways to keep your kind in their place?”

The words struck a chord and indignance marched out. “Narcissa will not—”

“Narcissa is my wife and has no say in the matter.”

“ Draco will—”

Again, his voice cut through her own like a knife through thinnest silk. “Draco is my heir, but he is not yet head of the family. Not for some time, as I am a healthy man and intend to live a long, fruitful life.” His eyes narrowed. “Really, Hermione, I had thought you’d be glad. We will not attempt to wed you off, and you needn’t struggle to find gainful employment. We will find uses for your talents, and you will remain with the Malfoy family.”

“Glad?” she echoed. “I am being told I’m trapped, practically enslaved. What do I care if my needs are met when I’m not free to pursue my own desires?”

Lucius leaned closer. “You should be grateful for the care you’ve received in my household, girl. We have given you every advantage, and will continue to do so, so long as you remain well-behaved to justify the treatment. Do not test my generosity.”

The last was a threat, terrifying in its subtle delivery. She wanted to scoff, but he wouldn’t take that well, and she had no desire for a caning. 

In place of anger she should feel, sorrow lapped at the edges of her vision. “I—”

She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what she could say, not safely.

Tom. She needed to write to Tom.

“May I be excused, my lord?” she said at last. He wave acquiescence, and she fled his presence. 

Chapter Text

Hermione hadn’t written about the conversation just yet.

It had been some days, but she was still puzzling through what Lucius Malfoy had told her. She’d written it all on a parchment to start sorting through her thoughts, and what she might write to her professor, but it was so much. Every time she began, she felt that looming terror just around the bend, ready to overwhelm her. 

Instead she’d written about her day as usual, with a brief paragraph alluding to her conversation with Narcissa.

She hadn’t seen Lucius since.

She prayed she didn’t see him any time soon.

“Hermione, there you are.” She shut the door to her room, jumping slightly when Draco’s voice pierced the silence. “I got a letter from Potter. Why didn’t you tell me he’d invited us to Godric’s Hollow?”

She was confused for a second, until recollection flooded in and she had to laugh at herself. “Oh, that. Yes.” She shrugged and they began walking in-step toward her destination, which was the library, of course. “I probably would have remembered at some point. How did you find out?”

“Father and I ran into Potter and Potter, Senior, at the ministry yesterday. He mentioned you hadn’t answered yet.”

“Oh. Well, what do you think?”

Was she imagining it, or was Draco suddenly taller than the last time they’d walked this hall together?

It was so strange to think on. They’d done this hundreds, if not thousands, of times. She’d been taller when she was six, though he slowly caught up and then surpassed her, and now she felt dwarfed by the breadth and height of his shoulders. 

“I think it could be brilliant, though a week is a bit much. Perhaps a long weekend?” His smile was infectious, and she returned it.

“Do you think your father and mother will allow it?”

He snickered as though amused by a secret. “Allow it? Hermione, father has been trying to gain footing with the Potters for ages. The family didn’t much care until Fleamont Potter took over. He invented Sleekeazy, you know. Then they suddenly had money, and they’d always done well enough in wizarding society, but they weren’t aligned with anyone politically.”

“So because Harry’s family has money as well as an old name, now the Malfoys want an alliance with them?” Wizarding politics was ridiculous.

He shrugged those strong new shoulders. “We have some of the best potioneers in Europe. If the Potters agreed to work with us, we could further develop it, but the recipe is a closely guarded secret held only by the potioneering family Fleamont Potter contracted to go into business originally.”

“I suppose that’s a good point. Still, it’s just one potion.” They reached the library and she laid the books in her arms on the return shelf. They dematerialized to their rightful spots. “Anyway, what does this have to do with us visiting Harry?”

Draco’s small smile grew and opened to show his teeth. “Because father is all-too-happy to have us on good terms with the future head of the Potter family. If I, as his son, become friends with Harry, the future Potter leader, that will bode well for future endeavors. So he agreed without question.”

Hermione laughed, a clear and happy sound. The idea of visiting her friends, of getting out of this stuffy manor (which was actually quite palatial and lovely) was perfect. Just the respite she needed. “When do we go?”

“Write Potter and ask.”

“Oh, because I’m your servant now?” she quipped, then realized how it may have sounded, and she didn’t want to make Draco feel guilty or—

“More like my boss,” he retorted. “I would never dare to set a date without your knowledge, or you might hex me.”

“Too right. I’ll send him an owl.” Hermione slid into her usual seat and accio’d parchment, quill and ink. Her handwriting was small, neat, and pretty enough for femininity without enough flare to make it obnoxious. After a decade, she was adept at scribing without splotching ink across her letters and ruining legibility. Still, a part of her mourned the wizarding world’s refusal to use proper pens.

It was the work of a few minutes to compose a proper message, complete with pleasantries and a few friendly words, before asking him where welcome and the details they might need to know ahead of time. She took it straight away to the owlery and had the little charcoal bird that was her personal favorite carry it out the window.

Response arrived within a few hours, and Hermione suppressed a giggle at the urgency Harry had felt to give reply.

Hermione,

Come Thursday and stay as long as you like. Come tomorrow, if you really want. 

You should be able to Floo straight to our place— Potter House, Godric’s Hollow. Dad set it up to receive from Malfoy Manor, which he’s been grumbling about since hols started, btw. Don’t mind him. He’s happy to have you, and I think he even likes Draco.

Don’t tell him I said that.

Either of them.

Anyway, you’re welcome to bring the badger, but you are always good to come on your own. Any day, any time. For any reason.

Can’t wait!

Sincerely,

Harry

It was such a ridiculous, perfectly Harry letter. Hermione held it to her chest, fondness easing the tension she’d felt since returning to the manor. 

She would count the hours until she could see him.

It was good that Thursday was only a few days away, or she’d have gone mad from anticipation. By the morning of, she was downstairs with her trunk and ready to go before Draco had finished his morning tea.

“You’re so anxious,” he commented. “It’s ridiculous. You know the Floo isn’t going anywhere, right?”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m excited. Why are you taking forever?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Forgive me for wanting to take my time while we are on holiday from school, and father is allowing me to take a break from shadowing his every move.”

“Yes, yes, the life of the Malfoy heir is so tiring,” she lamented mockingly.

“Woe is me.” Draco laid the back of his empty hand against his forehead. “To see what I have seen—”

“To see what I see,” she finished with him, before both laughed.

After what felt like an hour, but was ten minutes at most, Draco set aside his cup and rose to his feet. While Hermione tapped her foot anxiously against the marble floor, her near-brother stretched heaven-ward to let his joints pop and loosen, palmed either side of his neck in a mini-massage, and took a deep, centering breath. “Well, I suppose that’s it, then.”

“Where is your mother?” she asked as they finally set out for the drawing room.

“Awaiting us by the fireplace.”

The woman stood with a grace even the white peacocks of the garden couldn’t match. Her long hair was loose and her pale blue eyes were kind as she smiled at the teens. “I only get you both twice a year, and for such a short period, and now you’re both leaving me to see school friends.” She sighed, but then gave a musical laugh. “Oh, to be young again.”

Hermione stepped into her embrace and Narcissa placed a soft kiss to her cheek. “Be well, my dear. Have fun with your friends, but mind those boys keep their manners.”

“I will, Narcissa. Thank you.” There was warmth between them at casual use of the woman’s name.

Then the slender woman turned to her son, and her arms coiled more tightly, laid her head against his. He was taller than she was now, though only by an inch or two. It made her seem more frail than Hermione was used to, and she watched on with all the reticence of an outsider.

Narcissa murmured to her son, bent his head to kiss his crown, and stepped away, surveying the pair with that wistful, loving smile.

Hermione nodded and reached for the ceramic that held sooty powder, tossed a handful into the flames, and said surely, “Potter House, Godric’s Hollow,” and stepped into an emerald fire.

The nauseating dizziness of Floo travel ended in her stumbling out of the flames and into the chest of—

A stranger.

Hermione jolted back with a suppressed shriek. The man frowned, but allowed space to grow between them.

He was older, perhaps around Mr. and Mrs. Potters’ age, and handsome in a rather scruffy way, with facial hair between just unshaven and a short beard, and long black hair tied in a low ponytail. His eyes were almost familiar, grey, and he was on the tall side. 

“You must be Hermione.”

She frowned and was about to speak when the fire flared green and Draco stepped through. He glanced between the unknown man and Hermione and said, “Er, Hello.”

The man turned those grey eyes toward her friend. “No question about you being Draco. You’re the spitting image of Narcissa. Well, if she were a boy.”

That cinched it for her. “Sirius Black?”

The man favored her with a bright grin. “That I am, sweetheart. Welcome, both of you. Harry’s still in bed, but he’ll be up soon. Ron and his brothers are out back.”

“Ronald’s here?” She glanced around the room before snapping back toward Sirius. “Which brothers?”

The man ran a hand over the top of his hand to smooth back errant strands. “All of them, I think. Or most. Not that, that prissy one, what’s’s name—”

“Percy,” she provided.

“Yeh, Percy. Not him. The rest’re out there playing a pick-up game of Quidditch.”

Draco tutted. “And no one to meet their guests?”

“Why d’you think I haven’t gone out yet? I had to stay and greet the Hermione Granger and her pet badger Malfoy.”

“What— pet? I am not a pet, I’m her friend,” the teen argued while she gazed on, laughing.

“I dunno, the way you follow her around,” said Sirius, “it seems you might be a puppy and not a badger.”

“Watch what you’re saying, old man. You don’t know—”

Sirius began to chuckle which soon became a full-throated laugh. “We’re cousin, you git. Ah, but you are most definitely your mother’s son. How is Cissy, these days? I haven’t seen her in a dog’s age.”

Draco was many things all at once, from what she could read in his features. He was perturbed, amused, confused, irritated, and— then he started laughing, too. “Mother’s fine. So, you’re the Gryffindor Black?”

“That I am. Let me show you to your rooms. Come along, then.” He gestured them both toward the stairs and up to the second floor.

The Potter house was nowhere near manor size, but it apparently held a suite for the man and woman of the house (the only bedroom on the first floor), a room for both their son and daughter, and three guest rooms. Sirius has the attic outfitted all for him. 

“You will be staying in this room, Hermione, all on your own. Harry tried to say the two of you could share a room, but Lils nearly had conniptions at the thought.”

The pair exchanged glances. While they would probably be fine sharing space, it would be awkward, as they had never done more than nap together. They were both immensely grateful for Lily Potter’s intervention. 

“And Draco, lad, you’ll be here. There is a shared bathroom between the two, this door right here. I’m sure you can manage, yeh?” the man asked.

“We’ll be fine, Mr. Black, thank you,” she said.

Sirius staggered, hand flying to his chest as though cursed. “Ooof. For Merlin’s sake, Hermione, don’t call me that. It’s Sirius. Just Sirius. This is not a laughing matter.”

And at the ridiculous pun he’d made of his name, Hermione giggled. “Sirius, then.”

“I will leave the two of you to get comfortable, and you may find me outside.”

They watched him walk away and then Draco shook his head. “Mother said he was a terrible lech growing up. Watch yourself, Hermione.”

“Please, Draco. He’s harmless. And kind of funny.”

He rolled his eyes. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he droned, and went into his temporary room.

It only took a few minutes for Hermione to get a feel for the little place and put her things away for ease of use, then she and her little purse were out in the hall to meet Draco.

“Are you ready to face a hoard of Weasleys?” he asked her.

“No, but let’s do it anyway.”

Charlie, Fred (or George— but he was wearing his Christmas sweater, which bore a large F), and Ron were on one team while George (or Fred, but he was in his matching sweater with its bright G), Bill, and Sirius were on the other. What they’d done before Sirius joined in, she didn’t know. She’d honestly expected Ginny to be in attendance, but the girl’s omission wasn’t an oversight.

The group landed at the appearance of the new guests.

“Blimey, it’s good to see you.” Ron wrapped her in a rough hug, then exchanged one of those strange male greetings that wasn’t quite an embrace with Draco.

Left hands landed on her shoulders and tugged her backwards. “What about us?” asked one twin.

“We missed you, too,” said the other.

She laughed and threw an arm around each. “Fred, George. It’s good to see you both.” It seemed, though it was almost impossible to be one hundred percent certain, they were wearing the correct sweaters this time.

“You’ve grown up a bit since I last saw you.” 

Her face flushed red as she turned toward the curse breaker.

He and Charlie were the Weasleys who were closest, other than the twins, and the ones she knew the least, though they were like two sides of the same coin. 

Bill was the tallest of the entire family, perhaps Tom’s height, maybe taller. And he was lean, but had muscle cording his tanned skin. His red hair was long and pulled back, and his bright blue eyes mirrored the sky. He was entirely too handsome, in trousers and a button down that was half undone— the sleeves rolled to show strong forearms. 

Charlie was the shortest brother now that Ron had caught up, stockier, but also strong and tanned. His hair was longer, shaggy, and just barely too short to pull back like his brother’s. He had stripped off his shirt entirely, used to far cooler weather than they had at the moment.

“Hello,” she said timidly. And wanted to kick herself. 

Why, she lamented, did the oldest Weasleys make her feel so awkward and warm and squirmy? It was unfair. “I hear you’re teaching at Hogwarts next year, Charlie.”

“And I hear only my little sister is going to attend my classes, alas.” He grinned to belie the words. “I understand you’re taking practically every other class, though.”

“Nine is hardly all of them,” she countered.

Bill and Charlie exchanged surprised expressions. “Nine,” the elder repeated. “That’s twice as many as a typical class load.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I managed eleven until now.”

“I think you’re the most terrifying girl I’ve ever met,” said Bill, and she nearly choked on her laughter.

“Because I like school?”

“Because you’re too brilliant, and have too much will power to be an ordinary human being,” was his answer.

She flushed hotly. “I— I just like studying.”

“Do you? I couldn’t tell, what with all the books you carry everywhere. Say, how many are you hiding in your little bag there?”

The fact that he’d called her out on her enchanted purse just furthered her embarrassment. It wasn’t the same sort Lucius Malfoy made her feel, which was shameful and lowly, but instead one that bubbled up like laughter and made her feel a little like she might be flying, and perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all.

“Oi. Stop teasing the poor girl and get back on your broom, you flirt.” Charlie elbowed his brother and nodded toward the others, who were mounting their own brooms.

Draco had taken Sirius’ to join as the third member of Bill’s little team. She settled on a little bench under the shade of an enormous tree to watch. 

Chapter Text

Harry eventually joined in, and then Sirius had to play again to even out the numbers. Hermione didn’t mind, though she’d enjoyed her conversation with the older man. He was funny and kind and treated her like a human being.

That shouldn’t have surprised her, considering he lived with a muggleborn witch. It was just so odd to meet with a Black who didn’t care about blood status.

Odd was good.

Lily and James Potter (“Please drop the stuffy titles, dear. You’re respectful enough,” Lily Potter had insisted) returned early in the afternoon, not at all put off by a barrel of Weasleys and two newcomers.

Violet, it seemed, was visiting with the Tonks family for the weekend. They positively doted on the little girl. Hermione didn’t blame them, since she was a darling.

“It’s good to see you,” Lily said. “Are you doing alright?”

She set the silverware in their appropriate spots as the older woman set down cups. They’d had to extend the table to fit all the guests, but it was a simple matter for the Potters.

“Yes,” Hermione answered. “As well as I can be, while waiting for my OWLs results.”

The redhead’s laugh tinkled like chimes. “Oh, I remember that anxiety all too well. I’m sure you performed spectacularly.” Hermione blushed. “No, I meant about your situation.”

She paused and her eyes flicked to study the woman. “Oh. You mean, with the Malfoys?”

“Yes. Harry told me about New Year's Eve. He was concerned about your future.” 

Lily spoke in a respectful hush that allowed for a certain intimacy between the pair of muggleborns. There was no doubt about her meaning now, but Hermione was grateful nonetheless for her tact.

“He did?” she murmured shyly. “Hm. I really am fine.”

“I know how difficult it is. Few understand the restrictions society places on those of our birth, and the reality of living with it. I was fortunate to find my way, but you are still navigating in an increasingly volatile world.” She sighed and clasped her now-empty hands. “I fell in love with James long before I married him, but I know that not everyone has the luxury of marrying for love.”

“So, Harry told you about his offer?”

The woman nodded. “I thought it was very sweet of him. He’s always been a kind boy, despite inheriting his father’s humor.”

“I wouldn’t ask that from him,” Hermione assured. “I’d never want him to do something for me at his own expense.”

“Is that what you think? Oh, darling, it’s not like that at all. You and Harry would be a fine match, and I’ve no doubt that was the most important factor of it all.” 

She lifted a brow at Lily Potter’s twinkling emerald gaze. “We’re friends, yes, but that doesn’t necessarily make for glad romantic tidings.”

“The potential is there,” the woman countered. “He was blushing when he told me how lovely you looked, and about dancing with you at the party. “

Her own cheeks heated at this information. “Yes, but that’s not to say… I’ve never thought about him that way, so—”

“You should,” Lily responded. “You should think about it. You might be surprised to find there’s something there. If not, a marriage between two friends is hardly the worst possibility.”

“I don’t think Lord Lucius would allow it.” Considering her last conversation with the man, she was sure he’d resent anyone asking.

Then again, Draco said they wanted to ally with the Potter family, so…

She didn’t want to use her friendships this way, so she shook that line of thought free.

“Well, we can always try,” Lily said with a slight smile. But she seemed to understand this was a natural place to stop.

Dinner was quite the affair, with five Weasley brothers, Harry, Draco, Sirius, the Potter parents, and herself. Harry and Draco were on either side of her, while Ron, flanked by his oldest brother and George, was directly across. It made talking with her best friends much easier.

“Why didn’t Ginny come?” she asked when everyone had settled down a bit.

The Weasleys stilled and exchanged gazes between themselves and Harry.

“Er, well,” Harry dissimulated awkwardly. “She just didn’t, er, feel up for it.”

“Harry turned her down,” said George. 

Fred nodded solemnly. “Broke her heart, he did, the little git.”

She frowned. Harry had harbored a slight crush on the girl for years. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged.

“We think it’s because of someone else,” the first twin confided, leaning over the table to speak in a false hush. 

“A right Cassanova, our Harry.”

“Just like his father,” George added to his brother’s comment.

She clicked her tongue at their antics, which were setting Harry’s cheeks aflame with every new comment. “No, really.” She turned the full brunt of her magnifying amber gaze upon him expectantly.

He ran a hand through hair eternally in disarray., his expression almost guilty as he tried to meet her eyes. “I didn’t think it was appropriate.”

“Not appropriate? Because you and Ron are best mates?” she guessed.

He shook his head. “No, because of—” the green narrowed pointedly as he hinted, and that was enough, especially paired with her recent conversation with Lily. 

“That’s exactly the reason I didn’t want to—” realizing that everyone was tuned into the little back and forth, Hermione grimaced and cut herself off. “That’s foolish, Harry Potter. If you like her, and she likes you, you should just go out with her.”

“I’m not gonna do that to her. Maybe if things change, but right now I want to keep things simple.”

There was so much unsaid between them, and it made her heart ache to think two of her friends were suffering because Harry wanted to keep single in case she agreed to marry him.

She chuckled bitterly, but let the topic go. 

She sat in her guest room, her feet dangling over the floor, long after the extraneous Weasleys had Floo’d home. It was time to sleep, but she felt antsy.

And she wasn’t the only one.

A sharp knock drew her attention, and she sounded permission for whoever it was to enter only to find all three boys slinking through the door.

“I thought we should all talk,” Harry said after a poignant silence.

Hermione nodded and scooted to allow more room to sit. Harry sat beside her, Ron taking a seat on the floor with his elbows on his knees, and Draco in a chair he pulled close.

“So, you all talked about it, too?” she asked.

Ron and Harry shrugged at one another. “Ron ‘n’ I did,” Harry replied. “A little, anyway. And then you know you and Draco and I had words on the Express. I thought maybe we should all just get it out in the open between us.”

“That’s probably a good idea.” She rolled her lip through her teeth and wondered how to start. “Well, I suppose it’s sort of an open secret now, but Narcissa has been laying the work to find me a husband.” She huffed. “Or maybe get a decent job.”

The boys all nodded.

“And Harry offered to, I guess, take on the mantle.”

The boy cringed. "You make it sound so… sterile.”

“You told me you’d marry me to appease Narcissa Malfoy,” she pointed out.

“No, I said I’d marry you so we can work together for the future,” he countered. “As partners. Not as— as friends or associates or something.”

“Is there a difference?” she asked. “It’d still be a marriage of convenience, yes?”

He gaped at her, turned to the other two as though to ask for help, then shook his head. “That’s not at all what I meant. I meant that, well, we’d do alright together. Married. A real marriage, just one based on friendship first, and similar values.”

She barked out a laugh, then covered her mouth in embarrassment.

“I meant it,” he stressed. “Good marriages have been built on less.”

“You’ve never had a crush on me like you have on Gin or Cho—”

“Because you’ve always been one of my best mates, but I’d be a fool not to see it could happen if we let it.”

“Harry, you’d be giving up on a marriage like your parents—”

“— No, that’s exactly the point. It’d be like theirs, but better, because they weren’t friends until they were much older. Dad just had it down bad for mum.”

“Harry, please.”

He took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “You’re ridiculous if you don’t realize what I’m trying to do here, Hermione. I’m not trying to limit my future at all. I’m—”

“You’re giving up your future happiness for—”

“I’m trying to build a future with you !”

Hermione fell silent at the explosive tone. He was so serious, with those great green eyes brightened in frustration, his cheeks red from embarrassment or anger or some combination thereof. She peered at Ron, whose face was set in determination laced with sorrow, and Draco, who would seem untouched to anyone else.

She read everything in those winter-sky eyes. 

She sighed and cupped her face in her palms until her heartbeat slowed again. “I don’t think it’ll be possible, anyway.”

“Why?” Harry’s voice cracked at the end of the word.

“Because Lord Lucius won’t let me leave the family.”

Draco blinked rapidly as though trying to catch up. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“I mean,” she started, before hesitating over her choice of words. “He told me legislation will soon pass that makes muggleborn wards the property of their guardians until such a point where they are released, extending even to their progeny.”

“That’s ridiculous—” Draco.

“He’s barmy—” Ron.

“No bloody way—” Harry.

“And he said that I will remain with the Malfoy family indefinitely.”

Harry shook his head again. “There’s no way. Dad would’ve told me about that. He would’ve told mum about it, and after my talk with her, she—”

“Yeah, there’s no way,” agreed Ron. “No way would everyone just accept that.”

Draco became ponderous and indrawn for a moment, letting the other two have their explosive Gryffindor reactions.

“Actually.” The three lions turned toward him. “I think— Father has been reticent to allow me in some meetings but based on what I’ve heard…” Horror and sadness battled in him. “I think she’s right.”

She waved a hand. “There you have it.”

“Those laws can take years to enforce, Hermione. You’ll be of age soon,” Harry pointed out. “September. I doubt it’ll be that quick.”

“Shit.” Draco’s curse drew their attention again. “The school clause, remember? Hermione is under Malfoy purview until she graduates from Hogwarts.”

He and Harry seemed as though they were having a silent exchange as they stared into one another. “I’ll talk to dad. We need— we need a plan. Hermione?”

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked incredulously.

“You’re the planner.” This was from Ron, who had long relied on her study schedules and reminders.

Her eyes narrowed on the redhead. “You’re the strategist. What do you suggest?”

Pink dusted from one ear, across his cheeks, and to the tip of the other. “Me?” His voice climbed the word. “I— I don’t know. How would I know?”

“She’s got a point, Weasel,” said Draco. “You’re always beating us at chess.”

“Yeah, but that’s pieces on a board,” he responded.

Draco shrugged. “Still a sign of a strategic mind.”

She laughed at the unlikely pair, and how readily Draco admitted to the other’s intelligence when it could be used to their benefit. He was a Slytherin, even if he’d asked to go elsewhere.

It struck her then just how odd it was that Slytherins looked down on Hufflepuffs. Sure, they weren’t large and fearsome, but what Slytherins always seemed to forget was that badgers eat snakes.

Chapter Text

Hermione was nervous when they returned to the manor without a fleshed-out plan. 

It was good that the four of them were talking openly now, and that they all seemed more concerned with the overarching issue of muggleborn oppression than their individual interests, and even then, Hermione was at the forefront of their personal worries. However, it was disheartening to come up so empty with alternatives.

Before the weekend came to a close, even Ron had agreed marrying Harry might be the best course of action. The admission turned his face a smidge green.

It was fortunate that Lucius was a rare sight in the manor, and she spent nearly the whole summer holiday easily avoiding him. 

If only her streak of luck had continued.

“Do you sleep in the library these days?”

His cool voice lifted her from the world of arithmantic equations, numbers leaving her dizzy and out of context. Hermione blinked rapidly to shake the numbers from her head, then focused on the sounds that’d extricated her.

“No, my lord. I just— I’m studying.”

“Studying,” Lucius repeated as he approached her little table. The click-and-step rhythm of his steps encouraged her heartbeat to pick up until it was racing when he stared down at her. “Studying. Always studying. And yet, you seem to retain so little. ”

The word cut as much as his silver gaze, and she reeled through to figure out why. “M-my lord?”

“Tut tut, Hermione. I thought we’d decided to put to rest that old title.”

