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Chapter Text

Hermione was exhausted.

Her throat burned with thirst, making every breath a labour. Hunger clawed at her stomach, draining her strength—but it was the cold that wore her down the most.

The piercing, relentless cold that had made her shiver in the early hours and sent spasms through her bones deep into the night.
The air in the round tower chamber was so cold that her breath drifted in visible clouds before her face. She had barely slept. The chill stretched her skin taut and stiffened her muscles, as though she were slowly freezing from within. Her fingers were numb, their tips pale from the cold, and her limbs no longer felt like her own. Wind howled through the cracks in the windows, slicing across her face like a knife, and carried with it the scent of wet stone, sulphur, and iron.

The circle she sat within shimmered like a silver prison, pulsing faintly with a dull grey glow. She had learnt by now that she could move freely within it, but whenever she dared approach the edge, an unseen force flung her back to the centre. Every attempt had made the circle smaller. Claustrophobia had rooted itself so deeply in her mind that she'd abandoned her efforts altogether, though it stung her pride.

Above her, silver symbols danced along the walls, shifting and pulsing like veins—as if the grim tower room, her prison, were a living thing. Had her situation not been so desperate, she might have appreciated the chamber more. The walls were inscribed with runes and metallic etchings that would have sparked her curiosity in any other context. In another life, she would have studied them eagerly.

Hermione pushed herself upright and pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around herself, her teeth chattering from the cold.
She tried a simple spell.
All she wanted was a spark. A flicker of warmth. A single flame.

Pain hissed through her when the metal choker around her neck delivered a sharp shock. The circle beneath her gave a soft, mocking hum. The magic drained away like water through open fingers, and she was left with nothing but the biting cold—her energy and her hope snuffed out.

Her eyes drifted again to the bracelet on her wrist. The golden serpent coiled around her arm stared back at her with emerald eyes. The vibrant colour of the jewel stood in stark contrast to the grim, frozen room. It looked almost alive—like it retained a sliver of warmth in this otherwise lifeless place.
So unlike the wizard who had given it to her. A wizard who was anything but warmth.
And yet she couldn’t deny that she longed for him. That something in her ached for him. For his strength. For the safety she knew he could grant her—if only she would surrender.

A laugh echoed in her thoughts, dark and low. His laugh. The laugh of a man in complete control, a voice soaked in danger and power, and something else—something magnetic—that paralysed her without warning.
It was as if his laugh ran through her veins, igniting a fire in her chest even now, while the cold gnawed at her bones. He had always had that effect on her—his presence like a magnet: irresistible, seductive in its darkness.

She knew that if she activated the bracelet, he would come. He would free her from this prison, from the basalt walls that held her captive. He would rescue her from the cold, restore her freedom and her magic.
But the price was steep.

The Dark Mark—her soul, her surrender. His control over her would become absolute. His power would render her perpetually vulnerable.
And yet, in her weakest moments, she felt it: the call of power, the echo of his laughter, his black charisma.
What if she followed him? What if she gave in? What would it mean? How could she ever face herself in the mirror again? How could she bear to wear his mark, as a Muggle-born?

Think of everything I can teach you, whispered a silken voice—his voice. Think of the freedom I will give you. Not just freedom from this tower, but from the chains of society. Think of a life without limits. Think of the power you could wield.

His words dripped through her thoughts like honey, numbing her senses. The promise was so tempting, so alluring—and yet it was a trap. She knew that. From the moment he had given her the bracelet, she had known. And he had known she knew. He knew that once she activated it, she would belong to him.
The thought terrified her.
And thrilled her.

She felt her heart hammering, the pressure in her chest rising. The bracelet—the serpent coiled around her wrist—suddenly felt just like the collar around her neck. The same deceptive chain. The same claiming force, but in a different form.

A second set of shackles. No escape. If she wanted to remove one, she would have to accept the other. Her thoughts raced. What would it mean to reject one? Would it give her back her freedom? Or was that freedom just an illusion?

If she wasn’t willing to accept the new manacle, she would have to endure the current one—the cold, the powerlessness that had gripped her for so long. The thought was unbearable. She didn’t want to be trapped anymore. Not in this cell, but not by him either. And yet...

The voice whispered again, soft but steady: You know what I can give you, Hermione. Freedom. Power.

Freedom. That was the word that pushed her closer to the edge. Freedom from her body, too cold to move. Freedom from the thoughts that looped endlessly in doubt. The freedom to change everything. To wield the power that had always been denied her. In this time. In her own.

She had always been chained. Chained to the wizarding world’s expectations, because she was Muggle-born. Chained to her reputation as a war hero. Chained to the image her friends had of her. Always the one who tried to save everyone. Always the one who carried the weight of the world. Her fight for magical creatures. Her campaign for Muggle-borns. The war against Lord Voldemort.

And what had it given her?

It had cost her everything. Her parents. Her friends had turned their backs on her. Her work at the Ministry had brought no fulfilment, only the slow erosion of her reputation. She had given so much—and had been left with a void she could no longer name. She had never truly lived. Her life had always revolved around others—around Harry, around the war, around what was expected of her. Always the saviour. Always the fighter.

And what had it brought her?

Nothing.

Nothing but emptiness.

The brightest witch of her age.
The greatest chain of all.
The one she most longed to escape.

So Hermione made her choice.

She looked at the bracelet one last time. The serpent coiled around her wrist seemed to smile, its emerald eyes gleaming with invitation.
She felt the pressure in her chest and knew there was no turning back. She was exhausted from resisting, from never being enough. But the bracelet offered her a new path. A chance to stop fighting against everything that had chained her, and instead step into who she truly was.

She exhaled, a sound filled with pain and relief. Her fingers brushed the bracelet.
This was her moment.
Her moment to choose.
"Morsmordre," she whispered, her voice raw from tension, from resistance, from everything that had held her back.
She knew this was her decision.
She would break her chains.
No matter the cost.

Light blazed through the room.

The magic in the bracelet felt alive. The serpent at her wrist slithered forward, its golden scales gleaming in the dim light. Slowly, it crawled along her forearm, its movements fluid and hypnotic. It passed over the scars carved deep into her skin—the word mudblood etched into her flesh, a permanent reminder of her place in the wizarding world. The stigma she was born into.

And then—abruptly—the serpent vanished.
And with it, the scar left by Bellatrix Lestrange.
As though both dissolved into shadow, the last traces of gold fading into the dark. Where the scar and the serpent had been, the skin now paled.
It had made way for something darker. Something that would change her forever.

The Dark Mark seared into her flesh.
It branded her, its magic sinking deep into her skin.
A painful, burning heat spread through her wrist and arm, like a final warning. The ominous symbol of his power appeared on her skin, like a tattoo that claimed her as his.
The burn felt like the final step.
The last line she had crossed.

Freedom had led her here.
But freedom always had a price.
And the price came in the form of a dark, echoing laugh, reverberating through the stone walls of her cell, choking the breath from her chest.

7 months earlier…

Chapter Text

The rain fell in heavy curtains of silver from the dark sky, and water shimmered like liquid glass on the uneven cobbles of Knockturn Alley.

Beneath a heavy black cloak, its hood pulled deep over her face, Hermione moved with purpose through the narrow alleyway. The sultry summer evening clung warm against her skin, despite the rain that soaked through her clothes. Every step sent tiny splashes across the wet stones, which reflected what little light there was, casting a ghostly glimmer over everything.

The air was thick with a blend of dampness, rotting herbs, and the unmistakable sharp tang of ancient magic. Hermione kept her gaze lowered, her hand gripping the wand concealed beneath her cloak. Here, in this district of shadows and secrets, even a careless glance could spell your downfall.

She slipped into a narrow side street—a dead-end alley where rain streamed in thin rivulets down weathered walls. The stones were even slicker here, and the lanterns overhead flickered uncertainly.

At the alley’s end stood an iron dustbin—old, dented, lidless. Hermione glanced briefly over her shoulder to check she wasn’t being followed, then knelt. She tapped the rusty rim three times with her wand and whispered, barely audibly, “Aperire.”
The bin shuddered, pulling her in with a powerful vacuum—and the rain, the street, the night vanished around her.
Hermione fell—or rather, was drawn—through a spinning tunnel of shadow and flickering green-blue light. With a familiar, dull thud, she landed on a smooth stone floor.

With a sweep of her wand, she dried herself and her cloak. Around her stretched a vast reception hall, with high vaulted ceilings and walls of dark, polished stone. From numerous fireplaces lining the chamber, witches and wizards emerged in constant succession, surrounded by swirling emerald flames.
Their hoods were drawn as low as hers, their faces equally hidden. The air crackled softly with fire and the hushed murmurs of the crowd—a current of excited tension that crawled beneath her skin.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. With calm, deliberate steps, she crossed the hall. While most visitors took the broad staircase upward towards the viewing stands, she slipped away unnoticed and descended the narrow, spiral staircase that led downward.

The stone steps were slick with moisture and worn smooth by centuries of use. The air grew cooler as she descended, saturated with the scent of old sweat, damp leather, and blood—the scent of battle.
At the bottom, she emerged into a narrow corridor lit by only a few flickering torches. The walls pressed close, roughly hewn from dark rock.
Hermione walked on cautiously, past a row of heavy doors. She knew that behind each door was a changing room. She continued down the corridor until she found a changing room with its door slightly ajar—empty.

The room was cold and reeked of stale sweat. Along one wall stood a long, worn wooden bench. Three rusty hooks were hammered into the stone, serving as crude coat hangers. In the corner was a simple washbasin, above which hung a cracked mirror that fractured her reflection into warped shards. Opposite the door stood a heavy set of double doors that Hermione knew led directly into the arena. Through the cracks, she could hear the muffled, excited murmur of the crowd.

Hermione tossed her bag—packed with a clean outfit, a towel, bandages, and a few carefully chosen healing potions—onto the bench. With deliberate steps, she walked to the washbasin and splashed cold water on her face.
The drops stung her skin, but she felt her senses sharpen, her focus narrowing. No nervousness. No hesitation. Only pure, electric anticipation pulsed through her veins—the prelude to the fight that awaited her.

She smiled at her own distorted reflection.
She was ready. Ready to fight. Ready to defend her undefeated record.

Turning to her bag, she retrieved a black eye mask. With practised hands, she tied it firmly behind her head, the soft material resting lightly against her skin.
The mask was her shield, her anonymity. No one knew that she—Hermione Granger, or rather, Hermione Dagworth-Granger, as she was known in this time—had slipped into the ranks of the Spellyard's duelists tonight.
And it had to stay that way.

With a graceful motion, she slid her cloak from her shoulders. The heavy fabric dropped silently onto the bench. Beneath it, she revealed her duelling outfit: a simple black blouse, over which she wore a tightly-laced leather corset that accentuated her waist. Below that, black trousers and sturdy high dragon-hide boots that reached just below her knees.
With a swift flick of her wand, she braided her long brown curls into a crown around her head, tight and practical, so nothing would fall in her face during the duel.

Preparation complete.
She was ready.

Hermione left the changing room and stepped into the narrow passage that circled the arena beneath the stands. Here, in the ring beneath the grim spectators’ gallery, only duelists and organisers were permitted—the initiated.

The air was thick with tension, magic tingling like static along the rough stone walls. Here there were no cheers, only the murmur of last-minute preparations, the clatter of weapons, the whisper of spells.

Hermione felt the familiar emptiness creeping near—that quiet awareness that she was alone here, far from anyone who had ever truly mattered to her.
But here, in this space, right before the fight—that didn’t matter. Here, she had nothing to hide. Here, she could lose herself in what made her feel most alive: magic. Raw, untamed, pure. The Spellyard had no rules like Hogwarts once had. There were no polite referees, no safety charms—only the limits set by your own ability. Here, only strength and survival mattered.

Winners earned respect, money, and fame—at least among those who knew this hidden world. Losers lost more than their pride; sometimes, they lost everything.
With determined steps, she continued on, heading for the lounge—a dimly lit room with low benches, a bar, and a few sputtering lanterns.

There she found Cassius Selwyn, the head of the Spellyard, leaning over a weathered wooden table, deep in conversation with another organiser. His imposing figure—broad shoulders, sharp features, and a grin that rarely promised anything good—was unchanged.

Hermione announced her presence subtly: a slight nod of her head, one hand resting on her hip where her wand was secured.
Cassius looked up, his eyes glinting briefly beneath his hood. He gave her a crooked grin.
"Rhiannon," he greeted. "You’re in the final round. The crowd loves a good finale."
Hermione gave a single nod, a flicker of excitement flaring in her chest. The final round. Perfect.

She left Cassius behind and walked towards the bar at the edge of the lounge. The space buzzed with low conversation, the sharp clatter of glasses, and the heavy scent of firewhiskey. Competitors—some cloaked, their faces hidden behind masks or deep hoods—stood in clusters. Some checked their gear, others muttered strategies or worked themselves up for the fight to come.

She wove smoothly through the crowd, her steps measured, her posture confident.
Behind the bar stood Elric Dunmore, his blonde hair tied back in a loose knot, his kindly face mostly obscured by a thick beard. His arms, covered in colourful tattoos of dragons, runes, and constellations, moved effortlessly as he polished a glass. When he saw her approach, his face broke into a wide, warm smile that lit up his pale blue eyes.

“Well, look who it is,” he said in his signature gruff yet friendly tone. “The queen of the Spellyard.”

Hermione smirked and leaned casually against the bar. “Just pour me a firewhiskey, Dunmore. I’m not in the mood for flattery tonight.”

Elric chuckled softly and grabbed a clean glass. “Ah, but you know you’ve earned it,” he said, pouring the amber liquid. His fingers brushed against hers as he handed her the glass—just a touch longer than necessary.
Hermione raised an eyebrow but kept her expression nonchalant. She felt the warmth of his touch, as always, but paid it little mind. Elric was… Elric. A familiar face in a world where familiarity was rare, and trust even rarer.

"You’ve got them nervous again, you know," Elric said as he leaned in slightly, his voice lowered so only she could hear. "They’re all betting on when you’ll finally lose."

Hermione took a sip of her firewhiskey and let the burning sensation rush through her chest. She gave a thin smile over the rim of her glass. "Let them bet," she said coolly. "They’re wasting their money."

Elric grinned broadly and straightened up, tossing a towel over his shoulder with casual flair.
Hermione took another sip, then set the glass down slowly, the cool rim tingling against her fingertips. Beside her, someone slid onto a barstool—a man in a worn leather coat, his long black hair falling loosely over his shoulders. Unlike the others, he wore no mask or hood to hide his identity—his sharp features and familiar grin were well-known in these circles.

Alphard Black.

"Miss Rhiannon," he said with a crooked smile, his voice a low, almost playful growl. "So we meet again."

Hermione cast him a sidelong smile. "Alphard," she replied, her tone lightly mocking, "I didn’t think you still dared to show your face after your last loss."

Alphard laughed heartily, as though the memory brought him no shame. "Ah," he said airily, "losing to you is hardly disgraceful. Besides, I don’t need to win—I’ve got more than enough gold. The Spellyard is just… entertainment."
He winked at her as he ordered a firewhiskey for himself.

Hermione chuckled softly. She knew he spoke the truth. Alphard Black—member of one of the richest families in the country—had nothing to prove. His participation was nothing more than amusement. Or perhaps, just perhaps, a release for his rebellious streak.
There was something in his posture, his eyes, his easy bravado that reminded her of Sirius.
Not literally—Alphard was rougher, more calculating—but the echo was there.
Maybe that was why she always felt just a little more at ease with him than with others in this world.
It wasn’t trust, not really. But it felt… familiar.

"Still," Alphard went on, his gaze bold, "I wouldn’t mind a rematch. Just to see if luck might finally swing my way."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Luck?"

"Or maybe," he said with a playful grin, "you’re just exceptionally good. I might even admit it… if you beat me again tonight."
She answered with a smirking glance and took another sip of her whiskey. Around them, the noise of the crowd swelled, the tension in the lounge humming like a living thing.

"I’m already taken, I’m afraid," Hermione said. "Final duel. Cassius seems to be hoping for a spectacle."
Alphard gave a short laugh—a raw, mocking sound.

“Spectacle,” he echoed. “Cassius hopes for blood. If someone dies, he calls it a successful evening.”

He raised his glass in a loose, mocking salute. “Business as usual.”

Hermione let his words settle, her expression unreadable. She knew Alphard was right. Here in the Spellyard, your worth was measured by the spectacle you delivered.

The thought faded as Elric rejoined them, already wiping down the bar. He slid easily into the conversation, tossing out a casual remark about one of the newcomers fighting their first match tonight, his tone relaxed but sharp enough to catch attention.

The conversation quickly loosened. They chatted light-heartedly about the evening’s line-up—who overestimated themselves, who was a dangerous underdog, and which old hands still held their own. Elric, with his years of experience in the Spellyard, shared his predictions with a wide grin, while Alphard raised his eyebrows now and then or suggested wagers he clearly had no intention of honouring.
Hermione listened and chimed in with the occasional pointed remark, her tone casual but her gaze calculating. She knew the fighters as well as anyone—perhaps even better—and her assessments were just as precise.

Despite the easy banter, a current of tension lingered beneath it all. In the Spellyard, nothing was ever truly without consequence. Every name spoken, every bet placed carried weight. Alliances, rivalries, the threat of violence—it all simmered beneath the surface, unsaid but sharply present.

A dull gong echoed through the lounge, silencing the chatter. The first round was about to begin.

Elric wished them both a quick good luck, his hand briefly resting on Hermione’s shoulder, before returning to his place behind the bar.

Hermione and Alphard moved with the others to the edge of the arena, where the air buzzed with electric anticipation.

Along the perimeter, guards took their positions: hardened fighters, identifiable by their black tunics and grim expressions. Their role was clear—keep the duelists in check outside the ring.
Above the arena, the warding dome shimmered to life—a translucent canopy of magic that cast pulsing layers of protection over the audience and duelling ring. No spell would pass through it easily. Hermione felt its energy prickle against her skin as she took her place among the other witches and wizards at the edge.
Her heart quickened. She let her hand rest lightly on her wand as the air around the arena vibrated with concentrated magic, awakening an old longing within her that she could scarcely name.

She breathed in the tension like oxygen, her senses sharpened, her mind hungry for the spectacle to come. These were no schoolyard duels, no textbook exercises — this was magic in its rawest form.
And she loved it.

The first two duelists entered the arena to a low murmur from the crowd.
Hermione vaguely recognised them from previous evenings: a scrawny man with spiky blond hair and a broad, hulking opponent in a tattered cloak.
They didn’t greet each other. There were no formalities here. Only survival mattered.
The arbiter, his voice crackling and magically amplified, announced the start.

“Begin!”

What followed was chaos. Spells flew through the air—fiery blasts, choking chains, explosions of raw power. The warding dome pulsed under the impact of the most violent curses. Hermione felt the hum of magic against her skin, her eyes sharp on every detail.

The smaller man moved quickly, but made a fatal mistake: he stumbled—just a fraction of a second too slow in his defence.
His opponent seized the moment instantly. With a sharp, chopping motion and a dark spell Hermione didn’t recognise, he sliced through the air. A hissing bluish blade of pure energy shot from his wand and struck the skinny man square in the neck.
The crowd held its breath for a moment—and then the man’s head tumbled from his shoulders, his body collapsing to the floor with a dull thud. Blood pooled in thick, dark streams across the stone floor.
For a second, there was silence.
Then the audience erupted in roars and cheers.

Next to her, Alphard let out a raw, excited cry and slammed his fist into his palm. “Beautiful work!” he shouted, grinning broadly.

Hermione remained still, her heart pounding in her chest.
The spell that had been used... she had never seen it before. Not a standard Diffindo. Something far more powerful, more precise—something purely lethal.
She felt no horror. No disgust.
Only hunger.
She wanted to know what that spell was. How it worked. How to master it herself.

The arena was cleared quickly; the guards dragged the body away as though it were nothing more than rubbish. A new call sounded.
Duel after duel followed.
Witches and wizards fought fiercely for their survival, their blackthorn, oak and willow wands flashing in the flickering light. Some battles lasted only seconds—one mistake, one hesitation, and it was over. Others stretched into minutes-long tests of strength, with opponents battering each other with spells Hermione could only partially identify.
Slowing hexes, disruption charms, fire, chains of icy mist—each fight more violent than the last.
The crowd roared.
The warding dome pulsed without pause.
And then, finally, the name Alphard Black rang out.

He straightened his back, his grin widening, and with a casual roll of his shoulders, stepped into the arena. Hermione followed his movements with her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips.
This duel would be worth watching.

Alphard walked into the arena with a near-casual stride. His leather coat swayed lightly around his legs as he let his wand dangle loosely in one hand.
His opponent—a stocky, broad man with a battered face—stood ready, his eyes full of suspicion.

The start was announced, and in one fluid motion—almost nonchalantly—Alphard sprang into action.
He moved with a grace that bordered on unnatural; every step, every sweep of his arm was smooth and effortless, as though he already knew where his opponent’s next move would land. His spells were sharp, swift, without wasted force, like dance steps honed by years of experience.

Hermione felt the corners of her mouth tug upwards, almost involuntarily. Her thoughts drifted back to the duel she had fought against Alphard just a week earlier. A match that had cost her everything to win.
Alphard hadn’t been a brute like so many others. He was sly—a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Playful on the surface, but razor-sharp underneath. More than once during their duel, he had wrong-footed her—lured her into traps with a grin and a casual flick of the wrist, only to strike with ruthless precision the next moment. Even now, watching him chase his opponent around the arena with apparent ease, she wondered how she had ever managed to beat him.

Perhaps luck had tilted in her favour.
Or perhaps, without fully realising it, she had tapped into something within herself she preferred not to examine too closely.

Hermione forced her focus back to the fight—just in time to see Alphard disarm his opponent with a final elegant flourish, sending the man stumbling backwards as his wand clattered across the floor. A chorus of whistles and cheers rose from the stands. The arbiter declared the duel over, and Alphard turned, his wand swinging lazily at his side, as if the whole affair had barely cost him any effort.

They walked back to the participants’ ring together. The loser’s shoulders were stiff, his face thunderous. Alphard strolled beside him with relaxed confidence, his grin broad and unbothered. Hermione’s eyes followed them. She saw Alphard lean in and mutter something—too soft to catch, but his tone unmistakably mocking.
The response was immediate.
The defeated man cursed loudly, spun on his heel, and reached for a hidden dagger. Before he could get close to Alphard, the guards leapt between them. They hauled the struggling man away with heavy hands, his furious shouts echoing through the chamber.

Alphard remained, brushing dust from his coat with casual indifference before sauntering back to the participants’ ring with his signature lazy stride, coming to stand beside Hermione once more.
His grin hadn’t budged.

“They always take it so personally,” he said dryly, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

Hermione gave Alphard a sideways smile before turning her attention back to the arena.
In the Spellyard, losing a duel didn’t just mean defeat—it meant losing face. And for some, that was unbearable.

A new name was called.
Her name.
Or rather, her alias.
“Rhiannon.”
The name she’d chosen as a tribute to her parents, who had loved Fleetwood Mac.

Hermione felt her pulse quicken.
Without hesitation, she stepped from the shadows of the participants’ ring, her stride controlled and light. The crowd reacted immediately—whistles, cheers, tense anticipation. Her reputation had preceded her.

Across the arena stood her opponent. A tall, broad-shouldered man, his face completely hidden behind a dark, sleek mask. His stance was relaxed, but a smouldering threat emanated from him that instantly sharpened her focus.
The arbiter raised his staff.

“Begin!”

Hermione was the first to move.

A sharp Expulso blasted the ground near her opponent’s feet, but he moved swiftly, gracefully, dodging without hesitation and countering with an explosive Confringo. Fiery debris tore through the air. Hermione ducked behind a chunk of broken wall, the heat brushing her skin.
Before she could fully rise, his next attack came—a dark curse, a writhing strand of black energy snaking toward her. Hermione didn’t fully recognise its nature, but her instincts screamed danger.
With a hurried yet precise flick, she raised a powerful shield, her Protego Maxima crackling in the air.
The spell deflected—but only just.

Her opponent gave a brief, low laugh—a dark, rough sound—and followed up with more spells, fluid and forceful, without the slightest restraint.
No school duel, no textbook technique—this was raw magic, honed in the margins of the wizarding world.
Hermione felt her adrenaline spike.

She blocked a Reducto, dodged a wave of icy mist that exploded from his wand, and struck back with a clever Depulso that nearly knocked him off balance.
But she didn’t stick to simple spells.
With a complex, sharp flick of her wrist—a wand movement she’d studied but rarely dared to use—she released an invisible force, an impact that sent her opponent stumbling backward as if struck in the chest by an unseen hand.
He recovered quickly, his gaze—hidden behind the mask—no doubt sharper now.

Hermione felt an unusual thrill beneath her skin.

He wasn’t an amateur. He fought with an intensity and finesse that pushed her, that forced her to give everything. And somewhere, despite the danger, she couldn’t suppress a growing fascination.
They circled one another, spells and counter-spells flashing between them, their magic crashing against the pulsing dome overhead.

Then she saw her opening.
She feinted—just enough to look like she stumbled—and as his focus shifted, just for a moment, she quickly cast a combination of Expelliarmus and a powerful push.
Her opponent staggered, his guard dropping.
With a smooth movement, she followed up with a Levicorpus; he was yanked roughly into the air, limbs flailing, his wand clattering to the stone floor.

The arbiter blew his whistle sharply: duel over.

Hermione lowered her wand, her chest rising and falling with exertion. The crowd exploded—cheers, whistles, shouts. She took a deep breath, rolling the tension from her shoulders. Her hands still tingled from the magic she had just released.

She had won.
But something else burned in her chest—not just triumph, but a sharp, hungry curiosity. A desire to understand those dark spells, those fluid attacks. To learn them. Perhaps even wield them herself.

As Cassius Selwyn announced the end of the evening, the crowd began filtering from the stands to the exits. The atmosphere remained charged, voices loud and excited.

Hermione slid her wand smoothly into the holster at her hip and returned to the lounge, where Elric and Alphard were already waiting.
Elric handed her a glass with a grin.

“To another victory, Queen of the Spellyard,” he rumbled, his pale blue eyes twinkling.
Hermione accepted the drink and sank onto a low bench, her muscles still taut from the fight. Alphard bumped her shoulder playfully and gave her a nod of approval.

For a moment, it felt almost... normal.
Then Cassius Selwyn appeared.
His dark cloak moved like a living shadow as he approached.

“Rhiannon,” he said, his smile thin and unreadable. “A superb duel, as expected. I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

Hermione set down her glass and stood, glancing briefly at Elric and Alphard—both shrugged, clearly as curious as she was.
She followed Cassius through the lounge to a quieter corner.
There stood her opponent, still cloaked in dark robes and a mask, motionless as a statue.

“A strong match deserves an introduction,” Cassius said offhandedly. He clapped the masked man on the shoulder and vanished without a backward glance.
Hermione was left alone.

For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the man slowly raised his hands and removed his mask.

Her heart froze.

Antonin Dolohov.

Even younger, he was unmistakable: sharp features, cold, merciless eyes.
The man who, in another life, in another war, had nearly killed her with a curse. The scar still marked her chest.

Hermione tensed, every muscle locking in place.
But outwardly, she remained calm.
No flinch, no flicker of recognition crossed her face. She forced her breathing steady—kept her expression neutral.

Dolohov studied her, his eyes dark and distant—but there wasn’t a flicker of recognition. Only the cold edge of a battle-hardened mind.

“Well fought,” he said at last, his voice hoarse and rough.

Hermione nodded, her reply cooler than she felt.

“Thanks.”

Inside, her thoughts spun: alarm bells, memories, fear. But on the outside, she remained composed. She knew: here in the Spellyard, weakness was as deadly as a broken spell.
Dolohov looked at her in silence for a long moment, his gaze sharp, measuring. Then he nodded slowly—a sparse gesture of acknowledgement.

“Your fighting style is unique,” he said, voice gruff but sincere. “Not just fast—but calculated. You don’t hesitate. That makes you dangerous.”

Hermione said nothing, her face unreadable, though her thoughts tumbled over themselves. He had no idea who she really was. She nearly laughed—right there, in the thick of it—at the absurdity.

Antonin Dolohov—the man who had cursed her in another life, the Death Eater par excellence—was trying to recruit her.
If he knew he was speaking to a Mudblood, he’d likely try to kill her on the spot.
But he didn’t know.
No one did.

Dolohov stepped half a pace closer, his voice lowering, almost confidential.

“My master,” he said, without naming him, “is looking for talent like yours. Witches and wizards strong enough to understand the true power of magic. Those who don’t flinch at what others call ‘dark.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile—not friendly, but appreciative. “We are many. And we are growing.”

Hermione kept her face neutral, though her mind was a storm.

She had always known that Voldemort was active during this time, slowly gathering strength, laying the groundwork for the First Wizarding War. Until now, she had been able to keep that truth at bay—to focus on her survival, on this strange new life.
But now Dolohov stood before her.
Alive. Real.
And with him came the moral dilemmas she thought she had left behind.
A part of her—the part that had fought in the Second Wizarding War, that had once believed fiercely in justice and resistance—wanted to seize this chance.
Get close.
Find out who was involved.
Infiltrate. Maybe even influence the course of events.

But she knew better.
She mustn’t change the timeline. Whatever happened, this was no longer her war. She had already given herself to one. She still bore the scars. She wasn’t about to lose herself again.

Dolohov held her gaze as if trying to read her soul.

“I think you... could be a valuable asset,” he continued slowly. “If you catch my meaning.”

Hermione forced a faintly intrigued look onto her face, even as her heart pounded unevenly in her chest.

“An honour,” she said, barely moving her mouth. “But I’m not looking for a master.”

Dolohov regarded her for a long, assessing moment, his stare dark and calculating. Then he nodded slowly, as though accepting her answer—for now.

“As you wish,” he said. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

He replaced his mask and turned without another word, his silhouette merging with the crowd that was slowly dispersing from the lounge.

Hermione remained where she was, her hand still resting on her belt, fingers lightly trembling.

This was going to be a problem.
She knew: she had his attention now.
And attention from people like Dolohov rarely led to anything good.

Chapter Text

There was still light burning in the cottage when Hermione appeared after midnight at the wooden garden gate that enclosed the modest estate which had been her home for over a year now.

The night hung heavy and damp around her, and the wet gravel path shimmered silver in the glow of the lantern above the front door. Overhead, the wind rustled softly through the old oaks surrounding the house.

Hermione knew Thea would still be awake.
She always waited when Hermione went to the Spellyard — a silent ritual that never needed to be spoken.

She opened the gate, which creaked quietly in the stillness, and stepped onto the grounds.

As she followed the gravel path to the door, she felt the exhaustion in her legs and the fading remnants of adrenaline in her blood.
Her cloak was heavy with rain, her boots crunched with every step.

Above the door, the warm light shone like a beacon in the dark night.

Without hesitation, Hermione reached out, opened the door, and stepped inside.

The air smelled of old wood and warm spices, mingled with something bitter and sharp — the unmistakable traces of potions brewed earlier that day. The cottage exuded homeliness: the low wooden beams overhead, the walls adorned with moving portraits in faded gold frames, and the heavy tartan rug partially covering the wooden floor.

She gave her boots a cursory wipe on the mat before stepping inside.

With a dull thud, she dropped her bag on the kitchen table.
A pouch of Galleons tumbled out and scattered in a loose pile across the worn wood.

In the lounge, where the fireplace stood cold beneath a mantelpiece crammed with books, sat Thea Dagworth in her old, threadbare armchair. A thick, floral-embroidered blanket lay across her lap, her greying hair messily pinned up.

She held a cup of tea in her hands, her sharp eyes fixed on Hermione.

A flicker of guilt tugged at Hermione’s chest, but she pushed it aside.

Thea’s gaze lingered briefly on the spilled Galleons — a small, almost imperceptible frown creased her forehead — then returned to Hermione.

“Are you hurt?” She always asked that.

Hermione shook her head as she hung her cloak over a chair.

“No. Not this time.”

Thea nodded slowly, though the tension in her shoulders barely eased.
Her gaze drifted once more to the table, to the coins scattered across the wood.

“Is this really how you want to earn your money?” she asked, her voice calm but sharp.

Before Hermione could respond, there was a soft pop of overly enthusiastic magic in the kitchen.
Moments later, Pippin appeared, balancing on his toes, a tray wobbling dangerously in his hands.

“Miss Thea! Miss Hermione!” he squeaked cheerfully. “Tea! And a slice of banana cake — fresh— well, nearly fresh — from yesterday!”

A sharp sigh followed close behind him.
Tink appeared in the doorway, her ears twitching in frustration.

“Pippin, the tray should be level! LEVEL! Not tilting, not swinging, and certainly not above the carpet!”

Pippin looked up — too late.
The tray tilted, and with a loud splat, a piece of cake slid onto the rug.

Hermione couldn’t suppress a smile.

“I’ll clean it, I’ll clean it!” Pippin wailed, already dabbing frantically at the rug with the sleeve of his own tunic.

Tink covered her face with her hands. “That’s not a cloth, that’s your robe, you ninny!”

Thea sighed deeply, but the corners of her mouth twitched and her eyes sparkled.

“Sit down, Pippin. Let Tink handle it before you set the room on fire.”

Pippin glanced sheepishly at Thea, nodded furiously, and plopped down on a stool far too small for him, still trying to balance the tray on his lap.

Hermione sat down on the sofa, her hands wrapped around the cup of tea Pippin had managed to hand her.
The warmth seeped slowly into her chilled fingers, but her thoughts lingered on the two house-elves, who were now busily cleaning up the mess.

House-elves.
Something she’d spent her whole youth opposing, founding S.P.E.W. to fight against — with little success.

And yet she couldn’t deny that she’d discovered a side of house-elves she hadn’t understood before. They weren’t slaves here, not invisible servants. They were family. She was certain they wanted to be here — not out of duty, but out of choice.

Hermione smiled.

Who would have thought: Hermione Granger, the witch who would one day pass a law forbidding unpaid house-elf labour, now living in a cottage surrounded by two of them — and never feeling more at home.

The days that followed passed in silence.
No duels, no masks — only the familiar rhythm of cauldrons, vapours, and the precise work of someone who lets her hands speak when her mind is too full.

In the utility room that doubled as a brewing space, Hermione stood hunched over a large cast-iron cauldron. The room was chaotic but familiar: old wooden shelves full of jars and bottles with handwritten labels, bundles of dried herbs hanging in clusters from the ceiling, and piles of books left half-open among the clutter.

The scent was pungent — a mix of valerian, asphodel, and the earthy, bitter tang of dittany steeping in a bowl on the windowsill.

She’d built a steady customer base. A discreet order here, a delivery there.
But her most reliable client was Slug & Jiggers Apothecary on Diagon Alley — a solid, well-frequented shop that sold everything from Pepperup Potion to Sleeping Draught, where her standard brews were now a regular feature behind the counter.

Every Friday she brought her supply in a sealed trunk to Diagon Alley and received a generous amount of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in return.

It didn’t earn nearly as much as the Spellyard — not even close — but it felt… right.
As though she was continuing something.

The cottage had once belonged to Hector Dagworth-Granger, a renowned potioneer from the twentieth century and founder of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers — and Thea’s great-grandfather.
When Hermione first arrived here, she had immersed herself in the dusty bookcases, his yellowing manuscripts, the scrolls covered in elegant ink notes.

There was a legacy in these walls. A craftsmanship woven into the fibres of the house itself.
And though she had never seen herself as an heir, something in her felt connected to the art of brewing. Something she had never quite acknowledged before.

Hermione looked down at the bubbling contents of the cauldron and let her thoughts drift back to the first time she had come here.

She remembered exactly how it had felt, that first day.

It had been unexpectedly warm for an early spring day, the air soft and heavy with blossom and soil.
Hermione had taken off her coat before she even reached the garden gate — a weathered wooden thing, overgrown with ivy and worn by time.

Beyond it lay the yard.

The cottage stood partially hidden among rolling hills, surrounded by a sea of wildflowers, fragrant plants, and a winding path of flat stones that led to the front door.
A few chickens pecked between the borders, their indignant clucking mingling with the hum of bees and the whisper of wind through the pear trees lining the edge of the property.

To the left of the house sat a vegetable garden — tidy but not overly strict — a place clearly maintained with affection.

Hermione had stood at the gate for a moment, her fingers curled around the wood, her gaze fixed on the house that had lingered in her thoughts for weeks.

The cottage was small, old, and unmistakably English.
The roof was made of weathered slate tiles that sat slightly uneven, and smoke curled lazily from the chimney, as though the fire inside never fully died.
The windows were small and square, framed with wooden shutters and full of stained-glass patterns that glowed softly in the sunlight.
A climbing rose twisted up the stone walls, its first buds just visible among the green.

Hermione swallowed.

She knew this was the home of Thea Dagworth — a squib, and — if her calculations were correct — the last known bearer of a name that might once have been hers as well.

Dagworth-Granger.

She knew Thea was related to Hector Dagworth-Granger.
And perhaps, just perhaps, if the bloodlines stretched far enough… she was too.

She took a deep breath, opened the gate, and stepped onto the path.
Her boots crunched softly over the gravel as she followed the winding stones to the door.

Before she could knock, it swung open.

A house-elf stood in the doorway — small, with oversized ears and eyes as glossy as marbles.
His tunic was an enormous knitted cardigan that dragged over his feet.

“Oh!” he squeaked. “Pippin is so pleased! When Pippin heard Miss Thea was having a visitor, Pippin was sooo pleased! Miss Thea never has visitors, miss!”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say anything, a second house-elf appeared behind the first — smaller, with nervous hands clutching at her apron.

“Tink says: that’s no way to greet new guests!” she scolded. “No announcement! No proper bow! And Pippin gives away far too much!”

Pippin gave a sheepish laugh, his ears flapping as he shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Sorry, Tink,” he said with a cheeky giggle. “Pippin meant well, miss.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile, even through her surprise.
House-elves weren’t what she had expected in a squib’s home.
She’d only ever associated them with old pure-blood families in large manor houses — not with modest cottages in the middle of nowhere.

But here they were — lively, familiar, as if they’d always belonged.

“No worries,” she said kindly. “I’m happy to meet you both.”

Tink made a small, irritated noise in her throat, but offered a short, formal bow, while Pippin beamed and swept an arm grandly towards the hall.

“Come in, miss! Miss Thea is waiting for you in the sitting room!”

Hermione followed them through the narrow hallway, where the low ceiling was supported by thick wooden beams, darkened by years of use. The floor beneath her boots was made of uneven wooden planks that creaked softly with every step.

They led her into a sitting room at the back of the house.

The view was breathtaking: a large glass wall opened out onto the rolling hills behind the cottage, where the late afternoon sun bathed the grass in hues of gold and green. An old piano stood in the corner, half-covered by stacks of books, and several thick candles flickered on a low table in the centre of the room.

There, standing beside an antique armchair, waited Thea Dagworth.

She was a solidly built woman, with broad shoulders and hands that looked just as capable of wrestling cauldrons as arranging bouquets. Her greying hair was loosely pinned up with a simple ivory comb, and her face had a candid openness — broad cheekbones, intelligent grey eyes, and a mouth that seemed naturally suited to smiling, though it was currently set in a straight line.

She stood upright, her posture confident but unpretentious, and regarded Hermione with a mix of curiosity and caution.

Hermione swallowed the nerves tightening her throat, drew a breath, and stepped further into the room.

“Hermione Granger,” Thea said in greeting, her voice warm but firm. “Welcome. It’s lovely to meet you. Please, have a seat.”

Hermione nodded, her heart still beating too quickly, and walked over to one of the deep armchairs by the window. She sank into it, her hands resting on the armrests as she tried to mask her nerves.

At that moment, Tink appeared in the doorway, a silver tray clutched tightly in her hands, her knuckles white. With a perfectly controlled motion, she set the tray down on the low table before them: two porcelain teacups, a teapot sending up thin spirals of steam, and a small dish of lemon wedges.

“For Miss Thea and Miss Hermione,” Tink announced solemnly, before stepping back with a short nod.

No sooner had she done so than Pippin came bustling in, balancing on his toes with a second, somewhat wobblier tray.
On it sat a stack of scones, a pot of jam, and a jar of clotted cream that wobbled dangerously with each step he took.

“And scones!” he chirped proudly — just as the jar of jam began to slide precariously.

Tink rolled her eyes and darted forward to catch the jar before it could tumble to the floor.

“No dashing, Pippin!” she hissed. “Scones are to be served with grace, not like a disaster waiting to happen!”

Pippin grinned broadly, his ears quivering with effort, but managed to set his tray down beside the tea service with a satisfied plop.

Thea chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling.

“Thank you both,” she said warmly. “I’ll pour the tea for our guest myself.”

Tink straightened immediately, offered a dignified bow, and departed with head held high. Pippin skipped cheerfully after her, nearly tripping over the rug on his way out.

Hermione felt a smile curl at her lips. The nervous tension that had gripped her since arriving eased just slightly.

Thea poured tea with steady hands, her movements slow but sure, and handed a cup to Hermione.

“There’s nothing like a proper cup of tea to begin a first meeting,” she said with a gentle smile.

Hermione took the cup, her fingers still faintly trembling, and allowed herself to be drawn into the rhythm of the house — warm, messy, and more welcoming than she had dared to hope.

Thea leaned back slightly in her chair, her teacup resting between her hands, and let a comfortable silence settle before she spoke again.

“You’re younger than I expected,” she said, her voice thoughtful but friendly. “Your letters… sounded older.”

Hermione offered a shy smile and took a small sip of tea. “I’ve learnt to choose my words carefully.”

Thea nodded slowly, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “That’s a rare gift these days.”

Her eyes swept briefly over Hermione, evaluating, but not unwelcoming.

“You wrote,” Thea continued, her tone softer now, “that you might be connected to the Granger branch of the family.”

Hermione nodded. “I’ve been researching my family history,” she said. “And there are signs… old documents, death certificates… suggesting that some of my ancestors may have come from the Grangers — who were once linked to the Dagworths.”

Thea raised her eyebrows, not surprised, more resigned than anything else.

“You’re not the first to say that,” she said. “But most came only for the name.
For what they hoped to find.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly — not accusing, but cautious.

Hermione squared her shoulders, feeling the urge to make herself understood.

“I’m not looking for an inheritance,” she said, quietly but firmly. “Not a name. Not money. I’m only looking for… answers.”

Thea regarded her for a long moment in silence.

Then she nodded. A brief gesture, like someone making a quiet decision.

“Then,” she said, her voice warm and without reservation, “I’ll tell you what I know.”

She set her teacup down on the table and folded her hands loosely in her lap.

“Long ago,” she began, her gaze drifting to the window where the hills glowed softly in the evening light,
“the name Dagworth-Granger meant something. An old, influential wizarding family — respected, well-connected, old money.”

She paused, as if tasting the memory.

“But over time, Squibs began to be born into the line. At first, it was occasional. Then more frequent.
And with each generation, unrest grew. Not everyone could accept it.”

She looked back at Hermione, her tone calm but tinged with something older — pain, perhaps, or simply exhaustion.

“In the end, the family split. The magical side continued as the Dagworths.
The Squibs — and later the Muggles — as the Grangers.
Little has been heard of the Grangers in the wizarding world since.
They disappeared quietly, fading from our world.”

A small, wry smile tugged at Thea’s mouth.

“But the Dagworths didn’t escape that fate either.
Squib after Squib.
The lines vanished, or married outside the magical world.
Now I’m the only one left.”

She spread her hands, presenting herself — neither proud nor regretful.

“A Dagworth. Without magic. Without an heir. Alone.”

Hermione paused with her teacup held still in her hands.
She looked at Thea, her throat tightening slightly.

“And I,” she said softly, “a Granger. With magic.”

She gave a wry smile. “Also alone.”

For a moment, silence fell between them, filled only by the soft ticking of a clock somewhere in the house, and the distant clucking of chickens outside the window.

Thea looked at her over the rim of her teacup, her grey eyes sharp but not unkind.

“And if I asked where you came from?” she said quietly. “Not your ancestry, but… what path brought you here?”

Hermione hesitated.

She had promised herself she would not tell anyone.
Not strangers. Not anyone.
She knew she wasn’t meant to alter the timeline, that she had to keep quiet, remain invisible.

But it had been two months since she arrived in 1966.
Two months in a world that looked familiar but where no one knew her.
Where every face was foreign, and every decision rested solely on her own shoulders.

And with Thea — this woman with her strong hands, her warm voice, her house that smelled of fresh bread and lavender — she felt, for the first time in a long time, not entirely alone.

She drew a slow breath.

“I’m from the future,” she said softly.

She expected disbelief. Suspicion. Maybe even anger.

But Thea merely nodded, slowly, as if she didn’t entirely understand, but was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Hermione told her.
About the time she came from.
That she was a Muggle-born.
That there had been a war — and that she had fought in it.
That her life had been changed forever by it.
That she had been sent back in time by a trick of magic — and inexplicably appeared in 1966.

And Thea listened. Not with the distant curiosity of someone humouring a strange tale, but with the quiet, genuine kind of attention that people rarely give each other anymore.

They talked all afternoon.
About potions, about family, about what it meant to belong somewhere.
Tink and Pippin brought bread and soup, and Thea insisted that she stay for supper.

By the time the sun slipped behind the hills, it felt as if hours had passed like minutes, or maybe minutes like hours.

Thea stood up, brushed off her skirt, and looked at Hermione as if what she was about to say was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ll stay the night,” she said firmly. “The guest room is at the top of the stairs, first door on the right. And if you decide not to leave tomorrow morning…”

She shrugged.

“There’s room for that too.”

Hermione had felt something shift in that moment — something softening, something loosening.

A decision that didn’t need to be made aloud.

She had never left.

Even now, it still felt strange, Hermione thought as she stirred the contents of her cauldron.
To be here — in the past — and to know all that was still to come.

She knew the names of children not yet born.
She knew which laws would take decades to arrive, which wars loomed on the horizon, which lives would be lost.
And yet here she was. Alive, quiet, invisible.
A walking secret.

It took effort not to interfere with what she knew.
To keep her head down.
To say nothing, steer nothing, save no one.

But that was the promise she had made to herself.
The only way to exist in a world that did not know her.

And at the same time… it was a gift.

Because here, in this time, she had the space to be a version of herself that she had always had to suppress in her own time.
The Hermione who had always been curious about all forms of magic — even the ones spoken of only in whispers.
The magic called dangerous.
Dark.
Unacceptable.

In her own time, she had never been allowed to desire it openly. Not without judgement. Not without questions.
But here, no one knew her. No one held her to who she was supposed to be.

Alongside her brewing — partly for income, partly because it felt like a way to keep the Dagworth-Granger legacy alive — she spent her days searching.
Books, spells, theories hidden in dusty corners of old bookshops.
She practised, she experimented.
She studied magic that didn’t fit neatly into schoolbooks.

That was how she had ended up in Knockturn Alley.

And eventually… in the Spellyard.

The place where she wore her mask.
Literally and figuratively.
Where she could show a side of herself she had never dared reveal — not to her friends, not even to herself.

There, she didn’t feel ashamed of what she could do.
There, her power wasn’t feared or corrected — it was admired.

Her journey to the past had been both a curse and a blessing.
An involuntary exile that had, at the same time, given her all the freedom to discover who she really was — or wanted to be.

And she had promised herself it would remain that way.
She would not meddle in history.
She wouldn’t try to set anything right or prevent anything.
She would not use her knowledge of the future for personal gain.

But now Dolohov was here.

And he had pierced her carefully constructed bubble.

Since their meeting, her mind hadn’t stopped racing.
Hermione worried, lay awake, dreamt uneasy dreams in which ghosts from the war chased her through shadows.

The memories she had kept buried for months — the pain, the loss, the death — clawed their way back into her thoughts.

And his face kept returning.

Dolohov.
Still untouched by the horrors that awaited him.
His features not yet hardened, his eyes not yet turned fully to steel.

But still burned into her memory.

He had seen her.
More than that — he had shown interest.

And that was dangerous.

Hermione wanted nothing to do with him.
Not with Dolohov.
Not with Voldemort.
Not with the nightmare she had already survived once.

And yet…

Something whispered within her — treacherous and seductive.
A voice that pointed out the possibilities.

Dolohov was a master of magic she could only dream of.
Even now — even before he would commit the atrocities that made his name infamous — he had shown powers during their duel that had taken her breath away.

The curse he had once used on her — the one that had broken her ribs and left her writhing in pain — he probably already knew it.

She could learn so much from him.

The thought washed over her before she could stop it.

Hermione flinched at herself.

How could she even think that?

How could she feel anything but revulsion at the sound of his name?

He had hurt her.
Had left a scar she rarely dared to look at.
And now…

Now she felt a strange, almost sick fascination with his abilities?

She was ashamed.

But it kept gnawing at her.

Because the Dolohov who had approached her Saturday night — polite, composed, curious — was not the Dolohov who had once cursed her into unconsciousness.

Not yet.

It felt as though she was making excuses.
Trying to forgive herself in advance if she ever accepted his offer.
For the knowledge. For the insight. For the… understanding.

The First Wizarding War — until recently, nothing more than pages in a textbook, old newspaper clippings, preserved testimonies.
Now it lay before her.
Tangible.
Within reach.

What would it be like to watch that war unfold?
To understand how it truly began?
To know who fought, who failed, who betrayed?

They were dangerous thoughts.

Hermione thought of Harry. Of Ron.
Of how they would look at her if they knew the situation she was in — and how she was doing nothing to stop it.

Oh, they would hate her.

She felt that old, suffocating blend of guilt, sorrow and anger rise again, and forced their names out of her mind, like she had taught herself.

What mattered now was the risk she faced.

Dolohov might not yet have told his master her name.
But that wouldn’t last.

He had hinted that they would meet again.
And she knew he would keep his word.
Her reputation in the Spellyard had become too visible to ignore.
A name like hers — Rhiannon — had value.
Potential.

And if she continued to refuse…

If she didn’t give in to his advances…

How long would it take before he started to wonder why?

In a world like this — a world of dark ambition and opportunity — refusal wasn’t normal.
Everyone leapt at the chance to stand beside power.

Why wouldn’t she?

Would he begin to wonder who she really was?

Would he start digging?

She struggled to keep her breathing steady as the thought took shape.

What would he discover?

Nothing.

There was nothing.
Hermione Dagworth-Granger had only existed since the spring of 1966.
Before that, there was only emptiness.

And if he asked too many questions…

If he suspected there were secrets buried beneath her name…

He would try to extract them.

With Legilimency.
With force.

Then Voldemort would know.

Everything.

The future.
The wars.
The outcome.

The thought alone made her stomach twist.

That could never happen.

She had to protect her mind.
Better than she ever had.

But how?

Hermione gasped suddenly. A thought pierced through her like lightning.

She set her spoon beside the cauldron, wiped her hands distractedly on her apron, and rushed upstairs, two steps at a time.

Upstairs, in her bedroom — a space that resembled a library more than a place of rest — the familiar, organised chaos loomed.
Books lay stacked in towers on the floor, scrolls spilled from drawers and cupboards, and the air was heavy with the scent of old parchment, dust, and ink.

She began searching.
She pulled scrolls out from under her bed, carelessly folded away a map of Great Britain, shoved aside a silver-gilded compendium of spell theory.
Until her fingers touched leather.

A dark brown book, bound in calfskin, with no title on the spine — only a symbol etched into the cover in black: a ring of runes surrounding a closed eye: Whispers of the Veiled Tongue: A Study of Lost Protective Runes and Forbidden Markings.

She had found it a few weeks ago in a dusty stall deep within Knockturn Alley.
The vendor hadn’t looked at her when he sold it — he had wrapped it up without questions, without a word.

Hermione traced her fingers over the cover, her heart still pounding.
She had only skimmed it at the time — curious, but cautious.
Now she understood why it had drawn her in.

Protective runes. Hidden symbols.
Magic not meant to exist in plain sight.
Maybe… maybe this could be her salvation.

She thought of the runes on Elric’s arm.
Black and sharp, etched deep into his skin — not with ink, but with intent.
A pattern that had fascinated her from the very beginning, even when she didn’t yet know why.

Now she understood.

Protection.
Boundaries.
A closed mind.

Would they work?

Could it really be done — runes engraved into the skin, not merely as decoration, but as anchors for magic?

Something that could protect her — and keep protecting her.
Not reliant on focus, or training, or mental discipline…
but something that simply worked.

Always.
Everywhere.

She would have to ask Elric.
Though she would still need to figure out how to bring it up —
without raising his suspicions.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s duel had been the first of the evening — and over within a minute.
One precise dark curse. One clumsy opponent.
The crowd had roared, but she had barely heard it.

While the other contenders gathered in the competitor’s ring around the arena, she walked calmly away from the edge and re-entered the lounge.

At the bar, she found Elric, who had just returned a bottle of brandy to a colleague and leaned halfway over the counter to watch her approach.

“That was quick,” he said, wearing that characteristic smile that always hovered somewhere between admiration and irony.

Hermione shrugged, climbed onto a stool and rested her elbows on the bar. “Not a very thrilling opponent.”

“They sounded thrilled enough,” said Elric, pouring her a firewhisky without being asked.

“They love a queen with blood on her hands,” she replied dryly, taking a sip.

Elric chuckled softly.

For a moment, they sat in silence.
Hermione let her gaze drift to his arms, bare beneath rolled-up sleeves. Her eyes lingered on the ink along his skin. The runes, especially — they kept occupying her thoughts.

The idea of protective runes, tattooed into the skin, had rooted itself in her mind over the past few days.
She had read Whispers of the Veiled Tongue cover to cover in one sleepless night, and she had already chosen which runes she would have inscribed — if it worked, of course.

“Your tattoos,” she said casually. “They’re beautiful. Do they mean anything?”

He looked up, mildly surprised.

“Not really,” he said with a grin. “A friend of mine needed someone to practise on.”

Hermione smiled. “I’ve been thinking of getting one myself.” She tapped her fingers against her wrist.

Elric raised an eyebrow. “A tattoo? You?”

“Why not?”

He shrugged, glancing at her. “I don’t know… you don’t often see women doing that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Sometimes she forgot how differently women were treated in this time.

It was one of the most frustrating aspects of life in this era: how naturally inequality between men and women was accepted.

“What would you get?” Elric asked, a little more lightly now — clearly realising his blunder.

“Well,” said Hermione, still casual, “truthfully, I was inspired by yours. I was thinking of runes. Do yours work?”

He turned his arm slightly, as if re-examining them himself. “No. Just for show.”

Hermione kept her face neutral. “But is it possible? Do you think it could be done — functional runes, set into the skin?”

He fell silent for a moment. Rubbed his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity,” she said with a half shrug. “Theoretical.”

Elric sighed quietly, visibly hesitated, then leaned in a little closer.

“There’s someone,” he said in a low voice. “A tattooist in Camden. No name on the window, no advertisements. She works with… different materials. Not normal ink.”

A shiver of excitement ran down Hermione’s spine. “What kind of materials?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” He paused. “But it’s not the kind of place you want to be seen.”

She slowly turned her glass in her hands. “You don’t think I could handle it?”

“I think you’d attract the attention of people best avoided,” he said. His tone was friendly, but unmistakably concerned.

She grinned. “Aren’t I the queen of the Spellyard, according to you? Don’t you think I can take care of myself?”

Elric grinned back, but his gaze remained serious. “I don’t doubt you can handle yourself. I still think it’s a bad idea. If you want, I could ask my friend if he knows someone who could do it for you — or at least point you in a safer direction—”

Hermione shook her head.

“I want your Camden contact.”

Elric studied her, clearly weighing something. The pause stretched. The silence only fed her irritation.

“If you’re going,” he said at last, “I’m going with you.”

She considered protesting — the words already forming on her tongue — but swallowed them.
If she pushed back too hard, he’d get suspicious. Start asking questions. And that, she couldn’t afford.

“Tomorrow?” she said calmly.

Elric nodded. “Be here around noon.”

With that arrangement made, Hermione left the bar.
She was glad Elric had a contact for her — but irritated that he felt the need to escort her.

She walked back to the ring to watch the remaining duels, arriving just in time to see Alphard Black win with his usual flair.

As the final spell cracked through the arena and the crowd began to disperse, Hermione turned to leave.

But before she could take a step, a hand closed around her upper arm.

A sudden chill shot through her veins — sharp and swift, like a memory returning too fast.

She turned slowly.

Antonin Dolohov was staring at her. Intently.

His grip was controlled, but there was nothing restrained in his gaze.

“You have exactly one second to take your hand off me,” Hermione said, her voice low and razor-sharp, “before you lose said hand.”

Dolohov grinned — slow, dangerous.

“Exactly the attitude we’re looking for.”

Hermione pulled her arm free, her glare like ice. “Is this about your master again?”

“I’m here to ask you to reconsider,” he said. His tone remained polite, but it sounded like a warning.

“Why?” Hermione asked coolly.

Dolohov regarded her with a mix of amusement and calculation. “Because it would be a waste to let a talent like yours go unnoticed.”

She said nothing.

“My master,” he continued — never naming him, “values strength. Knowledge. Ambition. And he’s… curious.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

Curious.

That meant Dolohov had spoken her name. Had spoken about her.
Not just in the shadows of the Spellyard — but to him.
To Voldemort.

A cold shiver crawled down her spine. She kept her expression neutral, but inside, her heart pounded against her ribs.

This was no longer casual.

She was in their sights.

“Your name comes up. Your style draws attention. And what you call magic — we recognise as potential.”

She stared at him, forcing herself to keep breathing — calm, controlled.

Dolohov leaned in slightly, his voice lower now. “There’s an event. Something informal. A gathering of likeminded individuals.”

He paused.

“Midsummer. Nott Manor. If you come, you’ll see what it’s really about. No one will expect anything of you. Just to watch. To listen.”

Hermione felt the chill of his words coil around her throat. An invitation. But also a test.

“And if I say no?”

He gave a faint smile. “Then you say no. For now.”

He reached into the inner pocket of his cloak and held something out to her.

Hermione stared — surprised — at the object in his hand: a simple, old-fashioned silver spoon. The engraving on the handle was faded, the metal slightly tarnished.

“A portkey,” said Dolohov calmly. “Activates on 21 June, at precisely twenty-one hundred hours. In case curiosity outweighs caution.”

Hermione hesitated.

Every instinct screamed at her not to take it.

But her fingers were already closing around it.

Dolohov’s grin was small and assured — as if he had just won something.

As if the simple act of her touching it was enough.

As if he knew she would come.

Then he turned and disappeared without another word, his silhouette vanishing into the shadows of the lounge.

Hermione was left behind, the spoon cold in her hand.

۞

The next day, just after noon, Hermione found Elric in the lounge of the Spellyard.
The room felt strange without its usual bustle.
No cheering, no electric tension, no masks or shadowed figures — only silence, cold air, and the lingering scent of cooled adrenaline clinging to the walls like memory.

Hermione let her gaze drift across the empty space.
By daylight, the Spellyard felt almost unreal, like a stage waiting for a play that only began after sunset.

Elric was seated behind the bar, hair loose and still damp as though he’d just showered, a steaming cup of coffee cradled in his hands.
When he saw her walk in, he rose at once — and looked at her just a moment too long.

She wasn’t wearing a mask this time. Only a hood.
And from beneath it, her face was visible.

Elric’s eyes lingered briefly on hers, on her mouth — as though he were truly seeing her for the first time.

“You’re on time,” he said eventually, a little softer than usual.

“Always,” Hermione replied, drawing her cloak tighter around herself.

She said nothing of the sleepless night.
Nothing of the portkey that now weighed like lead in her pocket.
Nothing of the one sentence that had kept echoing in her mind: My master is curious.

Elric watched her in silence for a moment.

Then he nodded.

“Come on, we can Apparate from the storeroom behind the bar.”

Hermione followed him without hesitation, her footsteps silent across the stone floor.

When Elric opened the wooden door to the back room, the smell of dust, wood, and old ale greeted them — a sharp, earthy scent in stark contrast to where they were going.

Together, they vanished with a soft crack and reappeared in a narrow, dim alleyway.
Before them stood a single door — solid, dark wood, no name, no sign.

The walls around it were grimy with dirt and graffiti, as if even the street itself didn’t want to draw attention.

Elric curled his hand into a fist and tapped a rhythmic, almost playful tune on the wood.

No bell, no knocker. Just silence.

Until something shifted on the other side of the door.

It creaked open slowly.

Not with a click, but with a dragging groan — as if the wood had spent decades resisting.

In the doorway stood a woman.

She was small, but her bearing more than compensated — upright, with the calm confidence of someone who had long moved between magic and danger.

Her dark hair was braided tightly back, in a style as practical as it was traditional.
Her skin held the olive undertones of the Carpathian region, weathered by smoke, ink, and years of precision.

High cheekbones marked her face, and her dark eyes — cold, watchful — slid from Elric to Hermione with the kind of calculating calm more suited to a seer than a tattooist.

“You’re late,” she said to Elric, toneless.

Elric shrugged. “I said around noon. It is around noon.”

“I don’t have a clock,” she replied dryly, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Hermione had to fight not to raise an eyebrow.

‘You don’t often see women doing that,’ Elric had said.
And here she was — unmistakably skilled, a female tattooist. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

The door clicked shut behind them, and instantly, the space felt different from the outside world.

Thicker. Closer.
As though magic had been steeping here for decades between the stone walls.

The workspace was small but densely filled.
Bundles of ingredients hung from beams overhead, scrolls were stacked on shelves, and a collection of bottles, knives, and metal pens lay neatly arranged on a narrow worktable.

Hermione let her gaze sweep calmly around the room. She betrayed nothing — but she noted everything.

The woman turned to her. “What’s your interest?”

Hermione answered neutrally. “I read about functional runes. In the skin. Protection. Blocking. That sort of thing. I want to know if it’s actually possible.”

The woman tilted her head slightly — not a nod, not a refusal, just a shift in focus.

“That depends on your definition of ‘functional,’” she said. “Decorative runes are simple. But real bindings? That takes other materials.”

She walked to the worktable, lifted a small metal box, and set it between them.

With a soft click, she opened the lid.

Inside were rough black crystals. Not shiny, but matte.
Dull as volcanic rock. Coarse.

“Black salt,” she said. “Ritually bound. Originally used in wards and summoning circles.”

Hermione leaned slightly closer, genuine interest flickering in her eyes.

“You blend it with a conductor,” the woman went on. “Dragon’s blood. Elemental copper. Molten silver. Each combination has a different effect. The ink only stabilises after maturing — at least three moon phases.”

Elric shifted uncomfortably. “And once it’s applied?”

The woman didn’t look at him. Only at Hermione.

“Then it binds. Permanently. Or until your body rejects it.”

“Side effects?” Hermione asked.

The woman’s gaze deepened — older than her face.

“Black salt doesn’t just bind the rune. It opens something.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow slightly.

“You attract magic,” the woman continued. “Not like a spell or a storm — more like a whisper. An undertow. As if you’ve grown a new nerve that feels everything — what flows, what slumbers, what has power.”

She paused, eyes locked on Hermione’s.

“Most people can’t handle that. They hear things, feel things. They lose track of what’s theirs and what comes from outside. Some can’t take it at all.”

“And if you can?” Hermione asked.

“Then magic becomes… seductive,” the woman said softly. “Sharper. Stronger. It pulls at you. Sometimes in ways you don’t immediately understand.
And if you don’t have clear boundaries, you start to shift them — from what feels right to what is right.”

Elric exhaled audibly. “And that’s supposed to be safe?”

“Safe is a relative term,” the woman said drily. “But it works. Irrevocably.”

Elric turned to Hermione. “You’re not seriously considering this, are you?”

Hermione kept staring at the black crystals.

She could feel her pulse quicken — not from fear, but from something dangerously close to it.

Curiosity.
Hunger.

“You heard what she said,” Elric pressed, his voice lower but more urgent. “It changes you. It seeps in. That’s not protection — that’s… surrender.”

Hermione looked up, face composed.

“I didn’t say I’m doing it,” she lied. “I’ll think about it.”

Elric sighed and looked away. “You’re too smart to pretend this is theoretical.”

But Hermione said nothing more.

Inside, she already knew.

The decision was made. She wanted this.

Not just to protect herself — but to understand. To feel what it was to experience magic without filters, without limits.

She would have it done.

But not today. Not with Elric present.

The woman slid a small rectangular card across the table. Black card, bearing a name and address.

“You’ll let me know,” she said simply.

Hermione took the card and slipped it into her cloak pocket, feeling Elric’s eyes bore into her face — as if he were trying to read every flicker of doubt. As if he’d have ripped the card from her hands if he could.

Without another word, they left the workspace.

Outside, the warm, muggy air hit her face like a heavy curtain.

The alley was just as quiet as before.
But now it felt different — longer, darker. As if the walls had drawn closer.

They’d barely taken a few steps when Elric began again.

“Rhiannon…” he said, voice low but tight. “You think you can control this — but you can’t. You don’t know what that woman’s putting in your skin. You don’t know what it will do to you.”

Hermione kept walking.

She knew this.

Not the words, but the tone.

The concern, wrapped in warning.
The limits others tried to draw for her.

And it brought her back — abruptly — to another voice.
Another night.
Another warning.

It was late.
The corridor was dark as Hermione slipped quietly into her room in Gryffindor Tower, her hands still black with ink from the old books she had buried herself in for hours.
She had lost track of time again in the Restricted Section.

Ginny was sitting on her bed, legs crossed beneath her, wide awake in the dim light.
She’d left one side of the curtain drawn open and looked up as Hermione entered.

“You’re late,” she said. Her voice was calm, but not without concern.

Hermione kicked off her shoes and muttered something unintelligible.

Ginny folded her arms. “Let me guess. The Restricted Section again?”

Hermione said nothing, but the silence was answer enough.

“What are you looking for, Mione? What could you possibly find there that isn’t in the regular library?”

“I’m just curious,” Hermione said lightly. “There are things in those books that don’t make it into the curriculum. Things we should have studied if we truly wanted to understand the war.”

Ginny stood up, the bed creaking slightly. “So you think the answer lies in Dark Magic? Seriously?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re reading it. Studying it. Breathing it in.”

Hermione turned to her, her gaze sharp. “I want to understand what we were up against. What nearly destroyed us. I want to know.”

“You don’t have to understand it, Mione. You don’t have to let it into you.” Ginny’s voice cracked slightly. “Harry says the same.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You talked to Harry about this?”

“I’m worried. You’re obsessed. You’re shutting everyone out. You barely talk to anyone anymore. Not even me.”

“Maybe that’s because everyone thinks I’m mad for wanting to look beyond what the textbooks allow!” Hermione snapped. “Maybe I just don’t want to walk blindly into danger again.”

Ginny shook her head, visibly hurt. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

She’ll never understand, whispered the voice. His voice.

The one that hadn’t left her since the locket.

They’re afraid, it murmured, soothing. Afraid of what they don’t understand. Afraid of what you dare to see. They fear what the Dark Arts offer — not because it’s evil, but because it’s powerful. They don’t have the vision to see it for what it truly is: liberation.

Hermione shrugged, her gaze now cold, unreadable.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “that girl you thought you knew… was never really me.”

The words were still echoing in her thoughts as she returned to the stifling heat of the alleyway.

Elric looked at her silently as they walked together, slowly making their way back to the main street.

He cleared his throat. “I was thinking… maybe we could grab a coffee or something?”

Hermione looked up, surprised.
For a moment, she saw something uncertain in his expression — something hopeful, but awkwardly wrapped.

She gave a faint, embarrassed smile.

“That’s sweet, but I’ve got to pick something up in Diagon Alley,” she said, her voice just a bit too quick. “Another time maybe?”

“Yeah, of course,” Elric said quickly, with a small nod.
The flush in his cheeks gave away that he already regretted asking.

Hermione untangled herself before it could grow more awkward. “Thanks for today. Really.”

“Sure. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

She nodded once more, turned, and walked away without looking back.
Her steps were light, but purposeful.

When she was sure Elric was out of sight, she slipped into a side street and Disapparated.

With a soft crack, she landed on the cobbled centre of Diagon Alley, where the sun shone bright and the buzz of the shopping crowd hit her like a wall.

The shift was like stepping into another world — lighter, louder, full of voices, shop sounds, and the scent of parchment, mandrake, and something sugary drifting from the direction of the sweet shop.

And yet, it didn’t feel like escape.

Somewhere between Gringotts and Flourish & Blotts, a strange sensation crept over her.

A tingle at the back of her neck.
A flicker at the edge of her vision that vanished when she turned to look.

At first, she thought it was coincidence — a passerby glancing her way, a shadow where none should be.

But it didn’t go away.

She felt it outside Madam Malkin’s.
Felt it again when her hand touched the door of Slug & Jiggers — and she suddenly couldn’t remember why she’d gone there in the first place.

Her fingers tightened around the portkey in her pocket.
A cold weight against her side.

She was being followed.

Of that, she was almost certain.

And whoever it was…
they knew she was here.

Chapter Text

The workspace smelled of salt, ash, and something bitter that clung to the back of the throat. Hermione stood in the half-dark, the sketch in her hand, fully aware that the tattooist, who called herself Beatrice, was watching her with a gaze that was both professional and unusually penetrating.

"Three runes," Beatrice said slowly, letting her fingers drift across the parchment. "Old symbols. Powerful. Good choices."

Hermione nodded silently. She had spent a great deal of time on them.

The first rune blocked direct access to the conscious mind. The second reinforced mental barriers. The third concealed — masking presence, memories, intention.

Together, they formed a shield.

A final boundary between her mind and everything that had no place inside it.

"And where do you want them?" Beatrice asked, tilting her head slightly.

Hermione hesitated. "I was thinking... my shoulder blades. Or my ribs."

Beatrice shook her head.

"If you want real protection, they need to go on your spine." She tapped her back, from the nape of her neck to her tailbone. "Your central line. That’s where the nerves run that feed the brain. Everything you think, feel, or dream travels along that route."

Hermione thought of Voldemort. Of Dolohov. Of Legilimency.

Of the Portkey still tucked away in her drawer, a silent warning.

"Spine it is," she confirmed.

Beatrice nodded with satisfaction. "Good. Then we have to choose a conductor. In your case, I’d recommend dragon’s blood."

Hermione looked up. "Why not copper? Or silver?"

"Elemental copper is reactive," Beatrice said immediately. "It amplifies, yes, but it also attracts. It opens channels, makes you receptive. For a shield like this, that’s the last thing you want."

Hermione nodded slowly. "And silver?"

"Molten silver is more stable. It seals better. But it remains shallow. It doesn’t bind deeply enough — certainly not if you want these runes to do their work permanently."

She leaned a little closer.

"Dragon’s blood is different. It’s alive. It feeds the magic, keeps it active. And it communicates instinctively with your body — adapts, keeps fighting, even when you no longer can. If you want this shield to hold under pressure, in fear, in panic... dragon’s blood is the only choice."

Hermione felt the weight of the words settle in her chest.

She nodded. "Then dragon’s blood."

While Beatrice turned to gather her materials, Hermione’s hand moved absently to her belt, where her wand was hidden.

Dragon heartstring.

The same fiery core that had carried her magic for years — loyal, powerful, wilful.

Perhaps it was meant to be.

The room grew quiet.

Not literally — the torch on the wall still hissed softly, and something gurgled in the background — but it felt as if everything had turned inward. As if the air had stopped moving.

Hermione lay on her stomach, upper back bare. The table was hard, cold against her skin. Her forehead rested on her crossed arms, her fingers clenched tightly around her elbows. Her eyes were closed.

“Keep as still as possible,” said Beatrice gently. “As soon as I place the first rune, the magic will begin to anchor itself. Resistance will make it more painful. And instability... is undesirable.”

Hermione nodded, her jaw already clenched.

The needle touched her skin.

She bit back a cry.

It didn’t feel like ink. Not like anything liquid. It felt like splinters of fire, like a thread of glowing metal slowly being pressed into her flesh.

The black ink, enhanced with salt and dragon’s blood, cut deeper than muscle. It burned, tore, wove itself along her spine with a heat that had more to do with destruction than healing.

She gritted her teeth, her breathing uneven. The taste of iron filled her mouth. Not blood — the heat, the magic itself, clinging to her throat like biting metal.

The first rune took shape slowly, just below the nape of her neck.

Hermione felt every line, every curve — but what overwhelmed her most was the awareness. The magic was tangible, perceptible. Not as thought, but as a second heartbeat. As if something else was breathing with her, beneath her skin.

When Beatrice began the second rune, around the middle of her back, it started to pulse.

Hermione’s shoulder blades contracted. Her fingers slipped from her elbows and gripped the leather of the table, nails scratching across the surface.

It felt as though every fibre of her spine was being scraped open to make room.

“Almost done,” she heard Beatrice whisper.

The third rune, on her lower back, brought something else.

Not just pain — but weight. A deeper, pressing sensation, as if something was embedding itself into her spine.

The warmth turned to cold.

The magic sank, flowed, settled.

Somewhere inside her, a lock clicked shut.

When Beatrice stopped, it felt as though she was no longer one body, but two — her own, and something beneath it.

Something that throbbed. Waited. Watched.

“It’s done,” said Beatrice. “Don’t move just yet. Let it sink in.”

Hermione stayed where she was, her breath shallow and ragged.

Her skin burned, as if the work were still being done, though the needle was long gone.

When at last she lifted her head and opened her eyes, everything seemed sharper — but oddly skewed. As if the world had shifted half a centimetre to the left.

“How do you feel?” asked Beatrice.

“Like I’m on fire,” Hermione whispered. “But… inside.”

“That’s normal,” Beatrice said calmly. “The magic is finding its balance.”

Hermione pulled her blouse back on with trembling fingers.

The fabric felt like it was made of sandpaper.

Every movement made her skin tighten — as if the freshly drawn runes were branding themselves anew with every brush of cloth.

She clenched her teeth as the fabric scraped across her shoulder blades. Beatrice noticed.

“Here,” she said. She stepped forward and helped Hermione into her blouse with care, smoothing the fabric down with flat palms as if laying a fragile map across her skin.

She began explaining something — aftercare, presumably. Something about keeping the area dry, no magic, applying ointment. But Hermione heard only the tone of her voice, not the words.
As if the speech came through water.

Her ears rang.

The air in her lungs suddenly felt too light; her skin, too heavy.

She nodded vaguely, as if that were enough, and turned slowly toward the door. The room spun just slightly, like a carousel with a lurching rhythm.

The magic still tingled beneath her skin, but no longer like fire — more like a low, pulsing glow.
As if a second heartbeat had joined the first.

She stumbled towards the door, Beatrice’s voice only a distant echo behind her.

Outside the shop, the heat of summer struck her face like a wave.

Light. Movement. Sound. Everything came at once.

She took a step. Then another.

Her vision warped. As if she were seeing through glass that shifted colours with every blink.

Blue. Yellow. Purple.

A fractal pattern crawled across the sky — as if magic itself had grown a skin.

The alley turned into a tunnel of colour and sound.

Every sound — a droplet. Every light — a spark. Her legs gave way.

She felt the stones scrape her knees.

Her hand caught the wall. She gasped.

Breathing felt like trying to suck air through molten glass.

She clenched her eyes shut, gathered the last of her strength —and disapparated.

She landed on her hands and knees in the yard outside the cottage.
The world spun. She barely made it to the kitchen door, pushed it open —
and ran straight to the loo.
Her stomach turned inside out.
The smell of sweat, ink, blood, and something burning filled her nose.
She gagged again. Something heavy throbbed at the base of her neck.

“Hermione!”

Thea’s voice — close.

“Merlin’s beard, what happened—”

Footsteps. Tink’s squeak. The rapid shuffle of Pippin’s feet.
Tink’s trembling fingers on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Let me,” Thea said behind her.

But Tink was quicker. With a soft pop, she apparated Hermione straight into her bedroom.

Hermione landed on her bed, her head heavy, her muscles like syrup.

She felt blankets being pulled over her, cool hands brushing her forehead.

A flicker of consciousness broke through — the silver glow of the runes still shimmering beneath her skin.
Then everything went black.

The days that followed were no longer days.
Time slipped through her fingers like water. Sometimes she floated, sometimes she fell, and sometimes — nothing. Emptiness, like a room with no doors.
Sometimes there was light.
Sometimes darkness.
Always the glow beneath her skin, like smouldering fire that seemed to come from nowhere. The runes burned through her nerves, sealing something she hadn’t known was open.

Voices reached her, sometimes.

Fragments. Names.

Hermione.

Drink this.

Easy now.

She didn’t always know who they belonged to. Or whether they were real.

There were memories.
The panting breath of a centaur.
The gruesome silence before the battle in the Department of Mysteries.
Her father, looking at her as if he didn’t recognise her.
A smell of snow and blood.
Harry’s voice. Run!
A whisper. Not a voice, but his voice — the one from the locket, echoing from the deepest corners of her mind. You know you’ve always wanted this.

She fought it.
But the boundary between inside and outside had thinned. Everything started to blur.

And then, suddenly, McGonagall. Upright, stern, with that trace of sadness in her eyes that was worse than anger. “Miss Granger,” she had said, her voice soft but unwavering. “We won the war. Do not lose yourself to the Dark Arts now.”
Hermione had said nothing.
For the first time, McGonagall’s concern hadn’t felt like protection — but like limitation.
And that realisation had placed a distance between them, one that had only grown since.

She felt moisture on her lips. Cool fingers on her jawline.
Tink’s sharp voice.
Pippin’s nervous giggle.
Thea’s soft, steady tone, closer than she’d dared to hope.
Broth.
Thin, salty sips that scraped her throat.
A damp cloth on her forehead.

Voices she’d only heard while conscious — now floating in and out.
Sometimes, she opened her eyes — and the world was too sharp, too bright, as though everything was drenched in magic.
She shut them again.

One morning — or was it evening? — she opened her eyes and knew: it was over.
The thrumming was still there, yes. The runes still pulsed faintly under her skin.
But the fire had drawn back.
Her awareness lay in her chest like a warm stone.
And above that, slowly, came space again.
Space for words. For thought.
For hunger.

It was the smell of ink and old books that woke her.
Not sharp, but familiar — the scent of calm. Of home.
Her eyes felt heavy, but they opened. The light in her room was soft and diffuse, as though filtered through a thin curtain. Birds sang outside. The air was warm.
She was still in bed, the covers drawn up to her chest. Her skin was damp with sweat, but her breathing was calm. No buzzing in her ears. No fire beneath her skin. The fever was gone.

Slowly, she pushed herself upright. Her muscles protested. Her head felt thick, as if stuffed with cotton. But she was awake. More awake than she had been in days.

A moment later, the door opened gently. Thea appeared in the doorway, a tray in her hands with a cup of tea and a slice of toast. She set it down without a word.

Hermione licked her lips. “What day is it?” she asked hoarsely.

“Sunday,” Thea replied, her expression stern. “Early afternoon.”

Hermione looked down.
Four days.
She had been out for four days.

And Saturday — her Saturday — had passed without her.

She had never missed a single evening at the Spellyard since she began. Not one.
She wondered bitterly what that meant for her undefeated record. If it even stood anymore. If she even counted.

She rubbed her hand over her face, trying to shake the thought, but it lingered.

Thea didn’t move.
She stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, not stern — but worried.

“The tattoos, Hermione. What do they mean?” When Hermione didn’t reply, she continued: “You spent four days feverish in bed, with glowing marks that lit up with every breath. Tink thought you were cursed. Pippin wouldn’t go near your room. And I — I didn’t know if I’d get you back.”

Hermione dropped her gaze. The memory of Beatrice, of the magic woven into her body, was still too fresh.

“They’re just protective runes,” she said quietly.

“Protection from what?” Thea’s eyes bore into hers. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing, child?”

Hermione searched for words, but her head still felt thick with recovery.
She wanted to say it was necessary. That it was a precaution. That it wasn’t serious.
But every word she tried sounded like a lie — even to herself.

Hermione took a deep breath. Her chest felt heavy, like something had to be prised loose.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. Her voice was hoarse but steady. “For worrying you. For… everything.”

Thea looked at her, unreadable.

“You don’t need to worry,” Hermione added. “I know what I’m doing.”

That last part sounded more convincing than it felt.

Thea said nothing. She turned and left the room without another word.

The days that followed remained quiet.

Tink sniffed disapprovingly every time Hermione entered the room, and Thea limited herself to brief, polite comments only when necessary.

Only Pippin, loyal and awkward as ever, still dared to be near her. He brought her tea, asked silly questions, and tried to make her laugh with crooked puns and clumsy dances that ended in him tripping over his own feet.

Hermione understood their hesitation. She had frightened them.
But knowing why wasn’t the same as knowing how to make it right.
She felt the distance growing — thin as thread, but pulled tight.
And instead of breaking the silence, she withdrew into what she knew.

She spent hours in the scullery, surrounded by cauldrons and jars, the scent of hellebore juice and dried murtlap heavy in the air. Her hands moved on memory, her thoughts spun in circles.
The recipes were familiar. The motions instinctive.
But the magic felt different.
Deeper. Sharper. Like an ancient language she could suddenly speak fluently.
As though every ingredient spoke to her, and for the first time, she could truly hear it.
Her body was still finding its balance, but her magic was... awake. Constant.

When she had first woken, she’d felt regret. True, raw regret.
She’d been shaken by what the runes had done to her — the fever, the hallucinations, the exhaustion.
In those first pale hours, she’d wondered if Elric had been right after all.
That perhaps she had gone too far.

But once she’d found her footing again, had some food, felt her wand in her hand — that feeling had shifted.
There was a power inside her that hadn’t been there before.
Not visible. Not nameable.
But she felt it in her fingertips.
In her gaze.
In the space around her.
Overwhelming.
Addictive.
Breathtaking.

The regret had melted like frost in the sun.
In its place, something else had begun to grow — a quiet expectancy, a hunger for more.

As she stirred, her fingers quick and sure along the rim of the cauldron, she counted the days.
Wednesday was Midsummer.
The Portkey — the spoon — still lay in the drawer in her room. She hadn’t touched it.
But she thought of it. More and more often.
Should she go?
Should she not?
What would it mean if she did? What would it mean if she didn’t?

The choice seemed simple.
But it felt as though either outcome would draw her deeper into the dark.

۞

Evening fell slowly over the land like a veil of gold and indigo.

Hermione stood before the mirror in her bedroom, her face half-lit in the fading light. Her hands moved with precision, almost ceremoniously, as she applied her disguise — layer by layer, like armour.

The black tunic draped smoothly over her frame, high at the neck. Over it, she strapped a leather corset, laced tight. Her trousers were fitted, just like the dragonhide boots she pulled on just below the knee. She tied her curls back — functional, untameable.

Then she donned the black mask.

Rhiannon looked back at her from the mirror.

Unrecognisable. Untouchable.

On her nightstand lay the Portkey — a silver spoon, wrapped in linen. She picked it up carefully, her fingers brushing the fabric as if it still held the warmth of earlier decisions.

She had made her choice.

She could tell herself anything: that it was only to observe, to understand what to guard against, to gather information.
But deep down, she knew why she was going.
Because she wanted to know.
Because something inside her had grown hungry.
Because it’s easier to reject something when you’ve truly seen what you’re rejecting.
And maybe — just maybe — because a part of her hoped she would find something that would make her hesitate.

She gripped the handle of the spoon more firmly.
21 June. 9:00 p.m.
The Portkey activated.
She felt the familiar tug behind her navel — and the world collapsed into silence and shadow.

The world unfolded around her again — in a flash, a jolt, a rush of dizziness.

Her feet found purchase on grass, soft and slightly damp with evening dew.

Above her, the sky was a lazy haze of violet and copper — the liminal edge between day and night, that golden, languid twilight that seemed to exist only on Midsummer’s Eve. The sun hung low, a fiery blot behind the hills, its final rays casting long shadows across the grounds.

Before her stood Nott Manor — tall and dark, carved as if from shadow itself. Its sharp turrets and steep roofs cut stark silhouettes against the sky. The windows reflected the glow of fires burning across the estate: great bonfires, flickering flames in braziers, floating orbs of light. Some moved — danced — as if they had wills of their own.

Black torches lined the path, burning in deep red and blue. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, resin, and something older — magic.

Silhouettes moved across the field: witches and wizards in robes of midnight blue, blood red, poison green. Some wore masks, others kept their faces bare, their eyes glowing in the firelight.

There was dancing, laughter, whispers. Duelling circles shimmered at the edges of the grounds — now and then sparks burst where wands clashed. Around a stone altar, a circle had formed — some stood still, wands raised, eyes closed. Hermione didn’t want to know what was happening there. Not yet.

She remained in the shadow of a low hedge.
Letting the atmosphere settle over her.
The pulsing tension of the moment, the charge in the air.
It felt as though magic itself held its breath on Midsummer’s Eve.
The runes on her back tingled. Not painfully — but present. As if they responded to the magic in the air, adjusting, awakening.

Hermione inhaled slowly, held her breath for a beat. There was a pressure in the air that sharpened her senses. Every sound, every colour, every scent came through more vividly than usual.

She lingered at the edge.
She watched.
Observed.
And waited.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky deepened into hues of blue. Twilight withdrew like a held breath, and with the fall of night, the grounds began to change.
It started subtly.

A wizard at the edge of the dancefloor spun tiny fireballs between his fingers, tossing them into the air like sparklers. Another drew circles of flame that rotated on their own, glowing like orbiting planets.

A woman in silver-grey robes conjured a phoenix of fire from her hand. Not large, but so detailed the crowd murmured in awe. Moments later, it dissolved into sparks that swept over their heads like flaming wings.

It began playfully.
Inventively.
A parade of talent, a display of egos.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tone shifted.
The creations became larger. Bolder.

A man summoned a fiery serpent that cracked like a whip across the field, its head hissing skyward. Another conjured a wall of flame in which faces formed, screamed, and shattered apart.
The crowd cheered, but a shiver ran through them.
Something darker lurked beneath the beauty.

Hermione stood at the edge, eyes shining in the flickering light. She didn’t move. The magic skimmed her skin like wind through tall grass.
Deep in her chest, she felt a stir. Not desire — not fear — but something in between. Wonder. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice came from her right. Low. Familiar.
Hermione turned her head slowly.
Dolohov stood beside her. Relaxed, dangerous, hands folded behind his back, his face half in shadow.
He didn’t need a mask.

Hermione glanced at him. “Impressive,” she said coolly.
Dolohov followed her gaze, his eyes sharp. “They’re showing off,” he said. “Some with fire, others with illusion. All for him. For his notice.”

He smirked. “Eventually, the spectacle dies down. Until someone commands true silence.”

Hermione said nothing. The flames danced in her eyes.

“A shame,” he continued softly, “the one with real power still chooses to remain hidden.”
His gaze slid to her with barely concealed satisfaction.

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be encouragement?”

“Think of it as an observation,” he said lightly. “Your presence hasn’t gone unnoticed. Some wonder why you’re holding back.”

“And you?” she asked, coolly.

“What I think matters less,” he said. “But I know my master... remains curious. You could’ve stayed home, couldn’t you?”

His eyes stayed fixed on hers, probing, guiding.

Hermione pressed her lips together. “Maybe I came just to watch.”

“Or maybe,” said Dolohov, “you’re tempted to find out what you're truly capable of.”

The words struck like a spark in her chest.
Before her, a fire-creation twisted into the sky — a lion, blazing and bold.
Beautiful. But slow.
Empty.
She felt it before she realised it — the itch beneath her skin, the tug of magic in the air — as if it touched her, stirred her, challenged her.

“Or maybe I was wrong about you,” Dolohov added, his voice a notch louder, laced with mockery. “Maybe your talents are limited to a few duelling tricks.”

Hermione turned to him, her gaze sharp as a blade.
Her heart pounded — not with fear, but something quicker, hotter: proud defiance.
Was it a trap?
Most definitely.
But her whole body thrummed with the moment’s charge.
He thought she wouldn’t dare.
Thought she could only react, not create.
That she was shadow, not flame.
He knew nothing.

She’d planned to stay out of it.
To observe, not participate.
But those words — that look — that damned smile —
Anger, adrenaline, and the craving for recognition merged without seam.

The magic was already rising.
She didn’t summon it — it came.
Without a word, Hermione stepped forward.
She drew her wand — one fluid, confident motion — and entered the circle.
The shadows parted.
And the flames held their breath.

The crowd gave way without protest, as though instinctively sensing something was about to happen. Conversations fell quiet. Even the air seemed to pause.
Hermione stood in the centre, her cloak still on her shoulders, her mask in place. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
And then — with a single flick of her wand — she lit the sky.

It began small. A flicker of flame at her wand’s tip. It spun, grew, unfolded like a blossom of fire. The light was warm, bright — almost innocent.
But then —
a gesture, sharp as a blade.
The flicker exploded into a chain of heat and colour.
From nowhere emerged wings of fire. Large. Intricate.
They stretched across the circle, beating in slow motion.

A dragon.

Not a Western brute with thick limbs — but an elegant Eastern fire-form, its scales gleaming like copper and amber, its jaws wide in a silent roar.
The dragon soared above the crowd — low enough to feel the heat, high enough to inspire awe.
It coiled through the sky with almost unnatural precision.
People stared, breathless.

Hermione’s wand remained raised. Her face unreadable, her breathing steady — but her blood thundered.
She felt the flames running through her ribs.
As if the magic didn’t just follow her body, but was born from it.

She made the dragon dive.
It swooped low, just above the crowd, spinning on its axis and leaving a spiral trail of light. Children shrieked. Adults cheered.
She kept it circling — larger, brighter, fiercer.
Her wand held high, her muscles taut, her focus absolute.

There was no plan.
No strategy.
No thought of threat or judgement.
Only the magic.
And her.

Hermione felt her awareness narrow to a fine thread stretched between her body and the sky, as if she herself had become heat and spark.
The dragon was no longer a creation — it was her.
Her power.
Her control.
Her will.
She had never felt anything like it. Every cell sang with energy.
She filled the space, unapologetic. Unrestrained.

Magic surged through her like fire — not wild, but certain.
As if she belonged here.
As if this was exactly who she was meant to be.

Hermione grinned.
Invincible.
Free.

She let her intuition lead — every movement fluid, every spark precisely placed.
No doubt.
Only her and the flame.

Until the fire stuttered.
A tremor.
As if something else intervened.
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
She felt it.
Another magic.
Greater. Deeper.
Her fire was drawn from her fingertips — not with force, but with inevitability.
The air grew heavier. The flames sharpened in hue. Her dragon froze in mid-air, curled slowly on its axis, and contracted like a beating heart of flame.

A flash of green.
The fire-creature’s eyes flared emerald.
Hermione gasped.
It was no longer hers.

The dragon folded in on itself, wings vanishing, its body twisting into a serpent — long, sinuous, menacing — writhing through the sky, glowing with white-hot heat.
The crowd watched, spellbound.
The serpent rose high above the field, coiled and curved until its shape formed an immense symbol — two flaming eyes, an open maw, a curling tongue.

The Dark Mark.
Burning in the sky.
Huge. Unmistakable.

A collective shiver passed through the crowd.
And then she saw him.
Lord Voldemort.
At the edge of the field.
As if he hadn’t arrived — but simply emerged.
He wore black — deep, gleaming, without trim or flourish.
His face was not softened by smoothness, but sharpened by a fine beard that made his pallor even grimmer.
And his eyes —
Red.
Glowing in the firelight,
deep and pulsing like coals under ash.
They didn’t burn from heat.
They burned from intent.
From power.
They weren’t of this world.
They didn’t simply look —
they invaded.

He raised his wand.
Not theatrically — one simple, precise movement.
The fiery serpent exploded.
Not into chaos — into control.
The flames shattered into thousands of small serpents — each one writhing, darting across the field, skimming the ground, curling around legs, snapping at throats — and vanishing in sparks.

The crowd screamed, cheered, laughed —
but it wasn’t glee.
It was awe.

Hermione stood frozen.
Her heart pounded. Not in fear —
in recognition.

His eyes found her.
And the world fell silent.

A second. Perhaps less.
But in that gaze was everything.
He had seen her.

Something in his gaze pulled at her.
Didn’t merely see her —
but saw through her.
As if he could look past the mask and into her soul —
and recognised what he found.

Hermione’s breath caught.
Not from panic. Not from danger.
From... something else.
Desire?
Recognition?

He nodded.
Almost imperceptibly.
But it felt like a seal on her soul.

Then he turned, stepped into the circle — and raised his wand again.
His voice sliced clearly through the night.
He walked slowly forward, the flames reflecting off his robes like liquid obsidian.

The crowd was silent. Not from fear —
from fascination. From reverence.
He didn’t need to cast a charm to be heard.

When he spoke, his voice rang clear, precise — and fell over the crowd like a spell:

“Power,” he said, “is not given. Power is taken.”

His words sliced through the silence like slivers of glass.
Everyone listened.

“Those who wait for the world to grant them recognition will wait forever. The world only bows to those who force it to its knees.”

A soft, measured walk. His eyes swept the circle, absorbing every face.
Not hastily.
As if he already knew them —
or soon would.

“You are here tonight because you sense what this society lacks. How hollow its promises are. How weak its laws.”

Murmurs of agreement — barely audible, but felt like tremors beneath the ground.

“What they call ‘dark’,” his voice warmed, almost apologetic, “we call truth.
Unfiltered.
Unflinching.
Unashamed.”

His eyes glowed.

“Do not chain yourself to morals you did not choose. Do not hold back out of fear of their judgement. We are not servants. We are the heirs of true magic. Of ancient magic.”

A silence fell — intense, electric.

“The world is changing. And we — we shall stand at the beginning of what is to come. Magic is might!”

He raised his wand.
Not as a threat — as a promise.

“To those who would join — the doors are open.”
“To those who hesitate...”
He paused.

And looked at her.
Not briefly. Not by chance —
directly at her.

His eyes, still glowing red with magic, locked onto hers.
Hermione forgot to breathe — as though her lungs had stilled.
A tension pulled tight through her spine, taut as a string about to snap.
Heat slid over her skin — as if his gaze had touched her.

“...keep watching.”

She couldn’t move.
He had seen her.
And that look — that smile — felt like a brand.
A mark.

When he turned away, the world seemed to erupt.
A wave of sound burst from the crowd:
cheering, shouting, clapping, crying out.

“Long live Lord Voldemort!”
“Long live the Heir!”
“Long live the Heir of Slytherin!”

Wands were raised. A few witches and wizards fell to their knees.
Others raised their fists to the sky.

But Hermione stood alone, frozen in the noise.
The magic still glowed in her fingertips.
But her chest felt cold.
As if his words had loosened something inside her that could never be put back.

Chapter Text

Hermione landed in the grass behind the cottage with a soft crack, staggered towards the back door, and slipped inside with the silence of a shadow.

No lights. No voices. Just her own breathing—shallow, ragged.
Without removing her cloak, she climbed the stairs. Her feet moved on their own, but her heart thundered. At the landing, she held her breath, listening—nothing. Everyone was asleep. She opened her door as quietly as possible, closed it carefully behind her.

Only then did she sink down. Without thinking, she let her back rest against the wood, legs folded beneath her on the floor. Her head leaned back against the door as if it was the only thing holding her together.

The silence was deafening.
But her mind was screaming.

She was away.
Away from him.
Away from the Dark Mark still burned into her mind.
Away from his eyes.

And yet—
She still felt his gaze.
As if it had seared into her skin, trembling in her bones.

She pulled her knees up, wrapped both arms around them.
Tried to breathe deeply—but her lungs felt filled with smoke.
Her heart raced.

She had prepared.
Kept herself at a distance. Observed. Planned.
And yet…
she had let herself be struck.
Not by a curse. Not by violence.
But by words.
A look.
A promise that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

She closed her eyes, as if it made any difference. As if the image of him—clad in black, surrounded by fire, with eyes that seemed to glow from within—hadn’t already burned itself into the backs of her eyelids. She couldn’t recall a version of herself so utterly disconnected from her own response. She hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t recoiled. Hadn’t turned away in disgust. She had watched. Listened. Absorbed.
And somewhere inside her—a part she disliked naming—it had felt like revelation.

The power radiating from him, the absolute control, the way he spoke as though he had nothing to prove because he already knew he was right. Everything about him felt like an answer to a question she hadn’t yet dared to ask. She’d felt it, low in her stomach, like hunger. Not for power, or prestige, or recognition—but for understanding. For knowledge. For magic unshackled by lines drawn long ago by other people.

And that was the terrifying part: not that she was afraid of him. But that she wasn’t. Not in the way she was supposed to be.

Hermione was no naïve girl. She had seen the war. Had witnessed the horrors of his actions with her own eyes. She had despised his name, fought his ideology, given her life for another world. She had felt his curse, counted his dead, avoided his shadow in every memory of that time.
And yet…
She couldn’t let go of his words.

She still heard his voice, clear as glass: “What they call ‘darkness,’ we call truth.”

She wasn’t stupid. She knew the tricks of rhetoric, of manipulation. And yet it had worked. Not because she believed him, but because something—something—resonated. Because more than once she had asked herself why certain forms of magic were forbidden, why some knowledge was concealed, why safety always seemed to outrank truth. Because she knew what it felt like to be held back, to be scolded for wanting to understand what others had deemed dangerous.

When McGonagall had confronted her about her interest in dark spells, it had been the first time she’d felt truly misunderstood. As if even those she respected could only value her as long as she stayed in the role they expected her to play: dutiful, proper Hermione Granger. The voice of reason. The guide. The glue.

But what if there was more inside her? Something that didn’t fit their definition of right and wrong?

She rubbed her hands over her face. Her fingers trembled—or maybe it was her thoughts trembling, leaking into her body.

She knew what people would say. What Harry would say. What Ron would say. She knew how they would look at her if they knew what she had felt when she looked at Voldemort. Not hatred. Not fear. But a fascination that bordered on admiration.

It felt like betrayal.
Not just of them. But of herself.

And yet, no matter how often she rejected it in her mind—something in her kept asking:
What if he’s right?
What if power really isn’t something given, but something taken?
What if he wasn’t trying to tempt her… but to show her what was already inside her?

She pressed her forehead to her knees, the scent of her own skin and fabric the only thing keeping her grounded.

She didn’t want to feel it.
But she did.
And that was worse than anything.

She had never thought it would be so hard to stay loyal to the person she thought she was.

There had been a time—not even that long ago—when she had been certain. Good and evil, light and dark, right and wrong. Principles had been her compass, firm as rock in a storm. Even when she stood alone, when no one understood why she did what she did, she’d still had that inner certainty.

But what if that compass began to falter?
What if the needle started spinning?

She had always distinguished herself from people like him. Not through blood, or power, or knowledge—but through choices.
And yet tonight, she had looked. Not as an enemy. Not as a critic.
But as a participant.
As a spectator awed by the scale of what was possible.

She felt unclean.
Not because of something she had done.
But because of something she had thought.
Or worse—because of something she had felt.

What did it mean, to be captivated by someone you were supposed to hate?
What did it mean, to not want to look away?

She bit her lip.
Maybe it was the magic.
The runes.
The aftereffects of the ink in her spine, the salt, the blood, the energy that had pulsed through her body ever since. Maybe they had made her susceptible to the aura of such forces.
To the allure of the unfiltered, the pure, the fearless.

But somewhere deep down, she knew that wasn’t true.
That fascination had always been there.
The magic hadn’t caused it.
Only strengthened it.
Magnified it.
Made it impossible to ignore.

And that, perhaps, was the most disturbing part of all.

She had resisted for so long the idea that she was different from the others. That her interests were more than academic. That her hunger for understanding, for control, for power came from more than just duty.

But tonight, in the firelight, with those eyes fixed on her, she had seen something in herself she couldn’t name.
And worse: something she might not want to suppress.

۞

The days after Midsummer slipped through her like quicksand — slow, sticky, murky.
She wasn’t really anywhere. Not in her body, not in her mind, and certainly not in the house that had once felt like a refuge. Even the silence between her and Thea barely registered. Tink avoiding her. Thea’s measured words. It was as if everything reached her through a veil. As if she were still submerged in the magical excess of Wednesday night.
She hadn’t concerned herself with right or wrong. Only with what had moved inside her since that night.

And then it was Saturday.

The Spellyard was thrumming with unrest when she arrived. The usual darkness still hung over the alley like a secret — but inside, it was more charged than usual.

Witches and wizards gathered in the main hall, masks already half-drawn, voices excited and nervous in equal measure. The air was thick with sweat and adrenaline, and everywhere Hermione could feel the jittery tingle of excited magic.

She had no idea why the atmosphere was different — until she saw Cassius Selwyn.

He stood just outside the lounge, his imposing figure cloaked in black as always, but his eyes darted restlessly across the room.
Until he saw her.
A flicker of relief crossed his face — barely perceptible to anyone who didn’t know him.

“Rhiannon,” he said curtly. “Sweet Salazar. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.”

Hermione pulled her hood back slightly and frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

His mouth curled into a grin that had nothing cheerful about it. “The tournament of course. Tonight. Big turnout. Full crowd. High stakes.”
His gaze skimmed past her shoulder, as if already distracted by the next logistical concern.

“You’re in the first round. They’ll call you any moment.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched.
The tournament.
She had completely forgotten.
And before she could protest — no time, no preparation, no intent — Cassius was already waving her towards the arena.

“Good luck,” he said with a nod. “The crowd’s hungry tonight.”

As she made her way toward the arena, passing glowing torches and the hum of other participants, the first fragments of memory began to click into place.
The tournament.
Survival of the Fittest — an annual spectacle of the Spellyard, with only one rule: win to advance. Lose, and you’re out. Or worse.

Hermione had signed up weeks ago, in a moment of arrogance or boredom — she no longer remembered which. It had felt far off then, abstract. Something her current self would never have considered, not after everything that had happened since.

The setup was brutally simple:
The tournament. Three rounds. One night.

The arena had been split in two for the occasion: two duels at once, so the audience never had to wait. In the first round, seven participants would face off — an unpredictable chaos of spells, instinct, and brute force.
Only one would move on.

The winners of round one would then face each other in smaller, deadlier formations: three-way duels. More space, fewer enemies — but an audience that had already tasted blood and expected nothing less than carnage.

And then the final.
Four participants.
One winner.

It sounded simple. But it wasn’t. There was only one law here: show no mercy, or you won’t survive.

The lights above the arena dimmed gradually, save for a single spotlight that lit up the first battlefield. Hermione felt the magic in the air shift — that tense stillness that always came before violence. Cassius’ voice echoed heavily through the arena, amplified by spellwork:

“Round one. South field. Seven participants. Show the crowd something they won’t forget.”

Cheers erupted — a wave of expectant tension — and then the gate opened.

Hermione stepped into the ring, the ground beneath her dull with old blood, sand, and magic. Her gaze swept quickly over the others. She wasn’t the only one hiding her face. Cloaks, masks, expressions carved in concentration. Her heart pounded in her throat, but her hand lay steady on her wand.

As soon as she took her position at the edge of the field, it happened.
A shiver.
A jolt — not a spell.
As though her skin responded to something that hadn’t yet touched her.
She felt it first — and then she saw it.

Across the ring, cloaked in shadow near the edge of the participants’ circle, someone stood under a deep hood, half-shrouded in the gloom. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
Because his eyes—

His eyes found her.
Crimson.
Burning.
Unnaturally bright in the darkness beneath his hood.
As if the fire from Wednesday night still lingered in his gaze.

Hermione froze. Her breath caught — for a moment, she couldn’t move. Everything around her seemed to still — the stands, the breath of the crowd, even the hum of magic. Only that look. As if he had summoned her. As if he saw through her. As if he recognised her.

Her heart thundered in her chest, but her face remained composed. Her chin stayed lifted. She forced herself not to look away.
Not now.

Was he here to watch?
Or… was he competing?

The thought sent a cold ripple down her spine. He was standing in the participants’ ring. As if he were one of them.

But there was no time to think it through.
Because then came the starting signal.
And the duel began.

The first spell missed her by inches — flashed past her cheek and shattered against the protective wardings of the arena. Hermione barely moved. She felt it — every spark, every intention in the air. Not as threat, but as sustenance. Fuel.

This duel felt different. Not just in scale, but in her. As if the weight of choices vanished the moment she drew her wand. No voices in her head whispering what was proper. No doubt. Only motion. Intention. Power. She didn’t need to think. Her body already knew what it would do.

The first opponent who came too close was hit by a non-verbal heat curse — a wave of boiling air that struck his face. His skin turned red, blistered open in raw welts. He screamed, stumbled back.
She gave him no time.
A sharp turn, and her wand cut through the air. “Sectumsempra,” she whispered — barely audible, almost tender.

The spell hit her second opponent square in the chest. Blood arced through the air, black under the arena lights. He dropped without a sound.
Hermione was already turning away before his body hit the ground. Her heart wasn’t pounding from fear. It pounded from power.

The third participant hurled a string of curses at her — red and blue, alarmingly precise. She ducked, spun, felt the magic whistle past her ribs.
She answered him non-verbally, instinctively, with a suffocation curse that made her fingers tremble from the intensity.
He clutched his throat.
Fell to his knees.
His mouth gasped for air that was no longer there.
She didn’t wait.
A lightning spell knocked him off his feet.

The fourth was fast. Too fast. But his spells lacked force. She drove him back with a chain of dark projectiles that scorched his cloak, tore his skin.
He stumbled. Fell.
Didn’t get up again.

Then only he remained.
Hermione turned to face him — a tall, muscular man in a dark mask, his wand gripped tightly. No trace of fear in his posture. Only focus.

Their first spells collided mid-air — a burst of gold and black.
The second struck the ground between them, kicking up dust and heat.
He moved fast.
She moved faster.

She rolled away from a paralysis curse and answered with a fire charm that set his cloak alight. He extinguished it with a flick of his wand, instantly retaliated with a curse that aimed to lock her legs.
She countered with a shield — too late. The edge of the spell clipped her thigh. Pain flared upward.
She clenched her jaw.

They fought as equals.
Magic howled around them like a storm wind.
Hermione’s fingers tingled. Her heart pounded. But there was no panic.
She felt… powerful.
A surge. Almost addictive.

She lowered her wand.
Not in surrender.
As a distraction.

He hesitated.
That was his mistake.

She raised her wand lightning-fast and cast an ancient curse she had never used before — that deep, slow, forgotten magic from another age.

His mask fell as he screamed.
First, blood from his eyes.
Then his nose.
His ears.
And he collapsed.

Hermione stood in the centre of the circle, her chest rising and falling, her face unreadable.
The arena held its breath.

Then the crowd erupted into wild applause.
Cassius’s voice rang out: “South field winner— Rhiannon!”

She didn’t turn to the audience.
She looked toward the participants’ ring.

And he was still there.
Half-shrouded under his cloak, his face in shadow — but his eyes, those deep crimson eyes, glowed like embers beneath his hood.

He was watching her.
Not as a spectator.
Not as a rival.
As a judge.

Hermione felt her spine tighten, her muscles coiling under her skin. His gaze scorched. He said nothing. He didn’t have to.
But she knew: he had seen it. All of it.
And he… approved.

A prickle of unease curled through her stomach — raw, unformed. She needed to leave. To get out of his line of sight, out of his presence, before her legs started to shake.

She moved through the crowd. Masks, cloaks, glinting eyes in half-light parted for her. Some gave way. Others clapped her shoulder or murmured her name.
She barely registered them.

She reached the bar.

Elric stood behind the bar, hair tied in a low knot, sweaty and focused.
His eyes flicked up when he saw her, and something like relief — or admiration — passed over his face.

“You’re still alive,” he said, not joking, but sincere.

“Barely,” Hermione answered, her voice hoarse.

She knew: he had no idea. No idea what she’d done. No idea what burned across her back. And she intended to keep it that way.

Before she could even take a sip of the glass of water he handed her, Alphard slid onto the stool beside her.

“Rhiannon,” he grinned. “Now that was a duel.”

Hermione felt her muscles tighten.
Elric glanced between her and Alphard, visibly intrigued.

“And the way you killed that last one,” Alphard went on enthusiastically. “That curse — with the blood from his head? Brilliant.”

Hermione froze.
Elric turned his head slowly toward her.

“You killed someone?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve never killed before.”

Hermione’s fingers clenched around her glass. She stared at the bar, not at them.
Yes, it was the first time in the Spellyard.
But it wasn’t her first time.