Her cheeks flared. Ah, she remembered now. It had been so humiliating that she’d chosen to default to the older, familiar ways. “Sorry,” she murmured.

“‘Sorry,’ what? Who ?” he queried as he leaned against the shelf beside her.

“S-sorry, Master Lucius.” The words were hardly a whisper.

Had he been a cat with cream, he couldn’t have looked more satisfied. His tail would have lashed with relish to match the gleam of his gaze. “Better. Now, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish by studying every hour of the day? I’ve told you’ve no need to worry.”

“I like studying,” she argued gently, worried about provoking the great predator of a man.

He tipped his head, loose platinum hair curtaining to one side. “Yes, but there are other subjects to explore now that you know your place after your education is complete.”

The words bubbled up before she could stop them. “Like, what, how to remove a stain from silk sheets?”

“Perhaps.” A Gallic shrug was the only indication of feeling. “That may prove useful for you. Though I meant broadening your horizons, silly girl.”

“Broadening my horizons? I’ve taken nearly every subject Hogwarts has to offer. What could I possibly want for?”

He rolled his eyes. “You could learn the Dark Arts.” That was the most obvious subject not taught at the school, and she snorted at the thought of her being allowed to learn it.

“Most of the books on the Dark Arts would probably hex me for my blood status.”

“If you ask, I could assist you in that regard.”

Was this a trap?

It had to be a trap.

She blinked owlishly up at him. “Why?”

“Why am I suggesting this? Why would I allow such a thing? Or why would I help you in it?”

“Any,” she said. “All.”

Lucius sauntered to the chair opposite her own, as though they were properly negotiating. “If you are to remain with my family, I will need to explore all of your strengths and weaknesses. Not only the ones suitable for polite society.”

Her fear that it was a trap only heightened at that. “I don’t think I could perform the Dark Arts, not even for the Malfoy family.”

“What about for your own?”

The pair of them stared into one another’s eyes for a long, heavy moment. His eyes were silver and sharp and cut through to the molten amber core of her so that she felt stripped bare in her mind. She was sure Lucius Malfoy wasn’t a skilled enough legilimens to perform on her like this, but he knew her. He’d known her so long, he had to be able to read her like a book at this point.

“I thought—” Her brows twitched and warmth— embarrassment or sadness— rose in her heart. “I thought I wouldn’t be allowed to have a family.”

Triumph flared before it was quickly quashed by faux sympathy. “Of course, you can have a family, Hermione.”

“How? You said—”

“Your family would exist adjacent to the Malfoy line.”

The words stirred only confusion.

“Your children would be provided for just as you have been,” he crooner. “Isn’t that nice? They’ll have the best of everything— education, clothing, food, care. All in service to the Malfoy family.”

“But if I don’t marry, then how would I have a family?” 

This exchange was important. It was pivotal. It was the precipice of something, and she was trying desperately to absorb every flicker of his eyes, every movement of his brows, lest there be some meaning there.

“You don’t have to marry to have children, Hermione. Really.” He chuckled. “Did Narcissa neglect to discuss the topic with you?”

“I know how babies are born,” she snapped, then planted her hands over her mouth in self-admonition. Lucius only seemed amused. “I mean, wouldn’t it be unseemly? The Malfoy ward having children out of wedlock, oh my. The scandal.”

He chuckled, a chilling sound. The darkness around his eyes that indicated lack of sleep seemed to deepen when he stared at her and made her feel somehow hunted. Or perhaps it was that the darkness had started creeping into his eyes. “House elves don’t marry to procreate, but such a thing is necessary if the family intends to maintain their service.”

“I’m not a house elf,” she reminded him.

“No,” he agreed. “You aren’t.”

She turned toward the bookshelf, skimming spines as she racked her mind for a proper response. “So, I’d engage in flings and pop out bastards so that your family would have more muggleborns to serve it?”

“I’d rather thought of reserving that privilege for the few,” Lucius quipped.

Her head snapped back so she could gape at him.

“I wouldn’t want you to mix with someone who might sully your line. No, if our family is to retain the service of your descendants, any children you bear should reflect improvement in quality.”

“Now I’m a crup?”

He shrugged again, and she hated it. “It’s no less than we Purebloods do with our own families. It’s your mindset that insists it’s beneath you.”

“It’s barbaric,” Hermione murmured.

“It’s common sense,” he said sharply. “Marriage is to ensure bloodline, status, and loyalty. You have status as the Malfoy ward, and your loyalties are our loyalties. We needn’t worry about marriage when considering offspring, because I assume you’re capable of keeping your legs closed until I’ve given you permission.”

A torrent of blood roared through her ears, her mouth gaping wide, expression slowly morphing to one of outraged incredulity. “I beg your pardon!”

“Oh, do be quiet.”

“I do not need your permission to— to—”

His voice dropped deadly quiet, like the hiss of dry scales across the desert, but she could make out every consonant. “You’ll find, in fact, that you do.”

She was half-raised from her seat, voice stuck in her throat, but his tone made her drop back down. 

“You belong to the Malfoy family, Hermione. Surely you remember our last conversation.”

She nodded as tears blurred her vision. “B-but Harry said the law—”

“There will be a special vote here soon, and the support for this little law will far outstrip any opposition. As it is, you belong to us until you graduate. The new regulations will come to fruition far before that day.” He spoke so calmly, so evenly, and she realized suddenly it was the first conversation she’d had with Lucius Malfoy. There had been individual exchanges in the past, but even the last they’d had in the library it was more like he was taunting her than talking with her.

No, he was actually having a discussion with her, informing her of upcoming changes to her situation. It was strange and off putting all at once.

“That’s unfair,” she whined hopelessly.

“Yes, but life is often unfair. I daresay it’d also be unfair to have raised you with so little asked in return only to let you take everything we’ve nurtured to another family with no thought on what you owe.”

Hermione drew herself up a touch. “I’ve performed exactly as intended.”

“Yes, I suppose,” he agreed again. “But that doesn’t negate how much more you’ve gotten in the bargain. You owe it all to the Malfoy family, and the Malfoy family will reap the benefits.”

“Draco will not allow this to stand when he takes over,” she countered.

“ If ,” he stressed in return. “Draco will have children of his own before that day comes. He may very well change his mind. And if he hasn’t, I’m sure one of his heirs will have the correct mindset.”

She wiped at the spill of tears blotching her cheeks. “He’ll never change his mind. He views me as a sister.”

“Do you imagine he’ll just send you away if he becomes head of the family?” Lucius scoffed. “He wouldn’t want to turn out you and your children. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Setting me free is hardly the same as turning me out. And— and I won’t have children like this. I refuse.”

The darkness in his eyes further coalesced. “You imagine you’ll have a choice. How cute.”

“You’d let someone—” she struggled with the words— “force me? No. No. Draco would never— Narcissa would never— you wouldn’t dare.”

“I would dare a great deal. If you will not come willingly, then, yes, I have no issue using force.”

The tears wouldn’t stop. “You’ve known me since I was a child. Could you really just sit and watch while someone— while they— while...”

“Watch? Perhaps not. I’ve never been much of a voyeur. I’m more of a man of action.” 

How could he be so unaffected by what he was saying?

“Oh, I see.” She chuckled bitterly. “You’ll just leave me helpless for him, walk away and not have to see or hear it at all.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked, but she didn’t see it, eyes glossed with tears as they were.

“I will do what I believe is best for my family, Miss Gra— Hermione. However I feel about your blood, you have undoubtedly influenced my son to become more studious and less spoilt. As you come to your senses, you will see this is a boon for you as well. Surely you remember what Narcissa told you about mistresses?”

“I’m not going to be your mistress , Lord Lucius,” she hissed, each word sticking in her throat like sharp, bitter glass. “I’m going to be your servant. Your slave. ”

“Think of yourself as a prized pet, if it helps.” She sobbed out a laugh. “A pet is treasured so long as it serves its purpose— companion, hunting animal, beast of burden. A pet can take on many roles. And, in a way, a mistress and a pet can be much the same.” The man heaved a sigh, then reached over to push a tear-soaked curl from her cheek and behind her ear. The large, cool palm cupped her there for a bare second before he pulled away. “Think on it, and you’ll realize this is the best for everyone.”

Hermione broke down as the tap of his cane faded from her hearing.

Tom, I think I need your help. There’s something happening, and it’s all too much to write down. Please, I need to see you.

Chapter Text

Their OWL results came to less fanfare than most would expect given Hermione’s obsession with her marks.

Straight Outstandings for her and Draco both, though she had taken more exams than he had by far. Still, one would think Narcissa was a peacock for how pridefully puffed up she became at their OWLs. 

“Oh, perhaps we should go to Paris for a fortnight to celebrate. I’ll have to talk to Lucius about it.” She tapped beside her lips thoughtfully. “I should buy you both something spectacular as a reward. New wardrobes?” She shook her head. “No, you’ll be getting those before you enter the adult world. Hermione, dear, is there anything you’d like?”

Freedom, she thought. “I don’t know. Books, perhaps? There’s a wonderful new edition of Pioneers in Eastern European Potions coming out next week.”

Narcissa giggled. “You silly girl, of course you can have that. But that’s not a reward. Oh, I’ll have to write to some of the important families and update them on this news. You’ll have offers for work before you’ve graduated, mark my words.”

She smiled wanly at the woman’s sweet words, though they rang hollow in her heart. 

Hermione hadn’t heard from Tom yet, but she reminded herself that he was a busy man, and he would see it. He’d promised her he would.

She’d told Draco the next morning that they needed another meeting with Harry and Ron, as well, though she was again having difficulty figuring out what to say.

How did one tell one’s best friend that his father threatened to have her forcibly impregnated?

The man who’d created the storm in her head stalked into the dining room, looking as though he’d already been out for the day despite the early hour. “Draco, come. There’s a meeting of the Wizengamot, and you’re attending with me.”

The blond teen frowned, but rose, straightening his button-down. “Should I change?”

“No time,” his father replied. “Come, come. Quickly now.” His quicksilver eyes flittered to her, and her heart became a hummingbird in her throat. This was it.

She stood as they left, then muttered in excuse, “I need to— do something,” before flying from the room.

Parchment and quill darted over her journal to reiterate her plea to Tom, then she wrote to Ron and Harry that the vote was today, hurrying to the owlery to send out the messy letters. So hastily written they were, she hadn’t even included pleasantries, nor a true sign-off.

She trembled as she watched the owls disappearing into the chipper summer morning.

The remainder of the morning and long into the afternoon, Hermione stayed locked up in her bedroom.

It was the one place she was sure Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t find her, as he’d never set foot in her quarters. Over the years, it had changed a bit. Her bedding and curtains were all gold-tooled scarlet now, a gift from Draco after their first year. She similarly assisted him in changing his room to a black-and-gold color scheme. 

The walls were still cream, and her bed was ever-the-same despite its dressings, but the toilet that had once been merely adjacent was now officially attached. They’d added the door straight between the two around her fourth year, when Narcissa deemed it appropriate that a young lady have her own. She suspected her closet had been enlarged as well, because it hadn’t felt so big when she was younger.

On her vanity were pictures of her and her boys— and one or two where Ginny made an appearance, too. There was a photo of her and Narcissa in Paris, and one of Hermione with the whole Malfoy family.

It was her least favorite, but it contained two of the people she loved, so she couldn’t bear to throw it out or put it away.

She and Draco were around eight or nine, and he was so happy between his father and his mother. He practically beamed. Hermione, off to the side near Narcissa, was wide-eyed and smiling shyly, her golden coloring and wild curls clearly marking her as an outsider.

If Lucius Malfoy had his way, this would be the same for any children she might have, and theirs after, and so on. They would grow up alongside the Malfoy heirs, a shadow to the pale princes and princesses of the pale lineage.

Would they look so small and out of place, too?

She sighed and laid back on her bed to stare at the velvety red canopy.

It was a knock on the door that disturbed her. She rolled out and approached to open it—

For Draco to push through, shutting it firmly after himself, and pressing his shoulders flat back against it.

His pale blue eyes were wild, cheeks pink, and he was nearly breathless. “Potter’s writing mother right now. You need to agree to marry him. Convince her you love him, and you’d like nothing better.”

“What?”

It was so ridiculously out of nowhere that she laughed.

“I’m serious, Hermione.” He looked it. His pale, shaking hands settled on her shoulder. “The bill passed. They’re pushing it through for enforcement as quickly as possible. We need to jump on this before it’s too late—”

“I’m not even seventeen yet,” she protested.

“If we wait that long, it might be too late.”

She let the words settle, then shook her head. “Draco, laws like this take months, if not years. Moreover, you know your mother will push for me while she can.”

“Hermione.” He drew her closer until their noses nearly touched. “Aunt Bella was there, and she was thrilled when they announced the vote. She practically ran toward father to start harping on plans. For you . And father— he— I don’t know what to think.”

Hermione took in his panic and tried to think of what might comfort him. “I’m returning to Hogwarts on September first. We will be at Hogwarts soon.”

“I don’t know that we will.” His eyes brightened and shimmered. “Aunt Bellatrix, she suggested that— that father keep you here and start on his project early, whatever that means.”

“Oh.” 

She stepped back until she reached her bed, sinking onto the plush surface.

“Do you know something, Hermione? Did father tell you about the project?” She frowned. “Is that what we were going to meet about, us and Potter and Weasley.”

“I…” If she didn’t stay carefully, cautiously empty, she’d flood with terror. “I think so.”

Her friend sat beside her and took one of her hands in both of his. “What is it? What is he planning?”

“I don’t think— he wouldn’t, not while I’m so young,” she insisted.

“Tell me.”

“He said something about— about me having a—” she laughed, and her eyes rolled up to the canopy again. “About developing a bloodline adjacent to the Malfoy line.”

She paused and huffed another broken laugh.

“Any children I have will be bound to the Malfoy family.”

His eyes narrowed. “Bound how?”

“Servants, like house elves,” she muttered.

“I will never allow that.” Draco was as fierce as his namesake when he said the words, but she shook her head.

“He said he’d find a way, that you’d want to keep me close, or he’d wait until you had an heir of the ‘correct mindset’ before retiring as head of the family,” she said.

His face was as hard as marble. “No. That’s not happening.” He stood and pulled Hermione to her feet. “Come on. Let’s go to Potter’s, and we will figure this out before he can even think to try.”

Her friend tugged her along toward the drawing room and the open Floor, their fingers twined as they’d been since childhood. She sniffled and tried to keep back tears, tried to take solace in how firmly Draco believed they could counter this, but Tom hadn’t written her yet, and Lucius Malfoy was probably around the corner and—

He was around the corner, and through the door of the drawing room. His wand waved in front of the fireplace and the flames roared. When the pair of teens’ feet stuttered to a halt, the icy man turned to greet them.

“Well, whatever are you doing here, Draco? Hermione?” When neither spoke, he added, “You fled so suddenly after the vote. One moment you were there, and Bella was chattering away, and the next— poof .”

“I forgot something,” the boy said, raising to his full height and squeezing her hand to provide comfort.

“And what is it you forgot?”

“We’re supposed to be visiting Potter for dinner tonight,” Draco responded evenly. “He wanted to talk about— about classes. To ask for help, since he wants to do well on his NEWTs.”

Lucius stepped toward them, curiosity written across his features. “Is that right?”

Hermione nodded when his vision swept to her, and Draco said, “Yes. We got the owl this morning.”

“I see.” He took another step forward, almost within arms’ reach of the two. “Hermione, my dear, have you been crying?”

She frowned as though she hadn’t the faintest and touched her face with a free hand. “I just woke from a nap. My beauty charms must’ve worn off.”

“Go back to your room. You’re unfit company at the moment. Draco,” he continued, turning from the girl to his son. “If you’re truly expected at the Potter home, feel free to leave via automobile. I’m afraid the Floo network is closed for maintenance.”

Closed for maintenance, what utter tripe, she thought, neither herself not the boy twitching from their spots.

Draco ground his jaw, knowing there was no way he’d be able to get Hermione to the Potter’s using the vehicle the Malfoy’s owned. His next option would be his mother, but he’d have to get to her before his father cottoned on. “Very well, father. Come, Hermione. I’ll walk you back to your quarters.”

They turned to go.

“I’ll take over that duty for you, my boy. You needn’t worry about your companion. After all, I plan to stay home for the remainder of the evening.”

Their hands tightened around one another’s. “That’s quite alright, Lord Lucius. I can find my way—”

“I insist.”

“Father,” Draco began, but Lucius cut him off.

“Draco, be on your way. Now .” 

She and her friend exchanged a long look wherein she silently pleaded for him to go, to meet with the others and begin planning. He stayed stubbornly haughty for the first few beats, and then lowered his head and sighed, acquiescing. 

“I’ll be home soon, Hermione.”

She nodded and gave him a wan smile as she slipped her hand from his own. Lucius Malfoy swooped in to take his son’s place, and the boy watched as the man swept her out of his sight.

“Did you think that would work?” Lucius mocked her once they were out of his son’s earshot.

Her shoulders lowered. “Draco insisted we try. I couldn’t say no to him.”

He halted them, rounding on her in the secluded hall. “You would defy me, though.”

“I would do what I must to live my own life.”

Knife-silver eyes rolled upward in conjunction with his sneer. “I should have beaten the fire out of you before you were sorted. Gryffindor has done nothing but encourage the worst in you.”

“You never would’ve succeeded.” Hermione lifted her head and gazed at him in the fashion Narcissa managed when she was especially cross with her husband.

The man laughed, then his wand was out, and he tapped a spot on the wall behind her head.

Stone rearranged itself in grinding whirs. He spun her around and pushed her through the cavernous, shadowy hall that had appeared. They turned at a single fork that appeared, and then there was a large door.

Hermione did not want to open that door. She worried she might never come out if she did.

Lucius rodded at her back. When she didn’t move, he sighed, reached around her, and twisted the knob.

The room was large and extravagant. It reminded her of Lady Narcissa’s quarters, but there seemed more to it. There was a large bay window to one side (in a place that she knew no such window should exist) in front of which was a round table with two Chiavari chairs. A corner on one side of the lovely white marble hearth was made into a reading nook with towering, narrow bookshelves full to bursting, and a comfortable wingback with its own side table. The door where they entered was on the other side of the hearth, on the perpendicular wall to it. In front of the fireplace was a seating area with settee and cushioned seat, as well as a table adjacent to them.

The bed took up the majority of the back wall, vanity station between the reading nook and that portion of the room on its wall, a door to its right. There was another door almost hidden by the vast bed and its velvety plum curtains hanging from the posts. A dresser, side tables. Everything was in rich materials and colors and textures. There was velvet and silk, gold and burgundy, sangria, deep cherry wood, black marble floor, bronze candelabra.

The furniture all had intricate scrollwork, and the dark, elegant crown molding matched nowhere else in the manor.

The walls appeared to be silken wine red, plum, gold, and bronze wallpaper in a lush pattern that was vaguely floral abstract. Above the mantel was a painting of a slumbering dragon, all white to match the hearth itself, though the lighting of the piece created deep purple shadows and lustrous orange highlights. 

“Your meals will appear at the table thrice a day and disappear within half an hour. Your toilet and bath are through the door there, and your dressing room through that one.” He watched her gaze around the strange room for a moment, waiting for it to sink in.

“What is this place?” 

His lips ticked in imitation of a smile. “These quarters are where Malfoy men have historically kept their mistresses when the women would visit the manor. There are two ways to enter this room, and both require the wand I now hold, and the information on what to do with it.”

She spun to face him. “What? Why would you—”

“So that none will find you, daft girl. I will not sit idly for my family to conspire against me. Once they have learned better, you will return to your usual quarter.” He eyed her speculatively. “Until then, you will find yourself trapped here. You may scream if you like, but no one will heed you.”

Before he could leave, she said, a lance of spirit striking through her, “And if I decide to end my own captivity?”

He chuckled. “Do what you feel you must, Miss Granger, but you will remain here and in this condition until such time as I deem otherwise.”

Then she was left alone in that horrible, beautiful cage.

Chapter Text

PART 3: LUCIUS FALLING

It had been days. 

Hermione had eaten lunch and dinner thrice, and breakfast twice. Rather, those meals had appeared and disappeared.

Her appetite was wan. She picked at the food enough to maintain some semblance of energy, but that was it.

She spent the first day combing the room for anything that might help her escape. The window, which she doubted actually led anywhere anyway, was unbreakable. Not even her strongest knock-back jinx dinged it.

There were things she could destroy, but whenever she woke from sleep, everything was righted again. Likely house elves sneaked in while she was out and fixed it. It was irritating.

She’d taken long baths to make time pass. The tub was utterly ridiculous in its luxury. Like the prefect bath, there were taps that released different water for her to enjoy. She especially loved the jasmine scented water mixed with a pale pink foam that left her skin feeling like silk.

Hot water was unending in a magical society, so she enjoyed it as much as she could.

The vanity was full of creams and potions and pots and so on for beauty use, as the bathroom was full of tinctures and soaps and salts and so on.

No expense had been spared, and it made her wonder how long this had all been set up. Was it always kept like this, just in case the Malfoy head decided to bring home a mistress? 

Or, an insidious voice asked in the back of her head, had it been prepared for her?

The second option was by far worse.

It made her feel dirty to think she was where philanderers made their liaisons. Hermione, despite what Narcissa had impressed upon her, couldn’t imagine herself as someone’s mistress. It was too strange, not least of which because she was an inexperienced girl for whom romance was of secondary or tertiary importance. The brief flirtation with Viktor had led to a long-distance friendship, and she saw herself more focused on her future path in life than on a romantic entanglement.

At least there were books aplenty, and some of them were even muggle in origin.

She’d found a dearth of those in the Malfoy library, which was expected, but this room made up for the lack. Why, she wondered, did the mistress suite contain so many works by non-magical folk, many of which were considered classics? There were penny dreadfuls aplenty as well, many of which were bodice rippers (a term learned from Lavender Brown, unless they used a different descriptor amongst muggles). Those were less attractive to her. She stuck mostly to the classics.

Whatever the reason for their presence, it ensured she had no shortage of pages to distract her from her helplessness. 

When company finally appeared, it came in the exact form she suspected. The rich marble of the hearth reassembled into an archway and Lucius Malfoy stepped from his private quarters and into her temporary cage. Hermione glanced up from her seat in the reading corner and went back to her book.

He looked well. Of course, he looked well. Lucius Malfoy was allowed to do whatever he wanted. He was a free man.

“I know you’re aware of proper manners,” he said when she allowed silence to follow the hearth’s reassembly. 

She rolled her eyes up to lock on the hated man. “I’m a prisoner, not a hostess.”

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Quite the desired little thing, apparently. You wouldn’t believe how many owls I’ve gotten enquiring about you, little prisoner.”

“What? Who?”

He chuckled and strode to the table, which she belatedly realized was set for tea. Lucius gestured to the seat across from himself and Hermione rose, sighing, before taking it. 

She poured herself a cup while he watched with those sickle-bright eyes. When she went to place the teapot down, he tutted. She wanted to cringe.

She wanted information.

She poured him a cup.

“The Weasleys, of course. It seems nearly the entire brood has something to say.” Lucius mixed it as was his preference and smirked at her. “The Potters have sent several letters as well, to both myself and Narcissa. I have, of course, redirected any letters for the members of the household to come to me.”

She pursed her lips but chose to sip her tea rather than respond.

“Strangest of all, Bellatrix asked to meet with you.”

Hermione choked on hot liquid, some of it spewing out of her mouth. She set down her cup and patted her face and throat with a napkin. “Bellatrix? Bellatrix Lestrange?” she asked, as though there was another Bellatrix it might be.

“She says it’s urgent.” Amusement danced across his features. “A matter of life and death. You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”

“Well, I might try to kill myself if I’m kept here too much longer,” she griped.

His amusement turned to mocking pity. “Oh, you can’t. These quarters are spelled against self-injury. A safety mechanism for the more difficult women my forebears kept. “

“Then I am not the only one who has been imprisoned here?”

“You have quite the attitude, considering you’re at my mercy,” he said, leaning closer to her.

“I am not afraid to duel you,” she countered.

His smile was a blade. “You’re welcome to try, my dear. But it will prove fruitless for you. Be glad I allow you the pittance of a wand.”

“You allow me nothing,” Hermione spat. “My wand is my right.”

“Mind your tongue.”

“Go to Hell.”

The second the words left her tongue, Lucius had his wand trained on her. Her own began to fall into her palm, but he ripped it away with a silent spell, and it clattered somewhere behind him.

“I am far more experienced than you are, girl. Never forget that.”

Tears came unbidden to her eyes. She felt as though all she did was cry these days. “I am not afraid of you,” she said in a voice that was tight, but firm.

“That can be remedied.” He stepped in front of her, took her chin in hand, and forced it upward so he could see her eyes shimmering gold and bronze up at him. “I fear I allowed you too many liberties over the years. I can only hope you’re still salvageable. You’re a bright girl, aren’t you, Hermione?”

Tears spilled down a scowling visage, but she didn’t reply.

Lucius tutted. “It seems we have our work cut out for us. That’s alright. I’ve never shied from a challenge.” His wand flicked about, and Hermione jolted to the foot of her bed, the backs of her knees against the headboard, her bare feet against the plush rug covering the cold black floor. He body-binded her in place, upright. Now, she couldn’t speak if she wanted to.