And the worst part?
She hadn’t even noticed.
No moment of hesitation.
No inner struggle.
She’d done it like it was nothing. Like it made sense.

A shiver ran down her spine — not from magic this time, but from shame.
Because deep down… she had felt something else, too.
A spark.
Satisfaction.

The curse had been old, nearly forgotten, but when she spoke it, it felt as though it had been waiting for her. As if her magic sighed in recognition. The force with which her opponent’s body collapsed, the moment the hall held its breath — it hadn’t filled her with regret. It had filled her.

Not with pride.
But with something rawer.
A kind of high that left her with tingling fingers and a heartbeat far too fast.

She had felt alive.
Unbound.
And that was what frightened her most.

That unease didn’t leave her as she waited for the remaining duels of the first round to finish. Alphard and Elric stayed near her, talking, drinking, laughing — but she didn’t join in. The words drifted past her, meaningless next to what kept echoing in her mind.

When Alphard was called for the final duel of round one, she walked with him to the ring to watch. She expected his usual triumph, but to her surprise, he was blasted off his feet by an unknown witch wearing a silver mask. She sent him flying to the far side of the arena with a casual flick of her wand, where he picked himself up, grinning.

When he returned to her, he brushed the dust from his cloak like it was nothing.

“That witch is coming home with me tonight,” he said, eyes twinkling.

Hermione shook her head, though the corner of her mouth curled with a reluctant smile.

Round two opened with two thunderous duels, both fierce, both quickly decided — before Cassius’s voice rang through the space:

“North field — Rhiannon.”

She rose. Wand in hand. Breath steady.
And shame still crouched like a shadow behind her ribcage.

The stones beneath her feet were still warm from the previous duel as she stepped into the arena. Her opponents were already waiting on either side: a wiry man with a sly grin and a woman with a scar across her throat. The atmosphere had shifted. Tighter. Charged. The crowd had grown louder.

Hermione lifted her chin. Her fingers wrapped firmly around her wand.

But inside…
A hesitation.
Not to fight — not that.
But to lose what made her human.

The signal was given.

The woman struck first, a series of quick, non-lethal spells that Hermione deflected with ease. She returned fire, but with restraint: Expelliarmus, Stupefy, Protego Maxima — nothing a Healer would curse at.

The man came at her from the left with a twisted Lacero variant that made her shield vibrate into her shoulder. She responded with a Depulso that knocked him off balance — but it wasn’t a finishing blow.
And he knew it.

He grinned broadly as he got back to his feet.

“Come on, Rhiannon,” he called. “Show your teeth!”

She didn’t.
She held back.
And that cost her.

The woman seized the opportunity, sent a Flammaspira straight at Hermione’s side. The jet of flame caught the edge of her sleeve, which burst into fire. Hermione rolled to the ground, smoke stinging her eyes. Her heart pounded in her throat.

And only then, in those scraping seconds between attack and retaliation, did she realise:
This was what restraint brought.

She rose, wand raised, and fired a Confringo at her opponents’ feet, blasting the stone apart and throwing them both off balance.
A Stupefy hit the woman square in the chest — she collapsed, unconscious.
The man hesitated — and that was his mistake.

Hermione struck with a combination of Depulso, Petrificus Totalus, and a sharp Expulso that hurled him against the wall of the arena. Unconscious. But alive.

She panted.
The crowd cheered — more subdued than after her first duel, but they had seen it.

She walked away from the ring without looking back.
No raised arm.
No nod to the audience.
No word to the other participants.

The adrenaline still rushed hot in her blood —
but it didn’t feel like victory.

At the bar, Elric was deep in conversation with Cassius, so she veered off down a side path — a shadowed corner of the lounge that led to a narrow corridor where the stone felt cool beneath her boots. She leaned back against the wall, wand still in hand.

Her breathing slowly settled.
She had won the duel.
Barely.
But she had done it cleanly.
And that should have been reassuring.
But it wasn’t.

She had lost her edge. Not through lack of power — but through fear.
Fear of what she had become in round one.
Or worse: how effortlessly it had come.
How good it had felt.

She thought of the man she had killed. She didn’t know his name. Didn’t know his history.
But she remembered the silence after he fell.
And the fact that she hadn’t been shocked.

In round two, she’d tried to make amends — as if she could balance her conscience with a handful of gentler spells.
But magic didn’t work in balance.
Magic followed the law of intent, of direction.
Not of guilt or atonement.

She rubbed her face with her hands.
Maybe this was what Dolohov and his master saw so clearly —
that she was capable.
That she had it in her.
Not just the power —
but the will.

Was that why Voldemort had come?

A chill rippled through her at the thought.
She hadn’t seen him since leaving the ring after her first duel.
That unmistakable silhouette in the participants’ circle had vanished without a trace.

Where was he now?
Had he seen enough?
Or was he watching from a place she couldn’t see?

The thought that he might still be observing her — somewhere in the shadows, invisible but present — gave her goosebumps.
Not just from fear.
But also… something else.
Something she didn’t dare name.

She lifted her head. A voice rang out across the hall.
The final was being announced.

Four participants. One arena.
The last duel.

She pushed off from the wall and began to walk.
The names were called.

Hermione moved silently toward the arena, her steps slow and deliberate.
The hall felt different now.
As if the entire building were holding its breath.
The murmurs of the crowd were muted, restrained — not out of disinterest, but anticipation.

The stands were fuller than she’d ever seen them.

She stepped into the ring.
Her feet touched stone soaked countless times in blood, sweat, and magic.
But tonight, it felt like the magic ran deeper — like tension in the earth’s skin, pulsing beneath her shoes.

Three men joined her.
One broad-shouldered and battered, another quick and cunning, and the third — calm, with eyes that seemed to register everything.

They took their positions in silence, hoods low, wands at the ready.

Hermione was the only woman.
And everyone noticed.

Cassius’s voice rang out above the field, his tone rhythmic and solemn, as though he were invoking some ancient rite:

“Four forces, one victor. No alliances. No mercy.”

The warding dome shimmered into place above them, like a net of living glass.

Hermione felt her heart pounding against her ribs, the tattoos on her back tingling faintly beneath her skin — not from fear, but from anticipation.
From hunger.

The air buzzed with concentration.

Three…
Two…
One.
Begin.

The spell came from the left — brutal and direct — a Confringo that cracked the ground beneath her.
Hermione dodged, and answered with an Expulso, aimed at her opponent’s feet. Not to hit, but to throw him off balance.

The men didn’t look at each other.
They looked at her.
As if she were the easiest target.
As if being the only woman meant she was the weakest link.

Fools.

It wasn’t the first time she had been underestimated. Not at Hogwarts. Not in the war. And certainly not here.

Her wand circled.
Silent magic, charged with deadly intent, hissed across the field.
She targeted the largest of the three, his jaw already bloodied from a previous round. A non-verbal acid curse burst from her wand — green and seething. The man tried to block, but the liquid splashed past his shield, eating through coat, flesh, and shoulder.
He screamed — dull and ragged — and fell to his knees, steam rising from his scorched skin.

One down.

The second was smarter.
He circled her, patient, wand low — like a duellist trained in form. But Hermione felt no need for elegance.
She wanted this finished.
Needed it finished.

She closed her eyes for the briefest moment — felt her back tingle where the runes pulsed like an echo of intent.

Her wand moved slowly, with more precision than before. She spoke no word — only the air stirred audibly.

The necrosis curse left her wand as a thin thread of violet light — barely visible, barely perceptible. But when it struck, the man froze. His arm turned black. The blackness crept up, across his throat, over his jaw.
He tried to speak — but no sound escaped.
Only the faint rustle of dying tissue remained, until he toppled like a marble statue.

Two down.

Only one man stood. Pale, wide-eyed, wand trembling in his hand. He opened his mouth — but said nothing.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest.
Not from fear.
Not from doubt.
From power.

This was her.
She was this.

And then she felt it —
The final spell bubbled up from somewhere unknown, but it felt as though it had always belonged to her.

She raised her wand slowly, rotated it a quarter turn, and forced the spell outward.

A shockwave of shadow burst from her wandtip.
No light. No colour.
Only darkness.

Black clouds — liquid and hissing — rushed toward the man, engulfing him like smoke. He screamed, clawed at the shadows, tried to beat them away, but they forced their way into his mouth, his nose, his eyes — and stayed there.

Then came the fire.
Not from without — from within.

His body convulsed — and shrank.
Charred skin.
The smell of burning.
A final rasping cry —
and then, nothing.

The smoke cleared.
The ring was silent.
The crowd held its breath.

Until the first cry broke loose:
“Rhiannon!”
“Queen of the Spellyard!”

The roar of applause crashed over her.
But Hermione barely heard it.

She stood in the centre of the ring, wand still raised, face hidden behind her mask.

And at the edge of the field — still unmoving, like a statue of marble and fire — stood Voldemort.

Their eyes met.
And the corners of his mouth curled into a slow, chilling smile.

The crowd was still echoing with cheers when Hermione approached Cassius, who was waiting for her at the edge of the ring. His hands moved quickly, his usual flair replaced with something that looked suspiciously like anxiety.

He handed her the heavy pouch of galleons — rough, without ceremony.

“Well done,” he muttered — then suddenly looked past her shoulder.

His expression shifted.
Frozen. Tense.

“My lord,” he murmured, barely audible, before hastily retreating — his cloak billowing in his rush.

Hermione stood still, her hand still wrapped around the velvet pouch.

She felt it before she heard anything.
Heat, close by. The electric charge of magic that tingled against her skin.

And then — a breath.
Barely a whisper, but sharp and deliberate, against her neck.

Her stomach clenched.
A shiver traced her spine, as if her body already knew what her mind dared not accept.

“What is your name?” asked a voice.

Low. Measured. Sensual — with an undercurrent that made her freeze and lean in all at once.

She knew that voice.
No — she had known that voice.
From her dreams.
From her nightmares.

“Rhiannon,” she answered. Her voice barely trembled, but it took effort not to stumble over the vowels.

A pause.

“That’s not your real name,” he said. Not a question. A statement — soft, but razor-sharp.

Hermione turned her head slightly, still staring at the pouch in her hand.

“And Voldemort isn’t yours,” she said, before she could stop herself.

The words hung in the air for a moment — heavier than any spell.
Her heart thundered in her throat.

Foolish. So foolish.

She expected a harsh hand. A cutting curse.

But instead she felt fingers — long, cool, and surprisingly restrained — rest gently on her hip.
No force. No pain.
Just… presence.

He turned her toward him with calm precision.

And she looked.

He was no monster — not as she remembered him from the war.
No deformed face. No snake’s head.
His features were sharp, his skin pale, his eyes red as glowing embers in the half-light.

And he was devastating.

The most arresting man she had ever seen.

Not in the conventional sense — he was too ominous, too unknowable to be called handsome. But there was something about him. A presence. A gravity that bent the room around him, as if everything leaned toward him.

His gaze quickened her pulse. His voice still echoed in her ribs.

Power.
Control.
Secrets that promised she could learn everything — if she dared.

Their eyes remained locked.
Not hostile. Not familiar.
Something in between.

Something that made her breath catch.

Chapter Text

The sounds of the Spellyard faded, as if the space itself were holding still.
As if even the stone walls were holding their breath now that he stood before her.

Voldemort said nothing.
He merely studied her.
His hand still rested on her hip — not forceful, but with the casual possession that set her skin ablaze.

Hermione’s heart pounded against her ribs.
She felt split open and laid bare under his gaze, but she refused to flinch. She met his eyes with the calm that had carried her through wars, courtrooms, and nightmares.

“You fight,” he said at last, his voice velvet over honed steel, “as if you have something to prove.”

Hermione curled one side of her mouth into a wry smile.

“Maybe I do.”

He let her go, but didn’t step back.
His presence remained just as intense — like the air before a storm: electric, heavy, beautifully threatening.

“To whom?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

She hesitated.
Not because she lacked an answer, but because every answer could be used against her.
His gaze held hers — deep and penetrating, like a diver sinking further into black water without ever needing to breathe.

“Does it matter?” she returned.

Voldemort smiled — cold and dangerous.

“Perhaps.”

She could feel him weighing her, every intonation, every twitch of her face.
He was searching for something in her.
And perhaps, she thought,
he found it.

“Your magic,” he said, his tone contemplative, almost curious,
“is undeniably powerful. But undirected.
You let it speak the way a storm speaks: loud, impressive —
but aimless. Without control.”

Hermione’s gaze sharpened.

Undirected?

The word burned in her ears.
As if everything she had achieved, everything she had shown — her finesse, her technique, her force — had been reduced to an untrained outburst.
Her chest tightened with indignation.
Her fingers itched for her wand, to show him what undirected really meant.

“I thought it was convincing enough,” she said coolly, though her voice trembled just a little too much to sound entirely composed.

A smile ghosted over his lips — small, amused, calculated.

“Impressive, yes,” he said, slowly circling her —
encircling her like a patient predator.
“But impressive isn’t the same as unbeatable.
Raw talent is worthless if it isn’t honed.
And power without direction is like fire without oxygen.
It dies.
Or it burns the wrong things.”

Hermione swallowed her retort.
She knew he was provoking her.
This was how he tested limits — by unbalancing, by pressing where it hurt.
And it worked.
Of course it worked.

He halted behind her, voice low beside her ear.
“I could teach you what control really means.
What your magic could become if it no longer relied on instinct, but on mastery.”

Hermione felt a shiver ripple through her body.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he said. “I only suggest you consider what you might achieve if you no longer had to respect boundaries.
No laws.
No lies dressed up as morality.”

She turned slowly to face him.
Took a deep breath, jaw clenched, eyes locked on his —
furious, affronted… but also hungry, despite herself.

“As I’ve told your puppet, I’m not looking for a master,” she said, voice low but sharp — stubborn, almost defiant.

It happened almost imperceptibly.
A flicker, a claw — and then, suddenly, pain.

Hermione gasped as the runes on her back flared like molten metal.
Her mind was flooded by a pressure that came not from within, but from outside —
a push, a grasp, an attempt to break in.

Legilimency.

She hissed between her teeth, her hand flying instinctively to her wand, as she pulled up the mental walls she had built over years.
Steel. Ice. Stone.

She felt him searching.
Hard fingers of magic rifling through her thoughts like someone tearing open drawers in search of evidence.
But he found nothing.

And he knew it.

She saw it in his eyes — a fleeting flash of shock.
Followed immediately by something darker.
Anger.
But beneath it…
Awe.

Hermione straightened.
Breathing.
Shaking — not from fear, but from fire.

She met his eyes, voice cold as carved ice.
“I told Dolohov I’d take his hand for touching me without permission,” she said.

Voldemort barely moved, but something in his posture shifted.
Lighter.
More dangerous.

“I wonder,” she continued, eyes narrowing, “what I should do to you.
For trying to invade my mind.”

His gaze tightened.
Magic crackled around him like heat above asphalt.
Threatening.
Judging.

“Is that a threat?”

Hermione smiled — slow, almost innocent.
“Is it?”

He said nothing.

“I saw someone decapitate his opponent the other day,” she said breezily. “Brilliant curse, actually. Perfectly gruesome. I was looking for a chance to try it.
Maybe this is it…
Now there’s your threat.”

His look was nothing short of murderous.

And yet:
He didn’t step forward.
He didn’t raise his wand.
He just watched.
As if studying something unknown —
but deeply fascinating.

Hermione still felt her heart pounding in her chest.
But somewhere beneath that…
A rising sense of wonder.

How far can I go?

She didn’t know.
But he hadn’t punished her.
And that realisation burned longer than his attempt at Legilimency.

He said nothing more.
No threat.
No judgment.
No acknowledgement.

He turned and vanished into the darkness, leaving no trace of magic —
and yet she still felt him beneath her skin.

Hermione remained motionless, her breath shallow, her pulse like a charm lodged in her throat.
Every muscle in her body was taut, as if she were about to fight — or flee — and had no idea which would be worse.

She had blocked him.
She had kept Voldemort out of her mind.
And he knew it.

The runes still sizzled beneath her skin, like coals glowing low in the dark. She could feel them working, responding, protecting —
and something in her responded in turn.
Not with fear.
Not with revulsion.
But with something… else.
Something dangerous.

She had gone too far.
She’d had to go too far.
She had risked her life — or something perilously close to it —
to draw a line.

And the strangest part?

He had respected it.

Not with words.
Not with bows or nods.
But with silence.
With not striking.

And that…
that felt like a victory.
A bitter, intoxicating victory.

Hermione slowly let her shoulders fall.
Her stomach still churned, her knees wobbled —
but beneath the exhaustion, something else stirred.
A kind of triumph.

He hadn’t underestimated her.
He had watched her — seen her —
and decided she was not to be broken.
Not yet, anyway.

And she…

She had enjoyed it.
Not the attack.

But the power with which she had kept him out.
The anger in her own voice.
The way he had stayed.

Somewhere deep inside her —
deeper than she cared to admit —
it still hummed.

The power.
The exhilaration.
The echo of his voice in her ear.

And that realisation
was perhaps more dangerous
than anything he could ever do to her.

۞

Hermione apparated just outside the cottage gate.
The air was cool, the grass glistened under the moonlight, and somewhere in the distance came the soft call of a night owl.
She pulled her cloak tighter around herself and walked slowly up the path.
Her feet felt heavy, as if each step was dragging her back into reality.

But as she neared the cottage, she suddenly stopped.

A light was still on.
Behind the lounge window, the lamp glowed with its familiar, warm light.
A silhouette sat in the chair by the window, half-hidden behind a blanket, a book resting in her lap.

Thea.
As always.
Waiting.

A sharp pang shot through Hermione’s chest.
After everything in the past days — the silence, the tension, the mistrust —
she was still waiting for her.
Just like always.
As if nothing had come between them.

Hermione pushed the door open — quiet, soft.
The scent of tea, old wood, and something floral greeted her.
She hadn’t been inside for a second when her breath began to hitch.

At first subtly.
Then uncontrollably.

The tears came without warning.
Not composed. Not quiet.
Raw and violent, like waves she’d held back far too long.
All the tension and adrenaline of the night, and of the entire week, poured out of her.

“Thea,” she managed, her voice breaking under the weight of it. “I— I’m—”

Thea looked up, her face filled with softness.
She rose immediately, her blanket falling to the floor, and wrapped Hermione in a firm embrace.

And Hermione let herself fall.
Into her arms.
Into the safety she had missed all those days.
Into the only thing that still felt real.

Her hands gripped Thea’s cardigan, her face buried against her shoulder like a child who had stopped pretending to be strong.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered through her sobs. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just wanted— to protect myself. But I’ve felt so alone these past days. Like I’d lost you.”

Thea rocked her gently, her hand stroking calmly through Hermione’s hair.
“You haven’t lost me, sweetheart,” she said in that rare, tender tone her voice sometimes held.
“You never lost me. I just didn’t know what to say.”

“Neither did I,” Hermione whispered.

They stood there for a while, wordless — only breathing and shaking shoulders.
Until suddenly, a loud pop sounded from the kitchen.

“Is everything all right?” squeaked Pippin as he ran in, eyes wide with concern.

When he saw Hermione and Thea holding each other, he let out a relieved sigh.

“Oh, Pippin knew it! Everything will be fine again, I told Tink, but she said, no no, it’ll take weeks!”

He spun around with a grin, just in time to see Tink appear, holding a muffin on a little plate.
She handed it to Hermione — still half-buried in Thea’s arms — and gave her a look.
That classic Tink look: sharp, but with a softness buried deep underneath.

“Tinks don’t bake good muffins for people with self-destructive tendencies,” she muttered. “So feel honoured.”

Hermione laughed through her tears.
A stuttering, confused laugh.
She took the plate.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

And that was it.
The beginning of something mended.
Maybe not everything —
but enough.

Thea pulled her closer.
“Come. I’ll make tea. You sit. Pippin will tidy up. Tink… will pretend to be grumpy.”

“What does mistress mean, pretend?” Tink muttered.

Pippin giggled.
And for the first time in days,
the house felt like home again.

The next morning was warm already.
Soft sunlight poured through the open kitchen window, where curtains swayed lazily in the gentle breeze drifting through the house.

Outside, the cluck of chickens and the hum of bees rose from the lavender beneath the sill.
The air smelled of freshly baked bread and a hint of tarragon — the reliable work of Pippin, who stood at the counter with his tongue between his teeth, carefully smearing marmalade onto a plate of toast.

At the table sat Hermione.
Her brown curls were pinned up with her wand.
A cup of coffee in hand.
The Daily Prophet spread out in front of her.

Her bare legs were tucked up on the chair, her foot braced against the table leg,
and her eyes lingered on the headline on the front page:

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Young Muggle-born Auror Honoured for Bravery
By Sidonia Flint – Political Desk

Young Auror Jonathan Savage (26) was awarded the prestigious Galbraith Prize for Magical Defence yesterday, for his role in dismantling an international network trafficking in banned artefacts.

Savage, who hails from a Muggle family in Yorkshire, had only been with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for three years when he was assigned as junior team leader for the operation.

In a ceremony led by the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, former Minister Tuft expressed his admiration for Savage, stating that the young Auror had “demonstrated in exceptional fashion that background says nothing about potential — and everything about character.” (A profile of former Minister Tuft’s political career can be found on page 16.)

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hermione stared at the words as if they might rise from the parchment at any moment and wrap themselves around her fingers.
Background says nothing about potential — and yet there it was.
Clear. Visible.
A confirmation of everything that had always gone unspoken.

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that framing.
She’d lived it.

A year after the war ended, when everything still smelled of ash and fragile hope, The Daily Prophet had honoured her with a profile.
Or so it had been presented.
What followed had felt more like a reminder of where she came from than a celebration of what she could do.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Muggle-born to War Hero” — the Story of Hermione Granger
By Rita Skeever – Political and Personal Correspondent

A year after the Battle of Hogwarts, peace seems to have returned to the magical world — but for some, this is only the beginning. Take Hermione Granger. She is the heroine no one expected. Born to two Muggles, raised beyond the borders of our world, and yet risen to become one of the most influential figures in the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Granger, confidante of Harry Potter, returned to Hogwarts after the war to complete her education. According to her professors, she is performing better than ever — "We sometimes forget she’s a Muggle-born," said a fellow student.

Professor Slughorn, Head of Slytherin House and founder of the esteemed Slug Club, describes her as one of his most remarkable pupils. "I didn’t invite her in for nothing," he grins. "Sharp, determined — you could see it from a mile away."

Although she never gives interviews, it’s become clear that Granger intends to dedicate herself to the rights of magical beings once she finishes school. Multiple sources within the Ministry confirm that the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures would welcome her with open arms. (For an opinion piece on Granger’s advocacy for house-elf rights, see page 14.)

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

In the warm kitchen, where sunlight spilled across the tiled floor and the scent of summer and coffee wrapped around her, Hermione sat motionless at the table.
Her hands lay limp on the newspaper, as if the weight of memory dragged her wrists down.

The anger came later.
First, there was that old, familiar chill.

We sometimes forget she’s a Muggle-born.

She had heard that line a hundred times before, in different forms, in different voices, accompanied by smiles or pats on the shoulder or well-meaning nods — and every time it felt like someone, with the best intentions, was still pushing her back outside.
As if her presence in their world was something that had to be forgotten in order to be accepted.
They could only admire her if they forgot who she really was.

It wasn’t even hatred.
It was worse: admiration, wrapped in condescension.
Always that underlying astonishment — that she was so intelligent, so powerful, so dedicated — for someone like her.

She thought of the look in Slughorn’s eyes when he paraded her as a prize of the Slug Club — not because he fully understood or valued her, but because it looked good. A clever Muggle-born in his little circle.
She thought of all those times her achievements were celebrated with an undertone of exception — that she had come so far despite her origins.
As if her entire existence were a continuous feat against expectation.

And what had it all earned her?
Yes, a war won.
Friends lost.
Bodies left in rubble-strewn hallways.

And yet, a year later, nothing had truly changed.
The law books still spoke the same language.
The system had smoothed itself out after the war, as if the Purity Laws had been a temporary mistake — not a warning, not a symptom of something deeper.

And now she was here, in another time, another world.
1967.
And still… Jonathan Savage.

The words in his article were different, the tone less subtle — but the pattern was the same.
The constant emphasis on where they came from — as preface, as footnote, as supposed praise.
As if Muggle-borns could never just be.
Never just a witch or wizard.
Always an asterisk.
Always an exception.

And that, she now realised fully, was perhaps the most harrowing truth of all.

That she wasn’t just travelling through time —
but through generations of the same unyielding prejudice.

That the stigma didn’t belong to the sixties, or to Voldemort’s rise,
but to something more fundamental —
a deep rupture in the fabric of the magical world itself.

And perhaps that was what struck her most:
that even after the war, after everything that had happened,
so little had truly changed.

That Muggle-borns — regardless of talent or bravery — were still seen as anomalies.
As deviations to be admired only if you forgot where they came from.
As if the victory had conquered nothing — only changed the name of the enemy.

And what did that mean for her? For everything she had fought for? The sacrifices she had made? The wounds she still carried — some visible, most not?

Had she spent her life battering herself against a world that never intended to change? Had she been wrong to hope? To believe that effort and intelligence could break through anything?

She thought of the war. Of endless nights in tents and forests. Of hunger. Of death. Of Fred. Of Dobby. Of Remus. Of Tonks.
Of the scars on her skin — and the deeper ones, etched in her trust, her belief in justice.
Had it all been for nothing?

Hermione stared out the window, her coffee long cold, her eyes dulled on the yellowed paper in front of her. What hurt most wasn’t the hatred.
She knew hatred.
She could fight hatred.

No —
it was the indifferent persistence of a world that accepted her presence only as an exception.

That even with all her knowledge and strength,
she still had to justify her place.

She felt empty and full at once —
overwhelmed by memory, soaked in an old anger that had never truly left her.

And deep inside,
that raw, silent conviction:
that she wasn’t just defending her place —
but her existence.

Always. Again and again.

Even after everything she had given.

And maybe that was why she felt so drawn to the Spellyard.
To the raw, honest violence where bloodlines didn’t matter — only power.
Where no one asked who your parents were, or whether you descended from magic —
only whether you could win.

Maybe that was why she had joined the fire demonstration at Midsummer.
Why she hadn’t flinched at what she felt when she stood across from Voldemort.

Because there, however dark, her strength was finally unshackled from the story of her birth.

She thought back to the night before. To the scent of magic in her hair. To the charged dust on her skin. To the spells she had used —
spells she knew from the edges of the library,
from books with cracked spines and sealed chapters.

Spells her professors had forbidden —
and that had now saved her.

She had killed two people.
Not in anger.
Not in vengeance.
But with precision.

And it hadn’t made her sick.
Hadn’t made her tremble with horror.

It had filled her —
with a power heavier than guilt.
With a clarity that made her body tremble with life.

She knew, rationally, that this wasn’t the path she should follow.
That every step took her deeper into something from which there was no return.

But the truth was:
nothing had ever made her feel so sharp.

As if she’d finally found a place where she didn’t have to question who she was —
only who she was becoming.

She thought of Voldemort.
Of his eyes.
Of the way he had looked at her — as if he had seen her.

Not as a Muggle-born.
Not as someone who needed to earn her place.
But as a force.
As potential.

It should have disgusted her.
And perhaps it did.

But beneath the disgust was something far more frightening:
the pull of that recognition.

Not love.
Not desire.
But the dangerous, seductive feeling of finally being understood.

Hermione closed her eyes.

In the silence of the kitchen, beneath the open window where the scent of summer drifted in,
she felt that old struggle surge up again inside her.

Between what she knew and what she felt.
Between who she was supposed to be and who she was becoming.

She no longer knew where the line lay —
between revulsion and fascination, between self-preservation and surrender.

Everything in her felt razor-sharp —
her body, her magic, her morals.

But what frightened her most
was not that he had seen her —

but that she wanted him to do it again.

Something in her craved that gaze, that recognition —
as if only in his eyes
she had ever truly existed
in a way her own world had never allowed her.

And that realisation
cut deeper than any curse.

Chapter Text

The sun blazed over the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, its light bouncing off the display windows of Ollivanders and Flourish & Blotts, where the new summer edition was stacked high outside the shop. Hermione wandered past the shops with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder, filled with bottles, scrolls of parchment, and a pouch of sugared silver blossom. It was warm, crowded, and the street buzzed with life.

The Spellyard’s summer recess was in full swing. As soon as the competition ended, the fire went out—literally and figuratively. Cassius would declare the season "closed", as though it were a theatre, and the participants would melt away like shadows, masks off, waiting to return in September. She hadn’t seen anyone since. No Dolohov. No Voldemort. No Elric or Alphard. Only Thea, Pippin and Tink—whose concern had by now faded back into amused bickering. And...

She had never felt so lonely in her own life.

And worse—restless. It had been weeks since her last duel, since she had cast a spell with the kind of intensity and precision she’d come to trust at the Spellyard. Ever since the runes had been etched into her back, her whole system had become more sensitive—her senses, her magic, her body. As if the boundary between her and the magic around her had thinned. She felt it constantly: in her fingertips, beneath her skin, in the air she breathed. And she wanted to use it.

In daily life she barely used more than the usual spells for brewing and housekeeping. It wasn’t enough. She missed pushing her magic to the limit. Losing herself in the rush of raw power. It felt like something was lodged in her chest, like it was becoming harder to hold it back with each passing day.

She called it boredom. But it was something else. Something more insistent. As if her magic were curling in on itself, lashing out at every stimulus, hungry to be used. She felt it in the mornings when she picked up her wand—that faint spark of excitement, as if something lay in wait beneath her skin. And when she didn’t use it, it nagged. Pressed. Itched. Sometimes she had to force herself not to act. Not to test something. Just to feel it flow.

She was in control. She was being cautious. Deliberate. She knew when to keep her distance—when to hold back. It made sense that she felt restless when she hadn’t really used her magic in weeks. And yet something kept gnawing at her, something she couldn’t reason away. As if something inside her was waiting. Something that had been awakened and would not be silenced again.

She needed a distraction. Something tangible. Something her mind could get lost in without drawing her wand. Books had always been safe ground. Theoretical, layered, controlled. No sparks, no fire. Just knowledge. And sometimes knowledge was enough to breathe again.

Hermione stepped into Flourish & Blotts and was greeted by the smell of ink and parchment, dusty and familiar. She wandered past the new releases—titles on magical etheric currents, obscure herbals, and an essay collection on duelling in pre-classicist style—and chose a handwritten treatise on resistance constructs in mental magic. Not because she didn’t already know it, but because her fingers seemed drawn to that kind of knowledge. As if there were a hunger that could never be fully fed.

When she stepped back outside, the sun felt sharper than before, as if the heat were trying to burn itself deeper into her skin. She paused, eyes drifting to the junction where Diagon Alley narrowed into Knockturn Alley. Her hand brushed the leather of her belt, where her wand rested within easy reach.

She didn’t know what she was looking for. Only that she was.

Knockturn Alley was cooler. The sun barely reached the street, and the light that did make it through was grey and sharp, as though filtered through soot. She walked with measured steps past the boneshop, gave a curt nod to a blind seer with shadow-ringed eyes, and turned into a side alley where the air grew thick with dust and ink.

The bookshop was barely recognisable as such—no sign, no window display, just a rusted bell above a weathered door. She pushed it open. The scent of mould and leather wrapped around her like an old cloak. Inside, it was dim. Shelves towered to the ceiling, crooked and overburdened with books that whispered more than they described.

Hermione moved slowly past the titles, her fingertips brushing the spines: Transfigurative Trauma, The Unwritten Hex, Magia Nigrum — Bound & Burned. She pulled a small, inconspicuous book from a low shelf. No title, just a soot-black cover with an uneven edge. When she opened it, she saw runes—ancient, twisted shapes, scrawled in blood-red ink as though they resisted her gaze.

She flipped further. The book felt cold in her hands, as if rejecting her touch. But it wasn’t fear she felt—it was fascination. The little book was clearly never meant to be read, and that was precisely what drew her in. As if it dared her to try.

Then she heard it: a soft creak in the wood behind her. Not a customer. Not an owner. Someone was trying to be quiet. Too quiet.

She didn’t turn. Her pulse barely quickened, but her fingers tightened on the book. Her hand slid to her wand, safely secured at her belt.

"I know you’re there," she said calmly, without looking up. Her voice sliced through the musty air.

A second of silence.

Then two voices—soft, in unison, unmistakably male. French.

"Feistier than she looks."

"That just makes it more fun."

Hermione turned slowly, her eyes narrowing at once. Her heart thudded once, hard, as if her ribs tried to smother the sound. Their posture, the symbols subtly embroidered on their cloaks—unmistakable. La Main de Mercure. The Hand of Mercury.

Her stomach clenched. They had found her. How was that possible? She’d wiped all traces, severed all ties, changed her name to Rhiannon. And yet they stood there, as if no time had passed, as if her escape had never happened.

"Tell Gaspard I want nothing more to do with him," she snapped, in French. "I’m not his property. Not his. Not Mercury’s."

The man on the left grinned, eyes cold and mocking. "That’s a shame. Because Gaspard still wants something from you."

"He wants to bring you home," said the other.

"France isn’t my home," Hermione bit out.

"And neither is this decade," he shot back. There was mockery in his voice, but his eyes stayed hard. "What happened, Granger? I thought you wanted to go back to your own time?"

"We both know that’s impossible."

The man shrugged. "Gaspard has new theories. He thinks it might be possible."

"Theories," Hermione repeated bitterly. "I was his theory."

Her voice trembled—from anger or pain, she couldn’t tell. "Tell Gaspard to find another test subject. I’m done with him. And I’m done with Mercury."

With one swift, wandless motion, she sent every book on the shelves tumbling down. As she did, something inside her twisted—a flash of guilt. She had wanted to protect these books, not use them as weapons. But this wasn’t the time for conscience. It was about escape. The sound was deafening: hundreds of old volumes fell like lead from the shelves, slamming onto the wooden floor, collapsing in an avalanche over the two men.

She turned and ran. The little rune book still clutched in one hand, the other yanking the door open as she burst into the alley. Behind her came curses, splintering wood, a spell that made the air crackle.

She sprinted around the corner, away from the shop, breath already raw in her throat. Her feet slipped on the cobblestones, eyes scanning instinctively for cover, a gap, a door—nothing.

Footsteps thundered behind her, fast and unrelenting. She heard a whispered curse, felt the air buzz with charged energy. She dove aside just in time, a blast striking the wall behind her.

She grabbed her wand and kept running. Left, then right. The alley narrowed, a fallen market tarp whipped her face as she forced her way through. Her lungs burned. She flew past an old man with a bird’s nest in his beard, a woman whose glass eye followed her, a group of shadowy figures in hooded cloaks leaning against a wall. No one moved. No one helped. This was Knockturn Alley—where everyone’s fate was their own, and interference cost money or worse.

Piles of rubbish and broken crates offered no cover, no delay for her pursuers. They were faster than she had expected.

A streak of white heat skimmed her cheek, shattering brick just beside her.

She knew: if they caught up, it was over.

And yet, she wasn’t alone. The runes on her back flared to life, hot and clear—not pain, but warning light. She couldn’t see them, but it felt like they shielded her. Like they pushed her forward, an invisible barrier between her and her pursuers. Her senses sharpened, the world printed in high resolution: rough stone underfoot, spells whizzing past, even her own breath sounded louder. The magic coursed through her, pulsing, sharp.

Behind her came swearing, explosions.

She ran, nearly stumbled on the uneven stone, but caught herself in time. A flash of gold-shadow struck the wall beside her—alchemic magic, she realised. Not a regular curse. Something with metal binding, with weight. It pulled at her skin as if her bones wanted to rust.

The first man caught up—she spun, fired a powerful Expulso. It rebounded off his shield, but the force flung him back.

The second came silently from the side. His wand gleamed copper, and when he raised it, a slow, pulsing beam of deep blue light shot forth—heavy as molten metal. It struck her chest like a hammer and hurled her against the wall. Hermione screamed. Her shoulder cracked. Something broke.

Blood slid down her side, but she didn’t drop her wand. She flung a blinding spell forward. Light filled the alley, white and fierce—the men shielded their eyes, and that was her chance.

She aimed at the man with the copper wand. No warning.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light. The man crumpled wordlessly.

The other screamed. Not in grief, but in fury. "Stupid witch," he hissed. "You have no idea what you're playing with."

He vanished with a sharp crack, a wisp of black-grey smoke left behind.

Hermione sank to her knees. Her side throbbed. Her shoulder was immovable. She could barely breathe. But she was alive.

She sat there for a moment, fingers clenched around her wand, the book still held tight against her chest.

She had to disapparate. Now.

But where?

Not St Mungo’s. Too many questions. Questions she couldn’t answer without revealing everything.

Not home. She couldn’t show up injured again. She couldn’t make Thea, Tink and Pippin worry like that again. She couldn’t dump this on them. Again.

Not the Spellyard. That place demanded strength, control, poise. If she showed up there—Rhiannon, queen of the Spellyard—as a bloodied, half-broken wreck, her reputation would be irrevocably damaged. Worse: she would never dare show vulnerability in a place where every weakness was a strategic liability.

Her vision blurred, her body screamed with every movement.

Then she thought of Beatrice.

The cellar full of salt. The voice that had warned her. The ink under her skin that still glowed.

Maybe Beatrice wouldn’t help her. But what choice did she have?

She didn’t know where Elric lived. And Grimmauld Place wasn’t wise—she officially wasn’t even supposed to know it was the Blacks’ ancestral home. Besides, she didn’t even know if Alphard lived there. In her time, his name had been scorched off the family tree, but when exactly that had happened, she didn’t know. Maybe he was already disowned. Maybe he had never lived there. She had never asked. Their conversations rarely touched on his family.

Hermione disapparated.

She landed with a thud in the narrow alley behind Beatrice’s atelier. Her knees nearly buckled. The flood of adrenaline gave way to a sharp, slicing pain that pierced her body with every breath. With the last of her strength, she pounded on the heavy door—once, twice, three times. No response.

"Beatrice," she croaked, hoarse and ragged. "Please open."

There was a shuffle on the other side, the click of a bolt.

The door opened a crack. Beatrice looked at her, half-hidden behind the doorframe, her eyebrows rising.

"Rhiannon?" Her voice was almost surprised, even slightly impressed. "You're alive... barely. Bloody hell. Get in. Before you faint on my doorstep."

Hermione staggered inside. The atelier smelled of resin and burnt salt; candles flickered on the workbench. A wave of dizziness hit her, the room tilting slightly. Beatrice eased her into a wooden chair and examined her without hesitation.

"What happened?" she asked sharply.

Hermione drew a laboured breath. "A scuffle in Knockturn Alley," she said curtly. "Two idiots who thought I looked like an easy target."

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. She moved to a low cabinet, grabbed her wand and a small mother-of-pearl orb, and knelt before Hermione. With a sharp spell, she split Hermione’s summer dress open and let her fingers glide over the skin.

"You’ve been hit by a dark curse," she said, her fingers tracing the wound with icy precision. "And your shoulder and ribs are broken. Those are easy to fix. But this..." — she tapped the charred edge of the injury with her wand — "needs a counter-curse. And it’s not a friendly one."

Hermione nodded silently, lips pressed tight. She didn’t want to show weakness, not even here.

Beatrice murmured something unintelligible and the orb began to glow softly. She pressed it against Hermione’s side, whispering a spell that sounded like fractured Latin.

The pain that followed wasn’t sharp, but deep and throbbing—as if something long-rooted was being torn from her body. Hermione bit her tongue, trying not to scream. Her fingers dug into the chair.

"Stay still," said Beatrice, her voice suddenly gentle. "Almost done."

Beatrice finished the spell with a precise flick of her wand. The glow gradually faded. Hermione felt her shoulder mending, her ribs knitting back together, her chest reshaping itself. The sharp pain in her side ebbed into a dull ache. The wound was closed. The heat receded.

Beatrice stood, aimed her wand at Hermione’s torn dress, and mended it with a fluid motion. The fabric reknit itself as though it had never been torn. Another flick, and all the blood vanished. She crossed the room, fetched a small jar from a cabinet, and handed it to Hermione without ceremony.

"For the scar," she said. "Apply it before bed."

She remained standing, looking at Hermione for a long moment. "That curse was meant to track you," she said at last. "It had a binding signature woven into the tissue. I removed it."

Her gaze shifted from Hermione’s side to her eyes. "Who’s looking for you?"

Hermione didn’t answer. She could feel Beatrice’s stare still on her, sharp as a scalpel. Of course she didn’t believe her. Beatrice might be indifferent, but she wasn’t stupid. Yet she didn’t press the question. Hermione knew she didn’t have the strength for more half-truths—or whole ones, for that matter. She kept her back straight, trying to project control, though her entire body throbbed with pain and exhaustion.

That Beatrice didn’t believe her didn’t matter. She wasn’t here for trust.

"The runes," Beatrice asked suddenly. "How are they holding up?"

Hermione shrugged. "They’re doing their job."

"It’s extraordinary you’re not dead," Beatrice muttered. "Or mad."

Hermione grimaced. "Excuse me?"

"It’s nearly impossible to bear even one rune, let alone three," Beatrice said nonchalantly. "I didn’t expect you to survive."

"Then why did you give them to me?" Hermione asked, appalled.

Beatrice shrugged, as if speaking of someone else. "I warned you. You wanted them. And you paid well."

Hermione felt her anger rising, deep and uncontrolled. "I could have died!"

"But you didn’t," said Beatrice dryly. "And they’re doing their job. So didn’t you get what you paid for?"

Hermione could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her brows knit, her face contorted with something like anger—or maybe pain. Beatrice stood there with a blank expression, as though discussing a spoiled delivery of flowers rather than a series of dangerous, potentially lethal runes.

There was a coldness in Beatrice's voice that made Hermione's spine tighten. She felt a strange tension under her skin, as though the runes on her back flared in protest. How could anyone be so casual about something that had nearly cost her her life?

And yet... somewhere, in the shadowy corners of her mind, there was admiration too. For Beatrice's detachment. Her pragmatism. Her unerring sense of business. Hermione didn’t know if Beatrice had ever attended Hogwarts, but if she had, she’d undoubtedly have been in Slytherin. No question.

Yes, Hermione had asked for the runes. Yes, she was still glad for what they did. But she’d never fully understood the consequences. She’d trusted a professional—and discovered that craftsmanship was not the same as care.

To her horror, she realised just how much risk she’d taken by coming back to Beatrice today. It was clear that her wellbeing had never been a factor. That she had been helped today didn’t feel like grace, but like a transaction that happened to align with Beatrice’s convenience.

Like a miracle—but not a comforting one.

"Speaking of payments..."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Of course. Of course Beatrice would want something in return. She could hardly blame her. The woman had tended her wounds, removed a curse, repaired her clothes. Hermione owed her. And Beatrice was never one to do something for nothing.

But when Hermione reached for her coin pouch, Beatrice raised a hand.

"Not money," she said breezily. Her face remained impassive, but her eyes gleamed with something suspiciously close to anticipation. "I want you to meet someone. My cousin. He’s... particularly interested in runes. I imagine he’d be quite curious about your functioning set."

Hermione froze. "And if I say no?"

Beatrice shrugged. "That’s your right. But you came here for help, and you’re still alive because of it. This isn’t a debt, Rhiannon. This is a favour in return."

She said it without menace. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Which made it all the harder to refuse.

Still, Hermione felt suspicion rise. She didn’t trust Beatrice—never had. The timing, the phrasing, the ease of the request... it all smelled too much like a trap.

"I’ll meet him," she said slowly. "But only if he comes to the Leaky Cauldron. During the day. And alone."

Beatrice raised a single eyebrow, her mouth twitching into the faintest of smiles. Her eyes sparkled briefly—not unkindly, but with amusement, as if she’d expected Hermione’s caution and found it entertaining.

"As you wish."

They agreed Hermione would be at the Leaky Cauldron next Saturday at noon. Beatrice promised to see that her cousin would be there.

Hermione disapparated again, this time home.

It was a summer afternoon, warm and bright, with a soft breeze that carried the scent of mint and lavender through the garden. She landed just outside the gate, walked in, and saw Thea, Tink, and Pippin bent over the vegetable beds. Thea wore a large straw hat and spoke gently to Pippin, who was pawing earth onto a young rosemary plant. Tink wandered around with a watering can nearly larger than herself.

They looked up as Hermione approached, and Thea waved cheerfully. "Did you succeed?" she asked brightly.

Hermione gave a weak smile. "Found two beautiful books."

Pippin’s eyes widened. "Two? Where is miss going to put them now? Not a single spot left upstairs without books, no, no, not one!"

Tink huffed, clutching her watering can as if preparing to swing it. "And all that dust, oh yes, very dusty indeed, miss! Miss isn’t reading them all at once, is she? Tink thinks one very good book would be better than many lying around sneezing dust!"

Hermione gave a crooked grin. It was a small moment. Maybe trivial. But something in her chest unknotted.

"Can I help?" Hermione asked.

Thea nodded at once and pushed a tray of seeds towards her. "Always. We just started on the east side."

Tink immediately began issuing instructions on how to treat young basil plants with respect, while Pippin enthusiastically explained how he caught snails committing vandalism. Within minutes, Hermione was elbow-deep in soil, roots, and a rickety little trowel that seemed held together more by affection than metal. The work was simple, rhythmic, and for a while, her mind filled with nothing but the scent of damp earth and the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind. It was a blissful distraction—almost unreal after what she’d been through that morning.

Only when she collapsed onto her bed and closed her eyes did she finally exhale. The peace was deceptive. The air was too still.

Mercury had found her.

And she knew who was behind it.

Gaspard D’Aubépine.

In her own time, they had conducted research together. For two years—he, the brilliant, eccentric alchemist; she, the curious, impatient scholar. She had once respected him. Perhaps even admired him. But that was before she knew he was experimenting with time travel. Before he—without her consent—sent her back to a past that was not hers to inhabit.

Since then, everything had changed.

This Gaspard, the younger version, was dangerous in a different way. Young, ambitious, still without boundaries. And he was not working alone. He led La Main de Mercure—an alchemists' guild as old as darkness itself, where principles bowed to power. They operated quietly, cunningly, spread across Europe. And now, he had used that influence to track her down.

He had thrown her into this time, abandoned her like a test subject in an environment where he made the rules. And now he wanted her back. Did he truly believe she would return to his authority without protest?

Perhaps he didn’t understand. Perhaps he thought she was still his ally, because she would be again in the future. But Hermione no longer trusted him. She didn’t know exactly what he wanted from her—except that it had nothing to do with her wellbeing, and everything to do with what she could offer him.

She had been his experiment.

And she would never be that again.

The runes on her back tingled softly against her skin, as if warning her. She had become a target.

What would this mean for her safety? Would they give up now that she had killed one of his followers? Or would he send more wizards—smarter ones this time, deadlier? There had only been two of them, and they had clearly underestimated her. But Gaspard? Gaspard wouldn’t make that mistake again. Not because he knew her—this younger version didn’t know her the way future Gaspard did—but because he was dangerously clever. Because he learned from mistakes, even if they weren’t his own. Because he had access to resources others only knew in theory.

A chill ran down her spine. Would she no longer be safe walking the streets? Was Diagon Alley now forbidden ground? Would she have to live in disguise, behind illusions and false names, always alert?

She had already assumed a mask at the Spellyard. Would that now become her only face?

Hermione’s anger rose, slowly but unmistakably—like a kettle left too long on the fire. She was no longer a child, no student still believing in the moral authority of mentors. She knew better now.

She had not let Gaspard steal her future, and she would not give him her present.

If he thought he could bring her back to France—to his laboratories, his circles, his ideas dressed in hidden motives—then he knew her less than she thought.

She had built a life here. A mask, yes. But also a name. A reputation. A power he no longer controlled.

She would not run.

She would not bow.

If Gaspard still saw her as a test subject—then he would learn what happens when the experiment turns on the master.

Chapter Text

Sand.

There was only sand.

Not the kind that slips through your fingers on a summer’s day, but something stranger, finer — soft as ash, silver as moonlight, each grain pulsing with its own faint glow. It trickled down in a constant, relentless stream and did not fall as sand should fall; it moved slowly, deliberately, as if it was not drawn by gravity, but by will. As if time itself was holding its breath.

Hermione was trapped in glass.

Smooth, domed glass that enclosed her like a bowl, narrowing as it rose. She sat at the bottom of an hourglass. Not metaphorically — literally. Around her, the curved wall rose upwards, narrowing to the slim neck from which the sand fell, a narrowing that made every breath smaller. There was no room to move. Only the awareness that the sand was rising, slow but inevitable. Her legs were already half-buried. And she could feel it: it didn’t just creep around her — it crept inside. Each grain seemed lighter than air, yet pressed like lead.

She drew her wand, fingers cold, and tried to think — thinking was what she always did in emergencies.
Reducto, she said. Confringo. Her voice echoed dully off the glass, like sound underwater. Sparks flashed. But the glass remained untouched, indifferent. No crack. No shift. As though it were older than stone, older than her magic.

Panic rose in her chest, slower than the sand, but deadlier.
She beat her fists against the wall, screamed until her throat was raw. Blood smeared the inside of the dome. Her knuckles burned.
And then she saw him.

Gaspard.

He stood on the other side of the glass, distorted by the curve, but unmistakably him. Hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, his smile thin. That false, amused, disgusting grin. He said nothing. He barely moved. He just looked — with that strange mix of fascination and satisfaction that made her stomach clench.

“Gaspard!” she screamed. “Get me out of here!”

He didn’t move.
He barely blinked.
And still: that smile.

She begged. She screamed. She struck. But he stood still like a statue, a shadow with teeth. His eyes gleamed. The sand rose higher. Her waist. Her chest.
She began to gasp — not because the space was shrinking, but because there was no space.
She felt the sand pressing against her ribs, at her throat, along her temples, under her eyelids.
She tried to keep her mouth shut, but it found its way — between her lips, into her nose, down her throat.
She didn’t choke. She didn’t drown.
She was filled.

And then it began to glow.

Not brightly, not visibly — but from within. As if the grains of time she had inhaled had lit a flame inside her lungs.
She felt her consciousness splinter before she understood what was happening.
The glass wall vanished — or imploded — or evaporated.
There was no boundary anymore between her and what followed.
Only movement.

She was grabbed, lifted, swept up by a force that knew no direction.
No up.
No down.
Only the vortex — light, shadow, acceleration.
Time tugged at her as if she were a thread, spun out between centuries.
Her body dissolved into heat, her thoughts stretched like glass under pressure.
She felt herself exist in a hundred places at once: past, present, future.

What remained was a tunnel of light, of clocks without hands, of ticking without rhythm.

Some sounds moved backwards.
Some images flashed forwards.
Faces — unknown and yet intimate.
Landscapes — fragmented.
Emotions — unfiltered.

She screamed. Or thought she did.
But her mouth was gone.
Her throat was gone.
Only her will remained, compressed into a single, senseless wish: make it stop.
Her wand burned in her hand.
Or perhaps her hand was her wand.
Perhaps there was no distinction anymore.
Perhaps she had become magic.
Cursed to exist, directionless, between seconds.

And then — abruptly — it broke.

No gradual slowing, no gentle landing.
Just: the storm stopped.
As if the world had deliberately let her fall.

Hermione’s knees hit stone.
Cold.
Real.
She collapsed, her fingers still clenched around her wand.
Her lungs struggled to find air.
Her chest faltered.
She heard nothing but her own breathing — raw, scraping, as if she were being born again through a throat that couldn’t bear it.

She lay on her side, her face pressed to the floor, her cheeks wet with… sand? tears? sweat? She didn’t know.
Everything was dull.
Everything hurt.
But she was alive...

Hermione woke with a jolt, her breathing shallow and erratic. Her chest rose in short, uncontrolled jolts, sweat dripping in beads from her temples.
She gasped for breath as if still trapped in glass.
The duvet lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, her nightdress clung damp to her skin, the room around her too quiet, too dark.

It had been months since she last dreamt of that moment — the day Gaspard betrayed her and sent her back in time. Since those first weeks, shortly after her arrival, her mind had pushed the memory away — too overwhelming, too unreal. But now it had returned, with a raw intensity that made her feel as if she had been torn from her own life all over again.

It had to be Mercury.
The encounter with the two guild members had awakened something in her — something that had long lain dormant beneath the surface. Restlessness, paranoia, a suffocating sense of threat. Since then, she felt different. As if time around her had grown thinner. As if any moment might shatter.

And that was precisely what she’d been trying to ignore for months. Hermione didn’t want to think about La Main de Mercure, and certainly not about Gaspard d’Aubépine. She didn’t want to think about the impossible situation that had landed her in 1966, or the fact that her own time — her own people — were lost to her forever. That the faces of her friends were only memories now, frozen in a time to which she would never return.

Not that it would matter if she could see her parents. Even that had been taken from her. She would meet nothing but blank stares — polite confusion in eyes that no longer recognised her.

The memory came back like an axe: the hospital in Sydney, the white corridors of Saint Æthelwilda's Infirmary for the Bewildered, and the Healer softly closing her file.
“The memory loss is permanent, Miss Granger. Your parents will never remember you.”
No voice had ever sounded colder.
Something had died in her that day. A certainty, an anchor, something she had never needed to name — until it was gone. For the first time, her world had truly resembled nothing.

She covered her face with her hands, fingers trembling, and sat motionless in the half-light. How could she ever have thought she had left it behind? That time — bitter irony — would heal the wounds that time itself had inflicted? There was a void in her, an unfathomable loss she rarely put into words. Not to Thea, not to the elves, and not even to herself.

She missed who she had been. Not the war heroine, not the celebrated friend of Harry Potter — but the girl who made plans, who believed in structure, in justice, in influence through study and effort.
That Hermione no longer existed.
What remained was someone learning to survive in a time that wasn’t hers.

And though she had Thea, with her quiet care, and Pippin and Tink who made her laugh — it didn’t fill the hollow. She was grateful, genuinely, but lonely in a way that had nothing to do with company. It was as if some fundamental part of her had been torn loose in the time jump and had never made it through with her. She was here, physically. But something essential had remained behind — in the rubble of a collapsed present.

Only in the Spellyard did that emptiness feel somewhat bearable.
There, surrounded by magic and adrenaline, she could remember who she was — or perhaps who she had once wanted to be. There, the weight of loss lifted; she wasn’t defined by what she’d lost, but by what she could do.
As long as her feet moved over the arena floor and her spells cut through the air, she felt whole. Not complete, but real.

And now, after weeks without participation, the void felt sharper than ever.
She missed it. Not just the competition or the duels, but the affirmation of existence. Sad as it was — shameful, really — those few short hours in the Spellyard, once a week, had become the highlight of her life.
That this was all she had left to look forward to.
A spectacle. An explosion. Something that, at the very least, made her feel like she was something. That she hadn’t dissolved entirely into loss.

She loathed herself for it. That dependence on spectacle. On the admiration of others — or worse: their fear.
She knew better.
She had been better.
Once.

Now...
Now she filled the rest of her week with waiting.

Silence between the beats of her heart.

She hadn’t been able to fall asleep again. The rest of the morning she had tossed and turned, her thoughts pounding against the inside of her skull. It wasn’t until the first light crept through the curtains that she got up to prepare for her meeting with Beatrice’s cousin.

With dark circles under her eyes, she arrived at the Leaky Cauldron more than half an hour early and took a seat at a central table in the middle of the room, with a clear view of the entrance. That way, everyone could see her — and more importantly: he couldn’t approach her from behind. In front of her sat a cup of black coffee, strong and bitter — exactly what she needed to stay awake. Last evening’s Daily Prophet lay spread out on the table.

The front page showed a large, moving photograph of Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier. The couple, both dressed in formal robes and posing for the camera with appropriate disdain, had apparently made a generous donation to St Mungo’s. Hermione’s gaze lingered on Druella’s smile — insincere, controlled, perfectly polished. She felt her lips tighten into a thin line.

“Rhiannon, yes? Beatrice, she said to look for big cloud of curls. So... is you, yes?”

Hermione looked up.
Before her stood a tall, lanky man with dark eyes and unruly black hair curling at his neck. He looked a few years older than her, with a slightly awkward posture that reminded her faintly of a younger Ron. Hermione nodded.

“Lucky for me,” he said with a friendly grin as he sat down opposite her. “Zoltan Groza,” he introduced himself, offering a hand.

There was something chaotic about him, as if his thoughts and words constantly moved just a little too fast — but it wasn’t unpleasant. On the contrary — there was a sincerity in his gaze, an open curiosity that put her unexpectedly at ease. In every way, he was the opposite of his cousin. Less distant, less controlled. And although Hermione instinctively remained guarded, she felt her shoulders gradually begin to relax.

Zoltan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I am really glad you... you want to meet. Beatrice, she say you do... things, with runes. Runes on skin? Is... is very fascinating, yes?”
His accent stretched the vowels, and some consonants dropped off, as though each word was stepping carefully. “I study for many years, not tattoo, no, but... structure, meaning, rhythm in symbol. Old systems. Sometimes I dream in runes.” He gave a sheepish laugh, as though just realising how odd he sounded — but continued all the same.

“When I was six, I draw runes in margins of schoolbooks. Later — when I go to Durmstrang — I make own formulas, mix Futhark and Kylvian inscriptions. People say, is not stable. But I think, no, they just read wrong. No proper reference, you understand?” His eyes twinkled.

Hermione couldn’t help herself: she smiled.
There was something familiar in his crowded sentences, his eagerness to say everything at once. It reminded her of herself — the way she used to be, before everything. Back when curiosity came easily. And to her own surprise, she felt it — a flicker. Something warm, small, rising in her chest.

“Actually,” she said, her fingers resting on the rim of her coffee cup, “I based mine on a combination of Nordic protection symbolism and Egyptian soul-fragmentation theory.” She looked up. “But it really depends on the intention you assign to the pattern.”

Zoltan’s face lit up. “Yes! This! Intention is... how you say... core, the centre! I always say: rune with no purpose is like spell with no will. Just empty sound, da?”

And before she knew it, they were deep in conversation, time slipping away unnoticed. Texts, theories, practical examples. Their words collided, spilled across the table, carried on in gestures and bursts of exclamation. For a moment, it felt as if the world outside the Leaky Cauldron had ceased to exist.

The feeling caught her off guard — that sense of relief. Of recognition.
It had been so long since someone had engaged with her purely for the content — for knowledge — without hidden agendas or caution.
Here she was — sat opposite a stranger — and for the first time in months she didn’t feel locked inside herself. The exchange, the eagerness, the building of ideas back and forth: it touched something in her she’d almost forgotten.

She had always missed this in her friendship with Harry and Ron.
As dear as they were to her, there had never been space for this part of her — the part that could disappear for hours into books, formulas, symbolism. That craved depth, theory, challenge. They had admired her, yes — but had rarely truly thought with her. She had been the encyclopaedia. Never the equal.

And now… now she was heard. Challenged.
It was as though something dormant had stirred within her. And that realisation, however small, was like oxygen.

She was enjoying herself.
The thought struck with a jolt of quiet disbelief.
She liked Zoltan. He was different, but familiar in an inexplicable way — as if she had known him longer than just today. He had something disarming about him, something that made her forget she was meant to be constantly on her guard. Like someone who, with time, could become a good friend.
And that idea — that maybe, despite everything, she was still capable of forming new connections — warmed her more than she cared to admit.

The moment was abruptly broken by the thudding rhythm of boots on the wooden floor. Two men appeared in the doorway of the Leaky Cauldron. One broad-shouldered, the other leaner but no less imposing. Hermione’s breath caught when she recognised the one in front: Dolohov.

His gaze settled on Zoltan, and something flickered in his eyes — a spark of recognition, followed by something that looked suspiciously like suspicion.

“Zoltan Groza,” he said, almost grinning. “You keep surprising me. London, really?”

Zoltan turned to him and grinned widely, visibly surprised but showing no trace of discomfort. "I think, I pay visit. Good time for, how you say — fieldwork."

“Fieldwork?” Dolohov’s brow rose.

Zoltan gestured openly to Hermione. “Rhiannon here. She do things with runes. Very special.”

Hermione felt Dolohov’s eyes on her. They travelled slowly across her face, lingered on her curls, her mouth, her eyes — and she knew. He recognised her. A flicker of something like satisfaction passed over his features, followed by a slow, frozen smile.

As his eyes roamed over her, she couldn’t help but marvel at how little attention he attracted. No one in the Leaky Cauldron seemed to register his presence as troubling. No whispers, no sidelong glances. Of course — in this time, Voldemort had not yet openly waged war. The Death Eaters were still only rumours among the informed, not a public nightmare. But for her, with the knowledge of what was to come, it felt surreal. Like watching a wolf walk through a flock, unnoticed.

“Rhiannon… Interesting,” he said. “Nice to see you without a mask.” His voice carried a casual tone, almost friendly — but the undertone tingled with threat. "Makes it easier to find you again — outside the Spellyard."

Hermione kept her posture steady. She offered a polite smile, but her eyes stayed cold. Her fingers closed a little tighter around her coffee cup.

"May I introduce you," said Dolohov, turning slightly, "to Abraxas Malfoy."

Hermione knew before the name reached her ears. The man beside Dolohov had the same aristocratic jawline, the same pale hair and cold stare as Draco. Older. More calculating. She had suspected as much.

"Groza," said Malfoy with a courteous nod. "Good to see you on this side of the sea."

"The pleasure is mine," Zoltan replied amiably.

Dolohov clapped Malfoy on the shoulder. "Today is a special day. Abraxas is celebrating his birthday."

Malfoy inclined his head, his smile thin and smug. “I’m hosting a ball at the manor tonight. You’re welcome to attend, Zoltan. And of course, your companion — Rhiannon — is most cordially invited.”

Zoltan turned to her at once, unmistakably enthusiastic. “Sounds nice, yes? We go together? Then we continue talk.”

Hermione’s stomach tightened. Every instinct screamed no — the chill in Dolohov’s smile, the name Malfoy, the manor. Memories of a cold marble floor, of blood mingled with humiliation, of the word still carved into her flesh, hidden behind daily glamour. Mudblood.

Every fibre in her body wanted to say no. Aloud. Now. But there was something else. Another voice. The one that stirred at night when Thea’s house was too quiet, when her hands found nothing but emptiness, when her head grew too full of nothing. The loneliness. The quiet, aching truth that she had no one left who knew her as she had been.

Zoltan looked at her with that same disarming curiosity. He meant nothing by it. He was simply happy in her company. And maybe... maybe that was enough. For now. An evening not spent waiting. An evening in which she might feel human again — or if nothing else: present.

And somewhere, deeper than she cared to admit, another thought took root. One that both drew her in and repelled her: What if he’s there?

She nodded slowly. “Of course,” she said. “Sounds… lovely.”

With a flick of his wand, Malfoy dropped two invitations on the table. They appeared in the form of a white peacock, wings elegantly flaring before unfolding into two thick sheets of parchment. Elegant gold lettering adorned the front: an invitation to the ball at Malfoy Manor.

“Then we shall see you tonight,” said Dolohov with a short nod. His tone was light, but Hermione still heard that same underlying threat.

Without another word, he turned and exited with Abraxas Malfoy. The silence they left behind felt heavy, as though the air itself had changed.

Zoltan gave a small shrug and smiled at her. “Eh,” he said lightly, “always nice to meet old friends, no?”

He leaned forward slightly. “Shall we meet here again tonight? I stay upstairs, so I am close. We go together.”

She nodded. “Agreed.”

With a renewed silence between them, Zoltan stood and gave her a slight bow, leaving her with a playful wink. Hermione remained seated for a while, her gaze resting on the invitation before her. The white peacock had faded into ink and parchment, but something within her kept stirring — unrest, anticipation, or perhaps a sense that tonight might shift her life once more.

۞

They apparated with a soft crack at the edge of the Malfoy Manor drive.

The sky was still blue, sultry and sinking into gold — the lingering twilight of a summer evening that refused to fade. The sun dimmed behind the trees, where the leaves shimmered in copper and amber. The gravel beneath their feet sparkled faintly in the last light, and high above, bats wheeled in silent circles.

Before them, the manor rose like a memory from another age: imposing, symmetrical, cold as the marble it was carved from. The windows glowed softly from within, and in the distance, music could be heard — strings, slow and mournful. Everything about Malfoy Manor exhaled old magic, old power.

Zoltan looked up, whistled softly through his teeth, and nodded in admiration. “Aha. Classic. Old style. Family with... eh, money and long story.”

He turned to her and offered his arm with an easy smile. “We go? We dance and eat cake? Or we run away with silver candelabras?”

Hermione smiled, despite herself. “We’ll try the first. Save the second for later.”

“Is good,” Zoltan said, his eyes twinkling. “But first, I make you taste their champagne. Then you decide.”

Together they walked up the gravel path toward the grand front doors. The scent of flowers and warm stone filled the air. Lamps lit with fireflies, high in wrought-iron brackets, lit the path with a soft flickering glow.

Hermione’s gown gleamed deep red, like liquid fire in the evening light — a colour meant to stand out, chosen deliberately. Red, not out of vanity, but quiet rebellion. The colour of her House, her past, all she stood for in contrast to what Malfoy Manor represented. She hadn’t come to blend in tonight. She had chosen to be seen.

Tink had helped her. No — she had begged her.

When Hermione had muttered that she needed to attend a formal ball at a place “full of pure-blood etiquette and silver forks,” Tink’s eyes had gone wide. She’d rolled up her sleeves and turned the house upside down. She’d found a gown in a sealed chest in the attic: satin, slim-cut, with an elegant bateau neckline. The fabric flowed over Hermione’s body like water — nothing ostentatious, all refinement: poised, powerful, feminine.

Tink had pinned up her curls with a gold clip, tight enough to keep her face clear, loose enough to fall in a wild, fiery cascade down her back. Her makeup Hermione had done herself, with a steady, practised hand: eyeliner like a slash, soft lip tint, a touch of shimmer on her cheekbones.

She had looked in the mirror — and seen herself as she hadn’t in a long time. Not a fighter. Not a fugitive. But a woman. Fully. Unafraid.

Now, she looked up at the house. Her heart beat hard, but steady.

Zoltan, unaware of her history with the place, smiled broadly at her. “You look impressed. This is good. Impression is diplomatic.”

At the doors stood two house-elves in spotless pillowcases, still as statues. Their ears lay flat against their skulls, eyes fixed on the floor. No curiosity. No spark of self. They opened the heavy door in a single, graceful movement — synchronised and silent.

Hermione’s stomach clenched.

These were the house-elves she had once fought for. Not Pippin, who bounced with excitement to bring her tea, or Tink, who ruled the household with her scowling frown and razor wit — because she chose to. Because it was her will.

No. These elves had no choice. No voice. They had been made invisible, polished up as part of a system that used them as silent décor. This was the reality from which S.P.E.W. had been born. The injustice that had once sent her storming through Hogwarts with pamphlets and ill-fitting badges. And now she walked past them — clad in satin, in heels, her arm in that of a man who didn’t even notice.

She forced herself forward. Later. She would think about it later.

In the hall, dozens of guests already waited. They stood in a neat line, elegantly lingering, chatting in hushed tones, an occasional hand adjusting a collar or smoothing a velvet glove. A queue of silk, gemstones, and arrogance. Everything pressed and perfected.

Zoltan glanced around like a tourist in a cathedral. He whistled softly.

“This is just... their hall?” he whispered in awe. “Only for... standing?”

Hermione gave a faint smile. “Apparently,” she said. “And I think this is only the beginning.”

Zoltan leaned closer to her. “If I see fountain of wine later, I clap. I tell you now.”

The line crept forward. One by one, guests were received at the great double doors that led into the ballroom. There stood Abraxas Malfoy and his wife — like king and queen, glittering in silver and emerald. He with his sharp features, white hair, and tight-lipped smile, she like a marble statue in an ivory gown studded with pearls. Her eyes were colder than the glass in her hand.

When it was their turn, Abraxas’s gaze slid first over Zoltan, then Hermione. The corners of his mouth lifted by a fraction.

“Zoltan Groza,” he said slowly. “How good to receive you in these parts.”

Zoltan gave a short bow, courteous but casually so. “You invite, I come. Is good tradition in my country.”

Malfoy’s laugh was polite, but devoid of warmth. He turned to Hermione, his gaze probing.

“And Rhiannon, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“That’s correct,” Hermione replied politely. “An honour to be here. Happy birthday, Mr Malfoy.”

“Just Rhiannon?” asked Mrs Malfoy, her tone courteous but deliberately sharp. Her gaze was cool, appraising. Not interest. Inspection. She wanted to know whether Hermione belonged here. Whether she deserved this floor. This air.

Her eyes swept over Hermione and lingered a moment too long on the red dress. Slight disapproval, as though her presence were an unexpected flaw in the tableau.

“Just Rhiannon, yes,” Hermione said, voice calm, gaze unflinching. No bow. No explanation.

Abraxas cleared his throat. “Welcome. We wish you both a pleasant evening.”

The doors behind them were opened by two elves in golden gloves. Hermione and Zoltan stepped through.

And there it was.

The ballroom.

Hermione held her breath.

The room was… impossible.

The walls stretched upwards to a ceiling that vanished in soft arches of light-filled clouds. Floating stars hung like chandeliers above them, slowly revolving on invisible cords of magic. The floor was polished silverstone, extending in an oval far larger than the manor itself could physically contain. At the edges, curtains of dark green velvet swayed despite the absence of wind.

An orchestra hovered on a glass platform above the dance floor, half transparent. Their music filled the space without overwhelming it — violins, flutes, a harp that sounded like running water.

Along the walls stood buffet tables that looked like still lifes — abundant, ornate, too perfect to truly tempt the appetite. House-elves moved among them like shadows, serving without ever being noticed.

They drifted slowly through the room, speaking to no one. Hermione kept hold of Zoltan’s arm as he looked around in awe, occasionally making dry remarks about the excess of crystal, or a sculpture he whispered was likely meant to impress, but really just looked like a very expensive coat rack.

At first Hermione only smiled, but soon a first laugh escaped her. Then a second. And then another. Zoltan knew exactly how to make her forget where she was. His levity sliced through the tension like a knife through cake.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked at one point as they passed near the dance floor.

Hermione shook her head at once. "Absolutely not. I don’t even know how you’re supposed to dance at something like this."

Zoltan sighed in relief. "Oh, mulțumesc Dragonului. Me neither. I was think I must say, eh... I fall and twist the ankle, yes?"

Hermione laughed out loud. "You really have no shame."

"Exact, yes," he said proudly. "This how I survive places like here."

They found a quiet alcove, half hidden behind a column, with a view of the dance floor but far enough from the central room. There they sank onto a velvet bench. Zoltan grabbed two glasses from a passing tray and handed one to her.

They fell into conversation, their voices low beneath the music. The topic slid naturally back to runes — familiar ground, far removed from the glitter and danger around them. Hermione looked at the dancers, at the guests, at the splendour.

And to her own surprise, she felt — for a moment — light.

Chapter Text

Zoltan looked into his empty glass and pulled a face.

“We're finding champagne. You lead, I drink.”

Hermione got to her feet, relieved to be moving again. Together they wove their way through dancing couples and chattering groups in search of a new tray. As they rounded a corner draped with heavy curtains, they nearly collided head-on.

Cygnus and Druella Black stood there—close, unexpected, and directly in their path.

They stopped within the bounds of politeness. Druella’s gaze slid first over Zoltan, then over Hermione. She said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes. She looked at Hermione as though she were a mistake. As though the red satin was a screaming curse in a room meant for muted tones.

Hermione felt the silence stretch—heavy, unmoving. Discomfort crept along her spine, and before she knew it, she spoke.

“Good evening, Mr and Mrs Black. I believe I saw you in the Daily Prophet this morning.”

Druella raised a perfectly arched brow. “Then it must have been a rather slow news day.”

Cygnus said nothing, his eyes fixed on Zoltan, calculating. As if trying to determine whether this unknown Romanian was worth his time.

Hermione tried to keep her smile in place. “It was about the donation to St Mungo’s. A generous sum.”

“Ah,” Druella said coolly. “Generous to some, perhaps. We consider such donations symbolic—it hardly changes our financial position.”

Before Hermione could reply, the mood shifted.

Without warning, a hush fell over the nearby guests. As if the air had grown heavier. Druella's posture changed subtly. Cygnus’ gaze flicked behind Hermione, his back straightening.

“My Lord,” came Cygnus’ voice—soft, yet reverent.

Hermione froze. The words hit her like a jolt of electricity—unexpected, sharp. Her heart skipped a beat, her breath caught in her throat.

But beneath the shock flickered something even more unsettling—something almost like anticipation. As if her body had realised, before her mind did, that she had been waiting for this moment. Perhaps even wanting it. And now that it had arrived, she didn't know whether to flee or stay rooted.

She turned slowly—and felt her stomach twist.

Voldemort stood there. Still. Motionless. His eyes not on Cygnus or Druella, but on her. Only her.

This was the first time he saw her without a mask. As she truly was—no glamour, no illusion, no distance. His crimson eyes seemed to burn with intensity, peeling back her layers. She felt his gaze like something physical, tangible. Everything in her sharpened—caught between fear and something dangerously close to desire.

The silence was abruptly broken.

“My Lord?” came a cheerful voice beside her. “You a Lord? Voldemort, you've been busy, my friend.”

Her eyebrows shot up. Zoltan knew Voldemort?!

She could barely comprehend it.

And it got her thinking: who was Zoltan, really? Was he truly the kind, innocent runes enthusiast he appeared to be—or was there something else going on she hadn’t seen? How much of a coincidence was it, really, that she had met him today? That he not only knew Dolohov but also Voldemort—and moved effortlessly among people who left her breathless?

Something gnawed at her, something her instincts wouldn’t let go.

Zoltan stepped forward with an open manner and a broad grin, as though he hadn’t noticed the tension in the air. As though he didn’t realise the other guests barely dared to move in Voldemort’s presence.

To Hermione’s surprise, the corners of Voldemort’s mouth lifted. His gaze tore away from her and settled on Zoltan—and there was something in it she had never seen before: amusement.

“Zoltan Groza,” he said slowly, his voice low and silky. “A true pleasure. What brings you to England?”

Zoltan grinned and gestured casually at Hermione. “Rhiannon, she... she like the runes, yes? Like me. I hear, she is here, I come quick. No waiting.”

Voldemort’s eyes flicked instantly back to her. His gaze was intense, piercing, as if trying once more to dissect her.

“Is that so,” he said slowly. “Well, it seems more than one person has business with Rhiannon tonight.”

The words hung in the air, a veil of threat barely hiding their intent. Hermione felt her muscles tighten. What did he want from her? Was this just another ploy to recruit her again? Or was he after something else—a new attempt to breach her mind, to break her in a way she hadn’t foreseen?

Her heart pounded, but her face stayed neutral.

He addressed Zoltan, without taking his eyes off Hermione. “May I have the pleasure of borrowing her for a moment?”

Zoltan looked curiously from Voldemort to her. “Yes, yes, of course. I... I go look for champagne, anyway. Is good moment, yes?”

As he turned away, Hermione caught Druella’s gaze—a flash of disbelief, almost envy. As if she couldn’t fathom that this woman—insignificant in her eyes—had drawn Voldemort’s full attention.

Hermione turned back to him. It had been weeks since she’d seen him, but nothing could have prepared her for the overwhelming force of his presence. He had extended his arm to her.

“Walk with me,” he commanded.

Her spine straightened instinctively at the tone in his voice. Authoritative. Familiar, and yet anything but welcome. But they were still beside Cygnus and Druella. Protesting here would attract unwanted attention—and perhaps questions better left unanswered.

She placed her hand on his arm. His cloak was made of heavy, luxurious fabric, cool against her skin. A shiver ran through her—part nerves, part something else she refused to name. It was as if magic dripped from him, thick and intoxicating, like a scent that clung to her lungs. It felt like heat and cold all at once, like danger that beckoned rather than repelled. And strangely, her own magic seemed to respond to his. As if it woke up, lifted its head, stretched—not in defence, but in recognition. As if their magic found each other, cautiously exploring, rubbing up against the edge of what was permitted. She could even feel her runes pulsing faintly beneath her skin—as if echoing, asserting their presence. As if they responded to a power that recognised or challenged them.

Something in her screamed that this was wrong—but another part, quieter and more stubborn, wanted to know what would happen if she stayed.

She wondered if he noticed. If she had the same effect on him as he had on her. Her magic was still tingling under her skin, alert and charged. If hers responded like this to his… would he feel the same? Or would he never admit it, even if he did? Maybe it was all in her head. But somewhere, deep down, the thought flared: that their powers recognised each other—not in harmony, but in challenge.

Voldemort began to walk and she allowed herself to be led. Their steps fell into sync, as if they were dancing—but each moment felt charged. The distance between them was small, the tension palpable. As if magic—or something dangerously close to it—trembled in the air between their bodies.

“Did you master it?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Did I master what?” Hermione returned, her tone more defiant than wise.

“The curse to decapitate an opponent?” he asked lightly, as if inquiring about the weather.

Hermione shot him a sidelong glance, but Voldemort stared straight ahead.

“Still looking for a test subject. Are you offering?”

Voldemort barely smiled, ignoring her remark. “I did not expect to see you here tonight,” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes betrayed something else—something between curiosity and suspicion.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here we both are.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “The question is—why?”

His gaze lingered on her, and it felt as if the rest of the room faded, until only the two of them remained.

“Because Mister Malfoy asked me,” Hermione said sharply.

“I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’ve never been invited before.”

“So why now?”

“Coincidence,” she said breezily, deliberately vague.

“How do you know Mister Groza?”

“His cousin introduced us.”

“Why?”

“None of your business.”

“Are you together?”

“Also none of your business—”

“But it is,” he interrupted calmly.

She shot him a sharp glance, her eyes flashing.

“Is it?”

He smiled darkly. “Are you always this evasive?”

“Are you always this inquisitive?”

“Yes,” he said, almost smiling.

It was bizarre—this conversation. This man. She couldn’t reconcile him with the Voldemort from her own time. There, he was a monster, an echo of fear, a shadow over the world. Here, he was… charming. Controlled. Almost courteous. As if she were speaking with a doppelgänger. And that made it all the more dangerous. Because the Voldemort she knew—the killer of so many—was nowhere to be found.

It made her all the more alert. Because perhaps this was the most seductive form of danger—the one that smiled while it cut.

They walked on, step by step through the ballroom, past shimmering gowns and humming spell-chandeliers. Hermione felt each footfall, each breath. The magic in the air seemed to gather around them. Her heart pounded just a bit too hard, her thoughts darted in every direction. But beneath the alertness, the tension, the wariness, there was something else: curiosity. An inexplicable thrill. As if she stood at the edge of something she could not yet name, but could not look away from.

"People don't normally talk to me like you do," he continued, ambiguously.

Hermione couldn’t tell if it was a threat or an observation.

"How do I talk to you?" she asked, her voice a shade softer now, tinged with nerves.

He took a few seconds before answering. "Like you are my equal."

She bit her lip, eyes fixed ahead as her thoughts piled up. Should she yield? Make herself smaller, invisible, as instinct urged? Would he harm her if she crossed a line?

But there was something in her—unyielding, ancient, forged in war and loss—that refused to bow. She had bowed before. She had hidden. Fought. Survived. But this—this was different. Here and now she refused to be less, simply because he was used to it. She had defeated the Voldemort of her time—without disguise, without protection, without mercy. She hadn’t even had her Hogwarts diploma when she did. And if that girl could do it, then the woman she was now would certainly not bow to this version of him. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not like she once was. Now she had nothing left to lose.

She looked at him.

"Maybe that's because I'm not afraid to be."

He said nothing. No scathing comment, no correcting tone. Just silence—but a silence that held something. His face remained unreadable, his gaze steady, but something flickered in his eyes. A faint tension in his jaw, a flicker of something that looked almost like recognition. As if he hadn’t expected it—and, despite himself, appreciated it.

Hermione felt the shift. Something between them. Something unspoken, but certain to colour all future words.

"No one is my equal," he said at last, his voice calm, almost detached—as though stating a fact, not a belief.

But the words hung heavy between them. And yet… he had said it. After her remark. Not to correct her, not to belittle her—but to place himself. To mark the difference. To draw the line, even as he let her near.

"If you say so," Hermione replied lightly, casting him a glance that danced between challenge and jest. "Do you often come to these balls?" she added quickly, intentionally casual—as if trying to smooth something just a bit too sharp.

"Often enough," Voldemort replied. "Mister Malfoy and I were in the same house at Hogwarts. We've known each other a long time. Did you go to Hogwarts?"

"No, I was homeschooled," Hermione lied. "But I've read about Hogwarts. Let me guess, you were in Slytherin?"

"What makes you think that?"

Hermione raised a brow slightly, offering a half-smile. "Oh, I don’t know. The charm? The humility? The general sense of menace?"

Voldemort allowed the barest flicker of a grin. He regarded her a moment, head tilted slightly, as if re-evaluating her—with a mixture of curiosity and something bordering on menace.

"Had you gone to Hogwarts," he said, "I believe the Sorting Hat would have placed you in Slytherin too."

Hermione had never heard a greater insult. She felt her spine tighten automatically, her fingers stiffening slightly on his arm. She was a Gryffindor—proud, loyal, fierce—and what he had just said felt almost like sacrilege. It took everything she had not to respond at once, not to lash back with fire. But she held herself in check. Barely.

His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. "Your smart mouth. That drive. And, if I may say so—"

He glanced at her sideways, his voice just a little softer, a little more mocking. "—a touch of arrogance in how hard you try to outshine everyone around you. That tends to be very Slytherin."

Hermione gave him an affronted look. "I don't try to outshine everyone around me," she said, indignant—but his words had struck something. She hated that he could read her so easily—or worse: that he might be right.

"Well, you do tonight.." he said, his voice low, almost kind—but with an edge. Something tinged with challenge, or warning. "..outshine everyone, I mean." His eyes lingered on her, just a moment too long, as if weighing whether she was a threat or a trophy.

"It is bad manners to outshine people on their birthday," Hermione said, slightly awkward. She didn’t quite know what to make of his words—if they were a compliment at all. There was something in his voice that unsettled her, something that felt like both admiration and danger.

"When is your birthday?" he asked suddenly.

Hermione looked at him warily. Why did he want to know that? She tried to think if there was any harm in answering but couldn’t come up with a real risk.

"Nineteenth of September."

"A Virgo," he said, as if tasting the label.

He let a brief pause settle, his gaze assessing. "Analytical. Disciplined. Obsessively precise. A touch controlling, if I recall correctly."

He looked at her with a faint smile that never reached warmth. "Fitting?"

Hermione's mouth fell open. "Zodiac signs are rubbish," she snapped.

She snorted softly. "Assigning personality traits based on birth dates? Honestly. It's about as scientific as reading tea leaves or interpreting crystal balls. The whole thing is just a glorified guessing game. People twist vague statements until they sound personal and then call it truth. It’s lazy thinking dressed up as mysticism."

Her tone was razor-sharp, almost fierce. "If I wanted to be judged by the position of a star, I’d rather pick the brightest one myself—not be boxed in by some dusty superstition."

Voldemort didn’t respond immediately. He looked at her with what seemed like amused fascination. "You sound like someone who’s been burned by a bad horoscope," he said dryly. Then, more seriously: "The stars are not perfect, but they do not lie. People do. Interpretation is flawed—not the patterns themselves."

He turned his head slightly, as if trying to catch her profile in a different light. "Magic leaves traces. So does time. And belief. Ancient knowledge, even if forgotten, has weight."

He smiled thinly. "And if you believe in runes, Rhiannon, why not believe the heavens might also speak in code?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow and laughed shortly, without humour. "Because runes are linguistic systems with structural logic. They respond to language, to intent. The stars are balls of gas burning billions of miles away. They don’t care who I am or when I was born."

She didn’t know why she was surprised that Voldemort believed in nonsense like zodiac signs. But then again, this was the man who had launched a manhunt for an innocent baby over a prophecy—the man who trusted predictions more than conscience. Maybe she should be wondering why she was still capable of being surprised at all. As if rational inconsistency should shock her in someone like him.

She shook her head and looked at him, eyes still blazing with that razor-edged fire. "If people want to read meaning into distant objects just to feel special, that’s their business. But don’t dress it up as ancient wisdom. It’s emotional convenience, nothing more."

Voldemort allowed a slight grin, something between amusement and mild interest. Hermione’s breath caught. It was unexpected—that grin. Unusual. And maybe that made it all the more disarmingly attractive. As if she’d glimpsed something rarely seen. Something dangerous. Something alluring.

"Do you hold such impassioned opinions about everything, Rhiannon?"

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. Say nothing, said a voice in her head. Let it go. But there was something else in her—a fiery, stubborn impulse that wouldn’t be ignored. A part that wanted to challenge him. To strike him. She knew she was playing with fire, that every word was a lit match. And still.

"Actually, yes," she said. Her voice was calm, but her heart thundered. "Especially when I’m surrounded by people who think they’re better than others because of something as irrelevant as blood."

She felt his gaze sharpen, but she went on.

"This ball—it’s a performance. All of it. Robes and rings and pure-blood names whispered like spells. People parading power they haven’t earned. It’s not strength, it’s inertia. Entitlement disguised as legacy."

She looked him straight in the eye. "And I remember your speech at the Midsummer Assembly. About power. ‘Power is not given, it is taken.’ I agreed with that. Still do. But what I see here isn’t power. It’s comfort. Laziness."

Her eyes flicked briefly over the room, the dancefloor, the velvet curtains. "How can these be the most powerful witches and wizards in our world if they never have to prove themselves with anything other than their last name?"

Then she fell silent. Her breathing was slightly elevated. But her gaze stayed fixed on his—steadfast, defiant.

Voldemort held her gaze for a long time. Too long. Something in his expression shifted, barely visible, but as palpable as a drop in temperature.

"Careful," he said softly, but there was warning beneath his tone, like ice cracking underfoot. "You speak of power as if you understand it. But you forget—comfort breeds complacency, yes, but arrogance breeds downfall."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You look at this room and see legacy as weakness. I look and see foundation. Blood isn’t everything. But blood is memory. Blood remembers who you are—even when you pretend not to."

There was something razor-sharp in his voice now, an edge that had picked up her words and returned them laced with venom.

"So tell me, Rhiannon—what, exactly, do you think you’ve proven tonight?"

"I didn't come here to prove myself," said Hermione, her tone sharp but controlled.

"So why did you come?"

Hermione held his gaze. "You told those who were hesitant to keep watching," she said. "So I came to watch." Her voice held a clear undertone—not submissive, not hostile, but something in between. A calm, deliberate presence. Like someone who had not come to kneel, but to understand. And perhaps… to judge.

His eyes bored into hers, deep red and burning. Then he said only three words: "Come with me."

Before she could respond, he seized her upper arm roughly. His grip was firm, unrelenting. Without a glance back, he dragged her away from the ballroom, past a curtain, into the corridor.

Hermione nearly stumbled keeping up. "Let me go," she hissed. "Where are you taking me?"

He didn’t answer. His stride was purposeful, controlled, but with an intensity that set every nerve in her body alight. She had no idea where he was taking her—and that made it all the more terrifying. Her breathing quickened. Her eyes darted to her dress—no pockets. Her wand was strapped to her thigh with a leather band. Out of reach. Stupid.

Stupid!

The corridors of Malfoy Manor blurred past. Carpets, portraits, the soft tap of their steps on stone. She tried to wrench free from his grip, but it was no use. He didn’t let go.

Then they reached a door—heavy wood, dark, veined like something ancient and immovable. What lay beyond was an office, austere and solid. He pushed her inside, into the room, and closed the door with a non-verbal gesture.

Before she could collect herself, he had pressed her against the wall. Not hard—but with force. His hand closed around her throat, his face close to hers.

His voice was low, threatening. "Who are you?"

Hermione said nothing, her heart pounding in her throat.

He didn’t squeeze—but the implication was enough.

"I don’t know what to do with you," he continued, his voice restless, his grip still tight. "You are powerful. Clearly. But you're also dangerous. Unpredictable. You appear, uninvited, unclaimed. You speak like a rebel and move like a ghost. I don’t know who you are, where your loyalties lie, what you stand for."

He leaned a fraction closer. His eyes no longer burned with curiosity, but with something that looked like frustration. "You slip through the cracks like smoke, and no one seems to notice but me. You speak of power, but I see chaos. And the thing about chaos, Rhiannon, is that it either serves—or it burns."

His breath touched her skin. "So tell me, which are you?"

Behind him, something shifted. Dolohov entered the room soundlessly and closed the door with a click.

Voldemort’s voice turned icy. "If you are not with me… then you are against me. And there is no place for you here."

Hermione felt rage burn through her fear. Her voice trembled—not from weakness, but from fury.

"Excuse me? You came to me—remember? I was invited. Today by Malfoy. Before by Dolohov. Because of you! I told him no, and you asked me to reconsider!"

She met his eyes, fire blazing. "Don't you dare pretend I'm the one out of place here. Don't threaten me like I sought this. I was perfectly fine living my life as it was. I didn't ask for any of this."

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, but she stood her ground. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "So if you don't know what to do with me, maybe ask yourself why you dragged me into this in the first place."

Voldemort responded with a cold laugh—quiet, brief, but soaked in menace. The sound sent a chill down her spine.

"So invasive again, Rhiannon," he said slowly. "What are you trying to hide?"

Before she could reply, he yanked her from the wall without warning and flung her to the floor in one swift movement. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. She reached for her thigh—for the leather strap and her wand—but before her fingers could close around the handle, Dolohov aimed his wand.

"Crucio."

Hermione screamed. Pain exploded through her body, fire crawling through her nerves. Her back arched from the unbearable pressure. Her vision blurred, her heart pounded in panic.

And then it happened again.

The runes on her skin ignited, hot and pulsing, a surge of energy forming a shield around her mind. She felt the moment Voldemort tried—it was unmistakable. His magic sliced into her thoughts like a blade. Legilimency.

He thought she’d be weak now. That the pain would break her. That her mind would open under torture.

But he was wrong.

The runes condensed into an impenetrable barrier. No words, no images. Just a wall. And behind it: silence. Hermione’s silence. Untouchable.

He couldn’t get through.

Dolohov raised his wand again.

"Crucio."

Hermione screamed once more. The second wave of pain crashed over her like burning iron, every muscle in her body convulsing and seizing. And as if that weren’t enough—again.

"Crucio."

She lay writhing on the ground, cheeks wet with tears, hands clenched in spasms. And yet, somewhere deep inside, she felt something unexpected: a bizarre urge to laugh.

He couldn’t break her.

He—Voldemort—couldn’t get through.

The pain was unbearable, her body on the brink of collapse, but her mind stood tall. And that awareness—that small, quiet triumph—glowed like an invincible spark.

She was stronger than him.

For now, at least. And that was enough.

The curses stopped. Silence fell in the office. The air was heavy—charged, suffocating. The two wizards stood silently over her like statues with vacant eyes, looking down at her.

Hermione lay gasping on the cold floor. Her lungs burned, her muscles felt torn apart. She wanted to rise, to sit up, to grab her wand—but her arms refused. Even her breathing felt like war.

Her head throbbed, a dull, pounding echo of torture, but beneath it still pulsed her determination.

And then—the silence broke.

Voldemort's laugh was low and dark. No mirth, no warmth—only something icy that crept under her skin. "So rebellious, so stubborn," he said, his voice still low, but slower now—as if thinking as he spoke. He leaned closer, his shadow falling over her like a veil. "I think I was wrong after all. You would have been a Gryffindor."

It wasn’t a compliment. Not truly. But it filled Hermione with more pride than she cared to admit. Even on the ground, humiliated, weakened, it felt like a recognition she hadn’t dared ask for.

Her voice came hoarse and broken, raw from screaming. "What do you want from me?"

Voldemort remained silent for a moment, his gaze locked on her. Then he spoke, slowly, precisely. "I want to know who you are."

Hermione swallowed, her muscles still trembling, her head heavy.

"And if I tell you?" she asked hoarsely.

He slowly crouched until he was level with her. His eyes glowed like embers. "Then I decide," he said softly, deadly calm, "if that is enough to spare your life."

Hermione's thoughts raced. She had to choose—lie, fight, confess. Every word she spoke could be salvation or doom. She didn’t know what he suspected. Didn’t know how much he’d seen, what he wanted to see. She could reveal her true identity. Or stay who she claimed to be. But then she’d need to give him something—enough to satisfy him. And all the while, her wand was still out of reach.

She had no time. No strength. No plan.

But she still had her voice. And her mind. And they had saved her more than any spell ever had.

Slowly, she pushed herself upright, her arms shaking from exhaustion. She tucked her legs beneath her, felt her heartbeat pounding in her chest. Then she looked up. Fierce. Determined.

Her eyes met his without hesitation.

"My name is Hermione," she said, hoarse but clear. "Hermione Dagworth-Granger. The last witch of my bloodline."

Hermione turned her head and looked up at Dolohov, who watched her with a dark, suspicious glare.

"I’ll tell you more," she said, her voice still raw, "but only you. He has to leave."

Dolohov seemed ready to protest, his lips parting—but before he had the chance, Voldemort said coldly, "Leave us."

"My Lord?" Dolohov objected, wounded and indignant.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. "Don’t make me repeat myself."

Frustrated, Dolohov turned on his heel and stormed out. The door slammed shut behind him.

Voldemort slowly turned back to Hermione. "Now," he said, icily calm, "I suggest you make what comes next... worth my time."

Hermione drew a deep breath. Everything would depend on what she said next—on the lie she had to deliver as if it were her truth. Her only chance lay in how convincing she sounded, how well she masked her fear behind conviction.

"I told you I was homeschooled," she began, wiping tears from her face. "I could have gone to Hogwarts. I got my letter when I was eleven. But my mother wouldn't let me."

Her voice shook, but she didn’t look away. "You see, my mother is a squib. My father a muggle. Back then, Grindelwald was just defeated, but the hate was still there. Against muggles, squibs... muggle-borns."

She knew she was about to take the biggest gamble of her life. But if she wanted to leave this room alive, she had to give him something that stuck. Something convincing. Her heart pounded, her mouth was dry, but she pressed on.

With a trembling hand, she reached for her arm. For a moment she hesitated—but then she let the glamour drop. Instantly, the fiery, ugly slashes stood out on her skin. Letters, etched in a language of pain. The word "Mudblood" burned raw and vivid in the dim light, a scar that had never truly faded—only been hidden.

Voldemort followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed. She saw the fire rise in them as he took in the scar.

"I got this when I was six," she continued, voice fragile but firm. "Grindelwald was just defeated by Dumbledore, and his followers were angry."

Voldemort's eyes remained locked on her scar.

"But your mother is a squib," he said slowly. "You come from a magical family."

Suddenly, Hermione realised something she hadn’t considered. Something that gave her lie even more weight. Voldemort’s mother was a squib. His father a muggle. Was it possible he saw himself in her now? That this similarity—a child caught between worlds—might save her? Or damn her?

"To them it didn’t matter," Hermione replied. "A squib is just as bad as a muggle in their eyes."

She took a deep breath and went on. "So my mother kept me home to protect me from the prejudice. I grew up between the worlds of muggles and wizards. Not enough to be a respected witch, too witchy to be a muggle. I hide because I have no place in either world. I am a ghost, because that's just what I am. I go to the Spellyard because there I can be whoever I want to be."

She looked at him, gaze intense, composed. As she spoke, her hand slid slowly, imperceptibly beneath her dress, toward her thigh. Her fingers found the leather strap—her wand—and quietly closed around it.

"So no, I am not against you... The world is just against me."

As her words still hung in the air, a thought struck her: what if he saw himself in this? He, the boy who grew up in an orphanage, surrounded by a world that didn’t understand his magic. Who only found a place in the wizarding world once he was revealed to be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. Was he not also someone caught between worlds? Had her lie—meant as a survival strategy—accidentally struck a chord?

Maybe, she thought, that would save her.

Or doom her.

But she had no intention of waiting to find out whether her story had been worth his time. Every part of her screamed: now.

Faster than she thought possible, she drew her wand and blasted the room apart with a spell. Furniture flew, parchment scattered like birds. Voldemort was hurled backwards, his cloak flaring in the blast. Before he could curse her, she had already stunned him. His body slumped silently against a bookshelf.

Hermione knew the only reason she had been able to strike him was because he hadn’t known she had her wand. Women didn’t bring wands to galas, Tink had told her disapprovingly when Hermione had strapped hers to her thigh with a leather band. That disapproval—that habit—had saved her.

The element of surprise had been her only weapon. And she knew: if she didn’t leave Malfoy Manor now, she wouldn’t leave it at all.

Adrenaline surged through her as she leapt to her feet. The room spun, but she forced herself to move. She bolted down the hallway, took a deep breath, and swept her wand. In a single fluid motion, she disillusioned herself until she vanished into her surroundings, adding a Notice-Me-Not charm for good measure.

Behind her came shouting. Footsteps. She had seconds—maybe less.

She ran through the corridors like her life depended on it—because it did. Any corner could hide someone. Any door could burst open. Her heels clicked on stone, but with her spells in place, no one seemed to see her. She heard voices—urgent, menacing—but none turned toward her. Not yet.

She grabbed a ledge to keep from slipping on polished marble, her lungs burning. The main hall came into view. She heard pounding footsteps behind her and pushed harder, heart hammering in her chest.

Relief surged as she reached the archway to the entrance hall. She ducked behind a column, waited a heartbeat as a group of guests turned a corner—and sprinted.

The great front doors loomed ahead like a beacon.

She slipped outside, chest heaving, gravel crunching beneath her feet.

She ran, as fast as she could, clutching her gown in both hands. And just as she crossed the boundary of the estate—

She vanished.

Not knowing if anyone was already following her.

Chapter Text

Hermione apparated with a sharp crack into the garden behind her house.

Her heels sank into the damp grass, her breath still coming in shallow, ragged bursts. She had no idea where Voldemort was now. Whether he had followed her. Whether he had sent someone else after her. But that didn’t matter— not yet. She was gone. She had made it.

And then the panic struck.

She had attacked Voldemort. Paralysed him. Escaped. The consequences could be catastrophic. And worse still: she hadn’t only put herself in danger. She had endangered Thea. Tink. Pippin. Everyone in this house—everyone who trusted her, who cared about her. Who had given her a home when she no longer had one. Who didn’t see her as a soldier, or a relic of a war, but as a person. She had sworn to protect them, no matter what. And now she might have placed them directly in the line of fire of the most dangerous wizard in the world. She cursed under her breath, her hands trembling as she turned towards the house.

How had she let this happen?

With her wand still in hand, she immediately began casting spells. First over the garden, then along the property’s perimeter. A mist of protective enchantments rose like a veil: Muffliato. Salvio Hexia. Protego Totalum. Cave Inimicum. Everything she knew. Everything that might help.

She walked, step by step, along the edges of the land, murmuring incantations, tracing lines in the air with her wand. The magic sealed itself around the grounds like a blanket, around everything she held dear. No one would be able to find it. 

She didn’t know if it would be enough. But it was the only thing she could do—protect what she still had left.

And all the while, one thought burned in her mind like a relentless echo:

You should have known better.

Without hesitation, she turned and crept inside, as quietly as she could. She didn’t want to wake anyone. One staircase, a narrow corridor—her feet knew every board, every creaking step she carefully avoided. In her room, she yanked a thick book from the shelf that she had acquired weeks ago from a black market: Sanctum Sanguinis: Ancient Blood Wards and Ritual Protections. She flipped it open to the chapter marked by a ribbon, the words clear in her mind.

There was a ritual that anchored and reinforced protective spells. One so powerful, it could scarcely be broken by conventional magic. The key was intent. And blood.

She hurried back to the garden, wand in one hand, book in the other. Kneeling in the grass, she drew the ritual pattern into the earth with the tip of her wand: a circle, ancient runes, a barrier-etching.

She took a deep breath. Then rolled up her sleeve, aimed her wand at her forearm, and whispered a sharp cutting spell. A thin line opened her skin, just enough to bleed. Not deep—just enough. The blood dripped into the centre of the circle.

"Mea domus, mea vita, meum vinculum," she whispered, her voice trembling with power, fear, and resolve.

The lines lit up. The magic shimmered in the air.

This would protect them. It had to protect them.

"Miss Hermione?"

The voice came from behind her, soft but concerned. Hermione whirled around, wand still raised. There stood Pippin, his ears drooping slightly, his large eyes full of worry.

"What is Miss Hermione doing in the garden with blood and spells?" he asked, his voice high with tension.

Hermione gasped. The sight of his anxious face was the final drop. Her chest hitched and without warning the tears began to flow.

"I... I did something stupid, Pippin," she whispered. "And now... now I’ve put you all in danger."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, but the tears kept coming.

"I’ve cast protective enchantments. Everything I could think of."

Pippin stared at her silently for a moment. Then nodded slowly. "Does Miss Hermione want Pippin to cast spells too?"

Hermione blinked, surprised. "You can?"

Pippin grinned in his usual sly way, his shoulders pulling back with a bit of pride. "Pippin can do many things, if Miss asks. Pippin knows the spells that keep pain outside. Pippin knows where the wind carries scents. Miss only has to say."

Hermione nodded, choking on the lump in her throat. "Do it. Please."

Pippin stretched out his thin arms, closed his eyes, and began to murmur. The air shimmered again.

She watched him, her heart full of gratitude and guilt. "Pippin... please. Don’t tell Thea. Or Tink."

He opened one eye, nodded solemnly. "Pippin tells no one. Pippin speaks only if Miss wishes."

Hermione smiled weakly. "Thank you. Really."

Pippin sniffed softly. "Pippin protects this house. Just like Miss protects us."

As Pippin turned back toward the house, Hermione lingered a moment longer. The spells were spoken, the blood offered, the magic woven. And still her chest felt like a clenching vessel of fear and exhaustion.

She staggered inside, her legs heavy, her head dull. In her room she collapsed onto her bed, still in her dress, her skin sticky with sweat and magic. The tears returned—soft, unending—until her eyes closed and sleep overtook her.

That night she dreamt. Of the office. Of the word branded into her skin. Of Dolohov’s voice, his wand. Of Bellatrix’s hysterical laughter. And of the Voldemort from her own time—ice-cold, serpentine, cruel.

And over and over, that curse: "Crucio."

۞

Hermione didn’t dare leave the grounds. Every morning she scoured the property for any sign that didn’t belong. Every shadow seemed to move too much, every bird too quiet. She slept poorly, barely ate, and kept her wand within reach at all times. Her world had shrunk to the boundaries of the protective field she had cast herself.

She was furious with herself. With her recklessness. How could she have lost control like that? How could she have placed herself—and worse, Thea, Tink, Pippin—in such a vulnerable position? She was an adult. A survivor. She should have known better. But she’d let herself be swept up, provoked, thrown off balance.

And now she was trapped. A prisoner of her own mistakes.

But when a week passed without any sign of retaliation, no rustle at the border, no flash of a black cloak, she began—very cautiously—to hope. Maybe it had worked. Maybe her magic had truly protected them. Maybe her survival instinct had, this time, triumphed over her recklessness.

One early morning, just as she was pouring herself a cup of tea in the kitchen, Thea swept into the room with her usual warm energy. She looked Hermione over, frowned slightly, and poured herself a cup as well.

"You haven’t said a single word about the ball," Thea said eventually, setting her mug on the counter.

Hermione looked up, her hands wrapped around her cup. "There’s not much to tell," she lied.

Thea took a sip, keeping her eyes on Hermione. "Did something happen?"

Hermione shook her head, though her shoulders felt tight. "No. Not really."

There was a short silence. Then Thea asked gently, "Did you perhaps meet someone... someone you enjoy spending time with?"

Hermione’s gaze snapped up. "What do you mean?"

Thea smiled softly. "Sweetheart, you’re a young woman. I don’t expect you to live here forever. Maybe one day, you’ll want to build a life of your own. Do you ever think about that?"

It was a simple question, but to Hermione it felt like a tangle of complexity. Of course she thought about it—what her life should look like, what she wanted to build, how she might give her existence meaning. But every time those thoughts surfaced, they ran into something that stole her breath: the realisation that she might never leave this timeline. That this, strange as it was, had become her life.

It was one thing to know there was no way back. But to fully accept it? To surrender to the idea that this was her new reality? That was something else. It required a kind of peace, a release, that she didn’t yet possess. She was still in survival mode. Alert. Tense. Ready to run, to fight, to vanish.

And deep down, she didn’t know how to let go of that state.

Hermione gripped her cup a little tighter. "I’m perfectly happy here."

Thea nodded slowly, motherly. "I believe you. But being content and truly living are two very different things. You’ve found yourself in a new era, Hermione. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still build a future. Don’t you ever want to meet someone? Get married? Maybe have children?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but no answer came. "I’ve never really thought about it," she said at last.

"Then what did you want, back then? What were your goals?"

Hermione thought of the girl she had once been—determined, fierce, hopeful. That young woman now felt like a ghost from another life. She had grown weary, worn down by the war, but perhaps even more so by what had followed. The battle had shaped her, but the aftermath had hollowed her out. The disappointments, the political resistance, the silence that was forced upon her. It was as though parts of her had withered—not all at once, but slowly. Quietly. And it had been exhausting—the constant fighting, pushing against systems that refused to shift. The more she tried, the more she felt her influence waning. That nothing she did truly seemed to make a difference. The wizarding world hadn’t learned from the war. Not really. There was a superficial peace, but the deep-rooted prejudices, the rigid structures—they remained. And she had burnt herself out trying to change that. The despair had slowly settled in. And with that weariness came the loneliness—the sense that no one stood beside her. That she was alone in her struggle to create a place for every magical being.

Hermione looked at the curl of steam rising from her tea. "I wanted to fight for those without a voice. House-elves. Centaurs. Squibs. But especially muggle-borns. My dream was to create a place where bloodline didn’t matter. Where magic is what makes you a witch or wizard—not who your parents are."

Thea smiled now, her eyes brimming with a mix of pride and sorrow. "That sounds like something the world very much needs."

A memory rose—sharp, bitter. The Ministry, years after the war. The meeting room smelled of old parchment and fresh legislation. Hermione sat there, with her notes, her analyses, her ideals. She was young, but she believed she had earned her place. Or so she thought. Until the interruptions came.

"Miss Granger, we understand your passion, but this isn’t the time," said an older colleague, his voice smooth with politeness and dismissal.

"The war is over," said another, a woman with glasses and a smile that never reached her eyes. "We have to look ahead."

"You mustn’t keep reminding people of what they’d rather forget," someone added. "Focus on what’s achievable. Weren’t you working on a proposal for house-elf legislation?"

Her pleas for muggle-born rights, for structural reform, for education and integration—they disappeared beneath the weight of exhaustion and unwillingness. She wanted to name injustice, but they wanted quiet. Stillness. Forgetting.

And worse: they argued that the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures wasn’t even the right place to fight stigma around muggle-borns. "You’re not suggesting muggle-borns are magical creatures, are you?" someone had said with a mocking laugh. As if the Ministry’s departments were boxes where even her beliefs had to be confined.

It had hurt her deeply. Because how could you build something better, if you weren’t allowed to speak about what had gone wrong? How could you move forward when your past was erased the moment it became uncomfortable? As if her experiences—her scars, her memories—were a burden, a disruptive wrinkle in the polished image of recovery everyone clung to. They wanted peace, yes, but only as long as it was quiet. As long as no one forced them to look again at what was truly broken. And her voice, once so loud, had grown quieter—not because her convictions had faded, but because she was tired of not being heard.

And where Hermione had once had the unconditional support of Ron and Harry, even they had begun to speak more softly over time. Softer advice. Maybe it was time to let go. Harry, now married to Ginny, worked as an Auror and increasingly spoke of peace, of balance. Ron, after a long silence in their friendship, had reappeared in her life—he now lived with Parvati Patil, with whom he had formed an unexpected bond through mourning Lavender. Both had moved on. They wanted her to do the same. "You’ve given enough," Harry had once said. "Maybe it’s time to build something for yourself."

But how do you build something, if you’re not allowed to name the foundation?

When she had landed in this time—the 1960s—she had briefly thought that maybe it could happen here. Here, where Nobby Leach had just been appointed as the first Muggle-born Minister for Magic. Maybe this was the right moment to tackle the foundation. To challenge the stigma against Muggle-borns from another era.