The man paced in front of her, considering her with that keen glint in his gaze. “I’ve always been a good hand with beasts. I started raising crups when I was eight. First under the guidance of my father, but by the time I left for Hogwarts, I was fine on my own. I could train even the most stubborn pups, but it’s often best to cull those when they have no redeeming traits.

“I enjoy breaking wild horses. You know this. You’ve ridden some of those creatures I’ve tamed.” He tucked back one of her curls. “Stubbornness isn’t the worst trait to inherit, but it does require a strong hand. You’re fortunate that that is your only flaw when it comes to your new position. I merely have to break you to my hand, rather than be rid of you completely.”

Knuckles skimmed her cheek almost fondly. Those cool, gleaming eyes cut through her as his monologue stripped her bare of hope.

“My, you have grown. Whenever you’d return home, you were almost an entirely new creature. I didn’t recognize you on the arm of that Quidditch player, you know. That was not the obnoxious, bushy-haired, buck-toothed mudblood my son chose from the Institution. No, you had… transformed. I was furious. You had that boy eating from the palm of your hand, and you didn’t know it.

“What could you become, if left unchecked? Hm?” She couldn’t answer, but her eyes burned with her hatred. “That is why it’s so important to deal with you now. You belong to the Malfoy family. You belong to me. It’s time you started acting like it.”

Her vision blurred until she found herself staring at the tipped and swayed walls beside her. Then she registered the crack that had ricocheted in her ears, and lastly, she felt the sharp pain from the back of his hand flare across her cheekbone. The sensation was almost an afterthought amid her shock.

“Your line will be bound to serve the Malfoys from now until its end. I will write our name in your blood. Your get will owe loyalty to our house as deeply as I do myself.” He fisted her curls and wrenched her head back. “And do you know why?”

Lucius stared down at her, awaiting any response. The most she could muster was a soft hum that caught in her throat. 

“Blood calls to blood, Hermione. Your descendants will not dare turn from the Malfoys because they will owe their existence to them in every way.”

Sobs slowly overtook her until she thought she’d drown in her own tears.

Hours after Lucius left her, she curled into a ball underneath the large bed. Her limbs ached from straining against invisible bonds, and her stomach was sore from being wracked with sobs. He had hurt her, but mostly lectured and instructed her. It should have been a relief that he went no further, but she was terrified of what tomorrow might bring.

I need to figure out a plan. I will figure out an escape, she promised herself before finally succumbing to sleep.

Chapter Text

Harry paced between the wall and the back of the couch, a small space, but he had nowhere else to move. Currently, his living room was full to bursting. All the Weasleys except Percy were in attendance (he was working, and Harry had no clue what his thoughts on this mess were), as were all the Potters (granted, that was himself, Violet, and his parents, and they all lived there), Neville and his grandmother, Nymphadora Tonks and her parents, the other Marauders (Padfoot, Moony, and Wormtail), and Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. 

In short, they were trying to gather anyone who might be against what Lucius Malfoy had in store for Hermione.

He was more anxious than he’d been in years— maybe ever. Not even when he’d wanted to throw up before his first Quidditch match had he been this twisted up inside. Not when Violet was born, either.

“Tearing out your hair won’t help, love,” his mother admonished him gently.

He tugged his hands from where they’d fisted his dark hair and started wringing them instead. “I just don’t know what else to do. Narcissa Malfoy and Draco are shut up in there, too. I can’t even Floo call. No owl responses, nothing. There must be something else, someone else we can contact to help.”

Lily pulled her son into her arms to comfort him. The redhead was mostly exempt from the new laws, being married to a Pureblood and her son already given half-blood status in the world. But he could see how heavily they weighed on his mother. Even if she was unscathed for now, she wouldn’t stand for this new era. 

“Wh-what about Professor Riddle?” It was Ginny who said it, her voice wavering as she glanced at her brother and then back to Harry. “He cares about her, right? She’s his favorite student. Why isn’t he here?” It was the first she'd said in a while, and it heartened Harry to know she was concerned, regardless of what had transpired between them.

The young man glanced around and recounted the people surrounding. “I- I don’t know. I didn’t think— did you contact him, Ron?”

His other best friend shook his head.

Harry glanced back at his mom, worry carved in sharp lines on his face. She sighed and looked at Dumbledore.

“I’m not sure we can rely on Professor Riddle, Harry.” The old man had always been kind to Harry, despite never teaching him. He had a fondness for the Potters and Gryffindors as a whole, and despite Harry’s occasional mischief, he clearly liked him. Then again, the mischief might have been part of the appeal.

Harry frowned. “But Professor Riddle adores Hermione, and she’s his assistant and—”

“I know, but,” the man began, then sighed and stroked his beard. “There is a lot about Tom that many don’t know. Perhaps the least of which is that he was my student from 1938 to 1945.”

The younger folks in the room took in the new information. “That would make him, like, seventy!” The teen’s green eyes widened in shock, but many of the adults around him just nodded. “He-he doesn’t look that old.”

“While wizards often age a bit slower than muggles, Tom’s natural progression seems unusually sluggish,” McGonagall admitted. “We aren’t sure exactly how, but Horace is convinced there is no dark magic at play.”

The younger generation all seemed floored, and he could see flashes of incredulity and introspection. “Okay, so, Professor Riddle is barely aging. What else?”

Sirius had a silent exchange with his father. “There’s suspicion he’s a Pureblood supremacist,” he said at last.

Ron let out a choked laugh. “But Hermione, she’s muggleborn. She’s, well, she’d follow him anywhere, and I reckon he’d let her.”

“Yes. It’s admittedly odd. However, he treated me well enough when I was a student. It doesn’t change what he might be doing behind closed doors,” said Lily.

This was starting to give Harry a headache. “What the bloody Hell is going on?”

“Harry James Potter,” both Molly Weasley and Lily Potter decried at once, but neither could continue when they saw the way the boy was staring at his own hands in frustration. Here he was, helpless and useless while one of his best friends was going through worse than he could imagine. 

“This is quite a long story,” Dumbledore said after a long silence. “And I must insist on a vow of secrecy. Not the Unbreakable Vow, but a vow all the same. If everyone would swear on their magic to keep this information held to our allies, I will tell you.”

One by one, the inhabitants of the Potter living room raised their wands and swore. Pressure surrounded each in a bubble that released after a bare second, homage to the oath they’d taken. 

Dumbledore leaned back in his Summoned seat and contemplated how best to start.

“I first met Tom in the summer of 1938. He was living in a muggle orphanage and did not know anything about magic.” Harry settled down on the couch as he realized the old man was at the start of a very long story.

“Very good, Hermione. Now, you may sit.”

Lucius had instilled in her the need to rise whenever “her betters” entered the room, giving a semblance of a curtsy to indicate deference, and awaiting orders. She thought it was one of the least degrading behaviors he could insist upon, so did not fight him on the order.

When she lowered herself into her chair, he smirked.

“I still expect proper responses unless I previously ordered silence,” he reminded her.

Hermione grit her teeth. “Please pardon me, Master Lucius.”

“Much better.” The man sat opposite her again, their now familiar seats across the tiny table. She felt as though she were playing chess, but a variation with strange rules and an alien opponent. It had never been her strong suit.  She wasn’t Ron, who was able to navigate the board, nor Harry with his ability to see how best to reach others.

She certainly didn’t have Draco’s finesse at dealing with Pureblood politics, either.

Against Lucius, she was very nearly powerless.

“Bellatrix is still insisting on meeting with you,” he said after a moment. “I cannot, for the life of me, understand why. Do you have a guess?”

She frowned and shook her head. At the lift of one of his dark brows, Hermione sighed. “I do not. I was under the impression she hated me and would prefer that I am kept isolated from wizarding society.”

“Oh, she does,” he agreed quite readily. “She detests you. If you— not just other mudbloods, but you in particular— could be locked away, or made to disappear entirely, I think it would suit her well. Why, Hermione, does she hate you so much more than others of your kind?”

She hated how he said her name, which was happening with greater frequency. “You would know better than I, I would think.”

His silver eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing you can think of?”

“I exist; therefore, she abhors me.”

“Why does she want to speak with you?” he urged, his voice dropping to a low hiss.

“I already told you; I don’t know.” She was starting to get angry again. Her robes felt too hot, despite the prickling coolness of the air. Her cheeks burned scarlet, and her jaw ached from clenching it so often. “Perhaps we should ask her?”

He hummed, and his forefinger stroked thoughtfully over the silver serpent atop his cane. “That is not such a terrible idea. Tippy.” The elf popped into being, the first other she’d seen since Lucius Malfoy locked her up and bowed low. “Is my sister-in-law still present?”

The elf tugged one ear as she rose. “Yes, Master. She is poking around the manor, looking for Mistress and the young Master.”

“Bring her here.” The elf bowed again and disappeared with a resounding pop! that hurt Hermione’s sensitive ears. The elf came with the woman in tow not a minute later, appearing in front of the hearth.

For the first time since she’d met the horrid woman, Bellatrix looked wretched. Her black curls were in disarray, and there was something stiff and rusty on some of the delicate layers of her gown. Her skin was sallow, her lips dry and pale, her ink drop eyes stared out from bruised sockets, and marks littered her flesh in lurid reds and purples and greens.

Her crazed gaze darted around the room before settling on Hermione, and then she practically leapt to stand in front of the girl. “You!” Her wand was extended straight at Hermione, who had hers raised the moment the other witch had entered. “You need to come with me.”

“Why?”

Bellatrix giggled wildly. “Because he wants to see you, of course.”

Lucius rose, though his in-law paid him no mind. “Who wants to see her?”

“Come, now, mudblood. Don’t you want to see him, too?” she teased, her smile flashing teeth and pale gums alike. “Come on. We need—” She strode to the door, but the handle refused to turn for her, so her face fell into a frown. “We must leave this room. Is it one of the other doors, then?”

“Bellatrix,” Lucius intoned sharply, and then his sister-in-law seemed to notice him.

“Oh, Lucius, this is where you’ve been keeping her? You naughty boy. What is this, a secret love nest ? I knew you found the girl attractive, Luci, but this—” and the words tittered into giggles again. “He’s going to be angry if you’ve touched her. I hope you have. Perhaps he’ll see she’s dirty then. Just a dirty, filthy mudblood girl.”

Hermione rubbed her temple with her nondominant hand, trying to keep up with the woman’s inane ramblings. 

“I think she’s lost the plot,” she murmured to Lucius, who was comfortingly poised in the face of the manic Bellatrix.

He tipped his head as he inspected the guest. “What did he do to you, Bellatrix?”

One small hand waved shakily at the question. “Oh, you know him. He loves his curses, Tommy does. It’s nothing. It’s nothing , Lucius. He’ll do worse if I don’t bring her.”

Tommy. “Professor Riddle?” Hermione hazarded, her gaze flicking between the two adults. 

“Oh, yes. He’s a force when he’s upset. So beautiful. Like a storm.” Her eyes turned wistful as she spoke, and then Bellatrix laughed again. “But I really don’t want him to kill me, so we’d best be going. Lucius, darling, how do we leave the manor from here?”

Lucius strode to her and wrapped a large hand around her slender wrist and directed her wand to face a wall rather than out into the room. “Hermione won’t be leaving with you, Bellatrix.”

“But—” Bellatrix turned toward Hermione, then back to her brother-in-law. “But she must. Tom told me I had to bring her to him.”

“She belongs to me,” Lucius reminded her gently. “You helped make that happen, remember?”

The witch pouted. Her eyes became glossy, and her lower lip trembled. “Yes, and it made him so mad. That’s why I need to— need to fix this. I need to show him.”

Hermione ignored Lucius’ possessive words and instead asked, “Show him what?”

“That I can serve him. I am worthy. I am.” Desperation was thick in the crazed woman’s voice as she clung to her host in vain. Her empty hand clutched at the front of his robes to draw him over her tear-streak cheeks. “I thought— I thought it was best. I thought the mudblood was distracting him. But, Lucius, oh— she makes him terrifying. He will kill us all if you don’t give her to him. He's even more beautiful and...”

“One upstart halfblood is no threat to me,” he replied scathingly. He scoffed, plucked her wand from her fingers, and shoved her away. “You’re pathetic. Is this what the House of Black has been reduced to? I can only hope I bred out such fault in Draco.”

From her place on the floor, Bellatrix just laughed. “You don’t understand. You’ve never understood.” She smothered her fit of giggles. “But then, you don’t know, do you? Oh, you don’t! Of course, you don’t know. He’s been so clever, so selective. And I only found out by accident.”

“What?” Malfoy grit out. When she just continued muttering to herself, Lucius tugged her hair and demanded, “What is it that I don’t know?”

She smacked her lips and leaned up toward him, and Hermione crept closer to hear. “He’s the Heir of Slytherin.”

Both witches watched as Lucius absorbed this knowledge. He huffed and shook his head. “No. I don’t believe you.”

“He is,” Bellatrix sang. “Oh, he is. He is, he is. He’s descended from the House of Gaunt. His silly squib mummy chased after a dirty muggle, and that’s how Tommy was born. But she was a Gaunt, and one of the last of the line of Salazar Slytherin himself. He inherited all of daddy's beauty, and all of his forebearer's power.”

“So, I suppose he opened the Chamber in the 40s?” the man replied dismissively, but Bellatrix eagerly nodded her answer. He didn't seem to buy the answer.

“What chamber?” Hermione asked. 

Bellatrix crawled closer to her, seemingly unaware or uncaring that she was on the ground and the other stood, an odd reversal of positions. “The Chamber of Secrets. It’s a place Slytherin built after the fracture of the Founders, and it houses a monster that hunts mudbloods. Just. Like. You.”

Lucius tapped his wand against his thigh. “Then why hasn’t he loosened it again?”

“Because he’s building his army, of course,” the woman declared. “Dumbledore almost got him last time, so he’s playing the long game. And he thinks she can help.” Her gaze turned speculative, and she turned to Lucius. “Don’t you want to help him, Lucius? He has a plan to put this world to rights.”

“Yet he needs a mudblood to do it?” Lucius sneered.

“She’s exceptional . You said so, too,” Bellatrix spat. “That’s why you were going to breed her yourself.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted and dropped like she’d just hopped aboard a broom. She looked at the tall man, her eyes wide and mouth wanting to form the question, but unable. Instead, she just waited for him to refute it.

“She is exceptional,” Lucius agreed. “For a mudblood. A man like him, the Heir himself, should not need a mudblood to gain power. So, either you lie— unknowingly or not— or he’s too weak to live up to his lineage.”

“He’s not weak!” Bellatrix growled and nearly threw herself at the man, her shoulders hunched as she stood nearly in arms’ reach. “He is the most powerful wizard I have ever known. Go to him, and you’ll see.”

“You want me to go to him?”

She nodded and gathered herself up. “Yes, go and test him yourself. I guarantee you will find him a stronger opponent than you can handle.”

“That’s quite enough from you.” He grabbed the back of her gown like scruffing a kitten, then threw a glare toward Hermione. “Sit and wait. I’ll be back momentarily.” The knob turned with ease for the lord of the manor, he slammed it behind himself to drag his mad sister-in-law away.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t long before he returned to the mistress’ quarters where he held his ward captive. Hermione wished he’d taken some time. Alas, his fury radiated from him like static to raise alarmed gooseflesh down her spine. 

He stared at her where she stood, frozen and waiting like a penitent. His sharp eyes narrowed to knifepoints, then he strode to her and grabbed her chin to force her to face up at him. “Have you fucked him, then?”

“What?” she laughed.

Lucius sneered. “The man is apparently obsessed with you. I assume you’ve done something to encourage it.”

Her cheek was hot against his palm. “He’s my teacher.”

“Do not play the innocent with me. You’ve used your wiles on men before.”

“When?” This was the most bizarre conversation she’d ever had, and she felt like she was stumbling in the dark with no destination in mind.

“You’ve always been good at getting your way,” he accused. “With my wife, my son. All your little friends. And then you grew breasts, and dragged the Quidditch player after you, too.”

“I—” she frowned and tried vainly to tug her face away. “I never asked anyone for that attention.”

“Oh, I’m sure. That’s why Krum was so willing to turn his back on his heritage for you. Tell me, was it worth spreading your legs? I’m surprised you haven’t tried your way with me—”

Her left hand flew against his cheek before she could stop it. 

Hermione froze and stared up in horror as she realized what she’d done, but it was nothing to the expression contorting his features. His eyes widened, red flushed his cheeks, and then his visage twisted into fury. 

His wand snapped to point at her, and he spat the spell incarcerous so that ropes sneaked around her form and bound her tight. She fell to the floor, staring up at him in horror. “I- I didn’t mean—”

The silencing spell was an unspoken bolt of white that stole the words from her throat. 

“You have grown far too belligerent, mudblood. You dare strike me, your master, and then think to escape punishment with a paltry excuse?” He sneered as he spelled her upside down to hang from the ceiling, and then he was circling her like he could smell the blood that now rushed to her head. “I have been kind.”

A crack ricocheted through the air loud enough she flinched, but that discomfort was soon overwritten by fiery hot pain lancing across her back.

She felt her robes split and cool air hit her flesh.

“I have allowed you luxuries—”

Another crack made her writhe, screaming silently. Something trickled from the line that had been wrought on her flesh.

“— such as you’d never known had we left you in that hovel.”

A crack, and her clothing seemed more like fluttering drapes attached via rope than anything else. Veins throbbed against the flesh of her forehead as she tried to cry out.

“I have allowed others to dote on you despite warnings from my sister-in-law and my colleagues.”

The next cut through the cloth over her stomach. She hadn’t even noticed he’d circled around again.

“I let you receive an education.”

Another lash followed, becoming a bloody mouth that dripped down her chest.

“I let you be treated as a witch, if low-born.”

Blood slipped over her chin.

“I allowed you to touch Malfoy relics. I let you have a place in my home.”

A series of whiplashes followed.

“And you repay me by pretending you are my equal. You repay me with defiance.”

He stopped in front of her and lowered his wand to sneer as he studied her form. “It is time I broke you properly, before you are unsalvageable. Pray it is not too late, little mudblood. And that you are as quick a learner here as in your studies in the castle.”

Lucius cancelled his spells, allowing the girl to fall into a pile at his feet. Her sniveling became audible, but he didn’t remark on it, not even when he prodded her with the polished toe of one dragonhide boot.

“Disgusting.”

She cringed and huddled in on herself.

“What are you doing? Are you trying to hide yourself in those blood-soaked rags?” He tutted. “Remove them at once.”

Hermione tightened her grip on herself.

Lucius flicked his wand and a whip of light licked at her forearms. She shrieked as her nerves caught up with the wound, but after a beat, she shucked the torn clothing to pool around her.

She wrapped her bloody arms around her knees and held them to her heaving chest once she’d done as bidden. 

“Next time, do not hesitate before following an order. Is that understood?” He punctuated the question with a finale from his wand.

“Y-yes, Master Lucius,” she stammered out.

Lucius’ bared his teeth at her in a feral grin. “Look at you, learning already. Now.” He swept past her to flop into the seat in the reading nook. “Come here.”

Hermione began to rise, but the cool man tutted and gestured down.

Her cheeks flushed, but she crawled across the floor until she was within arm’s reach of his knees. He spread them wide and indicated she draw closer, between them.

A hand covered in buttery black leather darted out to ruffle her hair. She began to flinch back but made herself still before he could criticize her for the action. 

“I must say, I like you better this way: silent, kneeling, obedient. This is your default position. Unless you are serving your betters, this is how you should remain.” His fingers caught on a knot, but he continued petting her. “We will have to work together, you and I, to ensure this is carved into your bones. Never you worry, Miss Granger. I am a skill tamer of beasts.”

She hated him. 

After a moment, his hand finally retreated, and Hermione had to suppress her sigh of relief.

“What is between you and your professor?”

Her head jolted up at the unexpected question. “He—” She frowned. “I’m his teaching assistant for the dueling club.”

“Yet you are essential to his plans?” One of Lucius’ dark brows raised. “While he is a half-blood, he has friends in surprisingly high places. He’s wormed his way into Bella’s graces, and I now must wonder who else he has leashed. Do you know, mudblood?”

She shook her head, amber eyes wide. “I don't.”

“Nor did you know he’s the Heir of Slytherin?”

“No.” Her eyes brightened with fresh tears. “Did he really kill muggleborns?”

Lucius’ huffed out a silent laugh. “ A muggleborn, yes. Others were petrified. Oh, you thought he didn’t care about blood status?" The cruel smile grew as he saw the shine of her tears. “He’s a Slytherin, pet— the Slytherin. Of course, he thinks less of you for what you are. Perhaps had you been born of a proper lineage, you’d be worthy of public adulation, but apparently none of his people knew about you before now.”

“Because he’s my professor,” she countered.

“You think that’s why? Please, Tom Riddle has been tempting youths since he, himself attended Hogwarts. You’re nothing special.”

She blinked back her tears and lifted her head, trying to remember how she felt when Tom spoke to her. “He doesn’t care that I’m muggleborn. He told me so.”

“You are quite the unique little mudblood, I’ll admit, but if you think he’ll do more than use you, you are mistaken.”

“He’s waiting until I graduate.” She didn’t know what possessed her to say it, but it was out before she could stop herself. “He cares about me. He wants to protect me.”

Now Lucius laughed in truth. “He does, does he? What a fine job he’s doing.” He leaned forward to regard her with knife-sharp eyes. “No, Hermione, what he wants is the same as I do— your abilities for himself. I, at least, am honest about it.”

“What you want is far worse.” Her voice was low and hoarse as she said it. “He doesn’t intend to breed me like an animal.”

“Like an animal? No, my dear. I’m hardly so barbaric. I plan to do the deed myself.”

A faint ringing in her ear followed the statement, and she stared at his too-near face with wide eyes as it sank in; then Hermione jerked backward. His knees closed around her, fist tangling once more in her hair.

“Tut tut. I thought you were supposed to be clever ?” He sighed as though put out. “I suppose you’re not broken yet. You can’t help but behave according to your filthy roots.” After a moment of holding Hermione in place, he sneered and pulled back his hand to look over his glove. “And now I have your dirty blood on my glove. Up, mudblood.”

She stood as he rose as well, and followed for a step, until she gathered their trajectory. “I can bathe myself, Master Lucius.”

“I did not tell you to speak.” He opened the door to the lavatory and crooked a finger until she followed him inside. “Stand in the tub, there’s a good girl.”

She stepped over the rim and onto the cool marble. 

“Chin up. Aguamenti. ” The water was freezing cold, so that her skin prickled with its chilly burn. The wizard plied her with the cold stream, washing away her flaking blood until her skin was clear but for the angry red from the cold. He stepped closer as the stream narrowed and trailed down her stomach one last time. “Legs apart.” When she didn’t move, he looked up at her sternly enough that she obeyed.

He was too focused there, and it hurt. The cold was especially fierce where she should be warmest.

“I’m surprised you don’t look dirty here, too. It’s quite unfair, walking around looking like you do.”

She scowled, but turned to the wall to avoid his eyes as he studied her.

The stream reduced until it disappeared, but she didn’t dare to move unless he ordered it. She heard the rubbing of leather against leather, then warmth burned against her abdomen.

It was his palm, large and hot and heavy. He was touching her with bare flesh. Hermione screwed her eyes shut and tried to imagine herself elsewhere.

“Soft. Smooth.” Fingers skidded from hip to hip, then down the curve to her thigh. “Lovely.”

The last word was almost a whisper, and she whimpered at it.

“You are lucky, you know. Your descendants will be cared for almost as nearly as the family itself.”

She ground her teeth to keep silent.

“I have started noting the mudbloods who might be desirable to breed with the next generation. A half-blood might also do.” The pads of his fingers skirted the front of her thigh. “And, I suppose, I shall have to tell my heir at some point to keep him from reseeding your line too early.”

“Please, don’t.” She couldn’t help herself. His words were too ominous, too terrifying.

“Shush, mudblood. I told you; you’re lucky.” Fingers stroked the dark curls between her legs. “This is necessary. There is magic in blood, and I will bind your line to serve mine in this way.”

“You’d bind your own child into slavery?”

“The needs of the Malfoy line— the pure Malfoy line— will always come first.” He sounded both too close and so far away, like she could scream at him and pierce his eardrums; like she could scream at him, and he wouldn’t even hear it. 

His fingers explored her, during which time she couldn’t bear to open her eyes and see the expression on his face. When he pulled away, she struggled to remain upright.

“It seems you weren’t lying after all. You haven’t fucked Riddle. Good. I have no need to worry about sullying myself further.”

Was she supposed to respond to that?

He tapped his wand against his thigh and considered her. “Dry yourself and get dressed. And do try to remember what you’ve learned thus far. I would hate to have to become a cruel trainer.”

When he finally left her, Hermione collapsed against the marble bathtub and sobbed.

Chapter Text

The creature stalked closer, its long tail lashing from side to side as its nose sniffed at the earth for her scent. It would find her soon, if it wasn’t already onto her trail. She watched as each step magnified its size until it was nearly as large as a house. Its lipless mouth opened to reveal sharp, yellow, deathly basilisk fangs. She could feel the heated, stinking breath, and she could feel the rumble of its low growl. Its jaw extended wider, until she stared into a yawning cavern of darkness. Its breath was putrid and hot as it blasted across her cheeks. A deep growl rolled from its throat and her bones shook with the force of its rumble—

Hermione jolted from her dreams into a reality that was hardly any more understandable. Though there was no beast in sight, she could still hear and feel the growling, almost like thunder, but not quite. 

Items on shelves and tabletop shivered to add to the cacophony. The back of the bookshelf tapped against the wall; the bedframe groaned. She covered her ears as the din grew louder and unbearable to her senses, which have been limited to the boundaries Lucius Malfoy imposed.

Was this an earthquake?

No, she thought. There was no way Malfoy Manor wasn’t spelled to handle such mundane turmoil, which meant this was magical in nature. Brows furrowed, she pondered what it could mean.

She didn’t have long to wait. 

The hearth was rearranging as she stared and allowed the loathed Lucius Malfoy to enter before setting itself to rights.  He looked terrible.  His loose hair was mussed, and his eyes were red-rimmed and weary-lined. He wore a button-down, trousers, and boots, and had his cane in hand, but that was all.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you now and be done with all this?”

Hermione flinched from the cruel hiss of his words. She trembled and rose from the bed lest the man think she was being willful. “I- I will be of no use for you if I am dead, Master Lucius.” 

There was fury and madness written in those tired eyes. She stepped toward him with trepidation and knelt with an averted gaze to try and appease him.

“I am not so sure you’re worth the effort of keeping alive,” he said evenly, watching her with the rapt eyes of the predator from her dream. “Perhaps I could hand off your corpse and regain my peace.”

She drew in a choked gasp. “Please, Master Lucius. I am not intentionally causing you trouble. What can I do to help?”

Another rumble buffeted the manor. His nostrils flared and cheeks reddened with rage. “Tell that bloody mongrel to leave my manor, then.”

“Take me to him, my lord, and I will.”

Lucius scoffed. “No. He’d only be encouraged and redouble his efforts.” He plucked his wand from his cane and arced it toward the left. Hermione flinched, though the crimson spell flew past her to collide with the little table, shattering it so that splinters rained down on them both. “Shall the next one be at your head?”

She raised her gaze, trembling though she was, and implored him, “Please.”

He was terrifying in that moment. Hermione didn’t know how long this bombardment had been going on before she woke, but the events of the last few days were clearly taking a toll on the lord of the manor. While ever immoveable, he stared down at her with a leonine cruelty that sent a chill through her veins. She didn’t doubt this was a man who could kill her. 

“Are you trying to use your feminine wiles on me now?” he sneered. “You’ll need to try harder. Sobbing pleas do nothing for me.”

Hermione flinched back a little, shoulders hunching in on herself. “Master Lucius, please tell me what I can do.”

“You want guidance?” She nodded shortly as heat prickled at the corners of her eyes. “What do you think cools men’s tempers, Hermione? ”

She glanced around the floor as though it could provide an answer.

He laughed. “And I thought you were supposed to be intelligent. Such an oblivious little creature, and when you’re already on your knees.”

That caught her attention. Her gaze bolted back up and she gaped at him; he raised a dark brow in challenge. 

“You want me to…”

“I want you to be more useful than you are troublesome,” he snarled. “But I am beginning to think that is impossible.” He lifted his wand again, the emeralde eye of the serpent glinting with ill intent.

Hermione threw herself to his feet. “No! No, please. I can be useful,” she insisted; she used one hand to catch herself on a long, black-clad leg. Far from kicking her off of him, he studied her with surgical curiosity.

Slowly, Lucius lowered his wand alongside his thigh. His free hand, strangely elegant and pale without its usual gleaming obsidian glove, gestured for her to continue. When she didn’t move, he added, “Show me. Show me how you can be useful.”

She’d thought about how this might happen before, fantasized about doing such forbidden things (with Tom especially), but in her daydreams, she hadn’t felt like a threadbare rag clinging to life by wiping up such foulness.  For once, she truly felt dirty.  Her small hands waivered as she darted to the top of his trousers to undo the buckle, then the buttons. Once opened, she hesitated.

***

Lucius grabbed one of her wrists in his non-dominant palm and pressed it against the half-hard length still covered. She could feel the heat of it through the impeding layers. “It’s there. Now get on with it.” He was all seething coolness, like an icy river, as he watched her slip her hand inside to fish him out.

She didn’t know what she expected, but the long, angry thing in her grasp wasn’t it. It pulsed in her hand, growing in size and becoming harder. It nearly scorched her palm. Experimentally, she wrapped her hand around and gave a tug, like those motions the boys used when they made crass jokes about masturbation. 

Lucius remained impassive. 

She sniffled back her tears and tried to view this as a strange study, an exercise of sorts. And really, it wasn’t all that bad. The thing— his— prick, she settled on thinking— was soft in the most curious way, skin velvety over the hardness that quickly reached full size. The foreskin came back as she experimented more, and the head was shiny and nearly purple and—

It was disgusting. She didn’t want to be here. She couldn’t be here. She had to get away, to distance herself somehow—

“Stop dallying already.”

Pulled from her thoughts, she stopped mid motion and frowned up at him.

Lucius tapped her cheek with the tip of his wand. “Open.”

“But—”

His wand pushed harder, and she fell silent. The fingers of his free hand tangled in her curls and pulled her forward. The scent was humid and musky, and the flavor was salty and bitter. He quickly blocked her airflow as he thrust himself to the back of her throat.

Heroine tried to pull away, but she couldn’t. He was too strong, and she was also aware of the fact that he still had his wand, although he’d confiscated hers.  Tears and snot quickly became rivers down her face, slobber soon joining as she choked on the length invading her mouth.

“Relax,” the man hissed, granting her a momentary reprieve to catch her breath. “Relax your throat and learn to time your breathing. And if you even think about biting me, you will lose your teeth one-by-one.” She only had to time to blink her tear-clumped lashes.

And then he shoved her head forward again and she was caught between choking and panicked thoughts.

It was vile, dehumanizing, the way he used her like she was an object for his pleasure. Had she not already been tearing up from the onslaught, she’d no doubt she would break into hysterics.

Those moments where she gagged around him, those were the few that broke his precious composure. He held her head in place, hissed as his fist tightened in her messy curls, and then began pumping again, faster this time.

She was lightheaded, her hands gripping the cloth at the backs of his thighs when he stilled a third time, his length throbbing down her throat. It felt like he’d hold her there forever, until black spots started dancing in her vision, and then he finally pulled her away, leaving a trail of his spend down her throat and along her tongue.

***

She collapsed on the floor in a heap, panting and still trying to swallow the bitter fluid. It cloyed in her throat and she thought the taste might never fade.

Silence hung over the room as she allowed her body time to come down from its oxygen-starved anxiety, and then Lucius Malfoy sighed. “I suppose that’s a start.”  The callousness of those words made her tears begin anew, though she hadn’t the energy to sob.  “Such a waste. I should have finished in your cunt. Tch. Time for that later, I suppose.” His voice, despite the cruelty of his meaning, lacked bite. Perhaps she’d drained his fury out of him when he—

She flinched from her own wondering.

“Clean yourself up. I’ll see what I can do to get rid of that nuisance.”

Hermione laid there long after he’d gone— or, she supposed, it could have been minutes. Her sense of time was skewed by the floating nothingness that was attempting to overtake her mind. 

It was tempting there in the cloudy haze threatening to descent. There was a softness, a blurring of everything around her and everything that had happened. Her mind and body were heavy in all that lightness, slowly sinking...

Sinking...

Sinking...

Despite the organ being her greatest asset, she wanted to let it go. It would be far easier to endure the cruelty of this world if she didn’t have to live aware within it.

Lucius didn’t want to visit the girl again that day, nor the next. In fact, once he’d managed to get Riddle away from his property— having to call in more favors than he’d like to do so— he didn’t even want to think of the girl.

She had looked lovely, on her knees, amber eyes nearly glowing from her tears. It had been a near thing for him to retain a semblance of his control and not fall apart like a beast.

As it was, he didn't quite know how to feel about the exchange. 

Narcissa and Draco had both left, doubtless while he was dealing with Hermione or Bella at some point. Lucius had returned to the manor and realized he had seen neither member of his family in quite some time. Silent halls echoed the cadence of his footsteps and cane and found all the rooms where they might be empty and cold, untouched. He’d no idea where they were, and he wasn’t sure he cared as long as they both returned when he’d set everything to rights.

It was only a matter of time.

He rubbed his throbbing temples and sipped his firewhiskey. 

Chapter Text

For nearly a week now, Hermione had been alone. At first, it had been preferable. After all, Lucius’ last visit was less than pleasant, and she knew neither Draco nor Narcissa could find her where she currently stayed.

By the fourth day, it was a bit lonely. She’d always preferred the company of books, but in truth, Hermione had been surrounded by others most of her life. She’d had her parents when she was a toddler, and then shared quarters at the Institution. And while she had her own room at the manor, she and Draco were usually together. At Hogwarts, she slept in the same dormitory as four other girls her age, and attended classes, and spent free time with her boys.

Her boys. None of them knew where she was now.

What had Lucius told his son? Had he said anything? Surely, Draco had discovered she wasn’t in her bedroom by now. He had to suspect his father had secreted her away.

Day five was anxious. She’d hardly slept the night before and was too restless to sleep again that night. And so here she was, tired, but wracked with nerves as twilight filled the window-scape. She sat in the reading chair, a book in her lap as she dozed between paragraphs. The remnants of her evening meal were light in her stomach, as she’d only picked at everything before it disappeared back to the kitchens.

She didn’t have much of an appetite but ate only to quiet her body’s complaints. Each day had seen her eating less, to this sixth day where perhaps one bit of each dish was taken. She was starting to not care about herself, a total anathema to the teachings of her guardian. Narcissa had insisted upon bodily health. She would be disappointed to see her pupil-and-ward so dismissive of her own needs.

Hermione wasn’t sure she cared to care about that.

In and out as she was, she didn’t notice him entering, not until the room was bathed in orange candlelight and velvet shadows, and Lucius Malfoy stood over her gilded in flame like some horrible angel. At least now that he'd revealed his worst, she could no longer find him beautiful. 

Hermione’s eyes widened and she stared silently up at him. He’d caught her napping, but what was she to do now that she was aware of him? Should she stand? Kneel? Greet him? Which way would spell her doom?

Her voice was locked away and she couldn’t think through the mild panic of her distant thoughts.

He tipped his head and peered at her curiously. “If you’re so tired, you should be in bed.”

“I wasn’t,” she defended automatically, then blushed upon realization of the obvious lie.

“Go lie down,” the man ordered. She hesitantly obeyed, expecting him to stalk after her. Instead, he plucked a tome off the shelves and slid into her vacant seat. 

Hermione stared up at the night-blackened canopy and listened. His breathing was nearly imperceptible, so the main notes were the flickering of the humble fire in the hearth, the turning of thick, dry pages, and the occasional rustle of clothing as he shifted. Now and then, he might clear his throat or sigh, but it was otherwise nearly as silent as when she’d been in the room by herself. Somehow, his presence filled the space regardless. She wondered how she had not noticed him at first, with the way it thickened the air.

Her heartbeat slowed, comforted by the presence of another person even if it was one who terrified her. Her thoughts began spiraling in that dreamy way right before sleep. She sank into the soft mattress and its silken sheets and drifted away.

At some point she woke to the world shifting around her. There was an arm draped across her stomach and the blankets were nearly boiling with body heat.

She frowned and batted open sleep-dry eyes to see Lucius Malfoy, still dressed, had joined her on the bed. Too tired, to worry about what was going on, she floated back into her dreams.

When next Hermione woke, she was alone. The blankets were rumpled around her, but there was no other indication she’d been joined in bed. 

Maybe it was a dream.

She shook it from her mind and instead went to the breakfast that was sitting on a repaired table. It was always like that; anything destroyed one day would be set to rights the next.

There was a grapefruit sliced in half, ruby meat gleaming in the early morning sun. It was tart and sweet and delicious, especially when offset against the bland oatmeal that accompanied it. She sucked the juice from her fingers and savored the flavor left on her lips.

Throughout the day, the memory of the man sitting in her room to read, of him holding her gently beside him, returned to her. He must have been lonely, too. It was the only explanation. 

Three more nights passed before he came again, taking her seat as she went to bed and reading as she fell asleep. Four nights alone, and then the same.

Nearly three weeks passed before Hermione finally asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“Does it matter?” 

“You’re not being cruel to me anymore. It’s confusing.”

He studied her with those thoughtful eyes made dark in the firelight. “I have no need to be cruel, not when you are behaving as I like.” He had already taken the reading chair and she had prepared for bed before confronting him. “Come here.” Hermione tiptoed forward one hesitant step at a time until she stood in front of his knees. He reached for her and wrapped his bare hand around one of her wrists to tug her between his legs and closer to him.  “You see? I’ve no need to use the stick.” His other hand slid down her back to sit against the small of it. “Are you going to fight me now?”

She shook her head. There was no point in fighting him when there was no way for her to win; besides, he wasn’t doing anything terrible yet.

“Good. Now, get to bed.” He released her, but she stayed a moment longer.

“Are you going to sleep here again tonight?”

Lucius lifted a brow. “Does it bother you?”

“Not as long as it’s just sleeping,” she replied.

“Go to bed, Hermione,” he said with a scoffing laugh.

She’d thought they made progress that night, but she was mistaken. Instead, Lucius stayed away for a full week. She’d crawled into bed on the sixth night, sobbing and curled in a little ball.

The eighth night came, and she was trying to distract herself with the book in front of her, but her heart wasn’t in reading. She’d pulled the chair near the false window and stared out at a landscape that had been stolen from elsewhere in the manor. 

“You really should eat more. I think you’ve lost weight.”

“What do you care?” she murmured in a voice rusted from disuse. She did not deign to look at him.

He appeared beside her, looming and pale gold. “I can’t have you wasting away after I’ve invested so much.”

Hermione sneered. “Yet you’ll leave me here alone for weeks on end.”

“Weeks? It was but one, and I have been busy,” he informed her, though she still didn’t turn toward him to listen. “Have you missed me so much?”

“I’ve been stuck here alone. You’re my only company.”

Long fingers curled around her chin to direct her to face him. “So, you have missed me. How sweet.”

“I have not.” She failed in the attempt to pull her chin away.

“Then I’ll leave you to it. Perhaps I’ll check in next week, perhaps not.” He dropped his grip and spun on his heel, but Hermione’s panic had her plucking at his sleeve.

“Don’t go.”  He looked over his shoulder, the one visible brow raised.  “It’s lonely. Please,” she added.

Lucius tutted and slipped his sleeve from her weak grip but flicked his wand to draw close one of the chairs by the small table. “I can hardly resist when you beg so prettily.” His teeth gleamed in a sharp smile. 

She watched him for a moment, but he was doing nothing, really. So, Hermione lifted her book to attempt to read again.

It didn’t work. She was restless and couldn’t move her mind from the man. She kept glancing over the pages to check on him.

When he caught her staring, she blushed and looked away.

“Kneazle caught your tongue?”

She shook her head and brushed aside a curtain of lank curls. “What’s going on out there?”

“It doesn’t concern you,” Lucius said evenly.

“I just want to know,” she murmured. “Will you tell me about Draco at least?”

His expression soured. “I said it doesn’t concern you, mudblood.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied automatically, fighting against the flinch at his bite. “C-could I maybe go to the library? Or take a walk in the garden?”

A thunk against the small table made her jump in her seat. “You have yet to prove yourself worthy of leaving this room.”

Hermione thought back to the last time she’d had to prove herself and her stomach twisted, cheeks flooding. “How could I…” She didn’t want to say it.

“You know how.”

“And if I do it, you’ll let me out?” Was she considering this? Was staying alone in the damnable room that despairing?

He stared at her thoughtfully. “It is an indication you are responding well to your training, and thus puts you closer to being given certain allowances.”

“I’d just like a little fresh air.” Her fingers tangled across the spread pages.

“And you’ll get it,” he promised, “when you’ve proven you are ready.”

Her fingers separated, hands curling into loose fists. “A walk with you, Master Lucius, is all I ask.”

“Good little pets don’t negotiate,” he admonished her.

She bit back the fresh threat of tears and snapped toward the window to gather herself. Stars twinkled over the gardens. What she wouldn’t give to be out under them, breathing in the crisp evening air, the scent of night blooming flowers thick in the summer. She would remove her shoes and allow the manicured grass to tickle bare feet, and she would dip a hand into one of the many fountains to shower herself beneath the sky.

“Go to bed, Hermione. You look like you need it.”

She frowned, but nodded, shutting the book and rising to put it away before she crawled under the covers of her bed.

Lucius stood and her heart trembled. “Will you stay?”

He sighed and dropped into her seat, able to stare through the shadows at her. He flicked his wand, and a book came to his hand. 

It wasn’t until he had developed a rhythm to the turning of pages that she relaxed into the linens and let herself fall asleep.

Six nights later he visited again. Five nights she’d spent curled up alone and wondering how long he’d leave her there again. She attempted everything she could to disperse the aching loneliness of it, but Hermione wasn’t used to being ignored like this. It hurt like nothing she’d known before.

It hurt so much that when he appeared again, she bolted from her seat to acknowledge him.

“Happy to see me, mudblood?”

“Yes,” was her instant response.

His brows rose. “Well.” Lucius strode around her to slip into the wingback chair. “That is a surprise.”

Hermione spun about to face him. “Would you please come more often?”

“I’ll visit as I like. There is no reason to come other than to check in on you now and then.” He was so cool, so nonchalant about something that seared through to her bones.

She chewed on her bottom lip as she contemplated her options. Two steps took her to his side, where she dropped to kneel. Hermione stared up at him with wide, baleful eyes, and waited.

“My, my.” Lucius was wearing gloves tonight, the first time she’d seen them in some time. He unfastened the buttons that tightened the gloves around his wrists and slipped them off, one and then the other. They were set on the arm of the chair and bare fingers carded through her curls. “There’s a good girl. I knew you were there under all of that Gryffindor blustering: that sweet little creature who only wants to please those around her.”

Her cheeks stained red at the condescending words.

“Had you not gone to Hogwarts and been corrupted there, this is what you would have been.” His hand felt so nice against her scalp, her eyes nearly teared. 

She’d missed affection. The boys were always free with it— well, Draco had slowly become more demonstrative since joining Hufflepuff, and Harry and Ron had grown up in homes that were full of embraces.

“This is what you are at heart; this is where you belong.” As much as she wanted to fight it, she was weak. She knew any arguing would result in further loneliness until he’d completely broken her down. It was, for the moment, easier to give in. She could always rally her strength later. “My ideal little mudblood. We’ll work to nurture this obedience in your children, yes?”

She didn’t speak for fear of what might come out. Whether it was a sob or a curse, neither would benefit her. Instead, she allowed her eyes to flutter shut, and let herself just feel.

“You’re coming along so nicely, pet. Soon, you’ll be perfect. The perfect Malfoy mudblood.” His hand receded and she forced herself not to chase after it. “Bed, Hermione.”

Hermione nodded and stood on creaking knees and drew back the covers to slide between them. 

“Over, pet.”

Lucius had followed her. She suppressed the frown and scooted to the side to allow him space. When he began to unbutton his shirt, her eyes darted away. He soon joined her on the bed, though by the feel of him, he was still in his trousers.

Lucius wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to him. “Sleep, mudblood.”

She allowed him to hold her, though it was many hours before she finally obeyed his last order.

Chapter Text

She was succumbing to what Lucius wanted. Hermione knew it was only a matter of time, and she wondered why he wasn’t smug about it.

A month of isolation with him as her only companion was enough to reduce her to this. She was willing to do just about anything if it meant he’d spend more time with her.  Hermione had thought she was more resilient than that.

Isolation is a powerful tool.

She was sure that Narcissa and Draco were gone now. He should be nearly as lonely as she was, though she supposed he had the luxury of leaving. He had friends, colleagues. She didn’t even have house elves willing to answer her call. No, they obeyed the law of Lucius Malfoy, and thus she was left to languish in solitude.

She needed to get away before there was no thought besides how to be what Lucius Malfoy wanted, but the room was spelled to keep her contained.

It was monstrous, and she often found herself wondering about the previous occupants. 

Lucius came that evening, a rare occurrence as it had only been a few days since he curled up with her in bed. He appeared at the same time as her supper, tall and imposing, his long hair held back by a dark velvet ribbon. “Sit, Hermione,” he ordered. She hesitated between the floor and the table. “In a chair, my dear. I’ve come to eat with you.” His silver eyes glimmered with amusement. 

Hermione lowered herself to the seat and waited for the man to sit opposite her. There were indeed two place settings, and a goblet of wine beside each tall glass of water. It was unsettling.

Lucius tucked in, eyes flitting to watch her follow the movements of his fork. It was only after his first bite that she picked up her cutlery. “You need to eat more,” he imparted once he’d followed the masticated beef with a swallow of wine. “I won’t have you underweight.”

“I haven’t much of an appetite these days,” she murmured evenly. 

“Nevertheless,” he said, “you will eat enough to maintain yourself.”

Hermione bit off more food rather than a retort. He let go her lack of acquiescence, perhaps more pleased with obedience in action rather than words.  They ate in silence after that, at least until the rich red went to her head and she found her inner lion. “Master Lucius.”

One dark brow lifted. He set down his wine goblet and favored her with the full force of his attention. “Yes?”

“This room was meant for mistresses of Malfoys past, correct?”

“It was,” he agreed.

She rolled her lower lip through her teeth, pondering how to word this next bit. “Has it always required the lord of the manor to leave and enter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So that it remains hidden, of course,” he answered.

Hermione clicked her tongue absently. “No, I meant why would the mistresses be trapped, as well?”

It was fortunate Lucius found her momentary lapse amusing. He suppressed a smirk. “Not all mistresses have wanted to remain in the manor, unappreciative of the offered luxury and protection.”

“You mean they were also prisoners,” she corrected.

He gave a slight nod. “Indeed. If you see this as imprisonment.”

“A gilded cage is still a cage,” she muttered.

“Would you prefer that I relocate you to the dungeons?”

Hermione had seen the dungeons before, albeit never from the perspective of one kept within them. She and Draco had explored every aspect of the manor and grounds, and that included the dank, dark bowels where manacles and bars kept hold. There had been rusted, ancient, blackened blood on some of those chains and bindings. The dungeons had smelled of dank mold and old horrors. She’d not wanted to stay for long.

“No, thank you,” she said. “But I don’t understand.”

He still stared at her, statue-still and unblinking. “What does the brilliant Hermione Granger not understand?”

“Why would anyone keep a lover who didn’t want them?”

The silence was tense as he contemplated her question. Her mouth dried from his burning gaze, and she grabbed her goblet between cupped hands and gulped down mouthfuls that hardly sated her.

Only when she dabbed the napkin at her mouth did Lucius break the thread. “Draco is aptly named. While Malfoys have always been associated with serpents for our Slytherin proclivities, we are much more like dragons than snakes. We become easily entranced with riches and pretty baubles, and we grow covetous when we see what we cannot have. What we do procure, we tend to hoard jealously. Surely, you’ve noticed that by now?”

She nodded, lips pursed and throat tight.

“There you have it. This place is also spelled to keep them from harming themselves or others for the same reason. We couldn’t very well allow a tantrumming mistress to hurt a child, for instance, could we?”

“A child?” she parroted. “Why would a child be in these quarters?”

One corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Malfoy bastards have proven useful in certain situations. In fact, I have a cousin in France who has assisted in family affairs there. His surname is Renoir, but he and I could be brothers. We both highly favored our paternal grandfather.”

“That’s barbaric.” Fists clenched in her lap at the idea of being trapped in this room throughout pregnancy, then with an infant.

“You should get used to the idea.” He lifted his goblet and nodded toward hers. “Drink, my dear.”

“I haven’t a head for alcohol.”

Lucius shrugged. “Suit yourself. I won’t force you.”

Laughter cut through her lips. “I’m not sure I believe that, given all that’s happened.”

“Yes, this has all been so horrible for you, my poor pet.” He rolled his eyes and swallowed the dregs of his drink. “You’re getting mouthy again. Is this what I get for visiting more often? I think it’s time I leave.”

“No, wait.” Hermione jumped from her seat as her heart leapt into her throat. Her hands caught on his forearm. “I’m sorry, Master Lucius. It’s— it’s the wine. I told you; I don’t have a head for alcohol.”

Sickle-bright eyes bored into her. “Are you sorry, Miss Granger? I’m not sure I believe you.”

“I am. I’m very sorry,” she insisted. How desperately her words rose, hey eyes widening as they glistened.

“And you don’t want me to leave?”

She swallowed and shook her head.

Lucius faced her fully and laid a hand on her cheek. “Are you grateful for my presence with you?”

“Yes, Master Lucius,” she murmured, staring at his cufflinks.

“There’s a good girl.” He glanced at the table. “Are you finished eating, my dear?”

She sighed against his hand. “Yes.”

He lifted her chin and leaned in until his breath whispered against her. “Good.” And then his mouth molded to her own.

A dragon, Lucius had said the Malfoys were, and he kissed like a dragon, all heat and possession. He’d taken full advantage of her pouting, parted lips, and roved her mouth as though to map it. He tasted of the bitter notes of the red wine as his tongue swirled over her own. 

Softer lips, a more complex taste, but the domineering aspect was the same as her professor. 