But before she could even properly consider the plan, panic had set in. The idea of having to fight again—once more battling deep-rooted, centuries-old beliefs, pure-blood families who would see her as a threat—it exhausted her. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Instead, she had withdrawn. Clung to the laws of time travel: you must not interfere. You must not be seen. You must not change anything.

She had decided not to exploit her knowledge of the future. Not to bend time to her will. Whether that made her wise or a coward, she didn’t know. Perhaps both.

But it had also been a relief. An escape. An excuse that quieted her conscience while she turned away from the fight she had once believed would define her. She had allowed herself to sink into a life where nothing had to be set right. Where no one saw her as Hermione Granger, the conscience of the war. Where no one reminded her of what she had won—and lost.

For the first time in years, she could fully focus on what intrigued her. Potions. Magic that skirted close to the dark arts. Runes. She had never felt so free to lose herself in her hunger for knowledge—without comment. Without judgement. Without struggle.

But even that held a shadow. For no matter how much space she found, how much rest she granted herself—something still gnawed at her. That perhaps this wasn’t who she truly was, but who she had to become to survive. And sometimes she wondered if the freedom she had claimed was really just weariness in disguise. Whether letting go of the fight had been her choice—or merely her final survival mechanism.

۞

Antonin Dolohov stood in the shadow of a narrow alley on the edge of Diagon Alley, his eyes sharply fixed on the shopfront of Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. The morning was warm and languid, the air shimmering gently above the pavement, but he remained motionless in the shade. He had patience. And he had a reason to be there.

After days of surveillance, he had spotted a pattern: every Friday, a sealed crate was delivered to the apothecary. And according to the information he had extracted from the source—a frightened and chatty clerk—that crate was registered to Hermione Dagworth-Granger.

He hoped to intercept her today.

But to his frustration, it wasn’t the witch herself who appeared, but a ridiculous house-elf in an oversized tunic adorned with beads and embroidery. The creature waddled clumsily to the shop with the crate, muttering occasionally to itself. Dolohov snorted. Such a being would never yield anything useful.

Irritated, he stepped out of the shadows and entered the shop.

The owner of Slug & Jiggers—a slightly portly wizard with spectacles and a hasty nod—looked up as Dolohov pushed open the door.

"The delivery just now," Dolohov said without preamble. "That was from Dagworth-Granger?"

The man gave a pained expression. "I’m afraid I can’t disclose any information about my suppliers, sir."

Dolohov’s lips curved into an almost bored grimace. His patience always had limits, and today they were exceptionally low. His eyes darkened, his tone turned icily calm.

"Then we’ll make an exception," he murmured, slowly raising his wand. "Imperio."

The tension in the shopkeeper’s face melted instantly. His eyes went glassy, his posture slackened unnaturally.

"Tell me everything you know about Hermione Dagworth-Granger," Dolohov commanded softly.

The man nearly smiled. "She delivers a crate of potions every week. The potions are always sealed. The seal is authentic, from the old line of Hector Dagworth-Granger himself. Impossible to forge. The house-elf that sometimes brings the crate calls her ‘mistress’. I don’t know where she resides—everything is handled discreetly."

Dolohov’s eyebrow rose slightly. So it was true. She really was descended from that family.

Over the past week, he had pored over everything he could find on the Dagworth-Grangers. Once an influential pure-blood family, they had fallen into decline due to a string of squib births. No wonder a young witch wouldn’t flaunt the name—if she was the last, she carried both the stigma and the legacy.

Still, something didn’t sit right. There was hardly any information on her. Too little for someone with such a name, such talents. He had even tried to trace the estate of Hector Dagworth-Granger, but despite notes in ancient land registries, he hadn’t been able to locate it. That in itself wasn’t suspicious—many pure-blood families concealed their properties—but it frustrated him.

And he had noticed he wasn’t the only one searching.

Every time he’d lingered near the apothecary this past week, he had felt watched. Not directly, not overtly, but there was movement in the edges. Other eyes. Other plans.

He hadn’t caught anyone yet. Hadn’t followed anyone. But he was sure of it: he wasn’t alone in his hunt for Hermione Dagworth-Granger.

And that made him both wary and intrigued.

Suddenly, his left forearm began to burn. Sharp. Urgent. His Dark Mark. His master was calling.

He cast one last glance at the shopkeeper, who still stood staring blankly ahead, lost in a dreamy trance. With a swift, controlled motion, he raised his wand again. "Obliviate."

The shopkeeper’s eyes flickered. He blinked, shook his head, and seemed to return to the present.

Dolohov was already turning away, striding out of the shop. Outside, in the sunlit street, he clutched his left arm. The pain burned like a brand beneath his skin.

All he needed to do was focus on the mark. It tugged at him—like an invisible hook embedded in his sternum.

With a crack, he disapparated—directly to where his master was.

Dolohov appeared on an open lawn, surrounded by tall hedges and a stately white stone house. Lestrange Manor. He recognised it instantly. The air shimmered with heat and magic, the tension tangible.

Before him, in the middle of the grass, lay Fenrir Greyback, writhing in agony. His growls and howls filled the air like the cries of a wounded beast. Beside him stood Voldemort, his wand extended, his expression a mask of calm fury as he uttered the Cruciatus Curse.

At the edge of the lawn stood Malfoy and Lestrange, arms folded, faces twisted in disgust. Not at the torture—but at the one being tortured.

"Didn’t I tell you to lay low after the debacle with the Lupin family?" Voldemort snarled, his voice razor-sharp. "Didn’t I tell you not to harm young witches and wizards from important families unless I say so?"

Dolohov joined Malfoy and Lestrange in silence, his gaze steady. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

Lestrange gave a curt nod toward Greyback. "He bit Elijah Goldstein’s nephew. The boy’s at Hogwarts. Goldstein has launched a manhunt."

Dolohov’s jaw tightened. Elijah Goldstein—the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A fierce supporter of Leach, the mudblood minister. His influence had been an obstacle to their master’s plans for months.

And now Greyback had given him a cause to champion. A reason to gain sympathy. Just when they had been working to discredit Goldstein—slowly, purposefully, strategically.

Dolohov felt revulsion. Not at the torture. Not at Voldemort’s rage. But at Greyback himself. That half-beast, that vermin, whose filthy motives and uncontrolled impulses undermined everything they were building. Dolohov had always despised werewolves. He had no respect for hunger without control, for violence without purpose. And least of all for Greyback—that repulsive, half-civilised creature who chose beast over brain. Dolohov couldn’t understand why his master even tolerated such beasts. But he was wise enough never to speak that thought aloud. No one questioned the Dark Lord’s decisions. Certainly not him.

Voldemort raised his wand and the torture ceased abruptly. Greyback gasped for breath, his face contorted with pain and confusion.

Voldemort stepped closer, eyes narrowed, voice low but icy. "You disobeyed me. You undermined what we are building. I told you to wait, to act only when ordered. But you let your hunger speak louder than my command."

Dolohov watched, heartbeat steady, fingers loose around his wand. He found this moment beautiful. He believed in order. In discipline. And this—this was order being restored.

Voldemort was at his best when he walked the knife’s edge. Unpredictable. Inhuman. And precisely because of that, he was the only one who could break and rebuild the wizarding world.

And Dolohov? He served with conviction.

"Lestrange," Voldemort said with icy disdain, "put this dog in your cellar. Let him rot until he remembers what it means to obey."

Lestrange curled his upper lip in a grimace of disgust. He raised his wand and, without a word, thick iron chains shot forth, coiling like serpents around Greyback’s body. The werewolf struggled and growled, but had no strength left to resist. Lestrange levitated him and turned silently toward the manor, Greyback’s twisted form floating behind him.

"Malfoy," Voldemort continued. "Go to the Ministry and fix this mess."

Malfoy gave a curt nod, his face tight with displeasure. With a soft crack, he disapparated.

Then Voldemort turned to Dolohov. His gaze was sharp, his tone ominously calm.

"Dolohov, I want you to check on the werewolves. With Greyback out of the picture, I need to be certain they will obey our cause."

Dolohov nodded, ready to disapparate.

But just before he could turn, Voldemort’s voice came again.

"Oh, and Dolohov—did you find her?"

Dolohov shook his head. "Not yet, my Lord." He recounted what he had discovered about Hermione Dagworth-Granger: the deliveries to Slug & Jiggers, the seal of her family, the trail that vanished into magic.

He hesitated. Just long enough for Voldemort to notice.

"What else?" he snapped, eyes narrowing.

"I believe I’m not the only one tracking her," Dolohov answered, cautious but truthful.

Voldemort’s eyes flared, gleaming with menace. "Let me see."

Before Dolohov could react, he felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes. Legilimency. Voldemort’s magic slid into his mind like a blade through silk. Memories flashed: shadows in the alley, movement near the apothecary, the sense of being watched.

And just as abruptly as it had begun, Voldemort withdrew.

"Find her before they do," he hissed, his voice laced with magic so heavy Dolohov nearly lost his balance. "Bring her to me. She is mine."

"Yes, my Lord."

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed since Abraxas Malfoy's birthday, and Hermione still hadn't left the estate. She avoided Diagon Alley in particular, as it was one of the few places where her name could be linked to her. She had Pippin deliver her usual Friday shipment to Slug & Jiggers once again, with a tightly packed chest and a magically sealed note. The risk of being seen — recognised, followed, or worse — was too great.

Not that there had been any sign of Voldemort or his followers since then.

The estate lay quiet. No disruptions in the protective charms. No static in the magical weave around the hills. No flash of red eyes in the shadows of the woods. And still, Hermione didn’t trust it. She knew her attack — her resistance, her threat — would not have been forgotten. And certainly not forgiven.

What he would do — or when — she didn’t know. But she felt it like an expectation under her skin. A tension in the air. Like a storm gathering just beyond the horizon.

She was on guard. But it wasn't only fear that kept her awake.

Since their conversation — that one moment in which he had looked at her as if he had seized her soul, weighed her, and not destroyed her — something in her had shifted. A door had been opened. Or forced open.

It made her restless. Frustrated. As though a string had been struck within her that could no longer be silenced.

And at the same time — all she felt was rage. Every time she remembered how he had thrown her to the floor, how he handed her over to Dolohov without hesitation. How she had screamed, choked on her own tears, while her ribs cracked one by one. That moment had clarified everything. Whatever his presence had awakened in her, it was nothing compared to what he had tried to take from her.

Hermione had no words for the conflict raging inside her — so she gave it no room. She pushed everything away. The confusion, the attraction, the fascination.

What remained was rage. And rage, at least, had direction.

But even the rage wasn't always enough to drown out the other. Because beneath the surface, the questions lingered. The memory of his gaze — penetrating, inhumanly sharp, but not hostile — lingered like an echo. Not of words, but of intent. As if he had recognised her. Not as an enemy. Not as a follower. But as an equal.

And that might have been the most dangerous part. That she had felt seen. Seen, in a world that usually only tolerated her as long as she kept herself silent. He had not limited her. Not corrected her. Not dismissed her as a girl, a mudblood, a threat. He had looked at her the way someone looks at an unfamiliar formula: with calculation, but also with genuine interest.

She hated him. With everything in her. And still — there was something about that attention, the seriousness of his focus, that had stayed with her with a raw intensity. She wanted it to be just disgust. Just hatred. But somewhere in the hollows of her chest was something else. Something that felt like hunger. Like recognition. Like a desire she didn’t dare name aloud.

And that made her furious with herself.

So she did what she always did when emotions confused her: she avoided them. She fled into rhythm, into routine. These past weeks she had filled her days with actions that were manageable, tangible. She baked cakes with Pippin — large, sticky ones that made the whole house smell of vanilla and cinnamon. She experimented with make-up with Tink, laughing at the result when her lashes fluoresced and her lips turned blue on their own. She weeded the vegetable garden with Thea until her hands smelled of earth and her head felt quiet. She brewed her potions for Slug & Jiggers with more precision than ever.

But above all: she read. For hours, until her eyes stung and her back cramped. She delved into the books in her room — old, banned works; handwritten manifestos by forgotten thinkers; dark studies on incantations, spell structures, and magical ethics. All to quiet the storm within her. Or, if that failed, at least give it a direction.

On a grey summer morning, with the rain tapping in thin streams against the glass and the house heavy with damp and silence, Hermione found herself in her room. She was organising the bookshelves — not out of necessity, but from an inexplicable urge to structure something outside herself.

It wasn’t a conscious choice, more a reaction to the mounting unrest in her body. Her fingers slid along the spines, some familiar, others forgotten. Until her hand stopped at a small, leather-bound booklet, barely larger than her hand.

The booklet was black, the edges roughly worn, and there was no title on the cover. She knew immediately what it was.

The booklet she had taken from Knockturn Alley, fleeing from La Main de Mercure. In the chaos, she had held it tightly against her. Afterwards, it had ended up on the shelf — forgotten, or rather: ignored.

Now it lay in her hands. Heavy, as if it was aware of her attention.

She opened it.

Runes. Not modern, not classical. Something old. Twisted.

The symbols seemed to move on the page. Not literally — no shivering or quivering — but on a deeper level, as if their shapes rewrote themselves as you watched. When her eyes focused on a symbol, it grew vague, erased at the edges of her vision, while new lines emerged elsewhere. Sometimes the runes changed orientation, seemed to fold into each other or split into new, unknown shapes. For a moment, she even thought one symbol looked back at her.

She tried an identification spell. Her wand gave a jolt, and the ink on the page darkened to a deep, sooty black. The spell turned on her, like a smoke ring trying to crawl back into her lungs. She coughed and wiped her hand over the page, but the effect remained.

Hermione frowned and picked up her quill. She dipped it in ink and placed the tip on the parchment, directly on one of the runes. Before she could apply pressure, the tip snapped with a dry crack.

She grabbed a pencil — something mundane, Muggle — and tried to trace a line. But as soon as the graphite touched the parchment, the line flowed away as if the paper were alive. The rune slipped from beneath her hand, escaping like a fish between fingers.

As if the book resisted. As if it resisted interpretation, ownership. As if it wanted only the chosen to understand it.

"You don't want to be read," she whispered softly.

But her fingers tightened around the cover. That made it all the more inescapable.

She began transcribing the symbols, over and over. First on parchment, then on thin strips of silk she used in ritual spells. The first hours offered no new answers. But she kept trying — patient, meticulous, almost obsessive. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the book began to open itself.

Runes that had previously faded now lingered. Symbols that once seemed to hide appeared clearly when her hand hovered above them. Her breath quickened each time something new emerged — a line, a name, a fragment of an instruction. It felt as though the book was beginning to acknowledge her. As though it was testing her, and she — unknowingly — was beginning to pass.

She read until her eyes watered, her neck stiffened, her stomach rumbled with hunger. But she didn’t feel it. The only thing that mattered was the stream of magic pulsing beneath her fingertips.

Something inside her was awakening — a glow, deep within. Not of joy, not of triumph, but of power. Of potential. Her wand lay idle on the table, but it felt as though her entire body had become a magical instrument. As if the magic didn’t just surround her, but inhabited her.

She began to murmur small spells. Words that seemed to come from the book without her realising when she had learned them. Her tongue shaped sounds that could not be translated but made her bones resonate.

The room changed with her. Shadows moved more subtly. The candle on her bedside flickered in a rhythm that didn’t match the fire. Her mirror fogged up, though there was no steam. Something — something — was watching.

She felt no fear. No hesitation. Only focus.

As if she were being cut open and filled at the same time. As if the book wasn’t merely sharing information, but itself — its nature, its will. As if it was forging a pact with her, slowly, wordlessly.

And she let it.

The days blurred. Later, she couldn’t recall exactly how many had passed. Sometimes it was already dark when she realised she hadn’t eaten. Other times she fell asleep over the book, her cheek pressed to the parchment, only to wake with fragments of runes in her mind she could no longer place. Time lost its grip, just like her usual routines. Even the voices of Thea, Pippin, and Tink seemed further away, as if she were underwater — a place where everything slowed, distorted, and fell eerily quiet.

It was close to midnight when a soft knock came at the door. First once. Then twice.

“Is Miss Hermione being in there, please, if she is?”

Pippin’s voice was cautious, but undeniably concerned. Without waiting for a response, he cracked the door open and peeked into the room.

She barely looked up. The book lay open before her, a new set of runes pulsing faintly on the parchment.

“Miss hasn’t eaten,” Pippin squeaked. “Tink and I made stew with celeriac and thyme, just for you, yes indeed. But the tea… the tea has gone cold now, sadly.”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “I’m not hungry.”

“But Miss must eat something,” he said, ears pricked. “Pippin sees it, oh yes. Miss has been at it for days, for days! And Miss looks… different. Not bad, no no — but tired. And a bit… shiny, maybe.”

Hermione sighed, annoyed, turning her gaze away. She felt irritation bubble up inside her. Why could no one ever just let her read? Why did someone always have to pull her out of her focus, as if her intellect were a luxury rather than a necessity? It reminded her painfully of the moments with Ron and Harry, and later Ginny too, who interrupted her endless study marathons with jokes, sighs, or the eternal question of whether she “really wasn’t coming to lunch.”

She wanted to snap at Pippin. To send him away. But when she saw his face — the drooping ears, the large, watery eyes and the sadness in them — her anger deflated like air from a punctured balloon.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and closed the book with a soft thud. “You’re right. I… I just lost track of everything.”

Pippin brightened immediately. “Miss will come downstairs for a moment, yes? One bowl of stew, warm and soft, made just for Miss. And then… then Miss goes to bed.”

Hermione gave a faint smile. “One bowl.”

Together they went down to the kitchen. The stew had been kept warm with a simple heating charm and gave off a hearty, herbal aroma that made her stomach clench unexpectedly. Pippin proudly served himself a second helping and chattered about the recipes he still wanted to try. Hermione half-listened, but felt her muscles slowly unwind. She ate. And even laughed, briefly.

Afterwards, she took Pippin’s advice and went to bed. She pulled the covers over herself, closed her eyes… but sleep wouldn’t come.

Something inside her had built up. Something that wanted to move, to flow, to break free. The runes still danced behind her eyelids. Her skin felt stretched too tightly over an inner heat. She couldn’t find rest.

So, as the first light crept in and the birds began their tentative morning song, Hermione rose. She dressed in silence, took the booklet and her wand, and left the house. The air was cool and damp from the night’s rain.

She didn’t think about where she was going. She Disapparated.

To the forest. To the place where she had once learned to survive. To the Forest of Dean.

The morning mist hung heavy between the trees, like a breath not quite exhaled. Dew glittered on the ferns, the ground felt soft and sodden beneath her boots. The forest smelled of wet wood, moss, and something more elusive — a scent that recalled something only noticed in childhood and then forgotten. The sun climbed slowly above the treetops, its light filtered into gold-green shafts through the canopy. The Forest of Dean looked just as she remembered — as if time had never touched it. No traces of war, no changes wrought by human hands. The same ferns, the same gnarled tree roots, the same scent of damp earth and resin.

It was remarkable, almost moving. For the past eighteen months, she had been constantly struck by how different everything was in this past: the people, the streets, the atmosphere. But here, in the forest, the world still seemed unspoiled. Untouched by history. Nature knew no timeline. Only presence.

She walked without haste. The booklet sat firmly in her bag, as if it breathed with her steps.

Her thoughts drifted back to earlier mornings here — to her parents, to the summer holidays where she meticulously organised her camping gear and spent sleepless nights studying constellations from a folding chair. To the scent of suncream mixed with pine sap. To how safe it had felt, so far from everything.

And later — to Ron and Harry. To that one long, dark year when this forest had been their refuge and prison alike. How different she had been then. Sharp, determined, exhausted to the bone, but with a moral compass that still stood upright.

And now? She no longer knew. Only that something had to be released. Or found. Or both.

She searched for a clearing among the trees, where the light reached the forest floor in trembling patches. The air was still, almost solemn. A faint breeze moved through the leaves, as if the forest were holding its breath.

Slowly, as if crossing a threshold, she took out her wand and the booklet. Her fingers slid over the leather cover — it felt warm, like skin. Living skin.

She sat in the moss for a long while, crouched, saying nothing, doing nothing. She wasn’t exactly sure what she had come here to find — only that she had to come. That she needed to touch something that had been building inside her since she first opened the book. Perhaps she hoped to find answers, or strength, or simply confirmation that she wasn’t going mad. Perhaps she was trying to build a bridge between the runes on her skin and the knowledge in the book. But somewhere, deep down, there was something else too: a longing for connection with magic itself. A magic that no longer obeyed, but pulsed — that sought her out, instead of the other way around.

She didn’t think about the dangers. She didn’t see this as dangerous. Not really. She had no plan, no outcome in mind. She was simply… searching. For understanding. For direction. For a voice in the silence.

Just the book in her hands. Just the circle of trees around her. In that silence, something began to stretch within her. Not physically, but in her awareness. As if her mind was adjusting to a larger space.

Only then did she begin to draw. The circle formed slowly: a pattern of runes, carved into the earth with her wand. Each line was drawn slowly, with care. She took her time. Let her breath align with each curl, each hook, each symmetrical incision. This was no spell. This was a ritual.

When she spoke, it was soft, almost a whisper. Not to keep anything secret, but because it couldn’t be otherwise. Over each rune she murmured a sound. Not loud, not forceful — but precise, intimate. Like words that only existed at the moment they were spoken.

And the strangest part was: she didn’t understand them. Not truly. The language was unfamiliar to her, and yet the sounds flowed effortlessly from her tongue, as though her body knew them before her mind could grasp them. It didn’t sound like Latin, nor like any of the classical rune dialects. It was deeper, older. As if she spoke in an accent that wasn’t hers, but spoke through her. She heard herself form words that felt alien, and yet familiar. As if the book was speaking through her — or had chosen her as its voice.

The book lay open beside her, still and black — but slowly, the pages began to unfurl. Not abruptly, but like leaves responding to sunlight. New patterns revealed themselves. Ink flowed from old lines and formed new ones. She felt her heartbeat quicken, but not from fear. It was anticipation. Hunger.

The circle wasn’t closed yet, but the magic was already reaching for her. She felt it beneath her fingertips: a vibration, hesitant at first, then more distinct. It was as though she wasn’t summoning the magic, but was being woven into a rhythm that already existed — as if she was finally tuning into the right frequency.

When she let her wand glide over the final symbols, she felt it: the circle closed. A slow pulse rose from the earth. The runes on her back began to respond. First tingling, then glowing. Not painful, but intense. Like sunlight clinging to skin. The power built, surged through her, to her chest, her throat, her crown.

She opened her hands and laid them flat on the ground. Something addressed her. No voice. No language. But something that knew her. Knew her deeply. Something that didn’t want to control her — but recognise her. Like a mirror in which she saw something she hadn’t yet dared to acknowledge.

She began to tremble. But it wasn’t fear. It was recognition.

She held steady.

The symbols in the circle began to resonate with the earth — a ripple passed through the moss like a wave. As if the ground beneath her knew something ancient was being called. She kept speaking, words whose meaning she didn’t know. The air grew heavy, like before a thunderstorm. Every sound seemed to vanish into the weight of the moment.

She felt herself pronounce an occult spell — not fully understood, but powerful, primeval. The magic didn’t pass through her like a channel. She was filled. Consumed. Inhabited. Not a conductor, but a vessel. She absorbed instead of directed.

The runes on her back glowed. Her breath quickened. Her magic felt larger — and less her own. As though she had unleashed something that now moved through her as well.

She lost time.

The trees seemed to lean in toward her. The air bent, as if the world had tilted slightly off its axis. And then the whispering began — not in words, but in intent. It crawled along her spine, filled the space behind her eyes.

Something wanted to use her. Or speak through her.

She felt the weight of that presence settle more firmly in her, like a hand on her chest, like fingers in her mind. The book no longer merely showed her — it directed her. The words that spilled from her mouth suddenly felt sharp — too sharp. As though she were slicing her lips on the force of the sounds.

And something in her resisted.

Her fingers dug deeper into the soil. Her breathing turned ragged. She tried to stop speaking, but her mouth kept moving. The spell wanted more. The magic demanded more. The booklet opened further, pages flashing by, but she saw nothing now — only light, black and silver and red.

“No,” she whispered. First in her mind. Then aloud. “No.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, grabbed her wand, and slashed it through the circle as if cutting a thread.

The circle broke.

It was as if a storm withdrew into her, as if a wave had pulled back to sea and left her empty on the wet sand.

She opened her eyes. Her hands trembled. Her throat burned.

There was a bite on her forearm — small, but deep. The tissue around it was turning black, as though the veins themselves had been poisoned. She had no idea where it had come from. She had seen nothing. Heard nothing.

Her notes lay scattered around her, half-charred. The ink on the parchment had faded to smudges. The booklet — the booklet itself — had gone quiet. Its pages blank, as if it had retreated or spent everything it had.

Panic rose in her, raw and piercing — but it didn’t stop at panic. It was as if she had suddenly woken from a dream that had lasted for days. Everything that had led to this — the days in her room, the whispering of the book, the pulse of magic — no longer felt like memory, but like hallucination. As if she had been a spectator to her own actions, trapped in her own mind, while something else had steered her body. She no longer knew when she had last thought clearly. When she had last truly been herself.

She tried to think, rationally, the way she always had. But her thoughts slipped, her logic swallowed by the echo of what had just happened. What did the bite on her arm mean, turning dark as soot, deep in her skin? What had she unleashed? And more importantly — how could she ever begin to understand what had truly occurred when even her memory felt like torn parchment?

She didn’t dare return home. Not like this. Not with this energy in her body, which felt foreign, as if something was still reverberating inside her. She couldn’t bring this darkness inside. Not to Thea, who could dissect her with a single glance. Not to Pippin, whose wide eyes always saw too much. Not to Tink, who would smell it, touch her, and perhaps understand what she herself couldn’t yet express. She couldn’t drag them into this.

This… this didn’t belong in a kitchen with stew. Not in a house with floral blankets over the armchairs and teacups washing themselves in the sink.

This belonged nowhere.

She rubbed her arms, as if she could wipe away the glow, shake off the threat. Who could help her? Who would understand what she couldn’t grasp herself? She thought of Hogwarts professors, of books, of all she had ever learned, and knew: this was far beyond it all. This was magic that refused to be explained.

The Mercury flickered through her thoughts — a name, a possibility, a line not to be crossed. But she shook it off. No. She would never go down that path.

Zoltan then. Not because he belonged in this, and certainly not because she thought he would understand. But because — of all the people in this time — he might be the closest thing to someone who could read the language of the runes. Someone who studied magic without flinching from what it might become.

She had no idea how to reach Zoltan. Or if he was even still in England. She had no lead, no address, no plan. Just one name — and a growing certainty that she couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

Which meant only one thing:

Beatrice would be receiving a second unannounced visit from Hermione.

Chapter Text

After she had cleansed the forest — carefully erased every trace of the ritual, broken the circle, and blurred her own magical signature into unrecognizability — Hermione disappeared quietly among the trees. She walked with the booklet clutched tightly to her chest, her fingers white with pressure. Her thoughts spun, her stomach clenched, but her legs kept moving, as if driven by something other than her will.

She apparated to London with only one name in her mind. The alley was narrow and slanted, damp with morning air, and smelled of rotting fruit and shadow. She stood there, pale and hollow-eyed, before the door to Beatrice’s workshop. She had barely washed, her hair pinned up in messy curls, her hands trembling slightly. Her wand felt heavier than usual.

She knocked three times. Harder than necessary.

Beatrice opened with a wary look, but it quickly shifted to surprise when she saw Hermione.

"Rhiannon," she said slowly. "What in Merlin's name—"

"Is Zoltan still in England?" Hermione cut her off sharply. Her voice was hoarse and louder than intended. "I need to speak to him."

Beatrice’s shoulders visibly stiffened. Her hand hovered on the door handle, as if unsure whether to allow this encounter to continue. Her eyes scanned Hermione — the rigid stare, the trembling hands, the feverish flush in her cheeks. "You look as if you haven’t slept in a week," she said cautiously, her voice low and measured, as if one wrong word might make everything explode.

"No shit," Hermione snapped. She stepped past her without waiting for an invitation.

Beatrice closed the door gently behind her and followed her into the familiar workspace. "Rhiannon... your eyes—"

"What about my eyes?" Hermione asked impatiently.

Beatrice swallowed. "They’re flickering… black."

Hermione felt a jolt of panic — and immediately after: anger. Not just from herself, but something almost outside herself. As if a flame burned beneath her ribs, flaring whenever she was confronted. She clenched her fists. "Call him. Quick."

Beatrice didn’t hesitate any longer. She drew her wand, murmured a spell, and a Patronus shot out through the open window — a lynx, silvery and graceful. It darted into the sky.

No more than five minutes passed before Zoltan appeared in a cloud of smoke from the fireplace. His eyes flicked quickly from Beatrice to Hermione — and settled on her face, then her arm.

"What in..." he began, but Hermione interrupted by slamming the black booklet onto the table. It snapped open on a scorched page.

Zoltan looked at it, frowned — and began to leaf through it slowly. His expression shifted from intrigued to surprised, and finally to sheer disbelief.

Then he started to laugh. Softly at first. Then with ragged breaths.

"This... this book? You... you have it? You know how many people — real ones, real practitioners — they are searching, for years, yes? Is... is one of kind. I would give... my left hand, truly, for—"

"I don't care," Hermione snapped. "Tell me how to get rid of that bite."

Zoltan’s grin faded slowly. His fingers still rustled against the brittle edge of a scorched page, but his eyes narrowed, and it was clear something had begun to form behind his forehead. He looked from the book to Hermione’s face, to her arm, back to the book.

"You... you used this book?" His voice came rough, suddenly low. His gaze sharpened. "Rhiannon. Do not say me you did this. Please not say this!"

Hermione curled her lip into a mocking smile. "No, Zoltan, I brought it along to cuddle with. Of course I used it."

His eyes drifted from her forearm to her eyes — and stayed there. The seriousness in his expression deepened. His pupils narrowed as if he saw something he didn’t like.

"Fir-ar," he whispered in zijn eigen taal.

Beatrice said something in Romanian — fast, tense. Zoltan responded just as sharply. Within seconds, it escalated into a heated argument, words slicing through the air like knives. Hermione couldn’t understand a thing, but the tone was unmistakable: concern, indignation, blame. Beatrice gestured wildly with her hands, pointed sharply at Hermione once, as if to present her current state as evidence. Zoltan seemed to defend himself, hands raised, his voice lower but with a cutting intensity.

Hermione felt her jaw clench. She knew they were talking about her. That much needed no translation. And she didn’t like it. She hated feeling excluded — especially when it was about her. Her fingertips tingled.

And then, without warning, she felt it again.

The anger. Rising from her diaphragm, dark and hot, as if it were writhing out of something that wasn’t hers, but coursed through her like poison. She tried to push it away, to regain control — but it was like a storm in a glass.

Glass vials on the workbench shattered. One by one. With sharp, cracking sounds, the glass exploded. Shards ricocheted against the wooden floor. Beatrice recoiled. Zoltan froze.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Her breathing was rapid. Her hand trembled around her wand.

"Stop it," she hissed. At herself. Or at something else.

Beatrice stepped back, her hand raised as if to shield herself from what was coming. Her eyes flicked between Hermione and the shards on the floor.

"Get out," she shouted suddenly. "Out of my shop. Now! I don’t want you here again, do you hear me? Never again!"

The words struck like a slap. Hermione felt a fresh surge of something rise — a reflex to snap back, to lift her wand — something dark, something that wasn’t quite her but twisted through her like a current.

She didn’t want to hurt Beatrice. But she wanted to.

The thought shocked her. She stumbled back, eyes wide with horror. Without another word, she turned and rushed out of the workshop, slamming the door behind her.

Moments later, Zoltan appeared in the alley. He had followed her. He took her hand, firm but without force. "Do not worry," he said. "I know where we go."

They disapparated.

They landed on a vast, open property, far from civilisation. An old farmhouse loomed through the mist, with peeling paint, warped eaves, and a neglected yard. The grass was dry, the land parched, and the sky above heavy with promise.

It looked abandoned — until movement stirred at the doorway.

Dolohov.

Hermione froze. Her breath caught. Something inside her snapped.

"You," she snarled, so filled with hate it seemed to split the air. Everything she had suppressed, everything she felt — it surged out. Her vision sharpened. Every line turned razor-clear. Nothing existed but him.

She wanted to hurt him. Make him feel what he had done to her. Every rib, every scream, every memory. From this time and her own.

She grabbed her wand. Spells flew from her like fire. No warning, no control. Just force. One darker than the next — slicing hexes, chains of black energy, ancient curses she barely understood but now spoke effortlessly.

"Rhiannon, stop!" Zoltan shouted. He threw himself between them, and with a swift movement, he conjured a shield — wide and shimmering — between her and Dolohov.

Zoltan yelled: "Get your master, Dolohov!"

She saw Dolohov reach for his forearm. His fingers pressed the Dark Mark. His eyes remained fixed on her, but his gaze had changed. No longer cool and calculating, but sharp, tense. He saw the danger now — in her eyes, her posture, her magic. A flicker of hesitation passed over his face. As if only now he realised he stood before someone who was losing her grip on herself.

Hermione tried to break through Zoltan’s shield, but her spells rebounded. She growled with frustration, her breath ragged, her hands burning with heat.

It felt like there was no way back.

And then he appeared.

Not with sound. Not with smoke. But with a silence that overshadowed everything. For a split second, the air itself seemed to freeze — as if even the wind held its breath. Voldemort didn’t materialise; he arrived, with a certainty that bent the space around him. As though the world made room for him.

He wore no ornaments, no cloak of grandeur, yet something about his silhouette radiated authority. The darkness gathered around him, not because he summoned it, but because it belonged to him. His eyes glowed like carved fire, and his face was untroubled, almost serene — but anyone looking could feel the power pulsing behind his gaze. Power, tight and flawlessly controlled.

Even the magic in the air responded. Hermione’s skin tingled, her runes glowed faintly. Something in her recognised him — or was it the other way around?

Voldemort looked from Dolohov to the shield, and then to her.

Hermione had lowered her wand. Not out of calm — but from shock. His arrival had quelled her rage, like a storm suddenly suffocated. She looked at him as though he was the only one in the world. The power he radiated drew her like a magnet, inescapable. Something in her — that strange, dark thing — recognised him. Not as an enemy, but as an equal.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but her body was frozen. Inside, she wrestled to reclaim control over herself, her thoughts, her breath, her will. It felt like she had to take her body back from something that had barely made room for her.

Voldemort stepped closer. His movements were slow, but heavy with menace. His gaze slid across her face, but settled on her eyes — and there, a frown appeared. His attention shifted to her forearm. Without a word, he seized it, rough but measured. He raised her arm and examined the bite.

"Who did this to you?" he growled, his voice low, threatening, thick with a fury not meant for her.

Hermione started to laugh. Softly at first — a tremor in her throat — but it grew into a raw, almost hysterical laugh. It sounded like she was teetering on the edge of something: madness or revelation, she couldn’t tell. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed immediately. Alarmed. Cautious.

Hermione didn’t know if it was her laughing, or the thing inside her. It felt as if something else used her throat, forced her mouth into a smile. The bite on her arm burned.

And then the anger returned. Brutal and insistent. She looked at Voldemort and remembered everything — how he had let her be tortured. How he had tried to invade her mind. Something inside her hissed with hatred, and she no longer knew whether it was her own voice, or something that had taken root in her magic.

She moved like a storm: the first spell from her wand was a flaming whip of fire that cracked towards Voldemort’s feet. He dodged with a single step, but the heat scorched his robes. Immediately followed a cascade of jagged stones, ripped from the earth — fast, sharp — thundering towards him.

Voldemort barely raised his wand, but a force field dulled the impact. His eyes gleamed, not with anger — but with something like... excitement.

Hermione’s next strike was a twin curse: to the left an acid hex whistling through the air, to the right a gust of cold wind that glazed the ground with ice. Her magic was bursting with contradiction — fire and water, light and shadow. Elemental power crashing over him like it had waited in her for years.

He shattered the acid wave with a spell that turned it to smoke, and stepped aside from the freezing blast. His face tightened. His eyes burned brighter.

Hermione shouted an incantation — unknown, coarse — and a circle of lightning burst at her feet. She raised her wand and drove it forward: a surge of electricity arced towards Voldemort like a whip of light.

He ducked; his cloak smoked again.

She laughed. High, exhilarated. The thing inside her laughed too — shrieking, exultant. She felt drunk on power, lifted beyond herself, her fingertips tingling with energy.

A spell raised the roots of a tree, writhing like tentacles of soil and wood. Voldemort blasted them apart with a detonation that shook the leaves from their branches.

She moved as if weightless. Spells spun from her like storm ribbons. A spin — her curls flying — and a spell of pure darkness snuffed the light between them.

Then flame curled from her wand, circling him like a serpent — but now he was laughing. Not amused — but recognising.

His eyes glowed, not with admiration, but hunger. Threat. He tasted her power and the flavour stirred him awake. There was something predatory in his look — eager, calculating. No smile, no praise. Just the silent acknowledgement that she was becoming a force to reckon with.

His next shield was broad, calm, but taut — as though he didn’t want to stop the fight, but stretch it. Explore it. Savour her loss of control as she discovered her strength.

Hermione felt like she was burning up — and stronger than ever.

And she — or it — wanted more.

Voldemort blocked her easily, but his expression was tight. Serious. He moved little, only when needed. When he struck back, it was with precise, focused force — no buildup, no theatrics. Only power.

"Zoltan," he said, not taking his eyes off her, "draw a Sigil of Binding. Quick. Use blood if you must — but make it hold."

Zoltan hesitated, then nodded and began tracing a circle into the earth with his wand — a Corda Tenebris, the Black Grip — an archaic binding sigil, so old it survived only in faded manuscript fragments. It could trap not just entities, but anchor them temporarily within their host, ready for expulsion or negotiation. He murmured in a whisper, Latin laced with Old Magic.

Hermione kept attacking, her movements almost dance-like in their fury. Her hair had come loose, her eyes gleamed pitch black.

"You handed me to him," she spat at Voldemort, and a slicing curse skimmed his shoulder. "You let him torture me like an animal."

"And yet you came to me, Hermione," he said, voice low and calculating. "I wonder if you even realise what you've become."

She screamed, unleashing a devouring curse that made the air itself convulse. Magic crashed around them like a battlefield. Stones shattered, the ground cracked beneath them. Voldemort stepped back, his robes billowing from the force.

He retaliated with a bolt of lightning, sharp and destructive. Hermione rolled aside, landed on one knee, and struck forward with her wand — a shattering curse that made the magic around them scream.

She was faster. Faster than he had expected. A plume of smoke erupted from her wand and morphed mid-air into shards of glass, hurtling at him with blinding speed. Voldemort summoned a shield — but it cracked under the pressure.

She followed instantly with a quake spell. The earth trembled and split, fractures running like scars in every direction. He lost balance for a breath — and she seized it: a blazing dagger shot from her free hand, a focused beam of magic, sharp as light. He blocked it, but his eyes now blazed with something close to rapture.

"Show me," he whispered, almost satisfied. "I want to see how deep you burn," as he twisted away, deflected her spell, and sent a thin jet of darkness hissing back at her.

Hermione dodged, her feet barely touching the ground. She hovered — lifted by her power. She spoke a spell she didn’t know, and the air thickened, heavy, as if time itself was slowing.

Voldemort walked through that weight. His spells grew more dangerous, no longer defensive, but commanding. But her fury made her unstoppable. She hurled a spell that split the sky with thunder — a fountain of lightning speared down, striking just beside him.

He laughed now. Brief. Sharp. As if he was drinking in her rage.

Dolohov circled them warily, his wand raised, his eyes fixed on Hermione as if he expected her to leap at him any second. But every time he moved closer, Voldemort slowly turned his head and, without looking away from Hermione, growled, "She is mine."

Dolohov backed off, but his hand remained clenched around his wand, knuckles white. The ground beneath them pulsed faintly — the sigil now visible like a brand beneath the surface. And Hermione, blinded by fury and magic, didn’t even notice.

Her spells grew more erratic, more powerful. The air around her quivered, smoke rose from her skin as if her body could no longer contain the energy. Her eyes were black whirlpools, her voice bursting with ancient tongues, with hunger. Voldemort kept pressing her, calm counterattacks, his expression unreadable — except in his eyes. There it burned. Threat. Desire. Something like admiration, but colder, more calculating.

Voldemort stepped back, guiding her — step by step — exactly where Zoltan was finishing the circle.

She stumbled into it without realising, thrown off balance by her final strike. Voldemort seized the moment — in a flash he knocked her wand aside, his free hand already outstretched. He grabbed her shoulder, twisted her body with brutal precision, and used her momentum to drive her to the ground. His wand moved like an extension of his will — a sharp, swift tap to her wrist sent her weapon spinning through the air. She landed heavily within the circle, right in the heart of the runes, the parched grass flattened by the force of her fall.

She thrashed, screamed, cursed. But he was faster. He was on top of her, knees on either side of her hips. One hand clamped around her throat, not to choke, but to hold her down.

"Dolohov! Her wrists!"

Dolohov lunged forward, grabbed Hermione’s wrists and pinned them to the earth, just outside the circle. His grip was rough, but unwavering.

Voldemort leaned over her. His wand touched her chest, his mouth moved. The words he spoke sounded like echoes of a forgotten language. And Hermione — Hermione recognised them. Not literally, but in tone, in vibration, in intent. It was the language of that morning. Of the book. Of the thing still pulsing inside her.

Then the pain hit.

It started deep in her chest, as if her heart was being turned inside out, wrung by invisible hands. The runes on her back burned like fire, her forearm felt as though glass crawled through her veins. She screamed. Her back arched off the ground, but Voldemort’s hand held her throat firmly down. She writhed, tried to break free, but her body no longer obeyed — as if the entity inside her was fighting too.

Voldemort continued the incantation, undisturbed, his face taut with focus. Each syllable was a dagger in her nervous system. The air around her began to shimmer, like heat over stone.

She bit her tongue from the pain. Her legs shook. She felt something come loose — but it didn’t leave her quietly. It clawed, bit, raked its way inward as it was pulled out.

She wanted to scream for him to stop, that it was too much — but her throat was locked, the words wouldn’t come.

There was nowhere to go.

All she could do was look — and she looked at him. At his eyes.

While the spells kept coming, while the pain flooded through her like fire in bone, she clung to one constant. His eyes. Deep, sharp, unwavering. She didn’t know why, but they grounded her. An anchor, in the chaos.

She felt no warmth. No pity. But she did feel something she hadn’t expected: safety.

As if he could hold her in place at the moment she was about to disappear. As if he alone was strong enough to do this — to pull her out, bring her back. She didn’t know where the feeling came from. Only that it was there.

And that it kept her anchored.

Slowly, the pain began to shift. Not disappear — not yet — but soften. The pressure behind her eyes eased, the heat in her spine became bearable. She felt something dislodge inside her, not violently like it had entered, but grudgingly. As if the entity clung one last time, resisted the separation — and then, with a hiss and invisible tear, was ripped out.

Her back sank into the earth. Her breath came in gasps, broken but deeper. Dolohov’s fingers barely relaxed on her wrists, but her body had given up the fight.

And in the emptiness left behind — in the silence that followed the storm — she felt hollow.

And relieved.

She wanted to speak, but her lips wouldn’t move. The world tilted, the light shifted, her vision blurred. Her breathing came too slow or too fast, she couldn’t tell. Everything inside her felt drained, emptied, as if even her thoughts had gone quiet.

Her eyes rolled back. Her head lolled to the side. And then everything went black.

Zoltan stood at the edge of the circle, his face tight with effort and awe. He had watched the entire scene — the duel, the exorcism, the pain — with a mix of fascination and reverence. He barely knew Rhiannon. No — Hermione, he corrected himself. But there was something about her that intrigued him — something dark and brilliant at once. Her potential, her power, the way she unleashed her magic as if discovering it anew: it was terrifying. Beautiful, too. Something he had never seen before.

He swallowed when he saw her eyes return to their natural hue — the blackness dissolving into the brown flecked with gold he remembered.

And only when her eyes shut, when her body went limp in the circle, did he see something he hadn’t expected.

Voldemort was still atop her, his wand lowered, his face unreadable. But with a surprisingly gentle motion, he brushed a strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered at her temple. Then he leaned in, placed two fingers to her neck to check her pulse. His gaze stayed fixed on her as if needing confirmation that she was still there.

"What in Salazar’s name was that?!" Dolohov exclaimed, his voice sharp with shock and disgust.

"That," said Voldemort, rising slowly from Hermione’s body, "was a Saarnivaara Binding."

Dolohov scowled. "A what?"

Zoltan drew a slow breath, eyes still on the booklet. "A ritual, yes, made by Veikko Lounela," he said. "A... eh, Finnish sorcerer, yes, known... for bindings, elemental, and dark... eh, how you say, transfer of things. His writings — very cursed, yes, very — they hide, protect themselves. They choose who can read, not everyone, no. And this Saarnivaara Binding... is very bad, very danger. It no just channel power — no — it say to power, come in! Live in caster!"

Voldemort nodded slowly, his gaze still on Hermione. "And she performed it. Without training. Without protection."

Zoltan didn’t answer immediately. His eyes traced the scorched edges of the parchment. "That... that she is still alive... is, eh, not thinkable. Not possible, no."

"It’s more than that," Voldemort said, voice soft but charged. "It means she was accepted."

"What does that mean?" Dolohov asked, his eyes darting between the booklet and Hermione’s motionless form.

Voldemort turned his head slowly to him. "It means the entity accepted her. She was deemed worthy — not just as a vessel, but as a match. I tore it from her, yes — but a shadow of that magic will remain. Like a scar."

He dropped to his knees beside Hermione and examined her arm. The blackened bite was gone; what remained was red, irritated skin, like a burn without fire. With a fluid flick of his wand, a healing glow spread across her skin. The mark faded slowly, leaving only pale flesh behind.

"That scar will change her," he said quietly, more to himself than the others. "Make her magic more reactive. More emotional. More... susceptible."

His fingers lingered a moment longer on her skin. "The dark will recognise her now," he continued. "And she will feel it stir more often than before."

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up in silence.

No voices, no movement. Only the soft rustling of wind through an open window and the high, repetitive whistle of a bird she didn’t recognise. Her eyes opened slowly. The room was bright, strangely white — a diffuse glow clung to the ceiling as if the sunlight had smeared itself along the walls. She lay on her back, in a bed too soft, with sheets that didn’t smell like home.

Her whole body ached. Not sharply, but deeply — as if every bone had been rearranged and her muscles no longer remembered where they belonged. She moved her fingers. Painful. Slower than usual. Her mouth was dry, her lips cracked. It felt like a lump of dust was lodged in her throat.

Thirst.

She turned her head towards the nightstand. No glass. No water. She looked further around. No photos. No clothes. No notes or personal belongings to give her a clue where she was. Everything was unfamiliar.

Where am I?

The thought came sluggishly, as if her brain wasn’t fully online. She closed her eyes again. Somewhere, deep inside, something rumbled that resembled memory.

A book.

A small black book.

It was the rune book — no title, no author, just a black cover, rough leather, and a weight that didn’t fit its size — and with the memory came the image: her fingers, frantic, obsessed, desperately scribbling over the parchment as if knowledge would flood her body if she only read fast enough. Runes, too old to translate. Formulas that haunted her sleep in whispers. Symbols that shifted if stared at too long. Words that wouldn’t stay written.

She gasped.

She remembered days in her room. No light. No clock. Only the book. The book and her breath, growing faster as she read. She had thought she had control. That she was conducting research. That she was managing what she let in.

But she hadn’t.

She thought of her wand. Where was her wand? She tried to sit up — a sharp jab shot through her side. Her stomach clenched. A wave of nausea swept over her. Still, she didn’t fall back. She had to understand. She had to know.

Forest of Dean. Beatrice. Zoltan. The duel.

The words came like fragments unhooking themselves from memory, bubbling to the surface without order. She bit her lower lip until she tasted blood.

Voldemort.

His name landed like a blow to her chest. Not out of fear — but because of the intensity of what she remembered. Not just his presence, but what he had stirred in her. The words. The fire. The recognition. And worst of all: the feeling that he had seen her. Not the mask. Not Rhiannon. Not the role. But her.

She trembled.

She had spoken a spell she didn’t know. A curse, something her voice didn’t recognise. Her body had begun to glow from it, her eyes had seen fires that weren’t there. She remembered the moment she realised something was wrong — and that she’d continued anyway. As if the spells had overtaken her voice. Her will. Her heartbeat.

And the book...

She hadn’t been able to let it go.

Even when she sat in the heart of the forest, in the middle of the ritual she herself had set in motion. The rune circle she’d drawn, the blood offering, the formula spoken without full comprehension — it had all gone too far. She had known, somewhere halfway through, that it was wrong. That the book wasn’t guiding her, but seducing her. She had broken the circle, with effort, with willpower. But apparently, it hadn’t been enough. The entity — whatever it was — had already found its way in. Perhaps from the very first page.

And then, later, the duel. Her heart beat faster at the memory. Not from fear, but from how sharp everything had felt. How clear her thoughts had been, how fluid her movements. The spells had offered no resistance — they had poured from her wand as if they’d always belonged to her. She had been unbeatable. Unyielding. Magic flowed like an extension of her will. And when he faced her, Voldemort himself, she hadn’t flinched.

She had enjoyed it.

The clash of power, the tension between them, the intensity of his focus. She had felt full, lifted, as if her magic had finally found a space big enough to contain all of her.

That realisation burned the most now.

But it hadn’t been an anchor.

It had been a chain.

A possession.

And now, lying in a strange bed, with a throat full of dust and a body too heavy to lift, it truly hit her.

The book had had her.

She had been possessed.

Not in the classic sense — no voice in her head, no foreign accent slipping from her tongue. But subtler. Slicker. The thoughts had been her own, the hunger her own. But the pace, the compulsion, the loss of time... it had been possession. Slow, cruel, and convincing.

She thought of Ginny. The first time she spoke about the diary. The panic in her eyes when she said she'd done things she couldn’t remember. The horror, the deep betrayal of the self. Ginny had written, had read, had felt safe — until it was too late. Until she no longer knew what voice was hers, what thoughts were her own.

And Hermione had understood her then. Or thought she did.

But now... Now she truly felt it.

The shame. The revulsion.

She closed her eyes again, biting the inside of her cheek to suppress the sob rising in her throat.

How had she let this happen? She, Hermione Granger. The Brightest Witch of Her Age. The one who always warned others. Who knew the lines. Who carried her self-control like a sword.

And yet, she had fallen.

Not with one grave mistake, but with a thousand small steps.

And no one had seen it.

Because no one knew her anymore.

Because she had chosen to be alone.

She turned her face away from the light, burying her head deep into the pillow as if she could hide from her own memories.

And deep in her chest, beneath the guilt, lay something else.

Something far more dangerous.

A sliver-thin whisper: You felt alive. Free. Magic that pure — you’ve never felt it before.

And that was what frightened her most. That even now, part of her wanted it back.

She fell asleep again. Or maybe she simply lost consciousness once more, because when her eyes next opened, the room was steeped in twilight. The soft light of a setting sun cast the white walls in tones of gold and grey.

But this time, she wasn’t alone.

Someone stood in her room.

He stood by the window, leaning against the wall as if he belonged there. One foot casually crossed over the other, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. His silhouette was sharply etched against the pale light. Relaxed. Patient. Voldemort.

Hermione bolted upright — a movement she immediately regretted. Her head throbbed, her chest seized. Pain punched through her like a fist. She scanned the bed in a panic for her wand, but it was nowhere within reach.

He turned his head slowly.

His eyes — fiery, red, and intense — met hers.

And everything stilled.

Her head swam. Hundreds of questions clamoured for space, but she didn’t know where to start. She swallowed, feeling the dryness in her throat again.

"Water?" she croaked.

Voldemort nodded briefly toward the nightstand. Without a word, a glass of water appeared. Effortless. Wandless.

Hermione didn’t want to show weakness, didn’t want him to see how impressed she was. She took the glass with trembling fingers and drained it in one go. Before she could set it down, it refilled itself. She drank again, slower this time. Only once her throat stopped burning did her mind begin to clear.

"Where is my wand?" she asked.

"With me," Voldemort said calmly.

"Can I have it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You don’t need it right now."

"I beg to differ," she snapped. "In your presence I most definitely need it."

Voldemort smirked, slow and menacing. "Are you afraid of me, Hermione?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I don’t think I need to justify wanting my own wand."

Voldemort turned back to the window. The twilight caught the sharp lines of his face, casting his features into sharp relief. It was an unguarded pose, almost casual, but a dangerous stillness radiated from him.

To her own dismay, Hermione felt a flicker of something pass through her. Excitement. Attraction. She hated the word even before she admitted it. But it was there — humming beneath her skin, tingling in her fingertips. He radiated magic, so potent she could almost taste it. And her own magic responded. Resonated.

As it always did when they were near each other.

"Where are we?" she asked, her voice firmer now.

"My house," he answered calmly.

Hermione blinked. She didn’t know why it surprised her to hear that Voldemort had a house. In her time, he had stayed at Malfoy Manor — but that was after his return, after years spent as a shadow, with no possessions, no place to call his own.

Of course he had had a house in this time, before his downfall. It made perfect sense. And yet...

Curiosity prickled in her. Sharp. Inescapable. She wanted to see it. His house. His surroundings. She wanted to know what books lined his shelves. What paintings hung on his walls. What objects he kept — and what they revealed about him.

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked.

"Since this morning," he replied.

Hermione felt a small relief. It was still the same day. She didn’t want to imagine how worried and furious Thea, Pippin, and Tink would have been if she’d been gone overnight. Even now, having been gone only during the day, she would have explaining to do.

"I need to go home. My..." — she hesitated — "mum will be worried."

Voldemort said nothing. He slowly turned his head back toward her, fixing her with a gaze that was overwhelming in its intensity.

"Have you any idea what you did?"

Hermione bit her lip. She wanted to say yes, of course she knew — but that would be a lie. The truth was that she had no idea what the book had been, what the ritual had triggered, or what its full consequences were. Only then did she remember the black bite. She glanced quickly at her forearm.

To her surprise — and relief — the black mark was gone. Her skin looked as it always had: smooth, pale, untouched.

Voldemort pushed off from the wall and approached the bed slowly. He stopped just in front of her. He loomed, and though every part of Hermione screamed for distance, she couldn’t tear herself away from his gaze.