The thought made her whimper. Lucius’ arms wrapped around her to pull her in close, tipping his head to get a better angle. He was hard against her, and hot like a flame despite his cool coloring.

He steered her blindly until the backs of her legs hit upon something, then she fell, landing upon the mattress without their lips parting.

Kicking her feet apart, he wormed between her thighs, hips pressed to hers. He was all hard lines despite his age, and that hardness sent disgust and terror through her. He could tear her apart with little more effort than brushing away a fly.

Breathlessly, she tore her mouth from his. “Please, don’t.” His lips worked to her jaw, nipping at her throat, and his hands slid beneath to untie the lacing of her corset. The dratted thing had her breasts pressed taut against the top of the gown, cleavage available for him to decorate in spots of color. 

“Sh, sh.” Hot breath stirred against her skin.

The bodice loosened, but her ribs constricted around her heart. He tugged the cloth down and wrapped his lips around one nipple and she struggled to push his head away. 

Lucius sneered and grabbed her wrists in his large, burning hands. “Cease this tantrum at once, or I shall leave you here alone until you’ve gone mad.”

The threat had her swallow down her protests. She didn’t know if this would be worse or that awful loneliness he’d curated in her. Tears shimmered and brightened her amber eyes as she stared up at him. “Please... Don’t do this. Not yet.”

“You should have had more wine.” He transferred her wrists to one hand and shoved them to the plush bed. “It would have made this easier for both of us.”

***

He pushed up the voluminous skirts and ripped away her undergarments, and within seconds had pushed into her with no regard for comfort.

It burned and stung and tore, and she shrieked, struggling uselessly against his strength. 

Lucius hissed as he settled inside her, letting them both adjust long enough for her to lapse into quiet sobs, and then began an unhurried pace.

He was cold as the depths of winter as his eyes lingered over her breasts, her cheeks, her torn apex, but he was like smelted iron pumping into her. It hurt, and her nails and teeth bit into her flesh until she could taste copper, could feel her skin beneath her fingernails.

It was quick, despite his leisurely pace, and he spent himself buried deep inside her, and held there as he regained his breath. “Stay like this for a moment,” he muttered, doing up his trousers and spelling away his sweat. His eyes locked on the seepage between her thighs, white tinged with pink leaking onto the duvet.

***

Hermione sniffled and made to sit up, but a warning glare had her falling back prone. 

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to eat? I ordered the elves to feed you nutritious meals, but it’s better for you to eat something less healthful than nothing at all.” He surveyed the room for improvements to make and to give the girl time to collect herself.

“No.”

He tutted. “I know you like chocolate—”

“Sweets are bad for your teeth,” she grated.

“You can spell them clean easily enough. Don’t pout, Hermione. It doesn’t suit you.”

She laughed, which devolved into another sob. “I’m not pouting, Lucius, I’m hurting. ”

“It wasn’t that bad.” He sat beside her on the bed and stroked sweaty hair back from her forehead; Hermione turned her cheek to face the opposite side of the room. “I could be a kind lover, if you’d behave for me.”

“I don’t want to be your lover at all,” she muttered.

His fingers stilled in his soothing motions, and he drew away. “As you wish. A pet in need of training and breeding you shall remain. I’ll leave you to your misery.”

Hermione listened to his footsteps and the grinding of the fireplace as it became a passage to his room. Slowly, she lifted herself from the soiled duvet and trudged to the bath. The gown, held up by arms hugging across her chest, fell to the floor, and she stepped into water that scorched her flesh.

She scrubbed until she was raw, particularly at the place between her legs, which was already torn and sore. Then she emptied the tub and filled it anew and scrubbed herself down again.

By the time Hermione decided she was as clean as she’d get, her fingers were pale and pruny from the water. She dressed in the most covering garments as she could, and added a robe securely tied around her middle for extra comfort.

The bedchamber was clean when she reentered with a plume of steam. No scent of sex lingered, and there were fresh linens on the bed. The elves had granted her a small kindness, one she desperately needed.

She fell to the plush carpet and leaned her back against the stacked mattresses, and there she remained all night. 

Chapter Text

Lucius didn't visit his little mudblood for a week and a day after their liaison. He spent his evenings alone with his alcohol, staring into the fire and wondering if she was desperate for attention yet. 

He was nearly desperate to give it to her.

Since growing into his adult height, Lucius had never lacked for female attention. Women were drawn to him for his money and influence, yes, but also because he was handsome. Men, too, for that matter. He could have easily had affairs with any number of witches but did not. For most of his marriage, he'd remained loyal to Narcissa, though his father had assured him it wasn't necessary. She would understand that he had needs, so long as he kept the affairs hidden, and met her own needs in return.

Upon taking up the mantle of Lord Malfoy, he'd made his rounds with his wand to establish mastery of the manor and nearly felt sick when he first opened the mistress' suite on his own. Abraxas had shown him once. He remembered it well, how the room was empty, hadn't had an occupant in some time. The elves kept it dusted and laundered, but it had the air of long neglect all the same.

"I've always preferred married women," his father had confided. "They require less effort. Your grandfather, however, had a pretty little muggle woman here for more than a decade."

Young Lucius had wrinkled his nose. "A muggle ? That's disgusting."

"He didn't sully the family line with her, Lucius, merely fucked her. She was pretty, and docile, and satisfied him physically so he could properly tend to his wife." Abraxas wasn't at all put out by the notion of his father with a muggle mistress; not even a mudblood! He might as well have housed a beast in the lavish suite.

"What if he'd gotten her pregnant?"

His father had shrugged. "Then there would have been a halfblood Malfoy bastard out there. Or not, if he chose to terminate. As long as it was never acknowledged, it wouldn't be an issue." That was the most important part: not to allow it into the family.

"Aren't halfbloods lesser?" he asked.

"Yes." His father had seemed amused by his disgust more than anything. "And it's certainly not preferable, but a halfblood bastard in the right place can be useful."

Lucius frowned up at his father, but kept quiet, as he sensed more to come.

"She did indeed bear him a bastard late into their relations, and he sent her to France to raise the boy. He attended Beauxbatons. In return for continued patronage of his own little family, he receives a stipend and has a job handling some of our French business."

"What if he exposed the family?"

Abraxas had beamed down at him for the question. "He'd be cut down, of course. However, should he purify his own line with a few generations of breeding with pureblood families of good standing, one of his descendants could marry into the true line. It has happened before."

And thus, Lucius learned one of the secrets of nobility and purity: a man may pursue his desires and gain advantage from them, as long as he did not besmirch his lineage in the process.

With Hermione, he was doing the opposite of what ancestors had done with their impure spawn; instead of having them breed out the muggle blood, he would keep enough for a line of mudbloods to remain and serve in the home as the Malfoy bastards of the past had served outside. It was nicely parallel, in a twisted way, and it disturbed him less than allowing halfblood Malfoy bastards to imagine themselves nearly equal to his own kind.

Playing with the glass of brandy in hand, Lucius wondered what his father would think of his project. The light refracted in the liquor reminded him of her eyes as they shone with anguish. So many times, he'd seen that bright hue, eagerly devouring a new book, laughing with his son in the garden, but they'd never been as lovely as when they were full of pain for him. 

He truly was a monster.

She tempted me to it. Whether he meant Bellatrix or Hermione, he didn't know. One had pursued him and seduced him into infidelity, and the other was tempting in everything she represented, and everything he felt was anathema.

He didn't explore that line of thought because it didn't matter; it all led to the same end.

Lucius quaffed the remainder of his drink, lips twisting as it burned down his throat, and then he plucked free his wand and waved it toward the flames.

The stone hearth rearranged until it was an arch large enough that he walked through it, then set itself to rights behind him as though the entrance never were.  Hermione laid atop the covers, curled on her side with her knees near her stomach. She didn't flinch at his entrance, despite the sheen of light reflected in her open eyes.

"I could leave," he said into the cool, dark, heavy air. She sighed but didn't otherwise respond.

Lucius climbed atop the bed and stroked a hand down her back. Her silken dressing gown looked black in the night. With the way she laid, most of her deliciously soft thighs were exposed for his view. He trailed down her hip and traced fingertips over her bare skin. Smooth and soft and lovely. His fingertips sank into the plush velvet flesh.

He bent over her and breathed in her scent, stirring the small hairs along her arm. "I won't hurt you, pet. Tell me to leave, and I shall."

Silk skin was warm under his kiss.

"You can't stay silent forever," though he would allow her to maintain it as long as she wished, if it meant she weren't fighting him. While her fire was lovely, Lucius had always preferred banked flames. She was his flame to master.

He plied her with affection for a while, drinking in the softness of her body with mouth and hands, murmuring to her in the darkness. When her lashes finally fluttered shut, he dressed down for the night and wrapped himself around her to sleep.

It was so much better than sitting in his empty room for another night.

It was easier to bear him in silence, Hermione decided. She wouldn't fight him, but no longer did she want to play this game. Instead, she would endure.

It's what she did best.

Lucius arrived most evenings now that she'd fallen quiescent. He was always dressed less formally, in button down and slacks, often with the harsh scent of liquor on his breath. She could recognize which alcohol he'd had by scent now. He'd watch her for a time, then speak at her despite knowing she'd not engage. If her silence bothered him, she neither knew nor cared.

He didn't demand that she stand upon his arrival or kneel for him. He was perfectly happy to sit while she read or laid in bed.

"You truly are a pet now," he mused. He'd sat on the bed and lifted her head onto his lap to stroke her long curls. "I quite like it. Tell me, have you finished reading the books here? I could get you more from the library."

She released a quiet sigh, letting him interpret it as he wished. The contact felt nice, even if she'd prefer different company. This was what she had.

"I'll have the elves bring some in the morning." Lucius massaged her scalp until her eyes shut. It was so good, so soothing, and she wished she hated it, but this was her only respite from solitude. "If you continue being so well behaved, I'll take you for a walk in the garden this week."

Her heart skipped a beat, but she kept still. If he began to loosen her reins, she'd have a chance at slipping from his grip. Careful, she warned herself. Go slowly.

Lucius chuckled and cradled her skull to lay it back on the pillow. He crawled behind her, spooning her smaller form, and kissed her throat. "I think you like that idea. You miss the sun, don't you?" Hands danced over her. "Then I shall give you the sun. That's it."

She let him adjust her as he wished, trying to pull her awareness away from the sensations. His large hands pried and loosened, swept silk from her skin, settled. When he thrust into her, she bit her lip and stifled a whimper.

"That's it," he murmured into her hair. He was gentle as he rocked against her, the hand on her hip dipping between her legs to help ease his passage with uninvited pleasure. "Just take me, pet."

Lips laid against her throat, teeth skimming dangerously as he came.

A spell refreshed their sweaty bodies afterward, then he wrapped his arm around her waist and held her until he drifted off.

Hermione laid awake long into the night and began planning ways she might escape, if only he'd let her out of this prison.

Chapter Text

“Put on some shoes,” Lucius ordered when he entered the room that evening. 

It was earlier than usual; Hermione hadn’t yet eaten dinner. A shiver of excitement lanced down her spine and she nodded, then opened the closet to grab a pair of leather-soled slippers. They were the singular pair she was allowed.  When she turned back, Lucius was smirking at her eagerness. He held out a hand and wrapped her smaller one in it, then led them from the room. They passed through the hidden hall, but instead of opening into the manor proper, the door at the end opened into the garden.

The sun wasn’t completely gone, so dusky twilight blanketed the rose-lined pathway. Lucius laced her hand through his arm and guided her deeper into the garden.  Woven in sparingly so its sweetly heavy scent didn’t overpower all, catchflies opened to the night. The pale little flowers were small, but fragrant, and she’d grown to love their perfume. It made the gardens a delight in the evenings as well as the days.

Hermione surveyed the familiar grounds as they traipsed through in silence. She thought on what she could do to distract Lucius, or how to get a message to Draco and the others. Now that she was outside, there were more options. She glanced around, taking inventory.

There were statuary of dangerous beasts throughout the grounds, beautiful beings that could kill with their breath or a single swipe from sharp claws or—

Lucius stopped them in front of a fountain alight with fairies. It was of a school of sharp-toothed fish. He directed her to sit on a stone bench. He summoned a white rose from the thickening night and wove it into her curls. “Lovely.” Pastel light played over the hard surfaces of his face, limning him in pale pink and icy blue and cool white. He was like some strange modern portrait, beautiful and full of contrasts, but he stared down at her with dark eyes that ate at her soul.

How different they were, she and Lucius Malfoy. Older and younger, male and female, pureblood and muggleborn, soft and hard. Even their coloring was opposing. Whereas Hermione was gold and brown and bronze, all warm curls and skin that favored sunshine, Lucius was silver and white and snow. 

“Are you enjoying the gardens, Hermione?” he asked, brushing gentle fingers across her jaw. 

She nodded and stared past him at the multicolored water from the Piscean fountain.

Lucius hummed. “The fresh air is good for you. Perhaps I’ll bring you earlier next time. I’m sure you miss the sun.”

Her eyes snapped to him, lips parting, and breath desperate at the offer.

“Oh, you like that idea.” He chuckled and leaned close. “I told you I’ll reward good behavior. And you’ve been very good, Hermione. Continue being my good pet, and you’ll have anything your heart desires.” Lucius pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger and pressed his lips to hers in a petal-soft kiss.

Not freedom , she thought. He wouldn’t give her that. She’d have to fight for it.

“Up, darling,” he ordered after they had rested a while. “It’s time to get you back to your room.”

The words struck at her heart, but she did as bid; she couldn’t risk upsetting him when he was just starting to ease his hold. 

He didn’t force her that night, much to her surprise. Instead, once she’d eaten and bathed, he laid with her in bed, and they slept.

Their garden sojourns became a regular occurrence, though they were mostly relegated to the evenings. Lucius was ever-gentle with her at each meeting. He practically doted on her, and she wondered if this was out of loneliness, or whether this was always a part of him, just never extended toward her.  (Not entirely true; in her childhood, sometimes she'd see glimpses of this in dealing with her and Draco.)  It didn’t matter, she’d remind herself when she slipped into thoughts of errant affection. It was all against her will, forced upon her.

And she’d finally settled on a plan.

It required her to begin speaking, something she didn’t want to do. If she spoke, she would have to say things that encouraged him— or at least wouldn’t push him away. 

“Master Lucius.” Her voice was hardly a whisper from disuse. She laid with her head in his lap; they had already taken their walk for the evening.

He gazed at her with brows raised. “Yes, pet?”

Hermione wetted her lips. She had to go slowly, delicately, or he’d begin to suspect too quickly. “I— would like fruit tomorrow morning, please.”

“Fruit?” He combed a hand through the hair fanned across him. “Any particular fruit?”

“I’m fond of pears,” she admitted.

His smile was slight, but affectionate. “Then you shall have pears and more.”

That first request resulted in pears every morning since, always accompanied by at least one other fruit. She had plums and berries and apples of three different varieties. She’d increased the amount she said every time, though kept words to a minimum, and requests sparse.

“You can ask anything of me, pet,” he told her as they walked through the garden a few evenings later. “Within reason.”

“You take good care of me,” she murmured.

Lucius hummed in pleasure and squeezed her hand. “Yes, but if I wish to spoil you, then I shall. Tell me something you want.”

Hermione thought on it for a moment, on what she could request that might help her and not arouse suspicion. It was too early to ask for her wand, she knew. “Might I have a quill and parchment? Or perhaps a journal? I miss being able to write down my thoughts.”

“Of course, my dear. Why, I should have provided that sooner. I didn’t realize you were lacking.” It was not quite an apology.

She gave a wan smile. “It wasn’t important. I’m fine, truly.”

He halted them on the pale stone path and cupped her cheeks. “Nonsense, darling. Your mind is sharp. We need to keep it in practice.” His thumb stroked along her cheekbone. “You’ll have what you desire.”

“Thank you, Master Lucius.”

He brushed his lips across hers. “Of course, my dear.” And then they continued on their walk.

In the morning, there were rolls of parchment, two journals bound in leather, a handful of quills, and several bottles of ink on the side table. 

The ink came in scarlet, purple, black, silver, and emerald. Trust Lucius Malfoy to go overboard with a small request.

No matter. Now Hermione had a way to write notes, if only she could scheme a way to have them delivered. She wondered if she dared ask for her journal, the one she shared with Tom. A word there, and he would know her situation. She could report about their walks, and then perhaps—

But that risked Lucius reading the journal, seeing her words, which were written like notes to her teacher. If he ran a spell diagnostic, he might realize it was a conduit to the other man.  That would undo all her hard work.

No, it was too risky. It was best she waited until he tired of hiding her away and trusted Hermione to walk the manor on her own.

A mistress’ suite

Closed away

A magical bird

Only the garden

The setting sun

And his tapping cane

For company

This was how she decided to write her notes. Lucius would hopefully believe that they were only poems meant to help her pass the time. Hermione interspersed them between arithmantic equations and runes practice and all sorts of other things.

Noon, alone in the room

He comes closer to evening

And I know that soon

I’ll be walking in the garden

Amid the starlit bloom

They would know she rarely strolled in the garden during the daylight hours. Lucius was most likely engaged in business dealings or politics then. Like any mistress (and how Hermione chafed at that title), she was kept to the evenings.

She experimented with origami, folding the little poems into stars and birds, which were the only shapes she could remember from the class she’d insisted on taking as a small child of four. Though as she worked on those, the pattern of a boat and a butterfly fluttered forth from memory. If she had her wand, she could enchant the shapes. The butterfly and the crane in particular might be innocuous enough to pass through the wards of the grounds. 

Perhaps it was time to work on her wandless magic.

Tom had taught her much about magical theory of the years, especially during his private lessons.  Magic, he had reminded her, did not require a wand. Indeed, there were sects of magical folk in different parts of the world who used no focus at all. Magic was merely directed, refined, magnified by the tools wizarding folk utilized. It came from the caster.

And while the principles of spellcasting were wand movement, incantation, concentration, and intention, he’d also reminded her that these components— all but one— were unnecessary. Stripped down, the only principle required was intention in its purest form. 

Intention , as a noun, referred to an aim, a plan, the intended consequence of an action. It was also the action itself. It was synonymous with goal, resolve, determination, significance , and concept . Indeed, it was a many layered word in and of itself. 

Intent implied design, purposefulness. That direction was the first component to spell-building. One had to know what the intended spell was meant to do before constructing any other element. Everything else hinged upon the intention.  An incantation was chosen to underscore the goal; oculus reparo , which she’d used for Harry countless times, was literally ‘I repair [the] eye’, and expecto patronum was “I am awaiting [a] protector.”

Wand movements were similarly built to match the cadence of the incantation and the general ‘feel’ of the spell. The diagrams she’d seen of the Killing Curse showed how the strange zig-zag pattern of its motions followed the rhythm of the incantation.

That left concentration, which was really just practical in any given subject. If one didn’t concentrate on what one was doing, one might cause a disaster like those Seamus Finnegan was infamous for.

Thus, Hermione began to build her spells.

One little magic she had even without her wand was in runes. She could use those to invoke certain properties, and they would hopefully give strength to her silent, empty-handed incantations.

The only worry there was hiding them from Lucius.

Hermione decided to implant the runes in the poems themselves. After all, raido was ‘R’. She could further illuminate meaning or give intention via word placement, as well.

Journey. Perhaps in ‘garden.’ 

It would work better at the beginning of a line, stick out less.

Roam the gardens

Yes, that would do.

Raido was the most important rune, given what she wanted the poem to do. Any other runes would need to add to its strength while imbuing their own elements on the object.

She wanted the crane to fly outside the boundaries of the manor. Ideally, she would have it reach one of her boys— Draco, Harry, Ron. Perhaps even Tom. There was no way to ensure that it was one of them who found it, not without much more complex spellwork than she was currently able to do, wandless as she was. Thus, she would need to make many, and hope that one of them eventually stumbled on her creations.

Hope. Wunjo for hope. That would be her second rune. It was so much what she needed, that one rune. It meant ‘joy,’ but it was layered in the emotions she felt for her intended recipients: kinship, hope, harmony, and comfort.

Those were her boys; Harry, Ron, and especially Draco, were her hope and her comfort. 

Chapter Text

Hermione decorated her room in little paper designs partially to alleviate any suspicion Lucius might have if he saw her bring one to the garden, partially because she realized they added a certain something that made her feel lighter.

“What are these?”

She blushed as his long fingers brushed the point of a star on the table.

“Oh, it’s called origami. It’s an art from Asia that involves folding paper into different shapes.” She lifted the little butterfly on which she’d drawn purple and black markings. It was quite pretty by her own reckoning. “I had an interest as a child— before the Institution— so my mother took me to a few classes to learn.”

He hummed thoughtfully, turning the star in his hand to inspect the lines. “And here I thought you’d be writing on the paper.”

Hermione covered her shy smile. “I am, but there’s no reason I can’t then fold them into pretty shapes instead of letting them languish in a stack.”

“That’s fair,” he murmured, then set the star back in its place. “Are you ready for a walk?”

Hermione slid a little origami boat from her collection and slipped on her shoes, then twined her arm through Lucius’ so he could lead her into the garden.

It was a brisk late afternoon— or perhaps early evening; this time of day was always more difficult to ascribe. She enjoyed the crisp breeze which foretold an evening shower. The boat had been well-picked.  It was meant to be innocuous, just showcasing one of the uses of the papers. When they stopped at a fountain, she unfolded it from its flat resting shape in her palm and set it on the water.

The pale little boat floated for a moment, stirred by the movement of the water. She giggled and pointed. “If it were sealed, it could stay up longer. It’ll be too water-logged soon.”

Lucius nodded thoughtfully, then drew his wand and cast a spell.  He’d used the Impervius charm and it glided along the surface like the tip of a gull’s wing.

Hermione gaped at the pale man for a moment, then remembered herself. “Thank you, Master Lucius.”

“Of course, pet.” They watched the boat for a few moments longer, then Lucius directed them deeper into the garden.

The Malfoys had one of the most impressive estates of any Pureblood family, as Hermione knew well. Among their various claims was that their garden grew more than seventeen hundred species of roses, to include magical and hybrid varieties seen nowhere else on earth.  In her younger days, Hermione had taken to memorizing the different varieties, but it had soon grown confusing even for her. Well, not the memorization, but telling them all apart as she walked amid them.

They were originally planted in individual little plots depending on their classification. There was the garden of the first hybrid tea roses, such as the Peace rose, which reminded her of sunrise with its bright yellow fading into delicate pink. There were trellises for climbing roses, like the Danse du Feu and Gardener’s Gold. Rambling roses, shrub roses… and then planting in those neat arrangements became difficult, as subsequent Malfoys had their own additions, so they became puzzles of patio roses beside shrub roses, or floribunda at the base of a trellis with a climbing rose.

Other flowers were woven in to accent the roses, and sometimes because they were particular favorites as well, so there was no want for variety. The night blooming flowers always made for a pleasant evening walk.

“These were planted for Draco’s birth,” Lucius murmured, cupping the petals of a vermillion flower. “Wildfire, they’re called. I thought they were fitting, given his name.”

Hermione nodded. “They’re lovely. Are new roses added whenever a Malfoy is born?”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Usually for weddings as well. Come.” 

He took her to a little marble pavilion overlooking a pond. She knew this place, had read here many afternoons. Silver fish darted about in the daylight hours. Delicate white flowers perfumed the air with a sweetly spicy scent. 

“Starlight Symphony. My mother chose them. She thought they were suitable, considering how long she struggled to conceive. I was, according to her, the light of her life.”

A beautiful sentiment, Hermione thought, though it was sadly wasted on the monster of a man. “I’ve always loved it here.”

He stroked a hand along her back. “I would read here when I was a boy. The pond was added after her death, you know. I thought she would have liked it.”

“That’s sweet.” She leaned over the edge to peer at the pond, its reflection still as stone.

“Do you have a favorite rose, Hermione?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. There are so many to choose from, how could I ever pick just one?”

He turned her chin to face him. “Perhaps I’ll find one for you. Some lovely, hidden rose to add to my garden.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

Lucius smiled and tucked her arm in his again, leading her back the way they’d come.

The next origami Hermione brought into the garden was a crane. It would be her first attempt at getting out a message, the form chosen to underscore the function. She had spelled it to open if her name was said while holding it. That was a slight risk, but she didn’t think Lucius would do such a thing. It was at least somewhat preventable.

At least, it had opened when she’d held it and said her name.

The flight spell was a little trickier. While she’d tried to imbue it with all the lightness and ability to soar, the final spell of action would depend on her.

And on Lucius.

If he saw, she’d have to act as though she’d been toying around with spells to further play with the paper shapes, like he’d done with her boat, and then hope that he both bought the story and didn’t try to do anything further with the paper.

“I was thinking yours should be a dark rose,” Lucius mused as they walked that evening. 

“Hm?” She blinked away her confusion, trying to process his words.

“There are some lovely black roses, newer varieties in particular. Of course, not even black roses are actually that dark— except for a magical variety I know of.”

“Oh. What are they like then?” she asked curiously. Why would someone call a rose black if it wasn’t actually black?

He led them toward the pavilion again. “A deep, velvety red. Quite fitting for my secret little Gryffindor, don’t you think?”

The affection and derision both pricked at her like thorns, but she merely nodded.