"I told you before, you lack control. What you did today was reckless, dangerous. It is a miracle you survived."

Hermione lifted her chin. "I suppose I should thank you for this miracle, then."

"Do you care so little for your own life?" Voldemort snapped.

"As if you care what happens to me," she shot back, her eyes bright.

In a flash he moved. One knee on the bed, his hand clamped around her jaw, forcing her face upward.

"I care... about potential being wasted," he said softly, his tone ice-cold.

"It’s my potential to waste," Hermione hissed, unwavering.

"Not anymore," Voldemort replied, his voice calm but tight.

"What do you mean?" Hermione demanded, her brow furrowed, anger rising in her voice.

"It means that I saved your life today. So it is mine now," he said, as if discussing something self-evident.

"Excuse me?!" Hermione snapped. She jerked free of his grip and slid off the bed, her feet hitting the floor with a thump as she backed away, eyes blazing.

"You owe me, Hermione," he said, his expression unreadable, as if he’d expected this reaction.

Her breathing came fast. She could feel the adrenaline thrumming in her fingertips.

"You think I owe you something?" she spat. "You think this is a debt to be collected? If we’re keeping score, maybe you’ve just paid back what you already owed. You let me be tortured. You tried to break into my mind. So if anyone owes anything, it’s you."

Voldemort chuckled — not with amusement, but with something dangerous that cracked the air. "So clever," he murmured, almost mockingly.

Hermione clenched her fists. She turned and marched to the bedroom door. She flung it open, determined to leave.

But as soon as she stepped through, she hit something invisible. Magic. A barrier blocked her path. She shoved at it, tried to step through, but it didn’t yield.

She spun around, furious, eyes blazing.

"Let me out," she snarled.

"We’re not done talking," said Voldemort, still calm.

"Well, I am," Hermione snapped.

Voldemort shrugged with slow indifference and walked toward her. Without looking at her, he passed through the barrier as if it didn’t exist.

Hermione glared after him, fists still clenched.

"If you feel like continuing our conversation," he said with a nod, not turning around, "just let the room know."

"You can’t keep me here!" she shouted after him. "My mother — my house-elves — they’ll be worried if I don’t come back!"

"Not my problem," came his voice from the hallway, light and unconcerned.

Hermione stood there, furious. She paced the room, her steps quick and jagged.

Her thoughts spun. Thea, Pippin, Tink — they’d be terrified. Thea would start with worry and end in fury. Pippin would wait by the door, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Tink would immediately imagine the worst.

And what made it even worse: the trust they had so carefully rebuilt over the past weeks would break all over again. She had already disappointed them not so long ago — when she’d been sick from the runes, when she’d kept secrets. She had promised to be open. Promised to try harder.

And now she was trapped, with no way to warn them, no explanation, no idea how long this would last.

"Shit," she whispered, and slammed her fist against the wall.

She didn’t know how much time passed. Minutes, maybe hours. There was no clock, no way to tell. The room was still just as bare, just as silent. She had sunk back onto the bed, her head in her hands, when suddenly something happened.

With a dull thud, a book dropped onto the bed beside her.

Hermione flinched and looked up. The book had appeared out of nowhere. No flash, no spark, just — there. She picked it up with cautious fingers. The cover was dark brown, weathered leather with gold embossing. The title: Veikko Lounela: A Legacy of Elemental Mastery.

She’d never heard the name.

She opened the book and began to read. The further she got, the more her breath caught. This was magic of a kind she rarely encountered. Dark, grim, uncompromising. She had worked with dark magic before, even experimented with it — but this... this was different. It gave her chills. She hadn’t felt that since reading Secrets of the Darkest Art, years ago. The text felt like something that both rejected and lured her. As if it were testing her, weighing her worth.

Veikko Lounela. A Finnish wizard, master of elemental bindings and occult transference. His work was considered dangerous, his writings cursed, shielded by selective enchantments. They chose their reader. And the ritual she had performed — the Saarnivaara Binding — was at the core of his dark legacy.

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. This hadn’t been an ordinary ritual. It wasn’t an old spell or some forgotten magic. It had been an invitation. A summons to something that knew no human mind.

The Saarnivaara invited an elemental entity to possess the caster. Not just to channel the power, but to settle into them. To fuse. It granted unparalleled power — she had felt that herself. But it also meant a loss of identity. Those who survived it didn’t emerge as themselves.

And according to the book, very few survived it physically at all.

A select group of witches and wizards — not just because of strength, but because the entity itself had to choose them. Because something in them resonated with the being beyond.

But fusion with the Saarnivaara turned out to be fatal in other ways. The body lived, but the self was lost. The entity took over. Only those with an extraordinarily strong mind and recognised as a match by the Saarnivaara stood a chance of retaining themselves. But even then, the process was irreversible.

Hermione’s stomach turned.

She had survived.

That meant...

She slammed the book shut. Her hands trembled.

What had she done? What had she let in? And why was she still alive?

Was it out? she wondered. Was the entity — the Saarnivaara — truly gone when Voldemort said he had saved her? Was that what he meant? Or had he not freed her, but simply stopped her at the edge — and it still lurked inside her? Dormant. Waiting. She couldn’t feel it, but that meant nothing. She hadn’t noticed it before either. And yet it had almost consumed her.

Would she even know if it happened again? Or would she only realise once it was already too late?

Slowly, it began to dawn on her how reckless she had been. She had thrown herself into something she barely understood, without restraint. The fact that she was even alive was a miracle. And though she hated to admit it, she began to realise that she did, in fact, owe Voldemort something. Not in the way he meant it — not as property — but as a saviour. What she had just read left no room for doubt: this wasn’t magic one could simply undo. It was irreversible. And yet here she was. Feeling — mostly — like herself. That almost didn’t make sense.

Maybe he was one of the very few in the world with enough knowledge, enough power to intervene. Maybe he had done something she couldn’t comprehend, something that had torn her free at the last moment. She hated the thought, but there was no way around it: without him, she probably wouldn’t have made it.

Only then did she begin to consider what it would’ve meant to Thea, Pippin, and Tink if she hadn’t come back. She had left early that morning without a word, without explanation. They knew nothing. And if she had never returned, if she had just vanished — it would’ve broken their hearts. Especially Thea. And Pippin, who panicked at the first hint of trouble. Tink, who secretly called her “her little miss” when she thought no one was listening.

The thought made her sick. What they must’ve felt today — the worry, the fear, the uncertainty — that alone was bad enough. But if things had ended worse... if she had truly been lost to the ritual...

She had to go back. Not just to explain, but to make it right. She didn’t want to be the one to break their trust again.

If only she could send them a message. Something. A sign that she was okay. That she was alive. That they didn’t need to worry. Even just that would comfort her now.

She clenched her fingers in the sheets and stared at the ceiling.

And then, suddenly, a thought struck her.

Dobby.

He’d been able to apparate anywhere, even into places others couldn’t. Could Pippin do the same?

Tentatively, she whispered his name: "Pippin?"

No response.

She drew a deeper breath, closed her eyes, and focused. "Pippin," she said again, louder this time, with force behind it — a command.

There was a loud crack.

When she opened her eyes, he was there.

Pippin.

His wide eyes were filled with a mixture of shock and relief. "Miss!" he squeaked, and for a moment, it seemed like that was all he could manage.

"Pippin," Hermione whispered, moving towards him — but he reached her first.

"We was thinkin’... we didn’t knows where Miss was! Miss Thea is panickin’, Tink is cryin’, and I... I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t be feelin’ you, no!"

His voice broke with emotion. But before Hermione could answer, his tone shifted.

"How could Miss just go like that? No note, no word, no nothing! We was so, so worried!"

Hermione rose from the bed and wrapped her arms around him. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry," she murmured against his shoulder. "I never meant to... I thought I had control."

She held onto him, her face buried in his head as she repeated her apologies.

Pippin didn’t move, but after a few seconds she heard him sniff softly. "You’re back. That’s all that matters."

Hermione wiped her eyes and knelt in front of him. "Will you please tell Thea and Tink I’m safe? That they don’t need to worry?"

Pippin looked at her, his ears twitching uneasily. "But... Miss is comin’ home, isn’t she?"

She hesitated. The thought of returning home, to Thea and the elves, was tempting. Pippin could take her back — she knew that now. It was possible. All she had to do was take his hand.

But then she’d have to leave her wand behind. The very idea felt like a stab. Her wand was the last thing she had from her own time. More than a tool — it was part of her. She had shaped her magic with it. She couldn’t leave it.

And something else pulled at her too. She felt like her story here wasn’t finished. That something still needed resolution. Something with Voldemort. She didn’t want to return home in fear again. Not to spend weeks skulking around the manor, too afraid to leave. If he meant to kill her, he would’ve done so already.

Maybe that was naïve. She couldn’t forget who he was. But he had saved her. And try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she owed him something.

"There’s something I need to finish here," she said softly, her hand still on his shoulder.

Pippin looked at her as though she’d said she wanted to walk into a pit of vipers. "No! You must come! Please, just come home."

"I promise. I’ll come home soon," she said firmly. "But I need to do this first."

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes round with disappointment, but he knew he couldn’t stop her.

With a crack, he vanished.

"Does this mean you’re ready to finish our conversation?"

The voice came from behind her and made her jump. She hadn’t even heard the door open. Voldemort stood in the doorway, still on the other side of the barrier.

His sleeves were rolled up, his posture relaxed but alert. It was a casual stance, but Hermione couldn’t deny it had its own kind of appeal. The mix of control, presence, and the pressure of magic that radiated from him made him impossible to ignore.

"That depends," she said, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to let me speak this time, or are we still doing the ‘intimidate and lecture’ routine?"

Voldemort stepped over the threshold without hesitation. "Definitely a Gryffindor," he muttered, more to himself than to her, a near-amused curve on his lips.

Hermione exhaled slowly. Maybe she was mad to stay. Maybe she was making a mistake. But one thing she knew for certain: she wanted answers. And as long as she was trapped in this house — his house — she might as well finish the conversation. Chin up, eyes sharp. Like a true Gryffindor.

Chapter Text

The room was filled with the soft, amber light of the rising sun. The window on the right let in wide strips of light that stretched across the floor and walls. Hermione stood leaning against one wall, arms crossed, while across from her Voldemort stood in the same pose against the opposite wall. They said nothing.

Their eyes met occasionally—fleeting, searching. The silence wasn’t empty, but charged—as if words were gathering in the space between them, waiting for the right moment to break free. Hermione felt the beating of her heart in her throat. Not from fear. Not only. But because everything about this situation—this room, this moment, this man—felt like a threshold.

The final wisps of night slowly vanished from the room. Shadows shortened, the light grew warmer. Hermione’s gaze drifted towards the window. She hadn’t thought she’d still be here to see the sunrise. And yet she stood. Not as a prisoner. Not quite. But as something suspended between staying and leaving.

“Did you read the book?” he asked at last, his voice low and unaffected.

“Partly,” said Hermione. “Enough to know I was incredibly stupid.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“I didn’t know,” she went on. “I didn’t even know who the book had belonged to. I was just trying to unlock its secrets, figure out how it worked. I thought I could handle it.”

“You thought wrong,” he said simply.

“Clearly,” she replied sharply, but without biting sarcasm. It was more inwardly turned.

She took a deep breath, her eyes dropping to the floor. “If you hadn’t stepped in… I wouldn’t be standing here, would I?”

“No,” he said simply. “You wouldn’t.”

He nodded slightly, as if that answer confirmed something else entirely.

The silence returned, but this time it felt lighter. Less sharp.

Hermione dipped her head a fraction. “Why did you save me?”

He looked at her for a long time, then said, “As I said before, I hate wasting potential.”

She searched for sarcasm in his voice, some hint of mockery, but found nothing. Only observation. Statement of fact.

“That, and I was curious what would happen next.”

Hermione shook her head slowly, a near-silent laugh in her throat. “You saved me out of… curiosity?”

“Among other things,” he said calmly. “You fascinate me, Hermione Dagworth-Granger. That is rarely a safe position to be in.”

She held his gaze. “I wasn’t looking for safety.”

He smiled faintly. “No. I suppose not.”

Hermione drew a slow breath and glanced briefly at the floor before looking back at him.

“Thank you,” she said at last. Her voice was hesitant, almost hoarse, as if the word caught in her throat. “For not letting me die.”

She rolled her eyes slightly and added dryly, “There. I said it. Don’t get used to it.”

Voldemort laughed softly, a low, dangerous sound that barely registered but seemed to drop the temperature in the room. It wasn’t amusement—it was a warning. Like a snake baring its fangs without striking.

“Pretty words don’t interest me,” he said slowly, his voice like a knife through velvet. “You still owe me. Your life—it belongs to me now.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hermione, her jaw tense, struggling not to fall back into the same circle of arguments.

“It means you're going to work with me.”

“I already told you — I'm not looking for a master.”

“Good,” he said, with barely a smile. “Because I'm not offering that. I'm offering mentorship.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing. “You want to teach me?” A short, incredulous laugh escaped her. “Why?”

Voldemort gave a soft, slightly irritated snort. “I despise repeating myself,” he said coolly. “But if you insist—because I see potential in you. Because you fascinate me.”

“And then what?” Hermione asked sharply. “You teach me?”

She pushed off from the wall and began to pace slowly.

“Let me guess — that’s not going to be enough. Sooner or later, you’ll want something else. Something I’m not willing to give. Or do. That’s how this works, isn’t it? Power in exchange for obedience?”

She turned to face him, her gaze fixed and fierce.

“I’m not a puppet. And if you think I’m going to let you pull the strings, you’ve misread me entirely.”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly and looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “I have my purposes,” he said, that familiar edge of arrogance in his voice.

Hermione snorted. “I don’t care,” she said sharply. “I’m not playing this game with you. I meant what I said — I’m thankful you saved my life. I do owe you. But if you’re planning to collect by making me your little project, you’ll be disappointed. Think of something else.”

A silence fell. Long enough for Hermione to cross her arms again and shift her weight. Voldemort didn’t move a muscle. He seemed to be weighing something — or simply enjoying her discomfort.

Eventually, he broke the silence. "Fine. I'll postpone the mentorship—if you join me on a mission."

Hermione's gaze shifted, alert. "What kind of mission?"

It hadn't escaped her notice that he had said postpone, not cancel.

"I'll tell you when we get there."

"Will there be others?"

"Just us."

Hermione stared at him but said nothing.

Inside, she was torn. She wanted to know where he was going. What he was planning. The curiosity gnawed at her. But at the same time, it felt like a trap she was about to walk into with open eyes. This was how it began — a small agreement, an apparently reasonable condition. And yet... he had saved her. She owed him something. And this, however dubious, felt like a way to repay the debt without completely losing herself.

"When?" Hermione asked eventually.

"During the next new moon."

"Which is?"

"September fourth."

Hermione snorted and pulled her arms tighter around herself. "I am not spending another week here. That's two days before the season opening in the Spellyard. I'm not staying locked up in this house that long."

Voldemort barely shrugged. "I'll make you a deal," he said. "You may return home today. Attend your Spellyard event. Afterwards, I’ll collect you. We’ll leave then."

He said it with a calmness that asked for nothing — it sounded like something already decided.

"Pack light," he added. "Where we’re going, it will be warm."

Hermione said nothing more, but in her head everything was spinning at full speed. She had a thousand questions. About the mission. About where they were going. About her safety. About his intentions. Why her? What did he really expect from her? What would he do if she resisted — really resisted? She felt her hands curl into fists without realising it.

This was no ordinary agreement. This was a shift, a displacement of boundaries she hadn't dared to define. And yet she was already in motion. Whether she liked it or not.

With a smooth movement, Voldemort produced her wand. Without a word, he held it out to her as if offering a gift. Hermione’s breath caught for a moment. She stepped towards him, hand already outstretched to take the wand back — but before her fingers could touch it, he pulled it back just as quickly.

His expression darkened, his voice low and razor-sharp: "Be there the second. If you run, if you hide — I will find you. And you will wish I hadn't."

Only then did he hand her the wand. This time, he let go.

Hermione closed her fingers tightly around the familiar wood, her knuckles white. She didn’t want to show what his threat did to her — not the cold shiver down her spine, not the wave of fury that burned in her chest. Without looking at him again, she turned resolutely and disapparated from the room with a soft pop.

She appeared on the grounds of the house, the morning sun still low above the horizon. Without hesitation, Hermione walked inside, her heart pounding. She found Thea in the kitchen, her back to the door, pouring a cup of tea. When Thea turned and saw her, she froze.

“Morning,” Hermione mumbled.

"Seriously?" said Thea, her voice taut. "You disappear without a word, you’ve been a shadow of yourself these past few days, and now you just stroll in as if you’ve been out for a walk and say ‘morning’?"

Hermione opened her mouth, guilt rising, ready to apologise — but Thea cut her off.

"We were worried, Hermione. Pippin was in pieces. Tink thought you'd been murdered. And you? You vanish without a word. What in Merlin's name have you been up to?"

Hermione tried to stay calm. "I know it was wrong. I'm sorry. Really. I—"

"No. You know nothing," Thea snapped. "You’ve had us worried sick — again. As if the last time wasn’t enough already."

Hermione's shoulders tensed. "I said I’m sorry, all right? I told you before — you don’t need to worry about me. I know what I’m doing. I can take care of myself."

"This is my house, young lady," said Thea, her eyes flashing. "And I don’t want any dark magic in my house."

Hermione’s gaze sharpened. "It’s not dark magic."

"I know exactly what kind of books you’ve got hidden in your room."

Hermione’s eyes blazed. "Wait — you've been in my room?"

"It is my house," Thea said coldly. "I’ll go where I want."

At that moment, Pippin and Tink appeared in the doorway. Pippin looked nervously between the two women, his small hands fidgeting. "Miss... please, can we just talk?"

But Tink folded her arms and nodded towards Thea. "You has no respect, Miss. You vanish, you lie, you acts like we's nothing to you."

Hermione exhaled sharply. "I said I’m sorry, didn’t I? You’re all blowing this way out of proportion. It’s been one day. I’m a grown witch — I can do what I like."

"Not as long as you're living under my roof," Thea shot back.

"Well, you're not my mother!" Hermione yelled, her voice now full of fury.

"No," Thea snapped, her voice ice-cold. "But maybe that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because if I were, you might’ve learned some bloody sense by now."

Hermione felt her exhaustion crash over her. She had no energy left for this fight, not after everything that had happened. Without saying another word, she turned and walked out of the kitchen. Her steps were hurried, angry, driven — she wanted nothing more than to disappear behind her bedroom door.

She had rarely felt so angry. The last time she had felt like this had been years ago, when Ron had betrayed her. He had caught her in an obscure bookshop in Knockturn Alley during an Auror mission. Instead of talking to her, he had told Harry and Ginny everything. The three of them had turned against her—or at least, that’s how it had felt. They hadn’t asked why she was researching those books, they had simply judged her.

“You’re slipping, Hermione,” Harry had said. “This stuff messes with people’s heads. With yours.”

Ron had added, “What happened to you? You used to be the smartest witch of our year. Now you’re sneaking around like some bloody Slytherin.”

And Ginny… Ginny had hit the hardest. “You’re not the same person anymore. You’ve changed, and not in a good way.”

She had screamed back. Shouted things she barely remembered.

“Of course I’ve changed! I fought a war — we all did. But maybe I’m the only one who learnt something from it! You just want me to stay that neat, predictable version of myself. But that girl is gone!”

It had escalated. They hadn’t spoken for weeks. And worst of all: it hadn’t solved anything. None of them had truly understood her.

And now… she felt just as misunderstood. Just as alone. And just as dangerous.

The days that followed felt like déjà vu. As if the clock had been turned back.

Once again, no one at home spoke to her. Thea avoided her gaze. Tink walked past her with her nose in the air. And although Hermione could tolerate the silence better now—perhaps because she was still angry with them—it still gnawed at her. The only thing that truly hurt was that even Pippin barely said a word. His usual attentiveness, his concern… it had become reserved. As if even he no longer knew what to do with her.

She tried not to focus on it. Refused to admit that maybe she had reached Pippin’s limit—something she hadn’t thought possible.

Instead, she threw herself into her work. Her potion supplies had fallen behind due to her ‘project’ with Veikko Lounela’s book, and she was determined to make up for lost time. The scullery became her refuge, a place where her magic felt controlled and productive. For now, at least.

Still, she noticed that her magic felt different. More and more often, when she used her power, something shimmered beneath her skin—a tension that hadn’t been there before. As if her magic was seeking its own direction, hungry and restless. Bottling phials, stirring with precision, measuring ingredients… it no longer calmed her the way it used to. Her magic was bored. She could feel it pulsing in her fingertips, craving something greater, something darker.

She caught herself lingering over pages about dangerous draughts. Not just for the theoretical challenge, but because something in her wanted to know how far she could go. Her fingers itched to make them. To master them. To feel what would happen if she unleashed their power.

She knew it wasn’t wise. But wise suddenly felt very far away.

It was a relief, then, when the evening of the Spellyard finally arrived. During dinner, she had coolly informed Thea that she would be away for a few days for research. She hadn’t known exactly how long, she’d added. Thea had barely responded—just a curt nod and a tight line to her mouth.

So Hermione had left without saying goodbye, her bag discreetly slung over her shoulder. The interior had been enlarged with an Undetectable Extension Charm—filled with travel supplies, a spare set of clothes, and a small stock of healing potions.

She had no idea what awaited her. But she knew she would go.

The Spellyard arena was packed. In the participants’ ring, a buzzing flurry of voices, hurried footsteps, and flickering magic filled the air. Witches and wizards in dark and colourful robes practised spells on each other or on dummies, vials of elixirs were exchanged, nervous laughter rippled, and a crackling sense of anticipation hung in the air. It smelled of sand, sweat, and spellfire—just as it should.

She wore her Rhiannon disguise again. The moment she put it on, she felt the shift. The fabric, the weight, the familiarity—it grounded her. She felt powerful. Confident. As if it shielded her from everything she had left behind. The woman who had felt small, misunderstood, and stifled at home was, here, nothing but who she chose to be. Rhiannon. Free. Untouchable.

Hermione made her way through the crowd, her bag clutched tightly at her side. With every step, it felt like a weight slid off her shoulders. Here, amidst the chaos, she finally felt no longer trapped by rules, judgement, and silence. Here, she could breathe.

Alphard was the first to spot her. He waved broadly from a group of masked wizards, his voice rising above the noise. “Rhiannon! Thought you’d abandoned us!”

Not long after, Elric suddenly appeared at her side, as if out of nowhere, wearing his usual lopsided grin and murmuring something with just enough sarcasm to make the corner of her mouth twitch. She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. His presence was calming—familiar.

It felt like coming home. Here, among the participants, with the arena’s sand beneath her boots, flames already beginning to rise somewhere nearby, and the murmur of hundreds of voices around her, she was Rhiannon. By her own power. After the icy tensions of the past week, it felt like a warm wave of recognition. A reminder of who she was—or perhaps who she wanted to be.

Cassius Selwyn appeared at the edge of the ring, his hands loosely clasped behind his back.

“Rhiannon,” he said with a nod. “You’ll be closing tonight. The last duel. Make it spectacular.”

He smiled in that hard-to-read way—polite, friendly, but with an undercurrent of expectation. A subtle pressure Hermione recognised immediately.

She nodded slowly, her eyes half narrowed. “I don’t take orders, Cassius,” she said calmly, but with a sharp edge. “But I’m sure whatever I do will be… memorable.”

Just then, Dolohov joined them, silent as ever. He positioned himself at Hermione’s side, his gaze on Cassius as though forming a front with her.

“Careful Selwyn, you don’t want to get on her bad side,” he said lazily, with that trademark half-smiling threat that was so uniquely his.

Cassius’ demeanour shifted immediately. His smile remained, but something in his eyes changed.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “I just thought it would be a fitting end to the evening. If you’ll excuse me—I’ve still got some things to prepare.”

Without another word, he disappeared into the crowd.

Hermione turned slowly to Dolohov, her gaze hard and her eyes burning with fury. “I haven’t forgotten how you tortured me,” she said through clenched teeth, her voice low and threatening.

Dolohov smiled as if she had complimented him. “I was only following my master’s orders,” he said nonchalantly, as if discussing a book assignment rather than torture.

Hermione’s lip trembled with contained rage. She stepped half a pace closer. “And what does that say about you, Dolohov?” Her voice was cold as ice. “Do you roll over for treats, too? Or does your lord prefer you sit pretty before tossing a bone?”

Dolohov chuckled softly, his eyes glinting. He looked more amused than offended.

“Feisty,” he murmured. “No wonder he likes you.”

At that moment, the first duel of the evening was announced. Hermione turned her head toward the arena and began weaving her way through the crowd. She found a spot near the edge of the arena, where she leaned against a rough stone pillar. Her heart was beating faster, not from nerves, but from sheer anticipation. She couldn’t wait for the air to fill with magic—flashing spells, crackling shields, movements faster than the eye could follow. Spells she knew, and others she’d never seen before, let alone tried.

Alphard was the first to enter the arena. His silhouette was unmistakable—no mask, as always. Alphard stood with his usual flair and confidence. Opposite him stood a blonde witch in a silver mask—and the moment Hermione saw her, she knew. This was the witch Alphard had lost to during the competition.

This time, the duel was different. It lasted longer, the balance of power was closer. Both played with fire—literally and figuratively. Alphard seemed to enjoy it. He taunted her, gestured or said something, but Hermione couldn’t make out his words over the crowd’s roar. The witch, on the other hand, seemed to be slowly losing her composure. Her spells grew more aggressive, less controlled.

And then she made a mistake.

Alphard reacted instantly. He didn’t just disarm her—he tackled her to the ground with his full weight. He held her there—not violently, but firmly. Too firmly. His hands pressed her shoulders into the sand with a confidence that no longer resembled a duel. Their bodies too close, his face too low above hers. Hermione’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she watched his face hover dangerously close to the witch’s. It looked anything but hostile.

The witch shoved him off roughly and got to her feet, her movements stiff with frustration. Without saying a word, she left the arena. Alphard followed her closely—his face wearing a smug grin.

The second duel began. Two masked wizards entered the arena and took position opposite each other. Hermione watched, but her attention was suddenly drawn elsewhere. She felt her magic respond—subtly, but unmistakably. The air felt heavier, the pressure increasing, as if the magic in the space was gathering around her.

Then she felt it. A presence behind her. She knew without turning.

Voldemort.

Her heart skipped a beat. Her breath caught. She became hyper-aware of herself, of her body, of her breathing. He stood so close behind her that his breath touched her skin—soft, barely there, but enough to raise the hairs on her neck. His chest brushed lightly against her back with each breath.

He said nothing by way of greeting. No mention of their earlier conversation. Instead, he began to speak softly, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Watch his footwork,” he said, referring to one of the duelists. “Too eager. He’ll overextend.”

Moments later: “She leads with her wand shoulder—easy to disarm.”

Hermione didn’t reply. She barely dared to nod. But she listened. Every word sliced through her own analysis with precision. Everything he said was true. Every weakness he pointed out was exposed seconds later in the match.

He was her teacher.

And she hated it. She hated how eagerly she absorbed his words, how her mind automatically followed his observations, how her fingers itched to do what he had just described.

She had sworn to him she didn’t want a mentor. But her magic—her hunger for more—did not care about promises.

The final duel was called. Rhiannon.

She took a deep breath and, just before stepping into the arena, felt a hand on her hip. Voldemort’s hand. He gave a brief squeeze—not rough, but not tender either. As if to wish her luck, though he clearly had no idea what words would suit the gesture.

Hermione turned slightly toward him, a mischievous grin on her face. With a fluid motion, she lifted her bag from her shoulder and slung it over his.

“Hold my bag,” she said lightly.

Voldemort stared at her, dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. And Hermione had to fight the urge to laugh at the sight of the great, fearsome Voldemort—now with her handbag slung over his shoulder. The Dark Lord, reduced to a walking coat rack. The image was too delicious not to savour.

She stepped into the arena, still riding the high, and looked at her opponent. A hulking wizard, broad-shouldered, covered in tattoos, with golden teeth that gleamed as he gave her a hateful grin. He wore no mask. His eyes promised blood.

The duel began with a blinding flash. The wizard growled something unintelligible and immediately hurled a chain of green and purple curses her way—murderous, merciless. Hermione twisted away, blocked one curse with a powerful shield, and ducked beneath another.

She answered his assault with a blow of shadow magic that shot through the air like a black spear, followed by a jet of fire that made the sand hiss. She felt it at once—that new, raw edge to her magic. It was stronger, more unrestrained, like a predator freshly unleashed. It glowed beneath her skin, pulsing, addictive.

The man laughed shrilly, his teeth flashing in the firelight. He launched a chain of curses that split the air, but Hermione was faster. She leapt up, cast a spell that shot from her wand like icy needles, and tore open his arm. He roared, his pain as fierce as his fury.

But Hermione was enjoying herself. She felt her magic burning, craving more. She gave in to it, let it roar through her. She toyed with him, kept him at a distance, bombarding him with spells that cut, scorched, shattered—painful, but not deadly. Not yet. She wanted to see him falter. She wanted to smell his fear.

He screamed when a spell shattered his knee. He staggered, spat blood, his golden teeth tumbling across the sand. The stands fell silent. And still she pressed on. She tested how many times she could hit him without finishing him off. His screams echoed in her chest like music.

Until suddenly, with an animalistic howl, he lunged forward and grabbed her arm. His fingers clamped down like a vice. He yanked so hard something cracked. Pain seared through her, her scream slicing through the hush.

Then everything exploded.

Her magic burst free in a flood of pure, untamed power. An eruption of fire, shadow, and light blasted from her body like a shockwave. The protective dome around the arena flickered, warped, cracked as if it might break. And on the sand, mere feet from her, lay the man—mangled, burned, torn apart. Unrecognisable.

Hermione stood in the centre of the chaos, her chest heaving, her wand still trembling in her hand.

The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers, shouting and clapping. The noise rolled across the stands like a storm—a mix of awe, excitement, and raw shock. Some spectators jumped up, fists in the air, while others recoiled, pale from what they’d witnessed. Hermione heard it dimly, as if underwater. Her heart still pounded, her ears rang, but her gaze remained fixed on the scorched spot where her opponent had once stood.

She felt invincible. Alive. Euphoric. Her blood thudded in her temples, her skin tingled from the aftermath of the magic still crackling around her. She hadn’t just defeated her opponent—she had crushed him, in a way her old self would have found horrifying. But now… now it felt like a triumph over more than just him. Over her doubts. Over her fears. Over the chains that had bound her in recent weeks.

She had never felt so powerful.

She didn’t even notice the pain in her broken arm as she accepted the applause. Her name rang from the stands—not her real name, but her alias. “Rhiannon! Rhiannon!” The chant rose like a chorus, rhythmic and rousing, slicing through the air with the same intensity as her spells had moments before. The sound crept under her skin, filled her chest, made her dizzy with adrenaline.

And somewhere, deep down, she thought of midsummer. Of that night at Nott Manor. Of how the crowd had chanted another name. Voldemort. Voldemort. That same fiery adoration, the same euphoric surrender. Back then, it had shocked her. Now... now she recognised it. And that was perhaps even more terrifying.

She wanted to return to Voldemort, to find him, to catch his eye—but before she could take a step, Elric appeared in front of her. “Come with me, I’ll fix your arm,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Hermione nodded, still slightly dazed from the fight and the applause, and allowed herself to be guided through the crowd. They passed through a door behind the bar, into a cramped but orderly office.

He pulled the door shut behind them, but it didn’t latch properly and swung halfway open again, letting the murmur of the lounge drift in unhindered. Then he gestured to the desk. “Sit,” he said shortly, and when she perched on the edge of the wooden surface, he stepped in front of her and gently took her arm. His fingers moved over her skin with unexpected tenderness, his eyes focused on the damage she’d barely felt—until now.

As he began to heal her arm, he spoke softly, without looking at her. “I thought about you a lot this summer,” he said. “More than I probably should’ve. I kept going over those Saturday nights in my head. How much I missed them. How much I missed you.”

Hermione said nothing, her gaze fixed on the wall behind him.

“I tried to find you,” he continued, his voice quieter. “But Rhiannon… Rhiannon leaves no trail. Believe me, I checked.”

She felt her stomach tighten, but still she said nothing.

“I had so many versions of this conversation in my head,” he said with a small, almost apologetic smile. “But none of them felt quite right. And still… here I am. I like you, Rhiannon. More than like, if I’m being honest. I want to know who you are. Really are. And I’d like to spend time with you. Outside all this.” He glanced around, referring to the Spellyard. “Maybe dinner? Or just… something simple. If you want.”

Hermione felt her head spin. She didn’t have space for this. No room in her mind, not after what had just happened, not with Voldemort at her back, not with her magic still humming from violence. She tried to say something, something tactful, something dismissive—but the words didn’t come.

Elric seemed to misread her silence. He leaned in slowly, his eyes fixed on her lips. Hermione froze. She didn’t want this. Her head began to turn away from him—

Then it came.

“How cosy.”

The voice cut through the room like a blade. Cold. Mocking. Voldemort stood in the doorway, his silhouette sharply outlined by the hallway light.

Elric straightened abruptly, visibly annoyed. “This room is off-limits for visitors,” he snapped.

Voldemort didn’t spare him a glance. His attention was entirely on Hermione, who felt her face flush with discomfort.

“We’re leaving,” he said simply.

Hermione slid off the desk, heart pounding. She meant to walk toward him, but Elric tightened his grip on her arm.

“You’re with him?”

“No,” Hermione said quickly, maybe too quickly. Her cheeks burned.

“But she is coming home with me,” Voldemort snapped. His eyes narrowed slightly as they flicked to Elric’s hand still clutching her arm.

“I’ll see you next week,” Hermione said hastily. She pulled her arm free, avoiding Elric’s gaze, and stepped toward Voldemort.

“Your bag,” he said, and effortlessly slipped it back over her shoulder.

Elric’s eyes nearly bulged at the sight. The meaning of that gesture seemed to hit him like a blow—confirmation he hadn’t wanted.

Hermione didn’t know what to make of Voldemort’s behaviour. He seemed… jealous. But that couldn’t be, could it? Possessive, yes—that matched his claim that her life belonged to him. But jealous? That felt too human, too soft.

And yet, when he placed his hand at the back of her neck and led her silently out of the office, she couldn’t shake the thought.

Voldemort guided her wordlessly through the lounge, past groups of spectators and participants who had only just stopped cheering her name. They walked past the changing rooms, her boots thudding on the stone floor while his hand remained a constant weight at her nape. The touch was possessive—warm and constricting all at once. They said nothing, but the tension between them was palpable, like the air before a storm. Hermione didn’t want to admit how much she welcomed the weight of his touch. How it grounded her. Slowed her breath.

They reached the corridor at the top of the stairs, near the exit where they could apparate. Voldemort let go of her, turned to face her. His eyes sparkled with a glint of frost.

“So,” he said with a venomous undertone, “Quite the speech from your charming healer friend. So eager to get his hands on you, wasn’t he?”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched. She turned toward him slowly, her gaze playful but sharp. With a bold step, she closed the distance between them until her chest brushed his.

She smiled—crooked, confident—and winked.

“Don’t you worry, Voldemort,” she whispered, her voice velvet-smooth. “I like my men with a touch of red.”

Chapter Text

With a soft crack, they apparated at the edge of a shadowy forest. Voldemort released her elbow, and the cold evening light fell abruptly across Hermione’s face. She inhaled, looked around, and the world slowly unfolded before her eyes.

The sky was pitch black, yet far from empty; thousands of stars were scattered above their heads like a spell waiting to be activated. The silence was tangible, their footsteps muffled by the soft moss carpeting the path.

And then—there it stood.

A house—no, a castle, albeit small and improbably perfect in proportion. The walls were built from weathered, silvery-grey stone, overgrown with dew-kissed ivy. Two narrow towers pierced the sky like fingers, spires as sharp as daggers, and the moonlight danced across the slate roof like liquid quicksilver. The windows were tall, narrow, partially arched—like eyes that both watched and waited.

The structure stood on a sloping hillside at the edge of a black river, which flowed silently along the western side.

Hermione could barely take her eyes off it. “Where are we?” she whispered, as though even speaking might shatter what had stood here for centuries.

Voldemort’s answer came calmly, without hesitation. “Keenbridge.”

The name rang familiar. She knew it. Or at least thought she did. But before recognition could take root, Voldemort placed a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her around.
What she saw left her momentarily speechless.

In the distance, hidden between forests and hills, the towers of Hogwarts rose against the night sky. The windows glowed from within like memories that refused to fade. The Astronomy Tower stood sharp and solitary—like a monument to all that had been lost, and all that had never truly disappeared.

Of course, she thought. Of course he lives here. Close to the only place he had ever felt safe. Close to the only home he was ever granted—and that, despite everything, still belonged to him.

“Is that Hogwarts?” she asked, to maintain her lie. Voldemort nodded.

He led the way inside. The heavy door closed behind them without a sound.

They entered a grand entrance hall with high ceilings and a stone floor that echoed beneath their steps. The interior was strikingly austere and modern: smooth walls, clean lines, and not a single frill or portrait in sight.

He ascended the stairs to the mezzanine on the first floor; Hermione followed. She noticed there were no paintings on the walls—no eyes following her, no history watching.

In silence, he walked down a corridor until he stopped at a door that immediately felt familiar.

Her room—from the last time.

“Don’t I get a tour?” she asked, curiosity in her voice. What did the rest of his house look like?

“Not today,” he replied simply. He gestured for her to go inside.

She considered refusing, but knew it was pointless. She sighed softly and stepped inside.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” he said, before closing the door behind her and leaving her alone.

Hermione sank down onto the bed, the room still as recognisable as it was surreal. The silence weighed heavily on her shoulders.

She stood up again, her legs restless, and walked into the adjoining bathroom. There, she turned on the tap and held her hands under the ice-cold water. The tingling sensation was welcome, something to keep her anchored in the present. She leaned on the sink with both hands and watched the water swirl away.

Her thoughts tumbled over one another.

What did she really know about this mission? Voldemort had given her no details. Nothing about the location, the goal, the danger. Only that they would go together.

Would it be dangerous? Undoubtedly.

Where would they go? How would they travel? Magically, most likely—but how?

Her gaze drifted up to the mirror. She startled briefly at her own reflection—pale, tense, but with eyes that sparkled with something she didn’t quite dare name. Not fear. Not expectation. Perhaps… anticipation. Or was it excitement?

She looked down and dried her hands. Then she filled the bath and slowly lowered herself into the warm water, her muscles protesting but eager. The heat soothed her body, but her mind remained unsettled.

Thoughts drifted like shadows through her mind.

She felt guilty towards Thea, Tink and Pippin—those who trusted her, who sought her presence, and who had no idea who she was really spending her time with. But that guilt was nothing compared to the shame that flooded her when she thought of everyone from her own time.

What would Harry, Ginny, Ron say? What would they think if they could see her now? Lying in a bath, in the house of the enemy. Speaking with him as if he were an acquaintance. Allowing his touch. Seeking his gaze. Flirting with him as if it meant nothing.

But it did mean something.

Beneath the layers of guilt and shame lay other, more treacherous emotions. Soft, glowing, dangerous.

A flutter in her stomach when she thought of him. The way her heart beat just a little faster when his eyes met hers. That inexplicable feeling of being seen—truly seen—without having to defend, to prove, to censor herself. He didn’t judge her for her fascination with dark magic. He challenged her, yes, but he let her be.

And then there were the calculated thoughts. The plan she ought to have. That she would win his trust, dismantle him from the inside. Destroy him, if necessary, before he could unleash the wars that would destroy everything. She knew his future, and she alone could turn the tide. But the truth was: she didn’t want to. Not really.

The idea that her fate would once again be dictated by struggle, by sacrifice, by a battle that had never truly been hers, felt like a chain—not a mission. Even that noble resolve had been tainted by doubt. Because how could she judge clearly, when her feelings grew more clouded by the day?

Something was growing inside her—something that whispered that she didn’t have to sacrifice herself again for a world that had never truly seen her. She had fought, struggled, lost… and what had she gained in return? A life in which she was always accountable. Always expected to choose the better path. Always fighting for validation in a society that had never fully accepted her.

She hadn’t asked for this. Not for this time, not for this role, not for this burden. And so… was it really so strange that she was simply trying to make something of what had been thrust upon her? That she longed, despite everything, for beauty, for power, for desire? For something that belonged only to her?

Why shouldn’t she enjoy the life that had been forced on her? Why should she deny herself again, for someone else’s ideal? Why follow duty, when desire made her feel alive?

She let her head fall back, eyes closed, a tear slipping down her temple without her noticing.

That night, she slept fitfully. Her dreams were filled with faces from the past: Harry’s frown, Ron’s crooked grin, her parents at the breakfast table. As if their memories had come to punish her for the choices she was making, for the world she now inhabited.

She was awakened by a soft chime. Blinking in confusion, she turned over and noticed a tray had appeared on her bedside table. A steaming cup of tea, a freshly baked scone with clotted cream and jam. But that wasn’t all: at the foot of her bed lay a carefully arranged outfit. She swung her legs over the side and pulled the fabric towards her.

It was a long, sand-coloured robe, light and flowing, made from fine-woven fabric that felt cool beneath her fingers. The neckline was adorned with a wide, embroidered band of deep blue, gold, and ochre—an intricate pattern of stylised eyes, lotus flowers, and symmetrical lines. It reminded her of clothing she’d once seen at an exhibition on ancient Middle Eastern and North African civilisations—something that looked both archaic and timeless.

This was more than just clothing. The destination would be warm. Desert-like, presumably. It was a hint. A message. Perhaps even a warning.

Hermione had been dressed for some time now, the robe clinging to her like a second skin. A book rested in her lap—the title in black, angular letters: Rites of Binding and Soulcraft. She’d read the first pages without truly absorbing them; her attention kept drifting towards what was to come.

There was a knock.

She looked up, slowly closed the book just as the door opened. Voldemort stepped inside.

He, too, wore a robe in the same sand colour as hers, tailored to his frame, simple and yet imposing. The light caught the embroidery at his collar—silver thread, deep blue, and midnight-black accents. It overwhelmed her.

Until now, she had only seen him in dark colours—black, occasionally deep green. But this pale robe… it made him appear almost otherworldly. No less threatening, but different. Divine, almost. Regal. As if he stood not only above the world, but apart from it.

She swallowed and forced her gaze back to the book in her lap, though she knew he had felt her stare.

Slowly, she stood, slid the book into her bag and smoothed the fabric of her robe. As she turned towards him, she felt his eyes sweep over her—intense, appraising. She tried not to react, but her skin tingled under his gaze.

“We’re travelling by portkey,” he stated, holding up a silver fork.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Do you have any cutlery left, with the amount of portkeys you make?” she asked with a nervous grin.

Voldemort’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. Without a word, he stepped closer, until he stood right behind her. She felt his presence against her back, his breath calm but close. His hand brushed lightly against her arm as he brought the fork up.

She knew full well it wasn’t necessary to stand this close for a portkey—a single finger on the object would suffice—but still she remained where she was. She didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she savoured the warmth, the touch, the closeness.

He counted down softly, his voice barely audible, his breath brushing her ear. “Three… two… one…”

And then she felt the tug behind her navel, and everything around them vanished.

With a burst of displaced air, they landed in a narrow, sun-drenched alley. The air shimmered with heat and the scent of spices, and the sounds of a bustling market echoed beyond the weathered walls. Colour was everywhere: carpets, spices, levitating wares, shouting vendors, and robed wizards in linen, silk, and leather. The alley opened into a broader avenue reminiscent of Diagon Alley—only Egyptian. No brick buildings here, but sand-coloured structures with signs in hieroglyphs, runes, and Arabic, draped with cloth to block the sun.

“Welcome to Cairo,” said Voldemort calmly.

Hermione turned slowly, her eyes wide with wonder. The magic here felt different. Ancient. Layered. As though every herb, every stone, every breath of wind was infused with knowledge and power rare even in the British wizarding world.

They followed a shaded passage to an inn with a weathered wooden sign depicting a winged uraeus—a royal cobra with ibis-like feathers, its head raised and eyes set with obsidian. Inside, it was dark, cool, and surprisingly elegant. High-vaulted ceilings, floating lamps of cut glass, and marble columns. A wizard with a white beard trailing the floor greeted them with a bow and checked them in with a few whispered words.

Without needing to be asked, he led them upstairs, through a corridor scented with saffron and old parchment. He opened a door and bowed respectfully before disappearing.

The room was spacious, with a stone floor, arched windows, and a balcony overlooking a mosaic courtyard. In the centre, a fountain bubbled, and sunlight danced on the water.

Hermione stepped toward the balcony but stopped abruptly when her gaze fell on the bed behind her. One bed. Large, wide, lavishly made—but unmistakably meant for two.

She swallowed.

Voldemort turned to her. “I’m going to scout the site,” he said. “I’ll return tomorrow. You are not to leave the inn.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “You’re leaving me here?” Her tone was indignant. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

Instead of answering, he conjured two books. One was a heavy, leather-bound tome titled Anubis: Gatekeeper of the Dead, the other a weathered codex full of symbols, Decoding Hieroglyphic Magic.

“Study these,” he said simply, handing them to her.

She accepted the books, but her brows remained furrowed. “I could’ve done this at home,” she muttered. “Why didn’t we just leave tomorrow, then?”

Voldemort looked at her with that elusive, half-mocking smile. “Because anticipation is half the pleasure,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “And I rather like the view.”

His tone brooked no argument. With a final, meaningful glance, he added, “Do not leave the inn.”

Then he turned and disappeared without another word.

With a frustrated sigh, Hermione dropped onto the bed, the books still in her hands. She tossed Anubis: Gatekeeper of the Dead beside her, looking at it as if it had personally offended her—and then, reluctantly, she opened it.

But her irritation faded faster than she had expected.

With a frustrated sigh, Hermione dropped onto the bed, the books still in her hands. She tossed Anubis: Gatekeeper of the Dead beside her, looking at it as if it had personally offended her—and then, reluctantly, she opened it.

But her irritation faded faster than she had expected.

The text was ancient, laced with esoteric insight, yet clearly structured. Each chapter began with a ritual inscription and an illustration: Anubis with the head of a jackal, black as tombstone, his eyes as hollow as starless nights. He was described as the guardian of boundaries—between life and death, body and soul, forgetting and remembering. Not evil, but inexorable. Not a judge, but a guide. A keeper of order in the chaos of the underworld.

Anubis weighed souls against the feather of Ma’at. Not with judgement, but with truth. The soul could only continue its journey if it was in balance—not pure, but honest. A soul filled with regret weighed heavier than one full of faults without shame.

She read about his origins in the dark cycles of sun and moon, his connection to embalming, and the first magi who whispered his name as an initiation. About the antechambers of the Duat, the corridors of forgetting, the unfinished souls that wandered until someone called their name.

The deeper she read, the quieter her mind became. The room faded away. Her irritation evaporated. Only the voice of the text remained.

By the time darkness fell outside and the sounds of the market dissolved into drowsy silence, Hermione closed the book. She was surprised to find she had read it cover to cover in one sitting. She had a meal delivered to her room—fragrant rice with grilled vegetables and spiced chicken, a bowl of lentil soup and a glass of pomegranate juice—and ate in silence, her thoughts still lingering with Anubis.

Then she turned to the second book: Decoding Hieroglyphic Magic. Within a few pages, a sense of familiarity arose. Much of the structure resembled rune theory—symbols as foundations of enchantment, hierarchies of meaning, magical permutations based on placement and direction.

The hieroglyphs were more than language. They functioned as keys, as switches that could activate various magical fields. Some glyphs anchored memory, others catalysed transformation. She read about ancient spells to be spoken only at sunrise, about carvings intentionally etched into stone so they could be ‘read’ by the soul itself over centuries.

What fascinated her most was how certain magical systems from Ancient Egypt were not based on power or intent, but on balance—the right order of signs, the proper resonance between sound and form. Even a powerful wizard would fail if the glyphs were not placed with reverence.

The book breathed a language of discipline, but also of beauty. With each page, her curiosity grew. What part of this knowledge would she need? Which symbols, principles, and meanings would come alive in practice? Her frustration with waiting was slowly replaced by a tingling anticipation. She began to wonder what exactly awaited them, and what role she would play. The more she read, the more ready she felt. She wanted this—not just to learn, but to experience what lay ahead.

The next morning, Hermione woke with a sense of restless anticipation. She had no idea when Voldemort would return, and although she knew they had to wait for the new moon—which was tonight—a part of her hoped they might leave sooner. But it was still early, and everything pointed to another full day in the inn.

She leafed through the two books again for a while, but soon realised she was no longer absorbing anything new. Her thoughts began to drift. Boredom crept in. The walls felt like they were closing in.

She stood and wandered through the courtyard. The fountain burbled unbothered, the mosaic gleamed in the midday sun, but even that calm ritual could no longer temper her restlessness. Her eyes kept returning to the doorway leading to the street.

She knew what he had said. She wasn’t to leave the inn. But what danger was there, really, in just slipping out for a moment? Just a brief look, a short stroll through the street they had arrived in yesterday. She wouldn’t go far. She would stay nearby. But she had to know what lay beyond.

With a sideways glance at the staircase to the rooms and the doorway to the outside, she took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and stepped toward the door.

Just a look, she told herself. Just a breath of air in the magical world of Cairo.

The sun was high in the sky when Hermione stepped out of the inn and onto the street where she and Voldemort had arrived the day before. At first, she stayed close to the door, her gaze sliding cautiously along the façades of the surrounding buildings. But she was soon swept up in the vibrancy of the magical marketplace.

The street was a riot of colour and sound. Wizards and witches in robes of off-white, crimson, saffron yellow, and cobalt blue moved among levitating stalls and dusty shopfronts. Their garments were embroidered with stars, eyes, and serpents; their voices melodic and rhythmic. The air was saturated with incense, sandalwood, and the briny scent of the Nile.

Hermione wandered slowly past a shop selling magical perfumes, where vials hovered atop fragrant vapours. A vendor demonstrated a powder that evoked memories of summers long gone. Further along was a bookshop where tomes rewrote themselves in hieroglyphs when opened—living script, the owner called it.

She passed a stall filled with amulets shaped like scarabs, Eyes of Horus, and small basalt rune-plates. Each object shimmered with subtle magic—protective, disruptive, or guiding. At another stall, an old woman demonstrated a spell that turned sand into glass simply by speaking a name.

Hermione felt her heartbeat quicken. This was the kind of magic she had always longed to explore: ancient, unfamiliar, deeply rooted in culture and history. She understood now why Voldemort had come here. And somewhere, in that shared yearning for the unknown, an unwelcome sense of kinship stirred.

As she walked on, her attention was caught by a child who looked at her kindly and whispered something in Arabic. Before she could properly respond, the girl had tied a thin, braided bracelet of shimmering thread around her wrist. Hermione smiled in surprise and tried to thank her, but the girl held out her hand. Her voice, now more serious, repeated something in Arabic. Hermione didn’t understand—but when the child raised her hand again, it was clear she wanted payment.

Hermione frowned. “I don’t have any money on me,” she said in English, her voice uneasy as she turned to go.

But it was too late.

Two large men—guards, or perhaps fathers—emerged from the shade of a cloth awning. They wore wide robes, sandals, and curved sabres at their sides that glinted in the sunlight. They gestured wildly and insistently, their voices sharp and incomprehensible. They pointed at the girl, at Hermione’s wrist, at their own empty palms. It was clear they were demanding payment—and quickly.

Hermione began speaking nervously, her words tangled in panic. “I don’t have any money, do you understand?” she stammered, trying to gesture that she didn’t understand, that she had nothing on her. But her signs were met with harsh words and threatening movements. Her heart pounded in her throat when one of them grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the stall before she could reach for her wand. The other followed, his hand on the hilt of his sabre. She tried to explain in English that she didn’t have any money. “I don’t have any money! I didn’t ask for this!”

But her words only seemed to escalate the situation. The men either didn’t understand or didn’t care. Their expressions darkened, their voices rose. Frustration crackled between them. Hermione resisted, but she couldn’t make sense of the shouting around her. The second man raised his sabre—not toward her face, but toward her hand, as if he meant to punish her.

In that moment, the temperature dropped. As though the sun itself had withdrawn behind a veil. The market’s hum fell into silence. And between them, Voldemort appeared.

He spoke calmly, fluent Arabic—his voice low and threatening. The men shouted back, but slowly stepped away as he advanced. His eyes gleamed coldly, and the air itself seemed to spark with magic. The man holding her wrist released it with visible reluctance and shoved her hard toward Voldemort.

She stumbled into him, half catching herself, but his hand was already at her back, steadying her. Voldemort didn’t look at her. Instead, with a simple motion, he dropped a handful of gold coins onto the stall’s counter—heavy, gleaming, with a square hole in the centre.

Without a word, he pulled her away from the stall, back toward the inn. Only when they were out of earshot of the market did he hiss, “Didn’t I tell you not to leave the inn?”

Hermione shrugged and offered a sheepish look. “Technically, I stayed close.”

His gaze snapped to her—cold, sharp, annihilating. She felt it in her gut, like the air had been knocked from her lungs. Still, she held her chin high.

As soon as they entered the inn, he strode silently through to the dining area. The innkeeper recognised him at once and showed them to a small table in a niche with stained glass and a view of the fountain. Hermione followed in confusion, and only when she sat across from him did it truly sink in.

She was in a restaurant. With Voldemort.

As if they were on a date.

Hermione felt uneasy. Voldemort was still watching her with that same intense, furious gaze, as if he could judge her with his eyes alone. Trying to break the tension and mask her discomfort, she said lightly, with a crooked smile, "So you saved my hand. Does that mean you're going to ask for my hand now too?"

His expression hardened. No trace of amusement. As if it were a personal insult. His eyes lingered on her for a few heartbeats, icy and unyielding — enough to choke off her joke.

She changed the subject. “Was your scouting successful?”

“Yes,” he said curtly, not breaking his gaze.

“Care to elaborate?” she asked, her voice a shade more defiant than she intended.

He kept staring, and something in his eyes resembled a warning.

Hermione sighed and looked away. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have left the inn. I should’ve listened to you.”

“You should have.”