Lucius made a motion, and a rose came soaring into his hand. This must have been the magical one he had spoken of. Its petals were so dark she wouldn’t be able to distinguish them were it later in the evening. 

“It’s named The Blackest Rose.” He passed it to her, so she could run her lips against the silk of its petals. “It was planted when I married Narcissa, an ode to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

That halted her enjoyment of the soft flower. It felt like a betrayal, to be walking arm-in-arm with the woman’s husband, albeit a prisoner of his whims. To touch something that was planted for Narcissa when Lucius slept in her bed most nights…

Her eyes heated and her vision shimmered, throat constricted around the sob that wished to burst from her chest.

“Hermione?” The man turned and tipped her face, and the forming tears slipped down her cheeks. “Why are you crying?”

Her lips parted, but she couldn’t speak. The hand clenching the rose brought it to her chest; briars pricked into the tender meat of her palm.

“Ah. She doesn’t blame you, if that helps. In fact, she has sent me several scathing letters insisting I release you from your captivity, and that she’s sure I’m using my ‘wiles’ on you, poor little innocent that you are.”

The words broke through just enough that a pitiful whimper wormed through her lips.

Lucius tutted. “I sometimes forget how young you are.” He wrapped his arms around her, and Hermione allowed herself to take solace in his enveloping warmth, because there wasn’t much else that she could do. 

It was enough to ground her; after a moment, she remembered her mission and fumbled the little crane into her hand.

With everything in her she commanded it to fly, gave it the direction of the main gates, hoping that it would slip through the wards surrounding the manor and into freedom. She breathed into the silent order, and her other hand tightened on the rose stem until she could feel sticky blood pooling around the thorns and slipping down her wrist. That, too, she used to fuel her magic.

And then the little wings straightened, and the crane took flight behind Lucius Malfoy’s back.

Her breath hitched in her throat, but Lucius assumed it was from her tears, and continued stroking her back and making soothing sounds.  “Tsk. You’ve hurt yourself.” He peeled her fingers open and withdrew the rose to cast episky on the pinpricks. “You need to be more careful, silly girl.”

“I’m sorry, Master Lucius,” she said breathlessly, still in awe of the magic she’d performed. Her heart was lighter, and her head swam with the rush of her own power through her veins.

The man sighed, shook his head, and led her along. “It will grow easier, in time. And I’m sure Narcissa will return home eventually. Much as she’s upset with me, she cannot stand most of her family. With her will come Draco.”

Hermione nodded along, though she wasn’t sure Lucius’ word on this could be trusted. This wasn’t some trifling little argument between spouses, but a fundamental difference of humanity. Still, she’d let him think what he liked.

"What’s that?” Harry frowned as the badger entered the house from his daily search.

Draco held a piece of paper folded to look like a long-necked crane. “I don’t know,” the pale boy replied. “I found it outside the manor wards and thought it might be from Hermione.”

Vellum wings fluttered and he opened his palm as the little bird unfurled. On it, written in Hermione’s neat script, was a poem, one line besmirched by a spot of dried, rust red blood.

Ron and Harry huddled over it to read together, then they all looked at one another in turn.

“D’you reckon it’ll be enough?” the redhead asked.

“There’s only one way to find out.” Emerald eyes bored into silver until the Hufflepuff nodded. 

Draco cast a few spells and called out for the only elf that would still answer his summons.

Finally .

Chapter Text

A butterfly was next, then a star, and another crane… so on and so on, one nearly every day.  Something had to happen. Hermione was sure she would be caught if it continued on, and with each release, her heart fluttered ever faster until it was swift as a hummingbird's wings. And summer was easing toward autumn. She needed to get out in time to go to Hogwarts.

Perhaps she could convince Lucius to let her return somehow. She would be his ward until she was of legal age, after all— longer, even, as that law was being enforced. 

The way his hands tightened on her waist, how he touched her cheek, even the way he guided her through the garden, made Hermione think that would never happen. He was too much the dragon he'd named his line to allow his hidden treasure to stray.

“I miss the library,” she sighed one evening, staring at the book in her lap. She was seated at his feet, her head resting against his leg.

Lucius paused in stroking her curls. “I’ll take you tomorrow.”

Her heart leapt. It would be her first time outside this room in the manor since she’d come there. A small advancement, but an advancement, nonetheless.

“Thank you, Master Lucius.”

He hummed and drew her up from the floor and into a kiss, for her to better express her gratitude.

Her next comment was that it might be nice to sit with him in his study some time, rather than stay alone all day.  Surely enough, Lucius had her join him when he had to do paperwork there the following day.  By inches, she gained access to the manor. Though her walks in garden diminished, they still occurred a few times a week, and she could see his shoulders relaxed, his manner less tense.

He was trusting her.

“Lunch in the garden would be nice— or tea.” she remarked, smiling shyly as she stroked the petals of sunny yellow rose. Its name had something to do with friendship, she thought.

“I’m usually busy that time of day, pet,” Lucius replied from behind her. His hands were on her hips, heavy and warm.

Hermione shrugged. “I didn’t mean any day in particular. Just in the future. When we’ve a quiet day to ourselves, or something.”  It was best for him if she never mentioned doing these things by herself. She would let him decide to trust her, so that she seemed less inclined to manipulation in his eye.

His lips skimmed her throat. “We’ll see.”

One day there was a crane waiting at the fairy-lit fountain. It was one of hers. She knew from the little markings she’d placed on the wings, and the heavy vellum of the paper.

“You shouldn’t leave these outside, pet. I didn’t spell this one against the elements.”

Hermione bobbed her head as though embarrassed. “I must have forgotten it. I’ll be more careful.” She took it into her hand, petting its head as though it were a real bird.

“Silly girl.” Lucius waved his wand and the Impervius charm settled over it.

“Thank you.”

When he led her back to her room, she surreptitiously buried it amid the other paper figures. It was hard to sleep that night as her fingers itched to unfold it and see what was there. If it weren’t Lucius’ arm around her, she might have tried to sneak to it.  It wasn’t until breakfast the next morning that she had the chance.

She was trembling as she ignored the steaming cup of tea and the still-warm pastry awaiting her in favor of the folded shapes piled atop each other. The little crane was there beneath a star and a butterfly, one wing slipped into a fold of another origami shape. She was gentle as she freed it.

Hermione cupped the delicate paper crane and spoke her name— but nothing happened. She frowned, then tried, “Draco.” Still nothing.

“Harry?”

The folds began to unfurl. Delight spilled across her cheeks as she watched it.

Written in cramped emerald ink was, “Soon.”

They’d received her message.

She could have danced for joy. She may have. It was hard to remember through the haze of unfettered joy. She had to keep herself under control, or she’d ruin it all. She gave herself a few moments of joy, wherein she might have laughed or cried or twirled; it was a bit of a blur, then composed herself.

Hermione blotted out the word with her black ink, destroying any hope of reading it. If Lucius saw that, he’d realize the writing wasn’t hers, and then wonder how it had gotten to her— especially on one of her cranes.  It was better he noticed no change at all.

Hermione had to school herself to normalcy that evening, and every day thereafter lest he notice.

In her mind, shebegan to prepare.

It came in the fashion she least expected, which she honestly should have figured, given her rescuers.

Hermione had thought Harry would ride in on his broom and grab her from Lucius as they strolled through the garden. Or maybe Charlie and Ron Weasley would fly a dragon, and it would distract Lucius with fire while she was retrieved.  Draco might come with a sword and demand her, or Tom would appear and insist on a proper duel.

Instead, her rescuer, while familiar, was not one of her boys at all.

“Is Miss ready?”

Green eyes the size of tennis balls stared up at her where she was still curled in bed.

“Dobby?”

The house elf, Draco’s personal house elf, nodded. “Master Draco saying Dobby fetch Miss. He didn’t know where Miss was, but when Dobby heard ‘mistress,’ Dobby knew. All Malfoy elves know.”

Her own eyes widened comically, and she threw herself from the bed. “Oh, Dobby, I could kiss you!”

“Please don’t, Miss.” The elf sounded horrified.

She laughed. “Alright, I won’t. But please, we need to go.”

What if one of the other elves realized what was going on and reported to Lucius? There was absolutely no time to waste.

“Miss will have to take Dobby’s hand.”

Hermione took it, shaking and small in her own. There was then a pressure greater than that of her own apparition surrounded her. It felt like the pressure that builds in one’s ears in high places, but it was everywhere all at once. And then—

—POP!

“Hermione!” Arms flung about her from all sides, and she shrieked, not expecting to be engulfed. Everyone backed way, and she took a deep breath to ground herself, then gazed around.

There was Harry, Ron, and Draco, all standing around her and the probable owners of said arms.  At a table behind the boys were sat many familiar adults. Harry’s parents were there, as was only natural, considering it was his home where she’d arrived. Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, Andromeda Tonks, and Narcissa Malfoy.

On meeting her gaze, the elegant woman strode toward her, stopping at arms’ length. “It’s so good to see you again, my dear girl.” She wrung her perfectly manicured hands before her, elegant brows furrowed as she studied her young ward. “Oh, Hermione, I am so sorry for what you’ve been through. I—”

Hermione flung herself at the woman, who immediately wrapped her arms around the girl. She sobbed into Narcissa’s immaculate robes as the woman began making soothing sounds against her crown. The girl was murmuring incoherently against her.

By the time Hermione had finished crying out her misery, they were sitting on a couch, her head against Narcissa’s shoulder. Hermione sniffled and opened swollen eyes to find that they were alone. 

“Feeling a little better, dear?” She nodded. “I’m not going to ask what happened. You should only talk about that when you’re ready, but I want you to know that none of it was your fault.”

Hermione’s bloodshot eyes widened, salty lips parted. It was like a thorn and its removal all at once, reminiscent of what Lucius had told her though also relieving in its comfort.

Narcissa stroked her cheek. “I should have seen the signs and taken action before it got to this, so I take some blame—”

“No—”

“But Lucius bears the brunt, and that is what we must all remember. No matter our parts, he is the one who took deplorable actions, and he is the one at fault.”

Grey eyes bored into amber until Hermione gave a reluctant smile. “Good. Now, let’s get some food into you.” With that, she took the girl’s hand and guided her back to the table.

“So… what are we going to do?”

Hermione glanced between Harry and the adults around the room.

The house in Godric’s Hollow was packed full. She recognized many of the face— the Tonkses, the Potters, the Weasleys (all of them), Harry’s father’s best friends, three of her professors, Narcissa, Neville and his grandmother… and there were people she didn’t recognize at all, though she had guessed the two identical older redheads were Prewitts and Molly Weasley’s brothers.

“For the moment, the only option is sheltering muggleborns at Hogwarts. Not even the ministry can force the school to give up students,” Dumbledore said.

James Potter ran a hand through his already messy black hair. “Will Old Sluggy go for that?”

“I believe Horace will, yes, at least until the governors start pushing.” Dumbledore stroked his long, white beard. “We can and will help tie up as much of those proceedings as possible while we work to get this law overturned.”

“A lot more than that needs to happen,” came Sirius’ outrage. “This— what they’re proposing— it’s enslavement, even worse than the bloody ward system.”

“The ward system, at least in theory, was supposed to help bridge the gap between muggleborns’ birth culture and their entrance into the wizarding world,” Narcissa murmured.

“Yes, well, that was bullocks.”

“Charlie!”

“No, mum, he’s right. It was a thinly veiled child abuse law,” Bill said. “The whole thing was just disgusting, and this is the result.”

“Still,” said the matriarch, “there’s no need—”

“It’s fine. They’re right. I took advantage of that system and look where it’s gotten my family.” Narcissa sighed and Hermione squeezed her hand.

“So, we hide Hermione at Hogwarts. What then?” was Ron’s big question.

“Well, we work on turning the tide.” James and his wife exchanged a long look. “Those of us who work in the Ministry will get to work there. Augusta, can we count on you to speak to your friends and family?”

The old woman scowled. “My brother was a part of this whole mess, so I don’t know how far I’ll get. I will see what I can do.”

“And we’ll work on some of the other families,” said one of the Prewitts, his brother nodding along.

“We’re going to politic our way out of this?” Ron scoffed. “That could take years, and we don’t— Hermione doesn’t have years. Even if we get her into Hogwarts for the school year, there’s still summer. And what about after graduation? Will she become a professor? Take over in the library for Madam Pince? Get a job there, and hide at Hogwarts for the rest of her life?”

“And what about the others?” Harry added. “We can’t possibly hide every muggleborn indefinitely. With the new law, anyone who takes a muggleborn can deny them an education.”

“Harry—” his father began.

“No!” The boy slammed his hands down. “You think what happened to Hermione was the exception? There will be more of that unless we stop it.”

Hermione reached out and touched her friend’s shoulder, and he fell quiet, his ears tinged pink. “He’s right. The way things are worded, I wouldn’t be surprised if other muggleborns are treated the same. It’s imperative we get them to safety before those with worse intentions take custody.”

“I suppose you have an idea for that, Miss Granger?” came McGonagall’s lilting brogue.

“The families against the law will take them in," she said evenly.

“You can’t possibly expect—”

“That’s a lot—”

“The cost alone—”

She allowed the noisy protestations to run their course, then cleared her throat to speak again. “You were all willing to have me marry Harry for safety but taking in a child or taking guardianship over an adult, will provide them the same protection with an easier means of reversal. And you're against that?”

“Hermione, dear, taking someone into your family is no small feat,” Molly said gently.

“Keeping muggleborns from abuse is no small goal, nor will it be simple. It will require sacrifice. From all of us.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m not asking for myself. I’m just one person, and I don’t deserve—” she choked on the word, and hands from either side soothed over her until she could speak through the tension in her throat. “I’m asking because there are so many others out there. Any given day, a muggleborn child will be found and brought into this system, and it is not okay. It cannot be allowed to continue, not as a ward system, and not as this— this evil law allows.”

“You’re right.” It was Lily Potter who said this. “Of course, you’re right, Hermione. I was lucky to live a life of relative safety, but not all of us have been so fortunate. I should have been using my position to help, but I haven’t, content to raise my children, thinking that making good citizens would be enough. It isn’t, or we wouldn’t be in this mess. We have to step forward now.” 

Bottle green eyes stared down everyone who had protested, faces falling in shame.

“I’ll get a list of muggleborns and we can start negotiating for the release of those who are held by unsuitable families.” James broke the silence, fingers tapping against the table as he thought. “The others, we will reach out to, and offer our support. For the adults, we should additionally bring them to these meetings as full-fledged members.”

“Members of what?” Hermione hadn’t been aware they were an organization.

A few of the adults exchanged glances. “Not sure, entirely, but we should have a name. Instead of saying, ‘get all the lads together— no, not the pub lads, the lads fighting the government,’ we can say, ‘we need a meeting of the group.’”

Sirius grinned at his best friend. “We could be Prongs’ Prongs. It has a certain ring to it.”

Remus Lupin rolled his eyes. “That’s a dreadful name. We won’t be using anything you come up with. You’re the absolute worst at naming things.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Moony. You don’t mean that,” was the Black black sheep’s response. “Oi, how ‘bout The League of Anti-Ministerial Bullocks? LAMB for short?”

The Weasley twins snorted, then baaa'ed like sheep in perfect symphony. 

“Then you’d really be a wolf in sheep’s—”

“This is serious,” Lily cut him off. Her eyes narrowed as she added, “And don’t make the name joke, or you’ll be in the doghouse for a week.”

Rather than be put off, Sirius roared in laughter and saluted.

“It should be a symbol of freedom,” Hermione said when everyone had fallen quiet again. “Like a bird, a symbol of hope and restoration. It should be…”

“A phoenix,” Dumbledore supplied, a faint smile curling amid the cloud white facial hair.

She nodded. “A phoenix, yes. I like that.”

“All in favor of the Order of the Phoenix,” called James, and a chorus of “aye” rose from the people in the room. “All opposed?” Sirius started to put up his hand, but Remus smacked the back of his head.

“Good wizarding folk, we have a name. We are now the Order of the Phoenix.”

Chapter Text

“We already got your school supplies,” Harry assured her. "And we're figuring out how to get you a wand. Dumbledore thinks Mr. Ollivander may be willing to visit."

She was sitting in his garden, her feet grazing the ground from the swing so that her shoes painted little lines in the dirt. “Thank you.”

He took the empty swing beside her and stared down at overly large hands. He’d grown again since she’d last seen him, he and Ron both, perhaps even Draco. She’d not had a chance to inspect her best friend yet, as she’d been too stressed at the adjournment of the meeting and opted to go outside instead.

The teens sat in silence for a few moments, breathing in the crisp night air and listening to the crickets. It was beautiful out here in a way completely different from Malfoy Manor. There were flowers, though only one variety of roses that she could tell, and it was much more modest despite the wealth she knew the Potter family had. 

“We’ve put a Fidelius Charm over the place, with Professor Dumbledore as the secret keeper,” Harry murmured after several long moments. “No one will be able to get to you here. You’re safe.”

Hermione smiled wanly. “Thank you, Harry. I know I am. It’s just— it’s all a bit overwhelming.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything, waiting for her to say her piece or hold her peace however she willed.

A brief hesitation, and she said, “I was only with him for so long, but often it wasn’t even that. He left me there, locked in that horrid room, alone, for hours— days at a time. I’d try to stay strong, to pretend the loneliness never bothered me, because, well, it shouldn’t. It’s not as though I don’t value my own company. But it was different. I saw no one else, not even the elves. I was locked there with a fake window, left to stare out at fake sunlight, at fake birds, and I envied them.

“And so, when he would come, I—” She broke off, unable to confess what burdened her despite Narcissa’s assurances. “I don’t think I could handle that again,” she said instead.

“You won’t have to.”

Harry took her hand in his and their fingers twined in the gap between the swings.

“No one will ever think differently about you because of what happened, Hermione. Not me, not Draco, not Ron— and he’s a right git, so that’s saying something.” She giggled despite the solemnity of the subject. “No one who has ever met you would think such a thing. You’re Hermione Granger, the brightest student Hogwarts has seen in nearly a century. You got eleven bloody Outstanding OWLs. That’s inhuman. Though, to be fair, I think Bill took all twelve; he just didn’t get Outstandings in everything. He had an Exceeds Expectations or two, can you imagine the shame?”

Hermione bumped his shoulder in admonishment. 

“He only took seven NEWTs classes, though. Slacker.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said.

“Yes, but you like it,” was Harry’s response. “Anyway, I think Bill and Charlie might be smart enough to hold a conversation with you. Merlin knows I have trouble.”

“You’re hardly unintelligent yourself, Mr. Potter. If you put in the work, you would be a competitor for Draco off the Quidditch field as well as on it.”

“So, you admit I’m good at Quidditch,” he said.

Hermione huffed. “That’s hardly the point I was making. I was saying that you’re not stupid. Neither you, nor Ronald, though one would never know based on his essays. Yours are far less mind-numbing. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t, on my honor as a Gryffindor,” he swore.

“So, what are you doing, vetting possible friendships for me?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I was just thinking that they’re handsome enough lads, with good careers and sharp minds. If you won’t take me seriously—”

“You’re not still on about this marriage business, are you?”

“No— well, yes, but not really. I just wanted you to have options.”

“Options,” she repeated. “You, Bill and Charlie. Who else? Draco? Ron ?”

He grimaced. “Sirius, actually. I know he’s old and all, and kind of an outcast, but he still has some clout. He’s got a good job, and he lives with us, so…”

“Harry, I have never thought about getting married,” she said.

“Really? Not even as a little girl? Didn’t think about a prince rescuing you and then having a fairytale wedding?”

“No.” He frowned in skepticism. “I was a ward of the Malfoys. Fantasizing for me was imagining myself as a free witch pursuing magizoology or traveling to explore different ways of casting magic across the world. I knew no one would want to marry a bookish, frumpy muggleborn.”

“Krum certainly didn’t think you were frumpy. And none of us have ever cared that you’re a muggleborn,” he pointed out.

“I’m still a know-it-all.”

“Yes, well, not everyone dislikes that. Plenty of boys have fancied you anyway.”

“Like who?” she demanded, raising a brow.

“Neville, for one,” he said smugly. “And Ron.”

“What? No.”

“Yes.” Harry nodded sagely. “The twins— one or both. I think it’s the way you insult Ron, really. Probably the same for him, now that I think about it. I could see him having it for a mean girl— ow!”

She’d smacked his shoulder, but doubted it actually hurt, especially when he smirked. 

“And me.”

“You’re taking the mickey out of me,” she accused him.

“I am not.” At Hermione’s disbelieving eye roll, he expounded. “No, really. I mean, it’s a bit more recent, and it’s a little strange, since you’re one of my best mates, but you’re smart and determined and kind. And you’re really pretty. Why wouldn’t I fancy you?” She stared at him as he spoke, his hands in his lap and looking down at them again. It almost looked like his cheeks were darker in the moonlight. Behind his glasses, his eyes shone with earnestness.

“What about Ginny?”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “Gin’s great, really, but sometimes she and some of the other Weasleys can be a bit overbearing.”

“I’m bossy,” she countered.

“Yes, but there’s only one of you. Besides, you’re not always bossy. In fact, most of the time you let me or Draco take the lead.”

Hermione smiled. “You’re very natural at it.”

“Thanks.” He laced his hand through hers again and they lapsed into quiet. 

It was peaceful in the garden, the scent of dirt and grass heavy in the air. She felt like she could stay there forever. Harry’s presence was always soothing to her, almost immediately into their friendship. He was more stable in mood than Ron, more outgoing than Draco, overall a well-rounded influence on her life. Obviously, his parents had done much right in raising him, but she also thought that was just Harry at his core— good and kind. 

He would be a good husband to whomever he married, certainly the best prospect she had at the moment, but Hermione was still resistant to using marriage as a way to escape her wardship. 

And what would Tom think? Oh, dear. H e's the Heir of Slytherin.

No, she wouldn't think of that for now. She'd put it away, packed up with the experiences she was trying to overcome now that she was free.

“They aren’t as extensive as the Malfoy home,” Lily had said about their wards.

Hermione toed a circle into the dirt beneath her foot. “I feel so trapped.” Realizing how ungrateful she sounded, she quickly appended, “Not that it isn’t great here. It’s so much better than it was at the manor, and the company is more than I could hope for. It’s just—”

“It’s fine,” he cut through her diatribe apology. “I understand. I have a little cabin fever myself.”

She smiled over at him, and he squeezed her hand. 

“We’ll be at Hogwarts soon anyway,” he added.

“It’s almost strange to think about school after all that’s happened.” She recalled midnight blue eyes and a smirk as sharp as a tiger's bite. Would Tom be upset with her? He knew what happened— about the law, based on the bombardment of Malfoy Manor— and he’d talked to Bellatrix, demanded her return. Surely, she wouldn’t be blamed for not writing to him when she hadn’t the means? He would understand. Tom always understood.

Even though she had moments where she glimpsed a scarlet flash, a hidden side of him that spilled chills down her spine.

Harry broke her from her momentary fixation. “It’s a good thing you’re Hermione Granger, then, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she replied, flashing a grin. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Harry was right; school was what Hermione did. It was where she excelled above all others. There was no reason to fear, not when nearly every professor adored her. She also had her friends, so many more than she’d realized. 

There’s no reason to be afraid.

Chapter Text

PART 4: VOLDEMORT RISING

Before entering Hogwarts that first time, Hermione had felt a rumbling dread building inside. She was both thrilled to finally attend the magical institution and nervous enough her hands shook as she changed into her school uniform. 

Her hands were shaking now as she smoothed them over her robes and affixed her prefect pin. When she came back to their usual carriage, she gave Draco a wan smile. He pulled her beside himself and squeezed her hand in his. Across from her, Ron reached out to take her other hand. Harry knocked his foot against hers.

She took a deep breath and relaxed into their comforting touches. This was familiar; this was safe. She could enter the castle with them surrounding her. Hermione steadied herself and placed on her prefect mask, ready to take on her duties.

Hermione knew immediately that Tom was unhappy. His eyes darted to her the moment she entered the Great Hall, and though his expression did not change, she saw the flare of his nostrils as he observed her herding the first years.

Sorting seemed especially long this year, when his gaze weighed so heavily on her psyche. She couldn’t stare at him without looking suspicious; one of the boys would immediately notice. However, he had no such limitation. He was looking into the sea of faces. It was patently unfair. She could not gauge anything of his thoughts, nor communicate effectively herself.  She felt woefully unprepared at the end of the feast. Hermione rose to assist in shepherding the first years again, but Professor Riddle had already appeared, murmuring in the Head Boy’s ear. Marcus Belby nodded, turned toward her, and gestured her over with a smile on his face.

“We can handle the firsties without you, Granger. Go ahead with Professor Riddle. I’m looking forward to the club!” 

She thanked the polite young man before directing herself to Tom. “Good evening, Professor.”

His cool gaze met hers. “Good evening. Come, let’s speak in my office.”

Each step through the halls echoed through her bones; she wondered if her teeth were chattering. They passed a few others, both of them exchanging greetings as they did.

As they neared the DADA office, the shaking returned to her hands. 

He opened the door, hand on her lower back guiding her through. As it clicked shut, his wand was against her chest. A flick and colors spiraled around her until they settled across her flesh in a cool, pale blue. He sighed and tucked his wand away, pulling her to his chest.

“My dear, sweet girl, I was so worried for you."