At that moment, the innkeeper arrived to take their order. Voldemort spoke calmly in fluent Arabic, his tone controlled, and the man bowed deeply before leaving.

A brief silence followed. Then he looked at her again. “What did you think about Anubis?”

Hermione straightened slightly in her chair. “Fascinating. The way he represents not judgment, but transition. It’s not about good or evil — it’s about balance. Movement through the Duat, the soul’s ability to shift, to align... It’s alchemical.”

“Precisely,” said Voldemort, his tone lighter, almost satisfied. “The weighing of the heart isn’t moral — it’s structural. The soul must resonate with order, or be devoured. Harmony over righteousness.”

“By Ammit,” Hermione added quickly, her eyes gleaming, “the devourer of the unworthy. But even she isn’t malevolent. Just... inevitable. A function of the system. A necessary conclusion to imbalance.”

He nodded, leaning forward slightly. “And the system is everything. The rituals. The placement of glyphs. Even the moment of utterance — all precise, intentional. In Egyptian magic, language isn't descriptive — it's generative.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, almost eagerly. “Words create. Hieroglyphs aren’t just symbols, they’re verbs. Forces. You don’t cast magic through them — you awaken magic that already exists.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, visibly amused. “You read the chapter on phonetic resonance, then?”

Hermione laughed softly. “Twice. And annotated it.”

Their conversation ignited. They spoke about the soul as multilayered — the ka, ba, akh — and how hieroglyphic inscriptions could split or unite those layers. About magical labels in tombs, spells as binding agents, temple architecture as spell structure. Hermione’s enthusiasm was palpable — she wasn’t interrupted, wasn’t dismissed, wasn’t patronised. Everything she said was answered, challenged, expanded.

And that alone was exhilarating. That she could stretch intellectually, allow herself to be swept up in complexity without compromise. That her sharpness was met not with apprehension, but with promise.

They continued — about rituals, about the relationship between hieroglyphs and soul magic, about how symbolism in Egypt functioned as a living system, more active than passive. Hermione quoted from Decoding Hieroglyphic Magic, to which Voldemort responded with obscure references from magical papyri she hadn’t yet encountered.

Their voices were low and focused, interrupting each other, correcting each other, even laughing — briefly, awkwardly. Time disappeared.

They became entangled in heated discussions, subtle provocations, mutual admiration. Their words were sharp, precise, hungry. They challenged each other’s intellect — and Hermione relished it.

While they spoke, the food had quietly appeared on the table. Voldemort had ordered a series of mezze dishes that filled the table with scent and colour. In golden bowls lay stuffed vine leaves, spicy lentil purée, chickpeas with coriander and garlic, stewed strips of lamb with cinnamon and mint, and a bowl of steaming harira soup filled with chickpeas, tomato, and bits of meat. Alongside sat a basket of flatbread, sesame rolls, and date pastries.

Voldemort calmly described each dish, as though he had known this place for years. “You should try this,” he said, dipping a piece of bread in a spiced sauce and offering it to her.

Hermione hesitated, then accepted it. It was delicious. She tasted, asked, and tasted again. Her senses were as engaged as her mind — everything felt layered, rich, charged with meaning.

And between courses, they kept talking, like two chess players in an endless match that kept them both wide awake.

Hours passed unnoticed, until the sun began to sink slowly behind the buildings, casting the last light through the stained glass across their table. Voldemort looked outside, his face now shadowed and contemplative.

Then he turned to her. His gaze was unreadable — not angry, not cold, but something quieter, more reserved. "It’s time," he said at last, with audible reluctance. "We leave before the moon rises."

Hermione nodded slowly, her mind still half-immersed in the discussion that had captivated them. She felt her heart quicken — this was the moment everything had been building towards. They were leaving.

Voldemort rose, elegant and deliberate. Hermione followed, her robe whispering across the floor. The conversation hung between them, an unspoken thread of understanding. Evening had come. And the mission was about to begin.

Chapter Text

In the room of the inn, Voldemort and Hermione prepared in silence. A strange, unspoken familiarity hung in the air as they moved around each other — like dancers who instinctively knew one another’s rhythm. It felt strange and natural at once. As if this wasn’t the first time they’d packed together in the twilight.

Hermione fastened the belt over her sand-coloured robe so her wand would be firmly within reach. Voldemort checked his own equipment with the calm precision of someone who left nothing to chance.

“We apparate to Abydos first,” he said. “From there, we’ll continue to the site.”

They apparated in front of a crumbling stone hut on the outskirts of Abydos — little more than a weather-worn shell with no door or windows, sunken into dust and sand. Voldemort stepped inside without hesitation and returned with a rolled-up, dark red flying carpet.

Hermione grimaced. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I hate flying.”

“We can’t apparate,” he replied dryly. “So it’s either this, or walking through the desert.”

With a swift movement, he unfurled the carpet. It immediately floated up, hovering between them, trembling slightly.

Hermione tried to hide her nerves. “What, no camel available?”

Voldemort gave her a look somewhere between amused and impatient and sat down on the carpet with remarkable ease, his robes falling elegantly around him.

Hermione clenched her jaw. She wouldn’t show weakness. With reluctance, she placed one knee on the carpet, but her balance was lacking. Like a newborn fawn, she tried to make her way to the centre, wavering, her hands reaching out for stability.

Voldemort watched with a quiet, dry laugh. Hermione shot him a withering glare.

Eventually, she managed to kneel beside him, her shoulder brushing his to keep steady.

Then the carpet shot upward without warning.

Hermione let out a yelp and instinctively grabbed for him. He calmly placed an arm around her back to keep her on the carpet — and left it there.

With her face pressed against his shoulder and her eyes shut tight, she muttered, “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

His response was dry: “Immensely.”

The air grew cooler as they climbed, the city below them fading into blurs of light and sand. Voldemort spoke, his voice low and right beside her ear:

“Deep beneath a collapsed pyramid near Abydos lies the Sanctuary of the Black Vigil — a hidden necropolis, once accessible only to the highest priests of death magic. The entrance only reveals itself during the new moon.”

Hermione kept her eyes closed, but her heart pounded with a mix of fear, anticipation… and something resembling excitement.

After a long silence, she asked, her voice muffled by the wind: “What exactly are we going to do in this sanctuary?”

Voldemort answered without hesitation, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Steal the Mask of Anubis.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “Steal it?” she repeated in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? Why do you want to steal it?”

He glanced at her, unperturbed. “Because I want it.”

The Mask of Anubis. Even the name stirred something ancient in Hermione’s memory — a relic of death magic so potent that most modern scholars only whispered about it. Forged from obsidian and inscribed with silver hieroglyphs, the mask was said to grant its bearer profound insight into the realm of the dead. It allowed the wearer to see wandering souls, to command them, even to bind them — temporarily — to objects or bodies. More than a conduit, it was a key: to forgotten memories, to hidden truths, to power that defied mortality.

Hermione’s mouth fell open. She sat up straighter, forgetting her fear of heights, and began, “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? You don’t just stroll into an ancient Egyptian tomb and take what you like! These places are protected — magically, spiritually, historically! There are curses older than Hogwarts buried under those stones. The Egyptians didn’t just guard their tombs with traps, they laced them with magic designed to outlast dynasties! We’re talking soul-warping, mind-crushing, body-shattering protections, not to mention whatever divine retribution Anubis himself might decide to unleash. You think the British Ministry is paranoid? The ancient priests made paranoia into a sacred art form!”

Voldemort said nothing, his gaze fixed on the horizon, the corners of his mouth barely lifted.

Hermione drew a deep breath. “You can’t just take something like that without consequence. Everything in Egyptian magic is about balance — theft is imbalance. You’re going to tip a scale you might not be able to tip back.”

Voldemort replied airily, his tone almost mockingly mild: “That’s why I brought you.”

Hermione turned sharply toward him. “You brought me to help you rob a tomb?”

“We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She rolled her eyes to the sky and leaned back on her heels. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” she said dramatically, her voice dragging, as though she half-meant it and half-hoped it wouldn’t come true.

They arrived shortly after at their destination.

All around them lay nothing but ruins — stone fragments scattered like broken bones across the barren sand. Night had fallen, and the new moon hung high in the sky, barely visible, just a shadow in the dark. The air was cool and still. Cooler than she had expected, and yet she knew it wasn’t the temperature that sent shivers down her spine.

Before them lay what must once have been a colossal pyramid — now a twisted, collapsed mass, yet still impressive in scale and silence. As though even in ruin, it radiated power.

Voldemort rolled up the flying carpet and propped it against a rocky wall.

“Come,” he said. “I already know where the entrance is.”

Hermione pulled her robe tighter around herself. “Have you been here before?”

“You do remember I went here yesterday to scout?”

“Oh. Right...” she muttered, a little embarrassed.

She followed him as he stepped purposefully through the debris toward a cluster of stones that looked just a little too orderly to be random.

“I spent the entire night disabling protective enchantments,” he said without turning. “Some were curses, some were blood-locked wards. All were designed to kill.”

Hermione said nothing, her gaze sliding over the darkness as if the spirits of the priests still watched them.

Voldemort raised his wand, muttered a series of complex incantations, and with a barely audible click, a layer of stones shifted aside. Beneath them opened a narrow staircase, hidden in the bedrock, descending into darkness.

“We go down,” he said simply.

And without waiting for her, he began to descend.

Hermione hesitated a moment, her hand on her wand. But curiosity pushed her forward. She had Voldemort with her — the most powerful wizard of her time. A man so obsessed with evading death that he had done everything to make himself immortal. Surely someone like him wouldn’t enter a pyramid if it meant his end... would he?

Still, a bitter thought lingered. He had Horcruxes. He could afford risks she could not. If he died here, he wouldn’t truly be gone. But she? She was finite. And that realisation made her pause. Was it wise to follow him?

And yet — she couldn’t help herself.

She whispered, “Lumos,” and her wand lit up. The soft, silver glow curved around the ancient stone. She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and followed him down the stairs.

The corridor stretching beneath them was narrow, dusty, and lined with hieroglyphs. They seemed to move along the walls, like breathing ink. Hermione felt a burning urge to study them one by one, but Voldemort strode ahead, and the darkness behind her was too dense to face alone. So she hurried after him, her light and his forming beacons in the black void.

The staircase felt endless. Her legs began to protest, her breathing grew shallow. Voldemort gave no sign of fatigue — his silhouette moved steadily ahead.

At times, he paused to cast probing spells. Sometimes there was only a faint crackle, but occasionally the air warped like breaking glass, and he had to perform complex unbindings. A few times, he asked her for help — brief instructions, no explanations. She followed without protest, her pulse quickening.

They descended deeper. The air grew drier, heavier, and the silence began to hum.

Eventually, they reached a door — large, ancient, made of sandstone, but without hinges, without handle or keyhole. No inscriptions, no visible symbols. Just a massive slab embedded immovably into the wall.

Hermione held up her wand and studied the edges. “No handle. No runes. No markings,” she murmured. “How are we supposed to open this?”

Voldemort knelt at the base of the door and brushed away the dust. There, barely visible in the sand, lay three small round stones — each bearing a different engraving: a sun disk, a crescent moon, and an eye.

“Pressure stones,” he said. “But in sequence.”

Hermione knelt beside him. “We need to find the correct order. A solar cycle?”

“Or symbolic significance,” said Voldemort. “Try moon, eye, sun.”

Hermione pressed the stones one by one in the given order. At first, nothing happened. Then came a soft, hollow thud — and the door began to sink slowly into the floor, revealing a cool, dark passage beyond.

“Not bad,” Hermione said, both surprised and relieved.

Voldemort was already on his feet. “Let’s hope the rest is just as cooperative.”

They stepped into the new corridor, and after a few metres, the walls opened into a large, circular chamber. The moment their feet crossed the threshold, torches along the walls flared to life, one by one. Blue flames leapt high, casting dancing light on thousands of glittering reflections.

The light flickered on gold, silver, and gemstones that filled the room — a dazzling spectacle of riches. Carpets of coins, pyramids of gold bars, glistening jewels, obsidian masks, parchment scrolls sealed with dark wax, and statuettes that seemed to move when not directly observed. Everything sparkled and gleamed, as if alive in the firelight. A nearly hallucinogenic glow filled the space, as though they had stepped into a dream.

The floor was sunken, made of sand-coloured marble inlaid with patterns of dark stone in complex geometries. Around them, the walls were entirely covered in a tangle of hieroglyphs, runes, and symbolic systems in languages Hermione didn’t immediately recognise. It all seemed random — but it wasn’t.

Hermione’s breath caught.

A shimmer to her right distracted her. Without thinking, she let her fingers brush a small pile of gold-coloured coins — just a fleeting touch. But the reaction was instant. The coins began multiplying rapidly, like a spreading infection, spilling across the floor. The duplicates glowed hot, and when her fingers brushed them again, she felt a sharp, searing pain — as if acid had burned her skin.

She gasped and yanked her hand back, but before she could move further, Voldemort had already seized her. He pulled her forcefully away until they stood clear of everything.

The multiplication stopped.

Hermione panted softly, her eyes still locked on the retreating gleam of the cursed gold. “That—hurt,” she whispered.

Voldemort turned sharply to her, his gaze cutting. “Didn’t you just lecture me about the dangers of Egyptian tombs? Have you no common sense about not touching anything in said cursed tombs?”

Hermione looked away, guilty but silent.

As she straightened, she took in the endless hoard surrounding them. Suddenly, it clicked. This was it: the origin of the cursed protection spells she had once encountered in the Lestrange vault. The Gemino curse. The Flagrante curse. He had gotten them from here. She said nothing, but her heart thudded at the realisation. As if past and future met here — in silence, in gold.

Voldemort was already moving. His wand lit with a pale green glow as he navigated the room. He murmured barely audible incantations, his movements precise and deliberate. Now and then, a flare of light flickered — a curse he had just in time neutralised or broken.

Hermione stood still and watched, his shadow dancing over the gold. This time, he didn’t ask for her help.

Her gaze drifted to the walls. The hieroglyphs and runes drew her attention once more. Now that her panic had subsided and her focus returned, the symbols along the walls began to arrange themselves in her mind. At first, it seemed chaotic, but the repetition became clearer the longer she looked. The Eye of Horus — sometimes singular, sometimes mirrored. A serpent biting its own tail — a symbol of eternity, but also of boundary. And in between them, the motif for ‘truth in silence’ — a closed mouth beneath a solar disk, always placed precisely between the others.

The symbols repeated, in varying sizes, in patterns that at first seemed irregular, but on closer inspection were structured — prime numbers, perhaps? Or a stellar diagram? Her mind buzzed, the impulse to analyse and organise flaring to life.

This was no decoration. No random hieroglyphs or ritual symbolism.

This was deliberate. It was a language.

A code waiting to be read.

Voldemort joined her. His eyes scanned the wall, then her face. “Anything yet?”

Hermione shook her head. “I think it's a sequence. The symbols—there’s repetition, and spacing. It's not random.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I see no other way out of this room.”

Together they studied the wall. Their fingers stayed back, but their eyes scanned sharply and intently over the hieroglyphs. They shared observations, sometimes in whispers, sometimes with a glance. Voldemort pointed out structures that altered her thinking; Hermione counted intervals, tested symbolic connections.

“Could be lunar phases?” he suggested.

“No,” she whispered, her heart suddenly pounding. “It’s numerical. Look at the spacing—1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8... oh.”

She gasped. “It’s a Fibonacci sequence.”

She lifted her wand and began pointing to the correct symbols in order — first mentally, then physically. She followed the Fibonacci sequence: one eye, another eye, then two serpents, three silence symbols, five eyes, eight serpents. The further she progressed, the clearer it became: this wasn’t decoration — it was a computation, an ordering of magical truth by universal law.

Then, suddenly, all the gold vanished. The chamber seemed to brighten, the shine evaporating into nothing as if it had never existed.

Where the floor had been flat, now a narrow opening gaped. A stone stairwell led downward, dark, dusty, and real.

Hermione lowered her wand and stared, wide-eyed, at the spot where the opulent treasure had just been. She smiled broadly — a rare expression of unfiltered pride and exhilaration. “That was... brilliant,” she whispered, half to herself, half to him.

Voldemort was still beside her. He said nothing, but slowly turned toward her. There was something new in his gaze — not surprised, but sharp and absently admiring. His eyes lingered just a bit too long, sliding along her face, her throat, her hand still resting on her wand. Though his expression remained impassive, his body spoke volumes: tension in his shoulders, a quiet focus in his stance, as if he wanted to unravel her the way she had unravelled the walls. A charged silence hung between them, thick with suppressed energy — intellectual, magical, and also physical. A hint of restrained hunger, barely veiled by composure.

Hermione felt it spark down her spine.

They both knew it. He was impressed. And she enjoyed that more than she probably should.

Without a word, Voldemort turned and stepped toward the new staircase. Hermione followed at a short distance. The stone steps scraped underfoot as they descended, each contact echoing with a dull grind.

It grew colder. The air heavier. And then came the sounds.

At first, Hermione thought she imagined them — a scrape, a sigh. But then it came again, louder this time: dragging footsteps, like bare feet on rough stone. Groans, not words, but sounds that resembled lost breath. A shiver ran through her.

At the bottom of the stairs, a hall opened to reveal three narrow passages. Each entrance was cloaked in shadow, with no markings, no hieroglyphs, no symbols.

Hermione’s stomach clenched.

“This is a labyrinth,” she whispered.

Voldemort nodded, his eyes fixed on the three corridors before them. “Stay close to me,” he said softly, but firmly.

They chose the middle path. The air was musty and thick with age-old dust, and the further they went, the more intense the atmosphere became. The sounds grew louder — groans, dragging steps, the scraping of flesh over stone.

Suddenly, a figure loomed in the gloom: hunched, shuddering, draped in grimy cloths over a shrivelled, half-exposed body. Its head was unevenly wrapped, skin grey and parched, its eye sockets black and hollow. Hermione’s breath caught. An Unfinished One.

She had read about them in Anubis: Gatekeeper of the Dead. Soul-creatures — neither dead nor alive. Souls rejected by judgement, caught between attempt and punishment. Some had failed to offer. Others had broken rules. They were held in a state of malignant incompleteness. Consciously punitive.

Hermione raised her wand. “Stupefy!”

The beam hit the Unfinished One’s chest — and passed through it without effect.

The creature turned its head slowly toward her and gave a low, guttural growl. It moved faster now.

“Diffindo!”

This time, deep cuts tore across its torso. It stumbled back, groaning.

But the noise had already done too much.

It was as if their magic had been a beacon. From the darkness came more sounds — wailing, shuffling, a fragile breath that required no air. From side passages and shadows they emerged: Unfinished Ones. First three, then five, then nearly a dozen. Their bodies writhed, their limbs moved erratically. Some crawled. Others walked. One of them was nearly faceless.

They were surrounded. The corridor seemed to narrow as the Unfinished Ones closed in, their moans a chorus of lost pain.

Voldemort moved first. “Incendio Maxima!” he shouted, and a wall of flame surged forward, scorching two of the attackers. Hermione turned and saw an Unfinished One looming above her. “Diffindo!” she yelled. The spell sliced it in half horizontally, but the upper half continued crawling until Voldemort burned it with a second spell.

The next strike came from the right. Hermione was pulled backwards and fell, rolling just in time as a claw struck the spot where her face had been. “Reducto!” she screamed, but it bounced off her assailant’s chest.

“Only cutting and burning!” she shouted again, more to herself than him.

Two Unfinished Ones lunged at Voldemort at once. He spun, his robe sweeping like a gust of dust, and shouted, “Lacero!” — the spell slashed their bodies in a cross-pattern. Bloodless. Silent. But effective.

Another came from above, leaping from a crack in the wall, its mouth wide open as it descended on Hermione. She felt its cold breath on her skin. Voldemort shoved her hard against the wall, stepped between her and the attack, and took the hit on his back. His face twisted in pain, but he stayed upright. His wand shot upward: “Incendio!” The creature screamed — as if it had no vocal cords, but still felt pain.

He stood still a second longer, his chest against hers, their faces mere inches apart. Hermione felt his breath, heavy and fast, and something in her responded with equal intensity.

From the corner of her eye, she saw more Unfinished Ones stumbling toward them. She cast an Incendio Maxima at them. One of the mummies caught fire, writhing and collapsing. The other was intercepted by Voldemort, who cast no spell but swept his wand in a sharp, crescent arc through the air. The air split — and the Unfinished One was torn in two.

But silence did not return.

More came.

They fled deeper into the labyrinth, and each time they turned back, there were the same stumbling, wailing figures. They seemed drawn to magic like moths to flame. Every spell cast summoned more.

Hermione stumbled as a hand grabbed her from a side wall. An Unfinished One had leapt at her from a crack.

“Expulso!” she cried in panic, but it did nothing.

Voldemort caught her just in time and yanked her free. The creature crashed into him instead, trying to cling on.

“Confringo,” he growled into her ear, and the Unfinished One was blasted back and burned to ash.

He stayed like that for a moment — his body pressed to hers, their breath heavy and in sync.

And then they moved on.

The corridors remained echo chambers of threat. Dragging sounds echoed behind them, and each time they turned a corner, another grotesque form of an Unfinished One loomed into view.

They had to fight constantly. Voldemort burned, tore, and repelled them with chilling efficiency, while Hermione chose her spells with precision. She felt her instincts merging with knowledge — only spells that cut, burned, or destroyed were effective. Everything else was a waste of magic and time.

At one point, as they reached a crossroads and hesitated on which path to take, three Unfinished Ones lunged at them from the darkness. Voldemort turned to intercept the threat but was overwhelmed as two leapt onto him at once. The third struck from behind and knocked him to the ground.

Hermione screamed his name. Without hesitation, she charged forward, wand raised. “Lacero!” she cried, fury in her voice, and one of the bodies split open like fabric in the wind. The second lunged at her, and with a trembling hand, she shouted, “Incendio Maxima!” The mummy shrieked and burst into flames.

Voldemort struggled under the weight of the third. His face was tight, his mouth a thin line. Hermione dropped to her knees beside him, bracing herself with a hand on his chest as she pressed her wand to the creature’s head. “Confringo,” she whispered — precise, almost tender.

The explosion hurled the creature against the wall. Ash and dust settled around them.

Voldemort rose, his breathing heavy. Their eyes met — charged, weary, but fiercely sharp.

Without a word, they straightened and ran on, deeper into the labyrinth. Shoulder to shoulder, wands ready. Like warriors. Like equals.

After what felt like hours — an endless cycle of running, fighting, and fleeing — the labyrinth began to change. The corridors widened, the ceiling lifted, and the air… grew stiller. The groaning behind them faded slowly, as if something invisible was holding it back.

Ahead stretched a long, straight corridor carved from black stone. At its end stood a heavy door, half-lit by the soft glow of their wands.

Hermione slowed, chest heaving from exhaustion. Sweat dripped down her temples, mixed with soot and sand. Her arms trembled with fatigue. Voldemort walked beside her, his robes torn, his neck streaked with blood, but his pace was still firm.

As they entered the long corridor, they noticed the Unfinished Ones no longer followed. They stood at the threshold — the boundary of the labyrinth — and remained there, motionless, their empty eyes fixed on the two intruders. As if an invisible barrier held them back or forbade them to cross.

Hermione and Voldemort finally stopped before the closed door. They looked at each other, their faces dirty, their breath ragged — but in their eyes was a triumph that needed no words. Exhausted. Wrecked. And exhilarated.

Voldemort placed his hand on the door and pushed. With a grating sound, it opened. A new darkness yawned before them. Without a word, they stepped inside.

The moment their feet crossed the threshold, their light went out. Hermione whispered “Lumos,” but her wand did not respond. Voldemort tried a spell too, but it remained dark — not merely dark, but absolute. All-consuming.

The door shut behind them with a dull thud. And then there was nothing.

No light. No sound. No sense of direction or space.

Hermione froze. Her breathing quickened, stuttered. She felt her heartbeat pounding in her throat, echoing in a vacuum. But even that seemed to fade into the emptiness around her. She whispered again — “Lumos” — but the darkness devoured it. No spark of magic, no echo, no comfort. Only deafening silence.

She lifted her foot, took a step — hesitant — and felt nothing under her sole but a vague impression of surface. Stone? Sand? Air? She couldn’t tell. Every step felt like walking into nothing, as if gravity itself had forgotten her.

Panic struck. Waves of invisible fear clamped around her chest like iron bands. What if she was lost? What if Voldemort was gone? What if this was her grave — silent and meaningless?

She gasped, but even that felt unreal — as if her lungs no longer remembered breath. She stumbled forward, blindly, hands reaching. Her fingertips trembled in the dark, searching for a wall, for direction. But there was nothing. Only her fear, amplified by the void, like a voice echoing only inside her.

And then the memories came.

Her parents — with blank eyes, their memories erased. Herself — lying on the floor of Malfoy Manor, her arm burning with the words Bellatrix had carved into her skin. Harry — seemingly dead in Hagrid’s arms. Ron — leaving her and Harry behind at their campsite during the Horcrux hunt.

They came in flashes, raw and unfiltered. As if the emptiness had cracked her open and dredged her deepest traumas to the surface. She saw the dead. Felt loss. And most of all: the unbearable loneliness after the war, when no one seemed to understand what she had sacrificed.

Tears pricked her eyes, but even that felt unreal. She didn’t know if she was crying or just imagined she was.

She reached out in the dark, her hands grasping blindly, desperately, searching for something — someone — to hold onto.

Until her fingers touched something. Fabric. Warmth. Fingers.

A hand closed around hers.

And she breathed — for the first time again — as if her lungs remembered they were alive.

She clung to the hand, gripping it as if it were her only anchor in the void. In the nothingness, she found body — warmth, presence — and in a haze of relief and desperation, she fell against him. Arms closed around her. Firm. Intentional. As if he had been searching just as hard for her as she had for him.

They lost themselves in each other’s embrace. Not out of desire, but necessity. Their bodies seemed to merge in the darkness, like two flames needing one another to stay alight.

And then, as her forehead rested against his chest, something extraordinary happened. Alongside her own memories — her sorrow, her fear, her sacrifices — she felt fragments of his. Not images, not words, but emotions. Raw. Cold. Painful.

Loneliness. A deep, aching abandonment that closed her throat. The childlike hope for love — never returned. The humiliation of being dismissed, forgotten. The chill of a youth without touch, without affection.

She didn’t know if it was projection. Maybe her mind invented these fragments, based on what she knew of his past. But it felt real. Real enough to eclipse her own sorrow, if only for a moment.

Maybe they weren’t opposites. Maybe they were just two survivors finding their reflection in the dark. Two marked souls who could do nothing but cling — not to light, but to each other.

Hermione felt his hands glide up her back — slowly, searching. One hand found her face, the other slid into her curls, so naturally she didn’t know when it had begun. She held her breath, her heart pounding against her ribs. Every voice in her head screamed this was wrong, this couldn’t happen — this was Voldemort.

But her heart stayed silent. Her heart only beat louder. Her heart wanted this — this touch, this closeness, this surrender to the moment.

Her eyelashes quivered as her face lifted from his chest. She felt his breath, warm and quiet in the nothing. And then his lips touched hers.

It wasn’t a tender kiss.

It was a command.

Voldemort kissed her with a certainty that burned all doubt. His hand in her curls held her firmly, as if he wouldn’t allow her to follow any thought but his. His lips were cold and burning at once — intense, possessive, controlled and entirely consuming.

Hermione gasped as she gave in. Her fingers slid to his neck, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. Every part of her trembled — from fear, from desire, from that one realisation:

She wanted this. She wanted him.

The kiss deepened. His hand in her curls slid to her back, pulling her closer, not rough but with a resolve that silenced her thoughts. His mouth moved over hers with a precision that made her feel he knew each of her doubts — and was eliminating them, one by one. Her heart pounded wildly, her breathing merged with his.

She felt herself dissolve, as if the world beyond their touch no longer existed. The darkness, the silence, the lost time — all vanished. Only this remained: his hands, his breath, his body against hers.

He led, she followed — but not as a victim. As someone who had finally found a person who did not fear her strength, but challenged it.

Her arms wrapped around his neck. She felt the tension in his shoulders, the control in his posture, but also the surprise when she gently ran her fingers through his hair. It was silky — just as she had imagined. She had wanted to do it since the first day she saw him, had often wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

Now she knew. Yes. It was even softer.

A shiver ran through her. Not of fear, but from the realisation that there was no turning back. Not in this moment. Not with his breath mixing with hers, his hand still resting at her jaw, the other firmly clasped around her back. They were here — together — in darkness, in silence, in surrender.

But slowly, something changed. An elusive awareness crept in. Sounds — soft, nearly imperceptible — entered her consciousness. The smacking of their lips. Her own breathing. A moan, uncontrolled and real, escaped her throat.

The silence had been broken.

In the same instant, their bodies seemed to realise it. Their eyes opened together. Their lips parted, still close, still yearning — but interrupted by the sudden return of reality.

The darkness was gone.

Torches along the walls burst to life, one by one, their flames flaring bright and tall. The soft flicker lit up a colossal chamber filled with pillars reaching into the shadows. The floor glistened with black stone, and the sound of their breathing now echoed back at them from the walls.

And there, at the centre of the room, atop a raised obsidian altar between two enormous golden bowls: a giant statue of Anubis. The god of death loomed over them, his jackal head glistening black, his eyes silver. At his feet rested a monumental scale — solid gold, intricately worked. One side hung lower than the other.

And on that lower-hanging scale lay it.

The Mask of Anubis.

Hermione and Voldemort slowly let go of each other, their breath still uneven, their hearts pounding in the same invisible rhythm. A smile crept over her face — genuine, shimmering with wonder. “We found it,” she whispered, almost reverently.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer. His eyes — still dark from what had just passed between them — held a lingering tension, a promise unspoken. One corner of his mouth twitched upward. Not mocking. Not kind. But possessed.

Together they walked forward, their footsteps soft on the smooth stone floor. With each step, Hermione felt the magic in the air grow denser — as if the atmosphere was saturated with invisible power. Her runes began to glow softly, warmth crawling over her skin as if her body were adapting to the energy of the room.

Her own magic stirred. Something bubbled in her arm — right where the black Saarnivaara had once bitten her. A phantom pain, deep and dull, as though that old darkness was being reawakened by the presence of this even older force.

The closer they came to the scale, the more intense it became. Hermione’s stomach clenched, her heart quickened. She looked up at the statue of Anubis and felt his silver eyes follow her. She knew it couldn’t be real — and yet it felt like a warning. Or a test.

Voldemort circled the scale, his gaze locked on the mask. He reached out — slowly, deliberately — but just before his fingers could touch it, his hands halted. Held back by something invisible. His brow furrowed.

Hermione remained opposite him, her eyes flicking from the mask to the empty scale on the other side. “It’s a scale,” she said slowly. “We can’t just take it. It’s designed to measure... balance. Maybe only someone who’s found worthy can shift the weight.”

“Let’s find out,” said Voldemort, and he stepped onto the scale. It began to move slowly. As his side lowered, the other rose — the mask lifting almost weightlessly.

For a moment, it looked as though the balance might hold. But the scale trembled, paused... and then slowly returned to its original position. The mask stayed out of reach.

Voldemort stepped off the scale, his jaw tight, his gaze dark. Something crossed his face — something elusive, wounded. He had considered himself worthy. Of course he had — the man who saw himself as master of death, who had split his soul to outwit mortality. In his world, Anubis’ recognition should have been inevitable.

Hermione felt a strange kind of pity stir in her chest. She knew he felt slighted, even if he masked it with a neutral expression. And truthfully — she found it slightly ironic. Almost... amusing.

She suppressed her smile. This wasn’t the time for triumph. Instead, she kept her expression neutral and turned her gaze back to the scale.

“We’ll have to try something else,” she said softly.

Voldemort looked at her, his gaze sharper now, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Then step on,” he said, tilting his head slightly toward the scale.

Hermione hesitated. Every part of her body protested. If Voldemort — the man who had done everything to conquer death, who saw himself as a god — had not been deemed worthy, what made him think she would be? She was just a witch, a girl from another time, with a head full of knowledge and a heart full of doubt.

And still — she stepped forward.

Holding her breath, she climbed onto the scale. Her robes rustled softly as she lowered herself. Minutes seemed to pass with nothing happening.

And then it moved.

Her side sank. The mask rose.

And... the scale remained balanced.

The chamber seemed to fall silent. Torches flared higher. The eyes of the Anubis statue began to glow — bright silver, like a judgment being passed.

Hermione felt her breath hitch. She looked up at Voldemort, who stared at her with a look she couldn’t immediately name — awe, admiration, reverence. Perhaps even something close to worship.

She didn’t know what to feel.

Honour? Fear? Paralysis?

What did this mean? What did it say about her? Why her?

She didn’t dare move, as if any shift might undo the judgement. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts spun.

Voldemort slowly walked to the other side of the scale. His gaze was fixed, obsessed, on the mask. Carefully, deliberately, he extended his hands — as if he both feared and desired the object. His fingers closed around it. And this time, he could lift it.

The mask rested in his hands, black and silver gleaming in the torchlight. His eyes glowed with longing, with hunger. It wasn’t joy. It was possession. His breath quickened, his fingers clutched the artefact as if afraid it might escape.

Hermione felt a jolt run through the floor. Her side of the scale began to sink.

She tried to move — to step off — but her legs refused. As though an invisible force held her in place.

“I... I can't get out,” she said, panic creeping into her voice. “Voldemort, I can't get out!”

He looked up, turned toward her with the mask still in his hands, and approached with a frown. He reached for her, his fingers stretching — but met an invisible barrier. He couldn’t reach her.

Hermione pressed her palms against the air — it felt like glass, unyielding.

“You have to put it back,” she cried, her voice shaking. “There can only be balance if the weight is even — you took the mask, now the scale is out of balance!”

Voldemort looked from her to the mask. His expression shifted. The possessive gleam returned to his eyes — a gleam of pure desire. He looked at the artefact as if it was his, as if he had a right to it — as if nothing and no one could take that from him.

The realisation sliced through Hermione like ice.

He hadn’t come to succeed together. He had come for the mask. Even if it meant leaving her behind.

“Voldemort?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Please put it back.”

He held her gaze for a moment. “This is a dilemma,” he said, sounding almost sincerely regretful. “You’ve impressed me today, more than I expected. I wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

Her heart broke. Tears welled up, stinging her eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “Please—don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”

Voldemort clenched his jaw. He said nothing more. He looked at her one last time — a look that held something like regret, or perhaps self-justification.

“I am truly sorry, Hermione. I really wish it were different.”

And then he turned.

Hermione began to scream. She pounded her fists against the barrier, called his name, begged him to come back, not to leave her. But he didn’t look back.

With the mask still clutched tightly in his hand, he opened the door at the far end of the chamber and vanished without another word.

The moment the door closed with a hollow echo, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The temperature dropped, as if the air itself tightened with anticipation. A shadow detached from the statue of Anubis — slow, like thick smoke taking shape.

The statue’s eyes blazed brighter. From the heart of the obsidian, something began to emerge. A colossal silhouette, with the contours of a jackal’s head and broad, jet-black shoulders, rose from the void. It was no tangible body, but a projection of pure magic and judgment. The god of Death had awakened.

Hermione felt her heart stop. She tried to scream, but her throat was too dry — only when the figure began to move, lurching toward her with ominous weight, did the scream finally break free from her chest.

She screamed, raw and full of despair, as Anubis’s shadow stretched out over her.

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut behind him, the echo trailing long through the corridor. Voldemort stood still, the mask clutched tightly in his hands. His fingers traced the smooth edge, his eyes devoured every detail — the silver inscriptions, the sheen of ancient stone, the weight that had nothing to do with matter but with power. He had done it. Against all predictions, against centuries of mystique and failed attempts, he had found the Mask of Anubis. And not only found it — it was now his.

A self-satisfied smile slowly crept across his face. Of course he had succeeded. Who else but he could have extracted this ancient relic from its resting place? Who else but he — heir of Slytherin, conqueror of death, master of life and soul — had the right to tame the powers of the gods?

But then he heard her. A scream. Followed by more screams. Raw. Breaking.

The sound sliced through his euphoria like a blade. He froze, his grip tightening around the mask. For a fraction of a second, he wanted to ignore it, to remind himself this was the price of greatness. That sacrifice was necessary.

But his mind refused to close.

Hermione.

The witch who had entered his life and, in a short time, embedded herself in his world — unexpected, uninvited, but irresistible.

He thought of how the scale had balanced when she stepped on it. He, deemed unworthy by no one. She — acknowledged by Anubis. How was that possible? How could she be accepted by an entity of death itself, while he, with all his knowledge, his sacrifices, his Horcruxes — was rejected?

It was absurd. It was offensive.

And yet… somewhere, deep inside, a voice gnawed.

She had fascinated him too. From the very first moment.

Not like others — shallow, useful, replaceable. No. She lingered in his thoughts. Not as a woman, not at first. But as a mind. As power. As counterbalance.

He had never felt anything for women — except physical hunger. That was easily sated, without attachment or repetition. But she…

She had his attention.

Weeks. Months. Long after she disappeared from his sight, her voice lingered in his mind. Her sharp remarks. Her indignant glare. Her endless thirst for knowledge. Her defiance in the Spellyard. The way she cast spells as if magic were a language she had mastered completely.

And then… her body.

Voldemort felt the heat return. He had tried to ignore it. Her appearance should not have affected him — appearance was weakness. But still. The golden flecks in her eyes that lit up by firelight. Those wild curls, springy and untameable, like an aura of vitality around her head. The freckles on her skin. The softness of her hair — he now knew it was exactly as fine as it looked.

And her curves. Salazar, those curves.

They had kept him awake more than once. More than once he had had to relieve himself like a schoolboy, guilty and full of frustration. And today… today he had held her. Felt how her body fit against his. How right it felt. How inevitable.

When she kissed him back — with that fire, that passion — he had felt it: she belonged to him. No one had ever answered him like that. No one had ever returned his touch with equal force. In nothing he had conquered or destroyed had he ever felt as much fire as in her. And it had been that kiss, he now realised, that had granted them passage. That moment when they regained their senses. Not by spell, not by calculation — but by surrender. To each other. To the truth that lived deep within them both. It could not be a coincidence that the mask appeared at that very moment. That had to mean something.

Exactly what, he had yet to figure out. It was a riddle to be dissected later — like everything. But the fact remained: their connection had led them to the prize he now held in his hands. Their merging had unlocked something. Activated something. And if that didn’t signify meaning, he didn’t know what did.

He looked at the mask.

And for the first time since he had taken hold of it, he hesitated.

What did this truly give him? Power over death? He already had that. Knowledge of souls? He possessed it in abundance. Command of the past? Perhaps.

But her?

She was living fire. She had challenged him, inspired him, irritated him — but most of all: moved him.

He had never in his life been so affected by someone. Never so touched. And that had to mean something.

She was not an obstacle. She was the proof that someone existed who could mirror him worthily. Who could complement him. Who could follow, but not without thinking for herself — unlike so many of his followers, she would not be walked over. She had once said she wasn’t afraid to be his equal, and though he still believed no one truly equalled him, he had to admit she came closer than anyone ever had. Something he had never thought possible.

Was she not, in everything she had done, in everything she was — the only one who could ever truly belong to him? Did he not deserve someone like her — powerful, intelligent, fearless — at his side?

He wanted her. Not temporarily. Not as a pawn. Fully.

He wanted her fingers in his hair. Her voice in his ear. Her mind beside his.

He wanted her body beneath him, her devotion, her defiance.

He wanted to possess her. And no one else would have her but him.

His fingers closed once more around the mask.

And then he made his choice.

He turned.

With swift steps, he walked back through the corridor, the mask still clutched in his hand. The echo of her scream had lodged deep in his mind, a raw sound that vibrated between his ribs. When he reached the door again and threw it open, his breath caught.

The figure of Anubis — colossal, black and pulsing with power — loomed over Hermione. She lay flat on her back, her body taut and straining. Dark, smoke-like ribbons of magic coiled around her like living bindings, wrapping around her ankles, her legs, her arms, her throat. The god of Death was nearly finished enclosing her. Her face was pale, her eyes shut, her mouth agape as though her last scream had frozen there. Her screaming had stopped. The silence was total, menacing.

Voldemort’s heart pounded in his chest. A strange, stabbing sensation tore through his ribs. Fear. An emotion he barely knew, one he despised. A weakness he had trained himself out of. But now it was there — raw, undeniable. Fear that he was too late. That she had been taken from him before he could claim her.

But at the same time, it confirmed what he already knew.

She had awakened something. Something no one had ever touched.

And this, this fear, this loss, was the proof that he had made the right choice.

He stormed to the scale and placed the mask back into the bowl with trembling fingers. The magic in the chamber seemed to shudder, like a breath being held.

As he looked at her — motionless, pale, shrouded in shadow — he made a vow:

If he could save her, he would never let her be in danger again. He would protect her. From everything. From everyone. She would be safe. At his side. Always.

Whether she wanted it or not.

He had decided she was his.

And Hermione could fight all she wanted. She could protest, resist, flee. But it wouldn’t matter. What she thought, what she wanted — that was now irrelevant.

Because he knew with absolute certainty: she needed him. As mentor. As protector. As partner.

He would possess her as he possessed everything that belonged to him.

And no one — no god, no curse, no fear — would stop him.

The scale came into balance.

The shadow of Anubis froze. His eyes, two silver torches, fixed on Voldemort. For a moment, it felt like a standoff — one god of death facing another. But nothing happened. No attack. No judgment. Only that gaze, that deep, all-penetrating gaze. And then, slowly, the shadow receded.

With every step it seemed to fade. The smoke withdrew into the statue, the black shoulders dissolved into stone, the glow in the eyes slowly died. Anubis returned to rest.

Voldemort didn’t hesitate and rushed to Hermione. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands moving to her neck — and there, beneath his fingertips, he found it. A pulse. Weak. Fragile. But alive.

Like a man possessed, he began tearing the bindings from her. The smoky tendrils came loose with sharp tugs, as though reluctant to let go. He pulled and ripped, his breath quick, his hands restless. When her face and curls were visible again, a wave of relief surged through him. She looked like herself again — not like the pale, frozen figures they had encountered in the labyrinth.

When her chest began to rise and fall slowly, he pulled her into his arms without hesitation.

And as he held her — firm and protective — a realisation struck him so deeply it nearly made him tremble.

The feeling he had now — with her in his arms, breathing, alive — surpassed anything he had felt when he first lifted the mask.

Anything.

She was his prize.

And he would never let her go.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke slowly, her head heavy, her body languid with sleep. The room was half shrouded in shadow, but she immediately recognised the soft white tones of the wallpaper, the deep green velvet duvet, the tall window with its heavy curtains. She knew this place. Every detail was etched into her memory.

The bedroom in Voldemort’s house where she had stayed before.

But something was different. New.

A low, dark green armchair had been pulled up beside her bed, as if someone had been sitting there for hours. And he was still there.

Voldemort.

Lounging back with casual ease, one leg crossed over the other, a book in his hand that he appeared to read intently, as if he had all the time in the world. As if her waking required nothing but patience.

Hermione remained lying still, too surprised to move, her breathing slow but tight with tension. Her gaze caught on him and wouldn’t let go. He looked... calm. Unperturbed. His features were sharp in the dim light, his red eyes as restless as they were focused. The thin lines of his mouth relaxed slightly as he turned a page, and something in her clenched at the realisation: he was beautiful.

Not in any gentle way. Never that. But his beauty was precise, dangerous, like a dagger with a gleaming hilt. And with a book in his hand — so still, so deceptively peaceful — he was almost unbearably attractive.

She hated herself for the thought.

And yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. In that brief, vulnerable moment, something else flickered through her — a memory. His lips on hers. A kiss, electric and unexpected, so charged with tension that her cheeks now coloured at the recollection.

But it was precisely that memory that set her mind in motion. As if its heat had lifted a lid that had been pressed too tightly onto her thoughts.

How... had she got here?

The room. The armchair. The book. The soft duvet covering her body.

Everything was wrong.

And then — like a crack in glass — the memories of Egypt ripped her back into the moment. The underground tomb. Walls covered in hieroglyphs and hidden codes. The Unfinished Ones groaning against the stone floor. The smell of blood and dark magic. Anubis, waiting as judge of the dead — and the living.

She had thought his silver eyes would be the last thing she’d ever see. That timeless, unjudging stare. No anger. No pity. Only weighing. Only judgement.

But she was still alive.

And she didn’t understand how.

Vague fragments crowded in. The scent of her own blood, warm and metallic. The power that had driven her to her knees, not from without but from within — an unseen force that had seized her body, ignored her will. The air ripped from her lungs as though an inhuman hand had crushed her chest. She remembered her body no longer being hers, her heartbeat faltering under the weight of something unspeakable. She had felt his power slide through her — cold, absolute, like knives of stone slicing open her thoughts, holding her memories up to the light, dissecting her soul with merciless precision. And something — something that hadn’t taken her, but had let her go.

She had seen the mask. Her own face reflected in its black edge. And then... nothing but emptiness. No warmth. No cold. Only the knowledge that she could have been found wanting. And that she hadn’t been.

Why?

Why hadn’t he condemned her?

Or had he — and then sent her back, empty-handed, in a body that still breathed but was no longer the same?

She didn’t know.

She only knew she was still here.

And that it was almost unbearable.

Her thoughts tried to latch onto it, to what had happened in the tomb — his eyes, his judgement — but her mind recoiled every time, as if even remembering it was dangerous. She had knelt there, defenceless and exposed before his judgement, and she had known: she had nothing to hide behind. She had seen herself as he had seen her. And that moment — that complete unravelling — had filled her with a terror that still shivered in her ribs. She had seen a part of herself she wasn’t ready to face. That knowledge burned behind her ribs, too raw to touch, too sharp to name. She pushed it away, deep into silence, where it could lie dormant for a while longer.

Instead, she focused on him.

The memory of Voldemort: his face, his voice. His choice.

He had left her.

Her gaze turned icy. The cold that spread from her chest wasn't physical pain but a raging, clashing storm of memory. He had traded her away. For the mask. For the power he imagined behind it. He had set her up as a pawn — and sacrificed her when it suited him. No warning, no hesitation. As if she had never mattered.

For a second she felt nothing but emptiness. Then came the shattering. No scream, no sob — only that dull, sharp contraction deep in her chest, as if something within her recoiled and left her with nothing but splinters. The crash of realisation, raw and merciless.

She exhaled slowly. The heat of anger bubbled beneath the cold of grief. She wanted to scream, to strike, to retreat into herself. But she lay there, motionless, her eyes betraying nothing but a wet shine.

What had she thought?

That she was safe with him? That he wouldn’t betray her? She had let herself be swept away. Captured by his voice, his promises, his dangerous nearness. She had followed him. Believed him. She had ignored her instincts, silenced her reason — because she had wanted to see something in him that had never been there.

She had been foolish. Naïve.

And this was her punishment.

It wasn’t his fault. He was who he had always been. A predator. A liar. A wizard of obsessions, not of love.

She had been the one to forget who he truly was. She was the one who thought she could earn his trust — or worse, his affection. She had deceived herself. And that was perhaps the worst betrayal of all.

Hermione pushed herself slowly upright in bed. Her muscles protested slightly, but she ignored it. The movement immediately caught his attention — Voldemort’s head snapped up, the book lowering in his hand. Something flickered in his eyes that looked like relief, but it was quickly overshadowed by an alertness that gave her goosebumps. His back was ramrod straight, his gaze sharp.

The blanket slipped from her, and only then did she notice it. She was wearing something different. Not clothes she had chosen — not anything she remembered.

An oversized black shirt hung loosely on her shoulders. The sleeves reached her elbows, and the fabric felt warm and soft against her skin. And it smelled of him.

Hermione felt her breath sharpen, her gaze like a knife. "You changed my clothes?" she asked, her voice cold. Not loud, but with the cutting edge of wounded pride.

"Technically the healer did," he replied calmly.

"What healer?" Hermione snapped immediately.

"The one that healed you," he said with that same unaffected calm that only infuriated her more. "After... Egypt... you needed one. You didn’t wake up. You’ve been out for days. I was worried."

Hermione’s face twisted. She shot upright, her eyes blazing. "Worried?" Her voice cracked on the word. "You were worried? How could you possibly be worried! You left me there. You traded me for that cursed mask without blinking."

He kept his gaze on her, his voice controlled. "I didn’t trade you. I came back. I got you out."

She laughed. Harsh. Shrill. Almost hysterical. "Oh, you 'got me out'? You mean you cleaned up your mess? That’s not saving someone, that’s damage control!"

She jumped out of bed, furious, her fists clenched. So heated with rage she didn’t even care that the shirt barely reached her thighs and left her legs bare. It didn’t matter. Not now. Not with her head roaring with fury.

"You left me. You made the choice. You chose power over me. Don’t pretend there was a second of hesitation."

He stood too, slowly, like a shadow rising. "I did what I had to."

"No," she bit out. "You did what you wanted to do. And now you want to act like it meant nothing? Like I was just—"

She broke off, her breathing ragged. The air around her began to vibrate, as if the room itself felt her anger. A lamp fizzled and died. A mirror on the wall cracked with a dry snap, her magical energy pulsing like a storm in a bottle. The wallpaper crinkled, a curtain singeing at the edge as if scorched by heat. Then it burst out, like a reservoir of words finally breaking its dam, roaring and unstoppable.

"You don’t get to stand there and act like you cared!" she shouted, her voice sharp with rage. "You looked at me, and then you looked away. You didn’t hesitate, you didn’t stumble, you didn’t even flinch. You made a decision, and it was me or the mask — and guess what? You chose the bloody mask!"

She paced a few steps away from him, running her hands through her hair, her breathing heavy.

"You know what’s worse? I should’ve known! I should’ve known better than to trust an egotistic, manipulative, emotionally bankrupt arsehole who sees people as tools and affection as weakness. I let my guard down. I let you in. I actually believed—"

She turned on him, her eyes gleaming with fury. "I actually believed you saw me. Not the magic, not the potential, not the game — me. But of course not. That would’ve required an ounce of humanity."

He stayed silent, his jaw tight, but his eyes showed something she couldn’t — or wouldn’t — interpret.

"You left me to die. So don’t you dare stand there and call it concern. You didn’t save me. You just came back to collect what was left of your fuck-up," she whispered, with bitter force. "But I do understand who you are now. And I was a fool to forget it."

His jaw worked. "I made a choice. I wanted it — the power, the knowledge. And I took it. And then I came back. I changed my mind.. I-"

"Oh, you changed your mind?" Hermione sneered, her voice raw. "Well good for you. Good for you, Voldemort. What do you want, a medal? A standing ovation? Should I fall at your feet and thank you for your miraculous bout of post-facto morality?"

She stepped towards him, jabbing a finger in his direction. Sparks crackled along her arm as her magic pulsed outwards, wild and uncontrolled. The wooden floor creaked under her feet as if it couldn’t bear her rage, and the temperature in the room climbed abruptly, stifling. "You don't get to rewrite what happened just because you're suddenly struck with retrospective regret. You made a choice. You left me. And now you want to call it a change of heart? That’s rich. That’s pathetic."

His eyes narrowed. The patience that had hung around him like a tightly cinched cloak began to fray. With a hint of threat in his movements he stepped forward, until she stopped. Another step — until her back hit the wall.

Her magic still crackled in the air like electricity crawling along the walls, but he didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. As if it barely registered — or he recognised it as something that belonged to him.

His hands came up, slow but deliberate, planting against the wallpaper on either side of her head. He was close now, his face inches from hers, his eyes burning with restrained frustration.

"You don’t understand what this means," he hissed. His voice was low, tight. "I left the mask. I left it behind for you. Do you have any idea why?"

She felt his breath against her cheek but didn’t flinch. Her heart thundered, not with fear but with anger and confusion. She saw the tension in his jaw, the strain in his fingers — as if he was barely holding himself back.

"A powerful artefact, one I’ve sought for years — and I walked away. For you."

Hermione’s gaze stayed locked on his, her eyes dark. She laughed softly, mockingly. "Oh, congratulations. You gave up your toy. That doesn’t erase what you did. You still left me."

Her voice broke now. Not from weakness, but from the weight of what she had endured. Her eyes filled with tears, shining and unmoving between them. The magic that had still been vibrating in the room fell away, like a storm suddenly silenced. The wallpaper seemed to relax, the temperature dropped abruptly, as if her grief drained the heat from her rage. She swallowed, the words harder than anger, but inevitable.

"Do you have any idea what you did to me? What you left me in?" Hermione whispered. Her voice was fragile, as if the words cut her throat. She drew a shaky breath, her gaze fixed on a point far beyond him. And then, for an instant, she saw it again — the silhouette of Anubis rising from the dark, those silver eyes slicing through her. Her stomach lurched, her heart skipped a beat. The memory was so sharp she could almost feel that suffocating weight again, trapped under his gaze. "I stood there, paralysed, as Anubis rose from the shadows like death itself. I saw his face become more than stone. I felt the air vanish from my lungs, felt his power sink into the scale beneath me."

She didn’t sob, but her voice trembled. "I thought I was going to die. Not quickly. Not cleanly. I thought I’d spend eternity trapped in that labyrinth with the others — with the Unfinished. Forgotten. Alone. Because of you."

She struggled for breath. "So don’t you stand here and talk about what you gave up. Because all I remember is feeling like I died."

As the words hung between them, silent tears slipped down her cheeks. She barely noticed until his hand moved.

With unexpected gentleness, Voldemort brushed a tear from her face, his fingers resting briefly against her skin. His hand stayed on her cheek, warm, firm, as if he could hold her there — keep her from slipping away.

There was something in his gaze she had rarely seen: remorse. Raw, unpolished, but real. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"If I could take it back... If I could spare you this, I would."

His other hand followed, soft but deliberate, framing the other side of her face. Her head was lightly caught between his hands, his thumbs resting on her cheekbones, his breath close.

Hermione’s head spun. She was drowning — in anger, grief, desire, revulsion, longing — it was too much, too close. Her body wanted to resist, but her heart didn’t know where to turn. Everything in her screamed at once, and fell silent at once.

She saw him lean in, his gaze dropping to her lips, slow and intentional, making her breath hitch. But before he could get closer, she planted both hands firmly on his chest and shoved him hard away from her.