Hermione’s heart stuttered in her chest. “You’re not mad?” she murmured as they parted just enough to see one another’s faces; his hands were still around her.

“Why would I be mad at you , sweetheart? If anything, you should be upset with me.”

“What?” She frowned up at him. “Why?”

Tom led her to the settee and sat beside her. “I failed to get you away from the disgusting man. I tried, sweetheart, but his wards are strong, and my political connections are less public than his own.”

“It’s not your fault,” she murmured.

He shook his head. “I should have anticipated the law; my contacts should have told me.” The red spiraled through his eyes before they settled again. “I will not fail you again, my dear. I will not allow you to return to that man again.”

“I was worried you’d be upset I didn’t write.”

“My dear.” He cupped her cheek with one long, pale hand. “I could never stay mad at you long. You’re far too important to me.”

She felt lighter than she had in ages, tears flooding her eyes as she nuzzled into his palm. 

“I am surprised to find you unmarked. I’m surprised he allowed you to come back at all, given he was against the notion when we spoke.” His thumb stroked gently, soothing her. “I stood outside his wards for two full days before finally accepting that the political route might be easier.”

“I felt some of your spells,” Hermione murmured.

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Did you, now? Did you know it was me?” She nodded. “I’m glad you knew I was fighting for you, pet. Now, tell me the ways he hurt you.”

Her eyes widened and blood drained from her cheeks.

“I know he hurt you, sweetheart. However you’ve been healed, that man would not have left you unmarked for the duration.” His eyes shone with avarice. “He would not be able to resist the temptation.”

“I—” She swallowed through the stone of her breath. “I don’t think…”

“You can trust me, love. You can tell me.” Tom’s voice dropped low, close and sweet. His breath was minty and warm. “You need to tell me, Hermione. How will I know how to help you otherwise?”

She bit her lip, squeezed her eyes tightly shut and shook her head. She couldn’t possibly say those words— not yet, and not to Tom . What if Bellatrix was right?

 “He’s going to be angry if you’ve touched her yet. I hope you have. Perhaps he’ll see she’s dirty then.”

“Hermione.” Her breath hitched. “Hermione, sweetheart, open your eyes.”

If she opened her eyes, he could use legilimency to see what was written there. She couldn’t let him see that; she couldn’t relive it with him.

Tom tutted. “Alright, I will ask you questions and you will answer with yes or no. Are you amenable?”

He was annoyed now; she could tell by how flat his voice had become when he spoke. Hesitantly, she nodded.

“Good girl.” His hand slipped her nape, fingers rubbing lightly at the base of her skull. “Now, did Lucius Malfoy hit you while you were with him?”

She nodded again, finally parting her lashes to stare down at her lap. From her periphery, she could see his full attention on her.

“Did he use anything on you? A cane or such?”

“Yes.” Her voice was likened to the creak of a house settling in the night. 

His fingers momentarily tightened their grip before resuming their hypnotic motions. “Was it his cane?” She shook her head. He hummed thoughtfully. “A whip.”

“Yes.”

Tom stroked to the front of her throat, placed two fingers under chin, and had her face him. “Did he touch you inappropriately? Did he kiss you? Did he take you to his bed?” He didn’t need her to answer those questions when her eyes screamed at him from behind a veil of tears. “My darling. My poor, sweet, beautiful Hermione. I will make him die a thousand deaths before he begs for his true end, I swear it.”

Confliction ran rampant. She shouldn’t feel any relief at the idea that he would torture Lucius Malfoy— but he wasn’t angry with her at all. Instead, she was pressed in his arms, safe and whole.

He stroked her curls with loving fingers until her racing heart began to slow. “I will wash away his every touch, sweetheart. In time, you will only ever remember being mine.”

She sniffled and pulled away to gaze into his eyes. “Tom. Bellatrix— she said…” Hermione cleared her throat. “She said you were the Heir of Slytherin.”

“Did she?” He sighed and used a newly freed hand to comb through neat, dark hair. “Of course, she did. She failed me so much that day.”

Remembering the woman’s frantic pleas, her madly devoted desperation, Hermione was compelled to ask, “Is she— did you—”

“Did I kill Bellatrix?” He chuckled. “No, sweetheart. I did not. She is too useful to throw away, though I was tempted.”

“You’ve killed before.”

It was not a question, but Tom answered it all the same. “I have. Some of them were accidents, many were mistakes, but others were necessary for my cause.” He ran a hand down her back. “Our cause.”

“But aren’t you supposed to hate muggleborns?”

“Hermione, I have believed many foolish things in my youth, but I do not, have never believed you are inferior.” He was wistful for a moment. “I once thought muggleborns were lesser, yes, but I’ve grown to appreciate how much they bring to the wizarding world. Look at how we’ve deteriorated since enacting the ward system. That alone is proof enough.”

“Alright.” That put her reservations somewhat at ease. The weeks since Bellatrix came to the manor had given her time to accept his violence, the possibility that he was a murderer, but it was something different to confront him with these learned facts.

He smiled down fondly at her. “I take it you left your journal at the manor?” She nodded. “That’s alright. You’re here with me now, and I can always connect another to my own should we have the need.” Tom smoothed back her curls. "I would like to see you on the weekends. I know you cannot always get away, but with your final year approaching, we have much to do. And I missed you when you were gone.”

Hermione’s cheeks flared hot, her head spinning from the whitewater rapids of her emotional turmoil. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask.” He leaned toward her, tipping her head up to lay a soft kiss against her lips.

It was hardly more than a touch, and he pulled away. 

“Now, you should get to bed. In the morning, I expect to receive a copy of your schedule. Not just your classes, but your study time and so on,” he instructed.

“What about the club?”

He chuckled. “We did quite well last year. We won’t hold it officially quite yet. We can take those evenings to prepare. We’ll begin in October. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect.”

“Now, get to your dormitory, sweetheart.”

She hugged him again, impulsive and desperate for warmth. He didn’t seem to mind.

Chapter Text

“Oi, where you headed off to, Hermione?”

“Hm?” She turned on her heel at Ron’s voice. “I’m going to talk about the essay due this—” His eyes had already glazed over, but Draco and Harry were both still contemplating her. “Due this Thursday. I’m worried I didn’t cover the benefits of using the shield-bolstering charm with Protego Maxima well enough.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I looked it over yesterday and said it was fine, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” She bit her lip. “I just thought, since we have most of the week before it’s due, it would be nice to get a little insight from a professor.”

“Of course, 'fine' is not good enough for Hermione Granger. Professor Flitwick will be thrilled, I’m sure,” he said with a laugh. 

“Careful not to excite ‘im too much or Flitwick might fall off his stool,” Ron added.

Hermione tutted at the redhead. “ Professor Flitwick, Ronald, and that’s quite rude.”

He grinned and shrugged, not having the grace to blush from his faux pas either.

Harry only said, “We’ll see you later, Hermione,” before she was off, but his emerald eyes lingered on her until she left the common room.

He turned to find Draco doing the same. They locked gazes and Draco's jaw tightened. 

She roamed the near-empty halls; it was a Sunday, and most of Hogwarts was still in the Great Hall or their dorms. Hermione caught shadows and echoes of the occasional wanderer, and once the pearlescent transparency of the Grey Lady as she passed through nearby walls. Otherwise, she was alone with her thoughts.

It was the second Saturday of the term, and she was establishing her routine. With nine classes, it was still quite the course load. Every professor had raised their expectations for the NEWTs levels, so despite taking two fewer courses than in previous years, Hermione often found herself studying by lumos late into the night. At least the charms around her four-poster bed were strong enough that she didn’t disturb her dormmates with her late-night habits. 

Harry and Ron were taking five, and Draco was taking six. None of them were taking History or Astronomy or Ancient Runes. Hermione rationalized the first that they had all been raised in the Wizarding world since birth, whereas she had been late at four. She still couldn't understand how anyone could want to forego Runes. Draco was still in Arithmancy with her, but that was for practical reasons. Even he seemed frazzled with the workload.

Well, everyone had warned Hermione it would be intensive, but that was where she shone best. Additionally, she had her prefect duties and she assisted Professor Riddle with club activities.

It also helped distract her mind from less savory thoughts. Working tirelessly from sunrise until past midnight most nights kept her so exhausted that she had no room for anything else until she collapsed against her sheets.  Those spare moments before sleep overtook her were what Hermione dreaded most. Memories would float at the edges of her consciousness like whispering ghosts. Slick leather gloves and hair like white silk, the clack of the cane against the hard floor, lowly murmured praises that had her brimming with shame…

Those were her weakest moments.

She found herself outside the DADA office door before she knew it and took a moment to steady herself before rapping a tattoo on the surface.

“Come in.”

Tom glanced up from his book; a boyish smile overtook his features at her entrance. “Punctual as ever, sweetheart. Come.” She followed his gesture to take the seat beside him, and his fingers immediately slid into her riotous curls. “I hope your friends didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“I told them it was for an essay, and they tuned me out immediately,” she said to his amusement.

He leaned closer to say against her lips, “Teenage boys are truly fools.” And then his mouth was upon hers in a gentle kiss.

He had only started greeting her with a kiss the last two times she had seen him, and there was no other intimacy. He was being careful not to frighten her, and she appreciated it. With everything that had happened during the summer holidays, she didn’t think she could handle more, even with Tom. Tom, whom she’d been at least half in love with since her first year, though he had seemed as distant as stars in the night sky then.

“What are you reading?” she asked once they had parted, and she’d regained her breath.

Tom turned the cover for her to read it: Unforgivable Curses and Their Legal Implications: Volume I. 

“Oh. Is it interesting?”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “It is. Would you like to read it?”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

He shut it and pushed it into her lap. “Nonsense, love. I’ve perused it at least a dozen times. I would have recommended it in time anyway; you’re too far ahead of your peers to get anything of substance from the class material these days. And our library is limited in some areas, as I’m sure you’ve realized. Even the Restricted Section is highly curated.”

She smoothed her hands over the textured cover of the book. “How many volumes are there?” Her heart was already loud in her chest from his praise.

“Three, and I have the others when you’ve finished this one.” His midnight eyes glimmered at her sunny smile. “This year, I’d like to broaden your horizons. You’re far too intelligent to limit yourself to what others deem appropriate.”

“I'm just highly logical, not a genius or anything,” she countered.

“No, Hermione. Don’t diminish yourself.” He touched her burning cheeks to make her face him. “You are a powerful witch in your own rights. Have you ever encountered a spell you couldn’t manage?” She shook her head. “Exactly. Power and intelligence are both rare enough, but in the same package… a witch like you comes maybe once a century.”

The flattery lit a candle in her; she was buoyant and light and warm. She couldn’t think of a response that wouldn’t sound like she was fishing for more, and it would be mortifying if Tom believed such a thing about her.

Her face was always so expressive; Tom chuckled and stroked his thumb along her cheekbone. 

“It’s alright that you like praise, sweetheart. You deserve it.” 

“Thank you,” she breathed.

His eyes dipped to her mouth, and he licked his lips. “I wonder how deeply seated that goes. Would you like it if I praised your appearance? The smoothness of your skin? The sweetness of your kiss.” Tom leaned forward so his breath stirred against her ear. “I’ll discover much more to praise in time.” His free hand landed on her clothed thigh and squeezed. 

She was suspended between apprehension and desire; events with Lucius Malfoy were still too near, but Hermione had wanted Tom Riddle for longer than she would admit to herself. She wanted to throw herself at him; she wanted to flee.

Tom leaned back in his seat. “There will be plenty of time for that in the future. Now, tell me, how are your friends celebrating the big day?”

“What?” The sudden change in topic was as confusing as his talk about a celebration. There wasn’t anything important on the horizon; it was only September!

Tom raised his brows, lips curling inward.

The next big holiday was Halloween, next month. There was only one thing of note in September, and that was the start of the school year. Why, every year she counted the days until the new term more ardently than she did to...

It hit her quite suddenly and Hermione wanted to smack herself. “My birthday.”

“Yes, love, your birthday. This year is your seventeenth birthday, yes?” His eyes glimmered with unvoiced laughter.

Hermione flushed to her toes. “Yes. Ordinarily, Narcissa would have some plan, but, well, with things the way they are…” She shrugged.

“I’m sure the occasion won’t go unobserved. You’ll finally be of age in the Wizarding world.” He stroked back her curls. “Would you visit me that evening? I want to wish you a happy birthday in person.”

She nodded shyly, then frowned. “I don’t know when your birthday is.”

“I don’t really celebrate it. If I had to guess, old Sluggy and Albus might remember, but no one else.” He shrugged off the thought so casually it made her chest tight.

Hermione pressed a hand over one of his. “Would you tell me?”

“You truly want to know?” She nodded. “Sweet girl. It’s December thirty-first.”

“New Year’s Eve?” Hermione squeezed his hand. “It’s fitting, I think. I’ll never forget it.”

He smiled and stared into her eyes for a moment. “Now, what are we working on today, sweetheart? Have you finished all the work assigned for the week?”

She nodded eagerly and drew her satchel onto her lap for him to peruse. “Although Professor Snape sometimes likes to assign essays due the same week. That’s happening in more classes this year, as well. It’s in preparation for our NEWTs?”

“Indeed, it is. We have to prepare you to sit the written exams. They’ll be much more arduous than your OWLs.” He glanced up from the Charms essay Hermione had used as an excuse for her friends. “Not that you’ll have any trouble. I daresay you could sit them right now and make a good showing of it.”

Anxiety spiked through her at the idea. “Don’t say things like that! I’m not nearly prepared.”

“You mean you mightn’t get straight Oustandings?” Tom gasped. “The absolute horror.”

She smacked his arm with all the violence of a butterfly. “It’s not funny.” A smile was tugging at her lips even as she tried to pout. “It’s serious. This is about my future.”

“My darling girl, I’ve already told you. I have your future waiting for you.”

“What is it, Tom?” She had thought long on what purpose he had for her; Tom had sought to cultivate her even before they had started what she refused to name. He must have seen something in her quite young. Hermione had always felt appreciated in his classes, special.

“You’ll stand by my side, Hermione,” he said.

“But what will I do ?” she pushed.

Tom tapped his chin, midnight sky eyes darting to the wall as he thought. “You will be the most important person to me, the first I turn to for advice. I shall also utilize that beautiful mind of yours to check the work of others, to research, translate and calculate whatever I need. Changing society is no small feat, Hermione, and I can hardly handle all the details on my own.” 

“Do you have many people working for you?” Bellatrix Lestrange’s fanatic expression flashed through her memory.

“Quite a few, yes,” he admitted. “I’ve been building my network since my own school days.”

“Like Bellatrix.” Her heart sped as she said the name.

The lines of Tom’s face fell into cool detachment. “Yes, Bellatrix works as part of my network, though she works against it nearly as often.”

She frowned. “Why keep her, then?”

“She is one of the few living members of the Black family, and now also leads her husband around by his nose. While the Lestranges might have more influence in France, their clout in Britain isn’t small.” He stood and strode to his desk for a black leatherbound book. “The Malfoys are unusually obstinate. I’d hoped Lucius would prove more amenable than his father, but if anything, he is worse. Draco is promising.” He shot her a smile. “No doubt partially your influence.”

The need to defend her friend rose. “Draco has his moments where he is more like his father, but he’s much more akin to Narcissa. She’s a gentle woman.”

“Gentleness, yes.” Tom flipped through the book as he spoke. “You know this will likely turn violent, don’t you, Hermione?”

She hadn’t thought about it over much. “I— well, I suppose.”

“Darling.” His tone and the matching disappointed gaze burned her. “Revolution never happens peacefully. Why else do you think I’m set on preparing you all?”

Tears crept over her eyes. “How violent? I don’t think I could ever— ever kill someone.” The last words were a whisper.

“And that is precisely why you have me. I will guide you in all things.” He stroked her curls and gazed down at her fondly, but there was something in his sad smile that curdled her stomach and made her feel lesser.

Once more, Bellatrix Lestrange’s words echoed in her mind, twining with what Lucius had told her about the Heir of Slytherin.

Together, they formed a seed of doubt in the back of her mind.

Chapter Text

The day didn’t feel special. She woke and performed her morning ablutions, dressed, joined the boys for breakfast, and attended classes. As it was Thursday, she had double Charms first thing. She brought her parchment to Professor Flitwick without prompting and the small man beamed at her in gratitude; her classmates treated turning in assignments like getting a tooth pulled. 

Hermione had expected… well, something. There had been no morning mail for her, not even from Lady Narcissa, and her guardian had never failed to acknowledge her birthday before.

She’s busy working on getting that nasty law repealed, she told herself. 

It was still a little disappointing. 

After Charms was a short break during which the boys dragged her to the courtyard for some light.

“It won’t be sunny forever, you know,” Harry told her. “You should enjoy it.”

And she did. She laid in the grass beneath a tree and let the sun warm her body. She’d missed it so much during the time Lucius had kept her. Even in the rare moment he allowed her outside, it was rarely morning or afternoon. 

Harry sat by her head, Draco sat on one side, and Ron on the other.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Harry was playing with a snitch. He’d had it for as long as she knew him— it was apparently his father’s, and it had started slowing down in its advanced age. 

Hermione hummed and adjusted herself until her head was squarely in his lap. Usually, she reserved this kind of thing for Draco, but Harry was also one of her best mates now. He smiled down at her. “It is.” If this was all she did for her birthday, that was alright; there were more important things going on in the world.

He stashed away the snitch and tangled his fingers in her hair. “It’s softer than it looks.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she huffed.

Draco laughed. “That sometimes you look like you’re a walking storm cloud.”

“Storm clouds aren’t soft?” she retorted.

“Sure, if you like lightning,” was Ron’s reply.

They all laughed. 

“That’s our Hermione, alright: a lightning storm waiting to rage.” 

She gave Harry a wry look. “Because I’m soooooo fierce.”

“You are,” Draco agreed in earnest. “You can be right terrifying about school work.”

“That’s only because this lot is a bad influence on you,” she said. “You never slacked so much in our first year.”

“Oi, don’t blame us. He’s a grown arse man.”

“Language, Ronald. And he is not, not until the summer.” She smirked up at Harry’s smothered laughs. 

“Ah, yes, Hermione Granger is now a woman grown, my friends. She is magnanimously gracing us lowly children with her presence. All hail Queen Hermione.” Only Draco would mock her in that way. She reached out and batted his knee. “Ow!”

“Oh, like that hurt, you git.”

“Language, Hermione,” said Ron.

She huffed to contain her giggles. “You’re impossible, all of you.”

“You love it.” Harry’s eyes gleamed behind his lenses. “You love us. ”

“Yes,” she replied. “I do.”

Their next class was her favorite, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Their little group entered, Hermione took her usual seat up front, Draco beside her and the other two choosing a spot closer to the back, where they might goof off a bit.

Tom was already sitting; he’d honed in on her the moment she came into the classroom, and she could read the smile in his eyes.

Could anyone else? She wouldn’t have known it was there during her first few years at Hogwarts. It was only last year, when they became closer, that she’d figured it out.

Tom stood and rounded his desk to lean upon it as the last student made it to their seats. “You all feel confident in your shield charms now, yes?” Some of the students murmured their assent or nodded, others squirmed in their seats. Hermione was the former, of course. “Good. Because we’ll be dueling today and tomorrow.”

The students broke into murmuring excitement at the announcement, and Tom allowed them to talk amongst themselves a moment before clearing his throat. He’d always had such command over the classroom, but it was less out of intimidation, like Professor Snape’s class, and more out of respect.

“If you would all stand by the walls. Thank you.” Once they were out of the way, he Banished the desks from the room, so the middle of the room yawned wide. 

Hermione had forgotten just how big the room was; it had been so long since she’d seen it set up this way. She, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Draco all stood together. Interestingly enough, Theo Nott was beside Draco. The reticent young man had been talking to her best friend more often of late. Draco thought he might be trying to reignite their childhood friendship. And beside Nott was Blaise Zabini.

This meant their little group lacked only a Ravenclaw, though she knew both she and Nott had been considered for that house as well. Between the two of them, they might as well count.

She wondered how the two snakes felt with a handful of Gryffindors and a Hufflepuff. She also wondered, Why now?

“Do we have any volunteers to start?” Unsurprisingly, both Harry’s and Draco’s hands shot into the air. She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Very well. Potter and Malfoy, take your places.”

The two boys strode to the center of the floor. Harry wore a crooked smile and Draco was determined. Ron leaned toward the Slytherins. “Two sickles says Harry wins.”

Nott’s brows rose. Zabini grinned and said, “I’ll take that bet. Malfoy’s been trained his whole life.”

“And Harry hasn’t?” she interjected, eyes still on her two boys. Zabini seemed to have forgotten Harry’s father was an Auror. Draco certainly hadn’t.

“You both know the rules by now, yes?” They nodded at the professor. “Good. Bow and you may begin.”

Harry got off the first spell, a standard expelliarmus , but Draco deflected it with ease and sent his own stunner. The Gryffindor cast a shield; the red sparks bounced and fizzled out of being. 

The two competitors stared one another down more out of thoughtfulness than antagonization. There had been moments of the latter throughout their acquaintance, but Harry was so laid back it was hard for him to dislike people. Once someone made that list, however…

A tickling charm rushed toward Draco. Hermione had barely seen the abbreviated wand movement, but Draco was tuned in. 

He dodged and sent aguamenti simultaneously, drenching Harry with cold, gushing water. 

The Gryffindor hadn’t cast the impervious charm on his glasses, and his hair now fell over his face. She groaned. Draco knew his propensity for ignoring basic charm work; how many times had she cast it for him before a Quidditch match? Now he was paying the piper.

He was quick on his feet, though, and cast protego and a drying spell in quick succession. Draco’s disarming charm hit the shield and dissipated; Harry must have reinforced it. 

The shield dropped and Harry mumbled a long string as he flicked his wand. Her eyes narrowed, flitting from his lips to his wand to make sense of it. A tickling charm, a stunner, another stunner, and—

Draco’s shield shattered and he was knocked onto his backside. He managed a stunner, himself, but at the expense of not dodging the disarming spell. His wand flew toward Harry only to drop to the ground as the other boy was stunned. Draco scrambled toward his wand and threw himself at Harry, raising both sticks toward the sky in triumph.

They’d dueled several times over the years, and only one in three victories belonged to Draco.

Tom led the class in a brief clap, and he sent a reviving spell at Harry. “Five points to Hufflepuff.” The Gryffindor grumbled sheepishly as Draco handed his wand back to him, but they shook his hands. “That was quick thinking.”

“It was the only opening you gave me the whole duel,” Draco replied.

“I won’t make the same mistake next time.”

Ron groaned and told the Slytherin he’d have to wait until later in the day to collect his winnings. He should not have bet at all, but Hermione knew when to harp on him for it and when not to. Besides, she was hardly the only prefect in their group. Nott hadn't gainsaid either.

Zabini volunteered next, paired with another Slytherin whom he wiped the floor with.

“What about you, Hermione? Are you gonna duel?” Harry nudged her. 

She shrugged. “I hadn’t decided, though I suppose we all will by the end of next class period.”

“Is there anyone you want to go against?” asked Draco.

Hermione wasn’t sure; she didn’t enjoy dueling in the same way as the boys. Whereas they truly saw it as competition, she considered it a necessary evil. It was a skill with which to protect oneself. 

She studied her peers and considered what dueling against them might be like. Certain among the Slytherins would use the darkest spells they could get away with; while Professor Riddle was more lenient as long as the effects were easily reversible, they had stretched even that allowance in the past. Among the Ravenclaws, she thought Padma Patil might be the best; Hermione was fairly certain she’d beat her, though it would be a good, clean duel. Susan Bones would be a challenge. The Hufflepuff was almost as ambitious as a Slytherin, though her kindness easily overshadowed that. 

“Hermione?” She jolted from contemplation, face searing as she turned to her teacher. “It is your birthday, after all.” Her classmates tittered.

“Er, alright,” she agreed, and stepped forward.

It was interesting, seeing which hands rose in offering to duel with her. Harry and Draco both despite already having dueled. Ronald was just raising his hand, trying to hide it. Padma and Parvati both volunteered, and so did nearly half the Slytherins, to include Theo Nott.

Tom considered offerings. “Nott.”

The Slytherin gave her a friendly smile and they bowed to one another, and then she went into her ready position.

Nott had been in the Defense Club last year, and his form was good. She eyed him for weaknesses. His shoulders squared, turned to the side to present a smaller target, his wand held aloft and at the ready. He watched her just as she did him, waiting.

Very well, Hermione thought. Let’s begin. Her lips flattened and she thought with all the force she could as she murmured, “ Stupefy .”

Nott barely had his shield in place when her spell reached it, and it shattered with enough force he rocked on his heels. 

His lips moved in the phonemes for, “ Expelliarmus.”

It was strong enough her wand wanted to fly to him despite her good grip and deflection. She crept forward and flicked another stunner and a minor hex while whispering their incantations. Nott countermoved to her, shielded, deflected as the hex burst through the shield and returned a jinx.

He wasn’t going to let her out of his sight, not unless…

As they circled a few steps, she considered her plan, sent a weak stunner, and thought, nebulous .

A thick fog blanketed the room and dampened the white noise of whispering students. She dodged to the left with her gaze pinned where she’d last seen Nott, and sent a barrages of stunners and disarming spells, one after another after another, though the wand was in her hand as the second left her lips.

A burst of wind cleared away the fog and Nott, misty from her spell and looking quite shell-shocked, glanced to his empty hands and then to Hermione, who was smiling.

“Well done! Ten points to Gryffindor for displaying one of the principles of dueling in the field: control your environment.” Tom Laid a hand on her shoulder, warm and heavy and familiar, and she beamed up at him. “This is what I expect out of you from now. Think creatively when you duel; basic hexes and disarming spells are well and good, but they are not nearly the only tools to have in your repertoire.”

Her cheeks burned from the praise.

Nott approached to shake her hand and take back his wand. “I suppose I focused too much on my front, yes?”

“Yes, exactly,” she murmured in return. He didn’t seem put off by his loss. If anything, he was thoughtful. 

He nodded and went back to his spot between Zabini and Draco.

Chapter Text

Classes ended and she headed toward the Great Hall, exhausted from Double Transfiguration. “Nope,” said Ron. He and Harry bracketed her; she glanced back at Draco, but he shrugged.

“I need to eat,” she argued.

“Oh, you will,” Harry assured her. “I’d never deny you a meal. You missed too many meals studying as it is.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at that but allowed the boys to guide her upstairs until they reached the seventh floor of the castle. Her already tired limbs protested. She was ready for a break. 

They passed halfway through a corridor, then the boys spun her around and they walked past a bit of wall again. Harry twirled her and she had to laugh at their antics, and then Ron and he wrapped her arms through theirs and strode back the opposite way again. She was ready to bite off their heads when all of them (at some point Neville and a few others had joined) gestured toward a door that she was absolutely certain had not existed a second before. 

“Go on,” Draco encouraged her, and she knew he was a part of whatever this was. She peered at them all in suspicion, lips pursed but turned the knob, so the door swung inward.

“Happy birthday, Hermione!”

Arms tossed around her as she stared at a room bedecked in scarlet and gold and lions and even other cats. There were balloons and confetti rotated from the ceiling to the floor in a continuous stream.

Tables near the walls held all of her favorite treats, drinks— wine, really? — and a cake that was tall enough it had to use magic to keep aloft. And there was another table stacked with presents.

She stood in the doorway, tears cooling on the verge of falling down her cheeks, and stared at what was clearly her surprise birthday party, until Ron asked, “Hermione? Is— do you not like it?” in the sweetest, most insecure tone she’d ever heard. 

She burst out crying and threw her arms around him. “It’s— oh, it’s beautiful! I’ve never been so happy,” she sobbed against his chest.

“What’s she saying?” asked Harry. 

“Dunno,” said Ron. “I can’t tell through the crying.”

Hermione took a breath to calm herself and slapped his chest gently as she backed away. “I said ‘I’ve never been so happy.’” She wiped away her tears, but they kept coming.

Draco let her to a plush red couch she nearly sank into, sitting beside her. “Is it too much?” His sharp features pinched nervously together.

“No,” she shook her head and laughed. “It’s amazing. How did you do all this without me realizing? And what— what is this place?”

Harry sat on the back of the couch with his legs dangling beside her. “We have our ways.” The scoundrel winked at her. “And this is the Room of Requirement.”

“The what?” 

He grinned. “We’ll talk about it later, I promise. Right now, we have a birthday to celebrate.”

Music started up and someone popped a bottle of sparkling wine to hand her a glass. When she tried to protest that it was against the rules and she was a prefect for Merlin’s sake, Draco took her hand and said quite firmly, “Hermione, it is your seventeenth birthday. If ever there was a day for you to disregard the rules, this would be it.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that logic.

Thus, her party began.

It was a whirlwind, in truth. The boys handed her glasses slowly enough that she never got drunk. That had the taste of Draco to it, because the other two were far too negligent to think that far. They had a cake-cutting ceremony complete with making her blow out seventeen candles, each a different color or shade. Her lungs burned from effort and laughter. 

It was chocolate, so chocolatey it was almost too much, but it was also perfect. There was a chocolate fountain, and she watched as Ginny dared half the party members to dip something into it that definitely did not belong. The first was Dean with a carrot, and it devolved from there. 

“I’m not eating a sock,” Ron told his sister and the surrounding partygoers burst into giggles. 

“Why not?” Ginny had her hands on her hips as she stared up at him with a fierceness that matched her mother. “Seamus ate a birthday candle.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “That’s b’cause Seamus’s barmy.”

“Oi!” complained said eater-of-candle, but Dean nudged him and assured him he was, indeed, barmy, and he grinned.

“Weasleys: they’re all ridiculous.” Harry set his head on her shoulder. “You’ll need to open your presents at some point tonight.”

“I know. I’m just— it’s a lot.” Her gaze darted to the gift laden table.

“A lot of people wanted to help you celebrate.”

She frowned. “I only have four or five friends.”

“Not nearly,” he disagreed. “You have a dozen, at least. Lookit how many showed up to the party.”

“They all wanted an excuse to party,” she said dryly.

Harry was emphatic as he said, “Not so. A ton of people wanted to come, but we limited it because I didn’t want to let too many people in on the Room. We only invited people who wanted to help.”

She faced him. “Everyone here helped set this up?”

“Sure.” He nodded. “Well, Michael Corner is Gin’s boyfriend, so she insisted he come, too, but he helped with decorating anyway.”

“That’s so sweet.” Her chest warmed as she gazed at everyone in turn. They were all her classmates, this mix of three of the four houses, and Hermione knew she’d annoyed every one of them at least once, but they were here. Katie Bell, a seventh year, had even joined, and there was a Ravenclaw girl it took a second for her to recognize. “Is that Luna Lovegood?”

“Yeah. Apparently, she and Gin are kind of friends, and Neville also vouched for her.”

“I don’t know that I’ve ever talked to her,” Hermione mused. “Why would she volunteer to help?”

He shrugged and chuckled. “She said she wanted to help with the Nargles, didn’t want them to ruin your party.”

“What’s a Nargle?” She had never heard the word.

“I haven’t the faintest,” Harry replied. 

“I suppose I should go, er, say hello?” Harry tagged along on the way to the pale blonde. She looked like she could be related to Draco, with wide blue eyes and light hair. “Hello, Luna.”

The girl smiled dreamily. “Oh, hello, Hermione. Are you having a good birthday?”

“Yes. It’s the best,” she admitted.

“That’s good. Seventeenth birthdays are important. It means you’ll need to watch out for centaurs in the Forbidden Forest.” 

Hermione puzzled through that statement. “Er, why?”

“Why?” Luna’s nose scrunched in thought. “Well, they wouldn’t fight a child on their lands.”

“Why would I go to the Forbidden Forest, though?” she wondered.

The blonde hummed. “I don’t know, but there’s always a chance. It’s right… there.” Luna pointed to a spot beside Hermione’s forehead.

She had no idea how to take that statement, but Harry rescued her by steering her toward the gift table. 

Hermione groaned. “But, Harry,” she protested.

Her friend was having none of it; moreover, Draco grabbed a hand to tug her along. 

“Oi, presents!” Ron called over the din, and conversations settled in favor of watching Hermione.

Draco handed her each gift in turn. The Potters’ gift came in a small bag. She opened it to fifty galleons and a letter to spend it as she pleased and no other way.  

Narcissa had a letter and an assurance for her that they would have a special day together when this mess was over. She had also sent a polished, golden watch with delicate filigree decoration; it was the traditional seventeenth birthday gift.

Ron had picked out an assortment of sweets from Honeydukes. It must have contained nearly every type of chocolate the store offered, as well as a few must-haves, like sugar quills. 

“The whole family pitched in a little, that’s why there’s so much,” he said sheepishly, but Hermione didn’t see. She was focused on one particular sweet, and her vision shimmered when she pulled out a packet. 

Toothflossing Stringmints. “You remembered.” Only the boys knew what this candy meant to her. 

It had stemmed from an offhand comment. 

“I wonder what my parents would think of those.”

Ron frowned. “What, candy tooth floss? Do muggles not have floss?”

She laughed and shook her head as they headed for the snowy street. “Of course, they have floss, Ron.”

“Well, why, then?” asked Harry.

Draco knew; he knew practically everything about her, to include her earliest memories. She’d confided those long before they came to Hogwarts.

“My parents, they were dentists,” she murmured after a moment.

The little group halted, and Ron looked confused. “They were what?”

“Healers for teeth,” she explained. She’d had to do the same for Draco when they were little.

“It’s pretty respectable among muggles,” Harry added sagely. His mother was muggleborn, so he wasn’t as sheltered from her former culture.

“Oh.”

“Thank you,” She squeezed his hand, then beamed at Ginny, “And you. I know you helped him pick some of this out.”

The redhead grinned.

Neville had given her a book on magical botany which she promised she would read soon. He’d assure her he had more on the subject if she was interested. Her dormmates gave her a silk scarf, makeup, and a brush meant for curls like hers. Harry murmured, “I’ll give you mine soon,” to which she nodded.

Sirius Black, of all people, had sent her a lovely little mirror; Harry’s eyes lit up when he saw it, but he said nothing. 

And then she was faced with Draco’s gift, wrapped in black paper with elegant gold pinstriping. From him, she received her journal, the one that was connected to Tom’s. 

“I didn’t read it,” he assured her as she held it to her chest. “I remember you wrote in it every night, and thought Father wouldn’t— well, I wanted to keep it safe.”

“Draco.” She wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you.”

How had she been blessed with such friends?

At about ten, Hermione realized she had told Tom she’d meet him. Her eyes rounded and she started making her excuses to her friends, who were disappointed, but only a little. 

She didn’t like the suspicious gleam in Draco’s silver eyes, though he told her he’d make sure everything got to her dorm intact.

Harry walked her to the door. When he stepped out with her, she turned toward him in confusion.

“I won’t ask where you’re going,” he prefaced, “but you need to be careful, Hermione.”

“Careful? I’ll just tell anyone who catches me that I’m on patrol.”

He grimaced. “Not about that; about— about where you’re going.  What you’re doing.” She started to speak, but he kept on. “I know you’re smart, and now an adult, but I care about you.”

“I know you do.”

He fiddled in his satchel and pulled out a mirror identical to the one Sirius gave her. “This and the one you have are two-way mirrors. They’re connected. Wherever you are, as long as you have that mirror—” which he also produced, handing it to her solemnly— “we’ll be able to talk.”

“Why did Sirius give me one?” she asked as she took it in soft hands.

“He and my dad used them to talk during summers. You know, since his mum is a right bitch.”

“Harry!”

Harry grinned. “Anyway. I want you to keep it on you at all times. I’ll have mine, too.”

She hugged her friend and said as he held her, “I will.”

Harry was reluctant to let her go.

Chapter Text

Her heart hammered as she rapped at the office door. Harry’s words rang in her head, but she couldn’t bring herself to further examine them past, Harry knew.

He at least suspected, as did Draco. Everyone knew Hermione was Professor Riddle’s favorite student, perhaps even more than the other professors favored her; and what lover of men hadn’t had a crush on him at some point.

Hermione had heard the envious sighs of her peers when she started assisting with the Defense Club.

“You’re so lucky, Hermione. You get to spend so much time with him.”

It was embarrassing at first and made her feel a prickle of guilt later.

Before she could delve any deeper in that pool of thought, the door swung open, and Tom stood before her.

He wore a white button-up with the top buttons undone to reveal pale, sculpted chest, sleeves rolled up strong forearms, and plain black trousers. His lips quirked at the sight of her. “I’d almost thought you’d forgotten. Come in, sweetheart.”

Tom guided her to sit before returning to his desk; he didn’t take a seat but pulled out a decanter and two small crystal cups. “It’s a cordial,” he informed her as blood-velvet liquor filled the crystal. She took one and sipped the sweet drink that warmed her to the toes. “Though it seems you’ve had plenty tonight.” His eyes danced with amusement. 

“I’m not drunk,” Hermione said in defense.

“No, I should hope not.” Tom stroked her cheek. “If you were, I’d worry about taking advantage.”

Her cheeks flared hot as her stomach whirled. “Taking advantage?”

He hummed and leaned forward until his breath stirred against her lips. “Yes. I don’t want you to regret anything.” Before she could question further, his mouth sealed against hers, stealing her breath. His mouth tasted of the cordial as his tongue swept across hers, and the dizzying lust became a storm.

Her hands clutched the front of his shirt even when he pulled away. 

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He chuckled at her wide-eyed stammering. “I’ve thought quite a bit about what to give you to mark this occasion.”

“I don’t need anything,” she insisted.

He smiled and shook his head. “I know, darling, but I want to give you a gift. I considered— well, some of what I considered, I don’t think you’re prepared for yet, but I finally found something fitting.” He took a small black box from his pocket and her heart raced. “It’s not very pretty as these things usually go, but it is one of the few heirlooms I’ve managed to track down from my family. Giving it to you is nearly giving you a piece of myself. It is my hope to someday do this more properly but let this suffice for the moment.”

Tom pressed the small box into her hands. She opened it with shaking hands; he cupped them in his own to steady her.

Tom spoke rightly that it wasn’t the prettiest ring. It would look more at home on his own hand, with the heavy gold band and the large, square-ish black stone, but it dried her throat and clenched her heart with its appearance.

“I— I couldn’t poss—”

“None of that,” he cut through her excuses. “You are the only person other than myself I would trust to keep this, Hermione.” He produced a fine gold chain and plucked the ring from her fingers. “I advise not using magic on it. It will… well, it will be resistant to much, hence why I did not resize it for you.” The chain looped over her head and the stone lay against her chest. “There. Perfect.” His eyes shone, dipping from the stone and to her face, and she sensed pride in it.

Hermione fingered the ring; it was warm and reminded her so strongly of him that she wondered if it was enchanted. “Thank you.”

“No, my love. Thank you.” Fingertips stroked down her cheek. “You’re no idea what this means to me, what you mean.” His eyes darkened until she could hardly see the midnight sky blue; they had trailed back to the stone resting just below the notch of her throat. “I have spent my life alone, collecting followers and contacts. There have been one or two I might nearly call friends.”

Knuckles brushed up the line of her neck. She was hypnotized. 

“None of them have had your… potential. Severus is too dour and set in his ways; he was even as a boy. And the other, well, there’s nothing more to speak of.”

“Bellatrix?” she whispered, hardly realizing he spoke of another one of her professors. 

Tom chuckled. “No. She is a tool, and one that must be handled quite firmly at that.” He tucked a curl behind one ear, lingering there. “But you, my dear. You are intelligent, malleable, beautiful, resilient. You will only become more powerful as you go.

“And like me, you know what it is to be ‘other’ in this world. My magical heritage was hidden from me, and even now there are wizards who consider me lesser in spite of it.”

“I don’t have that,” she whispered, fearful that pointing out her muggle birth might cause him to realize this was all a mistake.

Instead, the red glint flared, and he smiled coolly. “You will be a figure of magic before long. It will be written into your very marrow so that none can deny it.”

“How?”

She searched his gaze for answers but read only ambition in the shine of his eyes. “I have researched arcane spells, rituals, potions. I daresay there are few who can match my knowledge; even Dumbledore, who foolishly disdains what we may learn from the Dark Arts, hasn’t my repertoire. I have found magic that will bind us closer than any magical marriage and will bolster our strength together and apart.”

Hermione jolted in his tender hold. “Marriage?”

He chuckled. “I am not saying we will enact that magic tomorrow , sweetheart, but did you imagine I would settle for a fling? That I had a passing interest in you?”

“I didn’t know what to think. I’ve been confused about so much, and—”

“Let me assure you, darling, that I want nothing less than eternity with you.” His words were a vice around her heart, thready and golden and tying her so tightly she could hardly breathe; she didn’t know if she wanted to, or if she’d rather die at this moment. 

His fingers wove into her hair, cupped the back of her head. “I knew you were special the moment you first stepped into my classroom; you have no idea how pleased I am with how you’ve grown over the years; it’s been a pleasure to help mold you into the witch you’ve become.”

“Tom…” His praises sang through her until she was weak, clinging to him. He smirked in the face of her desperation.

“Do you need something, darling?” His voice dipped low; his breath stirred against her cheek.

Hermione wanted, needed him, but didn’t know how to word what she desired. She wasn’t one hundred percent certain what could slake this thirst and wasn’t less sure she wanted to confront that part of her.

She wanted him to do it for her.

Tom nuzzled from the corner of her mouth to her ear, and she trembled. “Can you not say it?” A small sound came from Hermione’s throat, but nothing more; he chuckled. “I think I know.” His lips ran down her throat as he spoke, and the hand not in her hair eased under the hem of her skirt to squeeze her thigh. “Don’t I, love? Don’t I know what you need?”

“Yes.” It hurt to speak through the knot of her vocal cords, but he was pleased at the vocalization.

His palm trailed to her outer thigh and up til he flirted with lace at the joint of her hip. “And I so want to give it to you, sweetheart.” His tongue lapped at the curve of her ear.

Then he drew back. “However, I am still your professor. It is risky for us to engage in even this much.”

Tears— whether of rejection, mortification, or unfulfillment, she did not know— flooded her eyes. 

Tom tutted and wiped away the salt of them. “I know, love. We’ve been waiting so long, haven’t we? Soon, just a little longer.”

She nodded and sniffled back more tears, mildly comforted that he wanted her as well. A thought came to her. “Oh! Draco, he took my diary with him when he left the manor, the one linked to yours.”

“Did he?” Tom’s expression fell flat. 

“He promised he didn’t read it,” she said. “He just knew how important it was to me and wanted to make sure his father didn’t get to it.”

“He truly cares for you.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, sighed, and leaned back. “You should go, sweetheart, before I can’t help myself.” Hermione hesitated; Tom chuckled and waved a long, pale hand. “Go rest. You still have classes tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

“Goodnight, my Hermione.”

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t comment further after her birthday, but he eyed her every time Hermione made excuses to the boys. It wasn’t that she didn’t take his warning to heart; but she’d known their professor for just as long, and he’d never done anything to make her feel her trust was misplaced.

Well, not really. He’d always explained himself in the end.

In October, the Defense Club started up again. Everyone who had joined the year before was miles ahead of peers in their year. The first meet-up was a review of the basics, followed by a few weeks of students who’d already been members assisting the newer joins so they could catch up. 

October also had the first Hogsmeade weekend.

It was unusually balmy when she and the boys left that morning. It was nearly eleven, so the third years, eager for their first visit, had already thinned out along the path. 

“Headed to Scrivener’s, Hermione?” Harry inquired when she peeled off; they’d stopped to gaze at a Quidditch-related display. 

“Of course,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

Draco glanced up. “Meet at the Three Broomsticks in an hour?”

“Sure,” Harry replied, and he and Hermione continued down the street.

She laughed at her friend as he threw an arm around her shoulder. “You know, I don’t need a guard. I have a wand again.” Hermione held up the rose vine wand in demonstration. It had been their one stop before King’s Cross Station.

“I know,” he assured her. “I wanted to come with.”

“To the stationary shop? What, for a book?” That was why she went; the store had a small section for books, but she could never stay away.

He grinned. “You say that like you’ve never seen me with a book.”

“It is a rather rare sight,” Hermione admitted.

“Oi. I’m not Ron.”

She rolled her eyes even as she giggled. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re ridiculous, Harry Potter?”

“My mum, just about every morning until I came to Hogwarts, and nearly every morning I’m home, too.” He parted from her to open the door.

Hermione was suddenly in her element. She trailed up and down the aisles, fingers brushing the shelves as she passed. Her favorite shelves were for used books, where hidden treasures could be found.

One particularly worn leather volume caught her eye. The title was too faded to read from its spine, so she eased it free to see the cover. Curses, Hexes, Jinxes: The Lost, the Remembered, the Found.

That was both ominous and exciting. She flipped to the table of content as the perfume of old book stirred around her.

“That seems rather dark.”

She startled and shot Harry a glare. “It’s just a book,” Hermione muttered. “Knowledge itself has no morality; that’s on the recipient.”

“True, though having a tool accessible can make it more tempting,” Harry countered.

“Yes, because I’m going to start throwing curses at you whenever you annoy me.”

He raised empty palms. “Remind me not to upset you.”

Hermione smacked him with the book. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yes,” he agreed with a ready grin. “I am.”

Hermione continued her perusal of the book section with Harry’s occasional commentary on whatever she checked. By the time she went to the register, her cheeks hurt from laughing. 

“Do you really think Lucius would risk coming here?” she murmured once they left the shop, Harry insistently carrying the small bag for her.

He shook his head. “No. Unless he brought friends, he’d have to face down too many people— us, chaperones, and so forth.”

“So, you just wanted to spend time with me?” She bumped against his shoulder. 

Harry shrugged. “Is that so strange? I spend a lot of time with you.”

“Are you checking up on me, Harry?”

His steps halted. Hermione continued one or two before she noticed and turned back to him. “We haven’t talked about anything lately,” he said.

“We talk all the time,” she replied.

“No, I mean anything serious.” Harry glanced askance for any listeners and tugged her toward a small alley between two shops. 

“Is this about—” she didn’t want to mention Professor Riddle, so cut herself off with a frown.

“No. Well, a little. I am still worried about that. I don’t think he’s as trustworthy as you seem to think.”

“He’s a professor, Harry.”

Her friend laid a hand on her shoulder and leaned in closer. “I know, but over summer holiday, Professor Dumbledore told us some things about Riddle—”

“Professor Riddle.”

“—that brought to light he’s not exactly what he seems,” he finished without pause.

Hermione clicked her tongue. “He and Professor Dumbledore have never gotten on. It’s some difference that has lasted since To— since Professor Riddle was a student himself.”

“It’s more than that.” Harry glanced toward the street again. 

“Oh? Like what?”

“Well, he’s older than he looks,” Harry started. “Much older.”

“Is that all?” She rolled her eyes.

“Hermione, this is serious.”

She took a breath and released it in a slow sigh. “What else, other than Professor Riddle? You said that was only part of it.”

“Yes, well. You’ve been reading the news, right?”

“Er, yes.” Of course, Hermione Granger was reading the news.

Harry stepped closer, his voice low. “Mum’s sneaked me some muggle newspapers, too, and there are some strange things going on.” She tipped her head to study him, and he went on. “There have been a lot of accidents lately that result in multiple muggle deaths, and there’s greater unrest in wizarding towns, too.”

“Do you think it’s the Pureblood faction?”

His brows pinched. “I dunno. Some of it seems like it’s against them and some of it seems less friendly toward muggles.”

“Two sides fighting,” she commented.

“No, I don’t think so. At places that are muggleborn friendly and places dead-set against them both there have been rumors of this symbol.” Harry ran a hand through his dark hair. “It’s a snake and a skull.”

“That’s not been in the papers.”

“No. My dad told me.” His cheeks colored at the admittance. At least she knew this information was reliable. 

Hermione scrubbed over tired eyes. “Merlin, what is going on out there?”

“I don’t know, but it has me worried, Hermione. Between these acts and the law, it’s becoming less safe for all of us. Especially you, though.”

She squeezed one of his hands. “Any time we leave the castle, we’ll go in pairs or more.” He nodded. “Now, how about a butterbeer?”

He brightened and they exited the alleyway hand-in-hand.

The Three Broomsticks was warm and packed full of Hogwarts students. Fortunately for them, Draco and Ron had already arrived, and were seated alongside Neville, Ginny, and Luna Lovegood.

“No Michael, Gin?” Harry asked, causing the girl to turn scarlet beneath her freckles.

“We broke up. He was clingy.” Hermione stifled her laugh.

“Hullo, Luna,” she said instead.

The starry-eyed blonde smiled. “Hello, Hermione. You’re looking tired.”

“Er, yes,” she agreed, slightly put off by the girl’s bluntness. “I stayed up all night studying.”

Luna hummed. “Not sleeping builds up nightmares, you know.”

“It does?” Hermione had never heard that one before.

“All the bad from the dreams you would have had gathers together until there’s no good left yet,” she said sagely. “You need to get it out gradually if you don’t want that to happen.”

“Alright. Well, thank you for the advice.” 

Harry returned with a pitcher and mugs, pouring for himself and Hermione before topping off the others. “Alright, what’ve I missed?”

“We went to the joke shop, but the badger here wouldn’t let us go to Honeyduke’s—”

“—not without Hermione,” Draco interrupted, at which Ron rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, we ran into these three and decided to grab a table,” Ron finished.

“Exciting,” Harry commented.

The Weasley boy griped back, “And Scrivener’s was better?”

Harry nodded. “It was absolutely riveting. I nearly pissed my pants.”

Hermione groaned.

On the walk back, with Draco carrying her sweets and Harry still with her books, she listened to her friends goofing around. It reminded her of earlier days, before she’d ever been held captive, when her biggest worries were upcoming exams.

That’s not entirely true , spoke that little voice at the back of her mind. Whether she’d acknowledged it or not, Hermione had been a prisoner since she was taken from her parents as a small child. Her keepers had handled her with kid gloves and she’d been allowed to fly to select locations, but always came back, complicit in her own captivity until the leash finally chafed.

And then she’d been imprisoned in truth.

Tom had promised her a partnership. He’d seen something in her when others thought her an ordinary, if intelligent girl.

Draco thought you were special . He’d picked her out, after all, and insisted she be treated equally in every way he could. Perhaps had he been raised with only his father’s ideals coloring his world, he’d have looked down on her, too.