"Get away from me!" she screamed, her voice raw with emotion. Magic surged like a shockwave through her hands, involuntary and untamed. Where her palms struck his chest, the fabric of his shirt scorched, dark burn marks spreading over it.

His body staggered back from the force, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of surprise quickly replaced by cold calculation — as if he was only now truly assessing her power.

He took a step back, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his trousers, his posture seemingly unbothered again.

Hermione folded her arms tightly. "I'm going home."

"Not before we talk about this," he said, visibly struggling to keep his tone controlled.

Hermione’s frustration flared anew. She wanted to scream, vanish, fight — but at the same time something began to form in her mind. A plan.

"Fine," she snapped. "But first I want to get cleaned up. I need to change."

She shot him an icy look. "And if you're so desperate to talk, you can get me something to eat while I do that."

He said nothing, but his gaze stayed sharp on her.

"Where's my bag? My clothes are in there."

Voldemort gave a silent nod toward the coat stand next to the wooden wardrobe, where her bag indeed hung.

"And my wand?"

"You'll get that back after we talk."

"Fine," she snarled, and without giving him another glance, she strode towards the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind her.

She didn’t know if he’d already left the room, but she ran the bath anyway. Steam began to rise along the mirror as she gently cracked the door open to peek.

Empty.

He was gone.

Quickly she snatched her bag from the hook, tiptoed back into the bathroom, and locked the door. Her hands were shaking, but her resolve was firm.

"Pippin," she ordered sharply.

The house-elf appeared at once. His frown was deep, his posture a little more distant than usual.

"Pippin, no time to explain," she panted, gathering her things. "But I need you to take me home. Right now."

Thank Merlin he did.

He nodded, grabbed her hand — and vanished with her into nothingness.

They appeared in the yard of the house, where Thea sat in a garden chair, a book open on her lap, bathed in the warm, fading light of the evening sun. Thea looked up. Pippin immediately dropped her hand and shrank back with a guilty look behind the chair’s backrest.

Tink came outside, arms folded tightly. She shot Hermione a glare, her brows drawn in an angry frown. "So, little miss returns."

Thea closed her book, her gaze immediately dropping to Hermione’s bare legs under the oversized shirt. Her eyes narrowed, not in judgement, but in worry. Hermione felt her cheeks burn and cursed herself. What must Thea think?

"Pippin, Tink," Thea said as she slowly stood up, "can you leave us for a minute? I need to talk to Hermione."

"But—" Tink began indignantly.

"Now please," said Thea. Soft, but with enough weight to allow no argument.

Tink disappeared with an audible huff and a loud crack. Pippin followed silently, his ears drooping, head bowed.

Thea set the book on the chair, straightened up and planted her hands on her hips. She looked at Hermione with a mix of exhaustion, disappointment and worry.

"Hermione, we can’t continue like this. Things need to change… or you can’t stay here."

The words cut deeper than Hermione expected. Panic spread through her chest like a cold wave. Her throat tightened. This house — this yard, Thea, Pippin, Tink — it had been her refuge. Her safe place. The only place she’d found even a semblance of peace. And now she was at risk of losing it too.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, panicked. Her voice was thin, hoarse from everything that had come before. "Thea, please, I... please don’t kick me out."

Thea sighed softly and looked at her with a gaze that carried no harshness, but clear boundaries.

"I’m worried about you, Hermione. You’re disappearing into something I don’t understand — and frankly, don’t want to understand. The Spellyard, the dark arts, the nights you vanish without explanation... I can’t live with that kind of secrecy in my house. I need to trust you. And right now, I don’t."

Hermione began to cry, at first softly, involuntarily. Her shoulders shook. She wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to hold herself together.

"What do you want from me?" she whispered, her voice broken. "What do you need me to do?"

Thea stepped closer, her tone firm but not unkind. "I need you to let go of the dark arts. No more books, no more spells, no more people who live in that world. Only then can I offer you a place here."

Hermione swallowed. Her first impulse was to scream. To shout that it was unfair. That Thea was just like all the others trying to hold her back, limit her, stifle her potential.

But then another memory rose. Anubis. The look in his eyes. The breath leaving her chest. The shadow that had nearly devoured her. And Voldemort, who had let her fall into it. Who had used her.

She had thought she could master dark magic. That she could handle it. But she’d been wrong. That power was too big, too raw, too consuming. She didn’t want it anymore. Not the way it had felt there — like something that devoured rather than strengthened.

What she wanted now was simplicity. Warmth. Solid ground beneath her feet. And only Thea could offer her that.

If that meant living by Thea’s rules, she would.

"You're right," she whispered. "I'll do it, I promise, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Thea."

Thea’s gaze softened. She walked to her and wrapped her arms tightly around Hermione, pulling her close in a motherly embrace.

There, in the warmth of those familiar arms, Hermione finally broke down in tears. She seemed to fall apart in Thea’s hold — all the tension, fear and loneliness she’d carried since Egypt shuddering out of her.

The memory of Anubis, the paralysing threat, the feeling of the shadow about to consume her. And above all: the pain of betrayal. Voldemort, who had turned his back on her.

She wept, raw and unrestrained, as if it was her only defence left against everything that threatened to break her.

When the tears finally dried and her breathing calmed, Hermione did what she had promised. She went inside, changed her clothes, and immediately began gathering her collected books, scrolls and old manuscripts about dark magic. All of it went into her magically expanded bag. She didn’t yet know what she’d do with them — burn them, hide them, lock them away — but it would help just not to see them anymore. Not to have them nearby. She wished she’d had her wand to make it go faster. But it was still with Voldemort. And she hadn’t for a moment considered going back to retrieve it.

That night she lay awake for a long time. Moonlight slid across the walls of her room, but it brought no peace.

The mission in Egypt could have been a dream. At first it had all seemed so grand, so thrilling. Discovering another wizarding community, one so ancient that even her textbooks fell silent. Poring over theories lost to time. It had been everything she’d ever wanted: an adventure of intellect, magic, and discovery. And he had been there. Voldemort.

She had enjoyed his company. How he treated her as an equal. How they could spar with words, ideas, magic. How they had laughed together, sharp and unexpected. And later — how natural it had felt to stand beside him. In action, in analysis, in danger. They had fought as a team. He had protected her, she him. They had become a unit. And eventually they had ended up in each other’s arms.

That kiss... she had never felt anything like it. No touch had ever undone her so completely, reached her so deeply. It was as if her whole being had known, for one brief moment, that it belonged somewhere — with him. His hand in her hair, his mouth on hers, the way their bodies had found one another in a quiet but intense accord. Everything in her had answered, without doubt, without fear. There had been nothing false in that moment. It was pure. Unexpected, yes, but also inevitable.

It had felt like finally arriving somewhere after years of wandering. As if every path she’d ever taken, even the dark ones, had led to that single point. As if her body remembered something her mind was only just starting to understand — that desire wasn’t always logical, but sometimes it was truth in its rawest form. And he had held her like he felt it too. Like he needed her as much as she needed him.

It had been more intimate than words, stronger than any spell. And it had changed her. Indelibly.

And then came the betrayal.

His betrayal. Sudden and yet... not unexpected. He had turned away from her when she needed him most. Just as Ron once had. Only this was worse. Much worse. Because this time she had let something into herself she’d never dared feel before. She had had feelings for him. Did she still? Did it even matter? She had thought it was mutual.

Memories flashed like blades through her mind: how he had protected her in the bazaar when those men tried to cut off her hand. How he’d held her steady on the flying carpet. How he’d pulled her away from the burning cursed coins. How he’d thrown himself between her and the Unfinished Ones.

And again, that kiss. So passionate, so charged. He had grabbed her just as tightly as she had him. He had been the one to kiss her.

Had it meant nothing?

She felt stupid. So unbearably stupid.

How had she ever thought he might feel the same?

And yet one thought kept tugging at her, like a loose thread in carefully woven cloth: the mask. He had returned the Anubis mask. Said it was to get her back. As if that meant something. As if that... meant something about her.

She didn’t know what had happened after she’d blacked out, when Anubis’s power had swallowed her and the world went black. She didn’t know how long she’d lain there, what he had done, or what she had looked like when he found her. But one thing she knew: he had put the mask back. He had given it up. He had turned away from everything he had sacrificed her for in the first place.

Why?

Why had he done that?

She couldn’t reconcile it. Not with his words. Not with his actions. Not with his nature. And yet — he had left the mask behind. For her. It was nothing, and it was everything.

And it only made her more confused.

Her thoughts drifted back to Thea, to Pippin and Tink. She had a lot to make up for. She knew she wouldn’t win their trust back easily. No one would give her the benefit of the doubt anymore. If she wanted to stay here, she had to prove herself. Show she was willing to change. Not with words, but with actions.

It felt strange, almost unreal, to realise she’d have to let go of her fascination with the dark arts. To really close that chapter. But what else could she do? What had it ever brought her but misery?

It had driven a wedge between her and Harry, Ron and Ginny. It had put her on a path that ended in another time. It had put her in Dolohov’s sights, and eventually Voldemort’s. And it had led her to Anubis — to that moment when she thought everything was over.

And then there were the runes. The only exception. Those had never felt dangerous. On the contrary — they had protected her. From Legilimency. From losing herself. She had no regrets about them. But the rest? The dark arts had only swallowed her whole and given nothing back but fear.

It was good she was letting them go. She had to. Then she could focus on...

On what exactly?

She didn’t know. She didn’t know what she wanted, where she was going, or who she was even trying to be. For the first time in years she had no direction. No mission. No clear goal.

And that emptiness pressed heavy on her chest. It felt like she was falling all over again — not physically, but inside. A loneliness settled in her, suffocating, cold. As if she was caught between two worlds and belonged in neither.

Chapter Text

The days that followed were quiet. Not quiet like a summer evening, or like the hush of the Hogwarts library where only the scratch of a quill or the turning of parchment could be heard. No. This quiet was sterile. Heavy. As if the air itself couldn't be bothered to vibrate. As if the house was holding its breath.

Hermione barely slept. When she did, it wasn’t truly sleep — it was falling. In fragments, flashes, images that filled her lungs with ash and pressed her chest to the mattress like a gravestone. Every time she closed her eyes, he was there. Not Voldemort. Not his eyes, not his voice. But Anubis. Dark, smoky ribbons of magic. As if her own power had turned against her, wrapping around her with the intent to silence her. No physical attack, no visible wound, but a strangling from within. Each time she closed her eyes, that feeling returned: the pressure, the paralysis, the dreadful awareness that she had unleashed something she could no longer control. And always that one absurd thought: that she was already dead, and her body just hadn’t realised it. As if her soul had become trapped along the way, tangled in the smoke, and she was now wandering in a life that wasn’t truly hers.

The first morning she asked Pippin for ingredients for Dreamless Sleep Potion, it wasn’t with words but with a note left on the counter. The list held everything she needed for a strong, unbreakable brew — version five, adjusted for her body type and magical tolerance. Heavy dosage. Long-lasting. Side effects ignored.

Pippin hadn’t said anything when he returned with the order, but his eyes had shone with unspoken worry. His ears drooped, his feet circled on the floor as he set the bag on the counter.

Hermione hadn’t even thanked him.

She’d picked up her cauldron and started brewing.

The first sip worked as promised: it felt like sinking into a pool where nothing existed. No dreams, no images, no remnants of magic or memory. Just emptiness. Silence. Oblivion.

It was a relief.

The second night brought less comfort. No dreams, true, but also no feeling. No difference between sleeping or waking, between skin and air. As if she lived in a glass bubble, cut off from every signal.

By the fourth night she couldn’t tell which was worse — the nightmares or the emptiness after.

There was a moment, somewhere around dawn on day five, when she looked at her own hand and wondered if it was still hers. She moved her fingers slowly, one by one. The movement was there — but the feeling was gone. Not physically. Mentally. The disconnect was more frightening than any dream. What if this was the beginning of disappearing? Of dissolving?

That day she rose earlier than Thea, lit the stove, warmed water for tea, and went outside without a coat, her bare feet in the wet grass. The cold did almost nothing. Just made her knees a little stiff.

Tink brought her a bowl of porridge that morning and stood watching her eat, as if trying to say: "If Miss won’t speak, then we’ll just watch until Miss might melt and say how she feels."

But Hermione just chewed. Mechanically. Eyes on the table. Mouth corners slack. Only her breathing moved.

The days filled with work.

Not real work — busywork. Slug & Jiggers got their potions on time. She made them better than ever. Her hands moved automatically, her measurements perfect. No explosions. No slips. Everything in silence. The vapours rose in neat clouds, the brew transformed exactly as it should. Sometimes she wondered if she even needed her hands anymore — if she could do it without them. Her magic felt dormant. Not absent, but like a predator curled in her spine, letting its breath be heard.

In the afternoons she helped Thea in the yard.

Weeding. Feeding the chickens. Repotting new plants. She wore a linen gardening overall, her hair in a messy braid, her face bare of makeup. Pippin once said softly she looked like a painting, so still and precise — but it wasn’t a compliment. He looked at her like the painting in question was a death portrait.

She said nothing. Answered questions with a nod or a shrug. Only when Thea asked something specific — “Where’s the watering can?” or “Will you put this in the compost?” — did she whisper a faint “yes.” No tone. No emotion. Just sound.

Thea watched her. Not openly, but in the way she moved — edging closer than usual, sometimes laying a hand on Hermione’s shoulder as if to test if she was still warm. Sometimes she started to say something and fell silent again.

Until one afternoon she didn’t stay silent.

They stood together by the chicken coop when Thea looked at her directly, the wind stirring her greying hair.

"What happened?"

Hermione didn’t speak at first. The scent of rain and herbs was strong. Her hand rested on the roof of the coop.

Then she said:

"I trusted someone I shouldn’t have."

And that was it.

Thea held her gaze a moment longer, eyes soft, but mouth tight.

After that, Thea didn't speak about it again. But she looked at Hermione differently. She moved more carefully, as if Hermione had suddenly turned to glass. And the elves followed her everywhere. Pippin with biscuits, Tink with hot tea, Thea with silence. As if they were afraid that if they stopped, Hermione would disappear.

Maybe they were right.

She didn’t feel like herself anymore. She didn’t feel anything. No emotion. No magic.

She no longer had her wand. Voldemort still had it. It felt like being crippled. Like missing an arm. Like her whole self had to recalibrate with every step. She felt vulnerable, empty, as if every movement dragged through mud.

At first she had welcomed it. The quiet. The nothingness.

She had put away her books — the dark, the forbidden, the whispered works that had fed her for months. No more dark magic, she had promised Thea. No more secrets. No itch in her fingers. She would take a break from herself.

And it worked. For a while.

Until it started to itch.

It wasn’t thirst. Or hunger.

It was longing.

A deep, low itch in her spine. The feeling of being incomplete. Like she had forgotten how to speak a language.

And so, on a night when the dreamless sleep potion failed her and her heart wouldn’t slow, she had slipped from bed, bare feet on cold floorboards, and taken out her bag.

Very quietly.

Like robbing a grave.

She hadn’t spoken a spell. She had only let her fingers drift over the covers. Reading with her eyes. Not with her wand. Not with her voice.

But it was enough.

The words burned. Whispered. Gleamed.

And for a moment, she felt alive again.

Shortly after came her birthday. She turned twenty-seven.

Thea, Pippin and Tink had done their best to make her feel celebrated. Tink made an elaborate breakfast with cinnamon rolls and apricot jam. Pippin baked a cake — lemon and elderflower, with icing in gentle spirals — and Thea gave her a hand-embroidered blanket that seemed to breathe with woven flames and stars.

Hermione tried her best to be cheerful for them. She washed her hair, put on a dress she hadn’t worn in weeks, and navigated breakfast with a smile she dragged up with effort. She asked questions, nodded at the right times, even asked if there was work to do around the yard.

But it wasn’t convincing.

There was something in her gaze that even the steam of hot tea couldn’t warm. An emptiness in her voice that didn’t match the occasion.

And so, when she stood up after dinner that evening and said she was going to bed, Thea, Pippin and Tink exchanged worried looks — as if they all realised at once they were losing her, and that no gift could stop it.

She walked slowly up the stairs, her hand gliding over the polished railing as if to hold onto the present. At the top, the landing was dimly lit, her bedroom door ajar. She pushed it open further, set one foot over the threshold — and was suddenly grabbed.

A hand clamped over her mouth, a strong arm yanked her backwards against a warm, solid body. Her first reaction was to freeze, then to fight. Her heart thundered in her chest like a trapped animal.

"Don't scream," a voice whispered right against her ear — low, rough, with a sensual undertone that made her shiver, not with desire but with instinct. Of course she tried to scream anyway. The sound was smothered by the hand over her mouth.

She felt the air twist, the consuming pull of apparition — and in a flash, they were gone.

When Hermione opened her eyes again, they were outside. In front of the heavy front doors of the castle she'd fled just two weeks earlier. Keenbridge castle.

It was cold. The stones beneath her feet gleamed with damp, the air thick with the smell of rain. Dark clouds hung low above them, heavy and threatening, like a blanket about to split open.

He released her.

Hermione spun around immediately, her movement sharp, charged, and glared at him with eyes that could have spat fire. “How dare you,” she snarled, her voice raw with outrage.

The fury surprised her — but she embraced it. It coursed through her veins like a lifeblood after days of numb emptiness. She felt her heartbeat again, felt the heat in her cheeks, felt herself waking up at last. Her fingers trembled, tiny sparks crackling between her fingertips. The air around her seemed to vibrate with charged magic.

"You are so lucky I don't have my wand right now," she hissed. "Because if I did, you'd be on your knees. I'd make you bleed for every ward you shattered, every line you crossed, and every second you made me feel powerless."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, his gaze drifting slowly over her — not dismissive, but amused, darkly glittering. "I wouldn’t mind kneeling for you, Hermione," he said with a crooked smile.

For a moment there was silence. Her breath caught, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The words struck something dark in her, something that sizzled with tension and want, and she hated herself for it. The idea — the image — was a flame in her belly. But as quickly as it came, she forced it away.

She narrowed her eyes, but her gaze flickered — not just with anger, but with confusion, with a desire she despised. Her cheeks were red, her breathing too fast. "You think that's funny?" she spat, her voice a little too high, betraying the effect his words had on her.

Voldemort’s smile grew slow, his eyes sweeping over her face, her neck, her mouth. As if he knew exactly how flustered she was.

She clenched her fists, forcing herself back into her anger like an old, familiar cloak. "How did you find me?" she snapped, voice sharpening like broken glass. “How did you break my warding spells?”

Even as the words left her, she held his gaze, but the fire in her chest gave way to something colder: fear. He had found her home. Her protections, her wards — carefully woven by herself and Pippin — hadn’t stopped him. He had gotten inside the house where Thea, Pippin, and Tink lived.

A chill crawled down her spine. What if they weren’t safe?

Voldemort answered calmly, almost carelessly: “It wasn’t easy, but I have my ways.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed further, her breathing ragged. “I can't believe you broke into my house and kidnapped me,” she snapped, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. “Wasn't it obvious I want nothing to do with you anymore? Didn't my leaving last time tell you enough?”

Voldemort stepped slowly closer, his eyes dark, his presence searing. "Oh, but it is simple," he said, his voice like velvet over glass. "You can leave, you can scream, hex me to hell and back when you get your wand back — but you were never not mine, Hermione. Nothing keeps you from me. Not even you."

"Yours?" Hermione roared, her eyes blazing. "I am most definitely not yours! I don't belong to anyone, least of all you!" Her voice cracked with fury. "I repaid my debt. I gave you what you wanted. That was the end of it — there's nothing left between us!"

She stormed up to him, jabbing a finger against his chest. The air around her vibrated dangerously, a promise of an oncoming storm. "You don't get to claim me like I'm some prize you earned. I'm not a possession, I'm not your project, and I'm certainly not yours to keep!"

The moment her finger jabbed his chest, a surge of magic exploded between them — bright, raw, stormy. A sudden gust of wind blasted past them, fuelled by her rage. Her magic roared out of her in an elemental burst of wind and power — wild, threatening, unstoppable.

Voldemort stepped closer. No touch — just his nearness, his focus. His magic slid over hers like a knife through water: controlled, commanding, absolute. The wind choked off. The sparks died. The air fell abruptly still, as if his will alone had ordered the elements to obey.

His eyes glowed, not with anger, but with possession. "That's enough," he said softly, a command that brooked no argument. "You forget, Hermione — you don’t push me. You pull me. Every time."

He kept looking at her, his voice still controlled but with something dangerously seductive beneath the surface. "You think you can hide from me?"

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a near whisper. "You can't."

As he straightened, he reached out — not threatening, but deliberately controlled — and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. His fingertips grazed her cheek, barely touching, but warm enough to make her breath hitch.

Hermione swallowed involuntarily. A wave of heat swept through her, unexpected and unwanted, as if her body refused to obey her mind. She turned her head away, a fraction too quickly — a flash of discomfort, as if afraid he'd noticed. But he had. Of course he had.

He let the silence stretch — charged, crackling — then added with a crooked smile:

"Happy birthday, Hermione."

Hermione’s breath caught. The words hit like a blow to her chest, jarring and disorienting. Her heart pounded against her ribs, not just from anger. Something in his tone, in his eyes — it struck her. It tugged at a part of her she wished didn’t exist.

She wanted to scream. To laugh in his face. To hit him. Instead she stood there, shaking with emotion, torn between fury and something uncomfortably close to desire. She hated it. She wrapped her anger around herself like armor.

"Happy birthday? Are you joking?" she spat, her voice rough, as if she was trying to drown out her own thoughts. "You think that makes any of this okay?"

He had remembered her birthday.

A shiver ran through her — not from cold, but confusion. Why did he know that? Why would he remember? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t rational. He was Voldemort — he forgot nothing, she knew that, but this… this was different. It was personal.

Why had he remembered? Had he filed it away as something to use later? Or… was it genuine? She couldn’t tell, and that made it worse. What did it mean, if someone like him remembered her birthday?

She felt herself wobble, not physically but somewhere deep inside. As if his words knocked her just enough off balance to make the ground under her convictions shift.

Before she could say anything else, she felt something wet on her cheek. A drop. Then another in her hair. And then the sky broke open. Rain poured down, heavy and cold, as if to remind them of reality.

Hermione gasped. Her heart thudded again in her chest, now not just from anger — but from uncertainty, confusion, something dangerously close to hope.

"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice weak, hoarse with piled-up emotions.

“I want you to come inside so I can give you your wand,” he said simply. “And I believe I still owe you a tour.”

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to say no, to turn away, to fight with everything she had — but she didn’t.

Of course she wanted her wand back. But that wasn’t all.

There was curiosity. A burning need she couldn’t extinguish. She wanted to know what lay behind those walls, what his world held. How he lived. Who he was when he wasn’t speaking to a hall of followers. What it meant that he remembered her birthday.

At the same time she knew this was a game. His rules, his pace. She knew he would disappoint her. That he would always choose control, power. And yet…

What choice did she have? She couldn’t apparate without her wand. Calling Pippin would give everything away. And if Thea learned she’d vanished again, she might throw her out for good.

She said nothing. But deep down she knew her silence was an answer. And yet — before she turned to go in, she shot him a look, sharp and brimming with threat.

"One step out of line," she growled, voice low but unmistakably dangerous, "and I swear I’ll burn this place to the ground."

She walked inside.

The heavy door closed behind her with a barely audible click. The entrance hall felt familiar, yet different. Her footsteps echoed over the stone floor, high above the vaulted ceilings arched like a cathedral. Just stone and silence.

Without a word he led her to the right. The door opened onto a sitting room with a massive black slate fireplace. The hearth wasn’t lit, but the ash was neatly swept. The furniture was simple but refined: a low green velvet sofa, a dark wooden table, not a single cushion out of place.

The dining room beside it was just as austere. A long table with twelve chairs, all in dark tones. No tablecloth, no flowers, no family crest. Only a silver candelabrum that wasn’t lit.

The kitchen felt like an altar to precision. A long cast-iron stove stretched along the back wall, copper pans gleaming above a tiled niche. The walls were covered in white glazed tiles with black grout, and light reflected off polished stone worktops. Glass jars with carefully labeled ingredients sat perfectly aligned on shelves — every herb and seed in its place. There was no trace of clutter, no smell of recent cooking, yet the silence felt heavy, as if this kitchen, like a sleeping dragon, might come alive at any moment.

As they passed storerooms and bathrooms — clean, efficient — everything was precise. Everything breathed control. But the more she saw, the more it struck her that this wasn’t a home. Voldemort owned a house, yes — a castle even — but it felt empty. Like a stage set, perfectly built but abandoned after the last scene. The spaces were functional, even elegant, but there were no signs of life. No stains on chairs, no stacks of books on tables, no forgotten coat on a hook. As if everything was there to be seen, not lived in.

Above all: it felt lonely. As if he had designed it for isolation, not company. As if he didn’t live in the house but possessed it. And Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if it had always been that way — or if he had simply never learned how to make a house into a home. He’d grown up in an orphanage, among iron beds and whitewashed walls. Then at Hogwarts, where nothing was really his — no space, no heritage, no name on a door. Maybe no one had ever taught him how to fill a space with warmth, how to live instead of just exist. And now he had a castle, yes, but it felt like a shell. A construct. As if he knew how it should look but not how it should feel.

“I got the house when I turned seventeen,” he said suddenly, not looking at her, as if he had heard her thoughts. “A gift from Abraxas Malfoy.”

Hermione’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. Who in Merlin’s name got a castle as a birthday present?

She wondered if Abraxas had given it so he wouldn’t have to return to the orphanage after Hogwarts — as if the castle were a farewell letter to a past he never chose. A gesture of power, yes, but maybe also of pity. Or friendship. Not the sort of friendship he had now — built on fear and worship — but something that might once have been genuine. The idea that someone had given him this without expecting anything in return felt strange. Unsettling. What had Voldemort thought? Had he understood? Or had he simply accepted it, as he accepted everything offered to him once he changed his name?

She said nothing. She didn’t want to say anything. She kept her eyes on the rooms, analysing, observing. But it was hard not to let her astonishment show on her face.

They returned to the hall. He gestured toward the door on the left.

“Only bedrooms and baths upstairs,” he said lightly, then pushed the door open.

What lay beyond made her stop.

A library. But not just any library. It was two storeys high, with wrought-iron gallery railings and staircases that curled up like serpents to the upper level. The walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling — leather-bound, parchment scrolls, some titles picked out in silver that caught the dim light. Heavy wooden tables stood in geometric patterns, with built-in lamps and bound notebooks. A magnificent crystal chandelier hung in the centre, scattering fractured light over the sea of books.

There was no cold here. It was warm, dry, scented with old paper, leather, and magic.

Hermione’s mouth fell open. Not in fear — but in awe.

“My personal library,” he said, tone both casual and weighted. He looked at her, eyes dark and unusually clear. “You are the first to enter it.”

She turned her head slowly to him. “You’ve never shown this to anyone before?” she asked, voice husky with wonder.

He met her gaze, expression intense but tone offhand. “Never.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

He slowly shrugged, fingers drifting over the edge of the nearest table. “Because I don’t allow visitors in my home,” he said. “No one has entered since I received it. Not even Abraxas. He’s the only one who knows it exists — but the enchantments are strong. Even he couldn’t find it now.”

She felt her breath catch. “Then why did you let me in?”

“Because it’s your birthday,” he said simply, his mouth barely moving — but his eyes seemed to burn.

“I don’t mean the library, or today,” Hermione said, voice lower, sharper. “Why did you let me into your house?”

He let silence fall. His gaze moved slowly over her face, mouth unmoving, but the energy between them vibrated.

“The first time... because no one but me could keep you safe,” he said finally, voice low and unapologetically arrogant. “And I wanted you close. For practical reasons, of course.” His mouth twisted slightly, almost mocking, but his eyes never left hers, intense. “The next time, perhaps because I found it... pleasant to have you in my surroundings.”

He stepped closer. No touch, no words — but she felt it. How he invaded her space as if it belonged to him. His gaze stayed fixed on her, too intense to be casual. Not threatening, not gentle — something in between, something her body recognised before her mind wanted to admit it.

There was something in his tone that raised goosebumps. Not from fear. From something else. Something she had pushed down for months — and which, in this space of magic and silence, came dangerously close to the surface.

"Yes, we all noticed how safe I was when you fed me to Anubis," Hermione snapped, her voice dry as bone.

But even as she said it, she felt her heart racing — not only with anger. There was something about his presence, his voice, that still got under her skin no matter how hard she tried to ignore it.

She turned away and began moving slowly through the library. Her fingers drifted over the spines of books, eyes flicking across titles in Latin, Old English, Greek. But it was pointless. With him behind her, concentration was impossible. She felt him there — not loud, not intrusive, but unrelentingly present. His footsteps matched hers with unnatural silence that raised the hairs on her neck.

At the top of the winding staircase she found a seating nook tucked into an alcove by a tall window. Two dark green velvet armchairs faced each other across a low walnut table. Beyond the window, the landscape stretched out, and in the distance — blurred by rain and mist — lay Hogwarts. The towers, the silhouette, a ghost from another life.

“This is my favourite spot in the castle,” Voldemort said softly behind her.

Hermione sank into one of the chairs, eyes still on the distant castle. The sight cut unexpectedly deep. Hogwarts. The place where it had all begun. Where she’d learned magic, learned to trust friends, learned to be herself. And where she’d lost it all again.

She didn’t know how long passed before he sat opposite her. He didn’t speak, but with a small movement produced a package on the table between them. Dark paper, sealed with a glossy ribbon.

Hermione eyed it. “What is this?”

“A birthday present.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’d rather have my wand.”

“You’ll get it,” he said with a dangerous smile. “But first — open the gift.”

Hermione hesitated, eyes locked on the package. But curiosity won. She tugged the ribbon free, the paper whispering under her fingers. Inside was a small black velvet box.

She opened the lid.

Inside lay a bracelet. A golden snake, elegantly formed, its polished scales gleaming. The eyes were emerald green glass, cold and vivid. Its body curled in a circle, tail in its mouth — a perfect ouroboros.

The symbol instantly reminded her of the tomb in Egypt. The chamber of patterns. The hieroglyph that had stared back at her when everything changed.

“Allow me,” Voldemort said softly.

Before she could react, he’d taken the box. The snake slithered to life in his hand, fluid as molten gold. Hermione held her breath as he reached out.

With a small gasp she felt it slide from his fingers onto her wrist, winding around her skin with an unexpectedly warm touch. Then it bit its tail again — and stilled.

What remained was a bracelet. Silent, cold, exquisite.

But her heart thundered like a storm.

“It’s... beautiful,” she said, looking away for a moment. “Thank you,” she added reluctantly, as if the words cost her.

Inside she didn’t know what to feel. She hadn’t lied — it was beautiful — but it wasn’t her. Too ornate. Too Slytherin. It felt almost like a betrayal to wear it.

Yet she let it stay. Not from admiration, not from fear — but because she wanted, just this once, to spare him the endless fight they always seemed to have.

“You may use the library as often as you like,” he said then, voice low but measured.

Hermione sighed. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want anything to do with you.” She met his gaze. “I appreciate the gift, truly, but don’t think for a second it changes anything.”

He kept his eyes on her, unmoved, his presence commanding. “You’ll use the library,” he said, as if it wasn’t a suggestion but a settled fact. “And you will return — because you’ll realise it’s the only option that doesn’t cost you everything.”

She said nothing, jaw tight.

He watched her, voice calm but with a note that cut colder. “You should know I can find you now. This time I was discreet. I made sure not to disturb your mother. Or your house-elves.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. Her heart pounded in her chest. “Are you threatening them?”

Voldemort held her gaze, expression unreadable. “I’m merely pointing out that the path to you… isn’t so difficult anymore.”

And there he was again. The Voldemort she knew from her own time. Not the charismatic speaker, not the seductive shadow of an intellectual — but the ruthless wizard who would use any means to get what he wanted. No manipulation too low, no threat too subtle. Everything in service of control. Of power.

She’d almost let herself be fooled by the hush of his library, by the gift, by the view of Hogwarts that awakened memories of who she used to be. But this — these words, this look, this cold logic — that was the real him. The man who didn’t threaten, but implied. Who didn’t command, but offered choices that were never really choices at all.

And yet… he knew her weak spot. Not her fear. Not her anger. But her conscience. Her care for those she loved. And he knew how to use that against her.

With a self-assured, almost casual motion he took something from his robe’s inner pocket. Her wand. He held it out, the slim, familiar shape like an extension of her soul.

He offered it to her.

Hermione snatched it from his hand. Relief flooded her, her fingers closing around it like she could finally breathe again.

“I want to make a deal,” Voldemort said calmly.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of deal?” she asked, voice trembling with suppressed fury.

He leaned back. “Every Saturday, after the Spellyard, you come home with me. You stay the night. Sunday, we have breakfast. Then you may use the library for as long as you like.”

“I stopped going to the Spellyard,” Hermione snapped.

“So start going again,” he said simply. “I need you in shape.”

“In shape for what?”

“Another mission.”

Hermione gave a short, cold laugh. “I’m not going on a mission with you. Ever again.”

He didn’t look impressed. His gaze stayed on her, calm and immovable.

She clenched her fists. “What do I get out of this deal?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Your mother and your elves will remain safe. No one else will know where you live. Only me.”

Hermione stared at him but barely saw him. Her thoughts spun.

Was this really a choice? Or a velvet-lined trap? She wanted nothing to do with him — she’d told him that over and over, told herself a thousand times. And yet here she was, in his house, with his gift on her wrist and her wand back in her hand.

The offer felt like blackmail. It was blackmail. But it worked. Because what if next time he wasn’t discreet? What if Thea or Pippin or Tink became the victim of his next message? She wouldn’t risk that. Not with them.

But how could she explain it? What would she say when Thea asked where she went on Saturday nights? How could she lie again — after everything she’d promised? She’d said she was done with the Spellyard. That she wouldn’t touch dark magic anymore. That she’d find herself again, and peace. And now… now he asked her to break all of that.

And worse: she wanted to. Part of her wanted it.

She’d missed the Spellyard. The energy, the adrenaline, the raw freedom of casting forbidden spells without restraint. The power that surged through her veins when she gave in to magic called dark but felt so vividly alive. It had given her a reason to get up in the morning. To see herself as more than just a survivor.

And then there was him. Voldemort. His gaze, his voice, the way he pulled her world slowly into his orbit — dangerous, seductive, impossible to grasp. She hated it. And yet…

She wanted to know what he planned for her. What his intentions really were. Whether it was just a game, or if he saw something in her she no longer dared to see in herself.

And the library… Merlin, that library. Her fingers itched at the thought alone. What waited for her there? What knowledge, what secrets, what forgotten arts? She felt her whole body scream to go back.

She swallowed.

Maybe this wasn’t a choice between good and evil, but between lying to the people she loved — or lying to herself.

Hermione took a deep breath, lifted her chin a fraction, and met his gaze. “Fine,” she said with a dry, biting edge. “Looks like I’ll be seeing you on Saturday.”

When she stood and left the library, it felt as if something inside her clicked shut. As if, with her hand on the doorframe, she stepped into a contract deeper than words.

A pact.

With the devil himself.

His sensual laugh followed her like a scent, like an echo. And somewhere, deep inside, she knew he had won — at least for now.

Chapter Text

There was at least one thing to say about her encounter with Voldemort: it had woken her up. In a way no warning, no nightmare, no worried plea from her housemates had managed. Not love, not friendship, not guilt. But anger. Raw, consuming anger, summoned by the threat he had voiced, the arrogance with which he'd touched her, the certainty that he could win her over.

And it worked. Not in the way he intended—not as submission, but as something she'd long lost: the strength to fight back, to feel herself in every fibre of her body.

The fire he'd lit remained. A glowing core somewhere in her chest. The emptiness that had surrounded her for weeks—the grey, hushed feeling as if she were dead, as if her existence here was merely an echo, a mistake dissolving slowly at the edges of reality, fed by betrayal that had hollowed her out—was gone. Burned away. As if she had stood in darkness and he, ironically, had been the one to strike the match.

She wasn't healed. Not saved. But she felt a little like herself again.

For the first time in weeks she didn't feel like a ghost moving through the house, light-footed and unseen. She moved with purpose. With body. With weight.

She got up early. Did the washing-up before Tink had a chance to scold her for it. Brushed crumbs off the countertop as if it mattered. Fed the chickens on time. Caught Pippin when he stumbled with a tray and asked Thea if she needed help harvesting lavender.

She spoke.

She made remarks over meals, sometimes sharp, sometimes dry. She took initiative in brewing again. She suggested making a new batch of a healing salve that Slug & Jiggers kept running out of, and even set up a trial batch with a different base oil. She wrote in her notebook at night. She read, re-read, drew notes in the margins.

And Thea, who had walked around the house for weeks with hunched shoulders, exhaled. Slowly at first. Then with visible relief. The deep crease between her brows smoothed. Her observations became less sharp. Her questions less frequent. Even Tink had swapped her scowl for a kind of quiet watchfulness, as if she dared trust the house to Hermione again. And Pippin, who for the longest time had only looked at her with his head cocked and questioning eyes, began singing again while he made tea.

The house settled back into its rhythm. And she played her role. Laughing, responding, correcting. But there was another pulse beneath her skin.

She dreamed again. Not of war. Not of voices from the past accusing her. Not of hieroglyphs or golden scales. But of eyes. Red eyes. Of shadows that didn't frighten her but instead drew her closer. Dreams in which she didn't feel small, but grand—powerful, with a clarity in her chest that remained even in sleep. Dreams that made her heart beat faster upon waking. Not with fright. But with anticipation.

Saturday approached with that same tingling feeling she'd had in the early weeks, when the Spellyard was still new and she was still full of wonder at her own place within it.

She looked forward to it.

More than she wanted to admit.

And at the same time she tried to think as little as possible about the deal she'd made. About his voice. About his words.

But that was impossible.

Not now that she had a bracelet that constantly reminded her of him.

Every morning when she saw it glint in the sunlight. Every time her fingers strayed across it involuntarily. Every time the memory of his voice, his eyes, rose up from her dreams.

Not since she'd discovered it couldn't be removed.

It had been that same evening. She'd sat in her room, door closed, wand on the bedside table, the soft light of a reading candle behind her.

She'd wrapped her fingers around the golden surface and carefully sought the clasp with her thumbnail.

There wasn't one.

At least, not one she could open.

The bracelet felt warm, as if it had taken on its own temperature. And when she tried to slide it over her hand, it tightened. The snake coiled tighter around her wrist. Not hard—not painfully—but with a clear, unyielding strength. As if it held her in its grip with a mocking laugh. An elegant, sinister embrace that left no room for doubt.

She'd tried three times to pull it off. Then with magic. A simple Alohomora. A stronger Finite Incantatem. Nothing. Only a faint shock that made her fingertips tingle, as if the bracelet was laughing at her.

Since then she'd worn her sleeves longer. Had turned her gaze away when Pippin asked how she'd come by her new bracelet. Answered with an "old find" and smiled too widely.

The fire in her was back. But it wasn't an innocent warmth.

It was the glow of something that could no longer be undone.

And she knew that once Saturday came, once she slid through that rusty dustbin again and her feet hit the stone floor of the Spellyard, she'd let herself be fed again by the dark light waiting for her there.

And the only thing holding her back from disappearing completely were the people who thought they'd won her back.

She couldn't very well say she disappeared every weekend without explanation. Not now that Thea looked at her with renewed warmth. Not now that Tink sometimes served her a second helping without asking if she wanted it. Not now that Pippin was once again her usual cheerful companion.

She'd gotten herself into something bigger and more complicated than she'd ever allowed herself to admit.

She had no idea what to tell Thea and the elves. Every time she tried to come up with a plausible reason for her absence, she got tangled in half-truths that fell apart the moment she tried to speak them. She knew she needed a believable story, something detailed, something with traces. And when Saturday finally arrived, and she realised it was time to say goodbye for the day, Hermione panicked. She still had nothing—no name, no story, no starting point. Only the knowledge that she would have to lie to people who had only just begun to trust her again.

It was lunchtime, and warm sun fell through the kitchen window onto the table. Thea sliced bread. Tink stirred a bowl of egg mayonnaise. Pippin wobbled on his chair and sang a little song about radishes.

Hermione chewed a piece of cucumber that tasted of nothing. It was time.

She put down her knife. "As you've noticed, I haven't been myself lately," she began.

Three heads turned toward her. Thea looked up with a gentle frown. Tink froze with the spoon over the bowl. Pippin's song stopped.

"I haven't been as honest as I should have been," she continued. "And I'm sorry for that."

Thea folded her hands in her lap and nodded slowly. Tink peered at her suspiciously. Pippin now bounced with excitement.

"The truth is... I've met someone," Hermione said. She forced a smile. "A man. A wizard. And... he drives me insane."

"Men usually do," Thea remarked drily.

Hermione let out an awkward laugh. "Yes, so... he drives me insane. In a bad way, but... also in a good way."

Pippin nearly jumped off his chair. "Is miss in love?" he asked excitedly.

"Oh, love," Tink said with a dismissive sniff. "That do be explainin' plenty. Wizards do all sorts o' foolish when they're in love. And miss Hermione been most foolish indeed," 

Hermione smiled, but it felt as if her stomach turned over. Guilt curled like smoke through her chest.

"Who is he?" Thea asked calmly, but with something cautious in her gaze.

"His name is Zoltan Groza," Hermione replied. The name slipped surprisingly easily from her tongue. "He's Romanian. His cousin introduced us a couple of weeks ago. He actually invited me to Romania this weekend... and I said I'd go."

"To Romania?" Thea raised her eyebrows. "This weekend?"

"Yes," said Hermione, her voice a bit too bright. "He got me a portkey. I'll be back tomorrow."

Thea fell silent for a moment, her gaze sharp on Hermione. "You're going to Romania this weekend, with a portkey a wizard got you. A wizard you've only known for a couple of weeks. Who drives you insane? The one you shouldn't have trusted?"

Hermione rubbed her clammy palms together, an involuntary attempt to wipe the nerves from her skin. "Yes."

Pippin squeaked excitedly: "How romantic!"

Thea sighed, her voice soft but firm. "I can't stop you, Hermione. You're a grown woman. But I urge you to reconsider."

Tink said without looking up: "Men be bringin' nothin' but trouble, miss, they is. But if miss must learn the hard way, Tink will not interfere."

The lie seemed to work. Thea and Tink asked no further questions and let the matter drop, though they occasionally exchanged uneasy looks. Pippin, on the other hand, was overjoyed. He enthusiastically helped her pack an overnight bag—a toothbrush, a change of clothes, a book she supposedly wanted to show Zoltan. Though she didn't need much for one night, she let him fuss. His excitement was infectious and freed her, if only briefly, from the gnawing feeling in her stomach.

After dinner Hermione said goodbye to Thea, Tink, and Pippin—warmly, but hastily. She already had her cloak on, the collar pulled high, and held her small travel bag firmly under her arm. Outside it was cool, the sky turning a steely blue-grey. She walked briskly across the yard, her shoes tapping softly on the cobbles, until she reached the apparition point beyond the gate. With a turn, she disapparated—and a moment later appeared in the chill, damp shadows of Knockturn Alley.

The street smelled of soot, wet stone, and something bitter that was neither spice nor drink. She pulled her hood further over her face and walked with steady steps to the hidden entrance of the Spellyard, where the darkness already waited for her.

She had once again wrapped herself in her Rhiannon outfit—the tight bodice, the leather trousers, the mask. Her hair was braided like a crown, exactly as Rhiannon would wear it. She felt the persona slip over her almost naturally as she entered the lounge.

The murmur died down briefly as she crossed the room. Eyes followed her, as always, but she headed for the bar. There stood Elric and Alphard, bent over two glasses of firewhisky. Alphard was the first to see her.

"Rhiannon!" he called out cheerfully, turning halfway toward her. "We were starting to worry. Well—Elric was. Personally, I considered your absence a blessing for my stats."

Hermione pulled one corner of her mouth into a crooked smile. "Glad I could help your numbers."

Elric looked up, his eyes flicking briefly to her arm, where the bracelet peeked out from under her sleeve. "You didn't show," he said, his voice lower than usual. "I... was worried."

Hermione tilted her head slightly. "Why?"

He shrugged, but his gaze didn’t leave her face. "The last time I saw you, you went off with... him. And after that, you didn’t come back. He’s got a reputation, you know. People disappear around him. Sometimes for good."

Before Hermione could reply, a voice sounded behind her.

Cold. Low. Hypnotic.

"Perhaps you should be more careful with your assumptions, Elric Dunmore. Some people don’t return because they choose not to. Others, well... they simply overstep."

The silence behind her thickened. Elric went rigid. Alphard set his glass down with a quiet click. Hermione turned slowly, heart pounding against her ribs.

Voldemort was there. Dark cloak, pale skin, red eyes betraying nothing but sharp, penetrating intelligence. His gaze was on Elric, but his stance, his tone — all of it aimed at her.

She hated the heat that spread in her chest, hated the way her breath caught. She kept her face calm, controlled, as Rhiannon would — but inside something flared. Dangerous. Euphoric. His presence was fuel for the magic under her skin; her core stretched toward his like sparks recognising each other in the void. She despised it. She despised how her body reacted to his nearness. And yet it felt like she could finally breathe.

Her anger ignited. How could he have this effect on her? How could she feel this for someone who had betrayed her, broken into her home, threatened her family to get his way? She had to be mad to even admit it, and that only made her angrier.

“Rhiannon?” came a surprised voice to her right. Cassius Selwyn stood halfway across the lounge, a parchment list in his hand. “You're here? I didn’t think you’d show tonight. I wasn’t expecting you. I don’t have a match for you.”

Hermione turned her head, her expression neutral. At first, she almost didn’t mind not having to duel. She thought: maybe I can just watch tonight. But her gaze landed on Voldemort — perfect, dominant as ever, with that arrogant confidence she loathed. She hated the effect he had on her, and even more that he thought he had control over her. Anger rose, that fierce need to put him in his place, to make him feel he wasn’t untouchable.

She fixed Cassius with icy calm. “I will duel,” she said, voice calm but edged like a blade.

Cassius blinked in confusion. “Excuse me?”

Hermione held his gaze, cool and challenging, signalling toward Voldemort who met her eyes with a cold, unblinking dominance. “I will duel him.”

Cassius glanced uncertainly at Voldemort, a follower looking for orders. “My lord?”

The room’s mood shifted. Elric let out a disapproving sound, his hand curling into a fist. “You can’t be serious.”

Alphard, however, laughed. “Now this — this will be phenomenal.”

Cassius stammered: “But— I mean— it’s highly irregular—”

Voldemort turned to him, voice suddenly razor-sharp. “Get us in the ring, Selwyn.”

The words reached her slowly, as if through water. He meant it. He was going to fight her.

Part of Hermione hadn’t believed he’d agree. Voldemort didn’t take orders. But he’d accepted. Her heart pounded unevenly, her breath turned shallow as the realisation settled: she would duel him.

Magic under her skin, which had stretched eagerly toward his before, now shivered with anticipation. As if it already knew what was coming. As if it was preparing.

But Hermione was determined to show him exactly who he was dealing with. She lifted her chin, straightened her spine, and gave Voldemort a defiant stare. She shoved her fear aside, making room for the fight. In her head echoed every betrayal: how he had let her be tortured, handed her over to Anubis in Egypt, broken her wards, blackmailed her by threatening her family. He wasn’t going to waltz over her. He was going to know she hadn’t forgotten, and she wouldn’t bend. She drew a deep breath, heart hammering, gripping her wand tighter as she prepared for the duel.

Selwyn saved them for last, leaving Hermione to watch the other matches without taking in a single move.

Voldemort stood behind her again. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that his presence pressed against her back. Occasionally he spoke — soft, measured observations about the other duels that made the muscles in her neck tense. She couldn’t tell if he was instructing her or taunting her. Or both.

Each time he spoke, her magic reacted with an electric shiver under her skin. She felt like a spell wound too tight, ready to snap. The thought that they — after all those looks, threats, half-spoken truths — would actually fight made her stomach churn with uncertainty. What had possessed her to challenge him?

Yet she didn’t move. Hermione had issued the challenge, and she wouldn’t back down. She lifted her chin, her eyes cold and proud. She would show him exactly who she was. She would force him to take her seriously, to face everything he had done to her. She wouldn’t bend. Not this time.

And then, finally, her name was called.

She entered the arena with a controlled face, her hands relaxed at her sides, her steps calm—but under her skin everything was trembling. The crowd murmured, tension rippled through the space. And then he appeared at the far side.

Voldemort had removed his cloak. He stood there in dark grey trousers, a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a fitted waistcoat that traced the sharp lines of his tall frame. It wasn’t theatrical or ceremonial—but it carried a threat more potent than any robe.

Hermione had forced herself to stay calm. To see him as any other opponent. But there he was, his gaze resting on her like a silent storm, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

She hated the reaction, but she couldn’t stop it. Her skin tingled, her magic stirred, as if it didn’t just feel him but absorbed him. Something in him struck something in her—a resonance deep in her core. And somewhere, deep down, she already knew:

Tonight she would lose in this arena for the first time.

The signal sounded.

Hermione attacked immediately, spells sharp and fierce. But he deflected them with ease, his counter-attacks pushing her onto her heels. Very quickly she felt him seize control, forcing her to fight defensively. Her heart pounded. His magic was ancient, powerful, woven through with a precision that tested every limit she had. Her wand burned warm in her hand, as if it too sensed how this fight was unlike any other.

Sparks flew past her face. An incarcerous bound her legs before she knew it, but she broke the spell before the ropes closed. Her counter—confringo—tore up the floor where he’d just stood. But he was faster. Always just a little faster.

They circled each other. Spells flew, but it was the looks that burned. His eyes—red, sharp, locked on her—bored into her as if reading her thoughts. And maybe he was. Her defences held, as did her pride, but she felt herself slowly laid bare.

A reducto blasted rubble into the air, she dove, rolled, and sprang into a counterattack. Their magic crackled where it met. Waves of force collided like storm winds. Beneath all the speed and fire lay something else—something that stole her breath.

He challenged her with every move. The elegance of his casting, the precision of his duelling, the control with which he just missed her—as if he didn’t want to beat her, but read her. Unravel her.

And she answered it. Unwillingly. Her magic rose up, wrapped around his, a dance that felt old, almost primal. Heat flushed in her cheeks, tension coiled in her belly. Not fear. Something else.

He knew it.

And he played with it.

An acid curse hissed past her shoulder—the edge of her sleeve scorched and her arm jerked by reflex. She turned away and hurled a bombarda back. He caught it effortlessly, deflected it, leaving a furious circle of fire simmering along the ground.

"You're holding back," he said suddenly, almost scolding, catching her gaze between spells. "I want every part of you, Hermione. Show me that."

His next attack wasn’t a warning but a seduction—a hand lingering too long on her skin, made of fire and power.

Then it truly began.

He accelerated. Without warning he sent an undefined wave of raw force at her. She didn’t even register it as a spell—it was like a punch of magic. It hit her in the chest, flinging her to the ground. Her head snapped back, her nose started bleeding immediately. She gasped and looked up, dizzy.

He was still there. Unmoving. Unyielding.

For the first time it flashed through her mind that he might be trying to kill her.

Voldemort’s dark magic unleashed at full strength. Not crude attacks—but finely honed curses, ancient and complex, with a beauty that was terrifying. A black beam split the air, followed by a litany of words in a language she didn’t know but felt in her bones. A shadowy shape slipped like smoke from his wand, circled over her head before she blasted it apart with elemental wind.

The crowd roared. Names were shouted. His name. As if they saw what she felt too: absolute control. Power.

Panic stabbed in her ribs, but something else was there too. Something sharp. Since the Saarnivaara binding her magic had gained an edge—rough, sometimes unstable, but now her only hope. She called on it. Felt it slicing along her fingertips. Her next spell struck like lightning, pure element, charged with storm.

Water surged up from nowhere, forming into blades of ice that shot in a horizontal line. She saw his eyes narrow. A flicker of surprise. He blocked it, turned with his wand and shattered the attack with a glowing shield of darkness. The air vibrated with energy, metallic and sharp—as if lightning had struck before it flashed. The arena crackled with tension.

Now she screamed her spells. Flames, wind, shards of rock rising from the ground as spears. Her magic begged to break free. To hit him. To restore some balance.

And he... smiled.

"More," he whispered between spells, his voice too low for anyone but her. "I know you can go deeper."

Fury flared. She hated him. Hated what he woke in her. But she gave in to that fire. She hurled a vortex of wind and flame that made the edges of the arena tremble.

And still—even now, even at the height of her power—he stood there. Firm. Unmoved. His sleeves rolled neatly, his silhouette sharply cut in the light—he stood as the embodiment of control and power, his gaze unyielding.

He was everything she feared. And exactly what her magic reached for.

Hermione went to her limit.

At one point, rage blazed so hot in her chest she lost all restraint and slashed her wand forward with a vicious incantation — the Decapitating Curse screamed from her lips. Voldemort managed to move just in time, but the magical blade grazed his neck, leaving a shallow cut that bled darkly against his pale skin. He snapped his gaze back to her, furious, eyes blazing red with something between outrage and hungry challenge, affronted by the blood on his collar. And Hermione threw back her head and laughed — high, sharp, unhinged with rage and defiance, daring him to come closer again.

She refused to bow to his overwhelming power. The spells she had learned in the margins of dark magic, the theories she’d studied but never dared to use—she let them loose. Smoke filled the air, her voice cut like glass through the arena as she spoke an old chaining curse that wove pain and illusion together. The spectators held their breath.

She conjured black flames, made them writhe like snakes across the floor, whipped them up like tentacles toward his position. Meanwhile she felt the protective runes on her back begin to burn, like a warning. As if her body tried to hold her back—or at least to warn her she was crossing a line.

She used everything: the core of her wand, the force of her voice, the deep, biting power of the Saarnivaara binding that had made her magic sharper, more unpredictable.

And he received it. Absorbed it as if it fed him.

His eyes flickered. "There she is," he said softly, barely audible. "I can feel it when you stop thinking. When you just... feel."

He moved almost gracefully through her storm of fire, his magic like smoke, like fingers that didn’t quite touch her. "Don't disappoint me now."

Hermione pressed her lips together, her stare sharp as glass. "Oh, thanks for reminding me. I'd almost forgotten my life’s purpose was to impress you."

Their magic met again—not in collision but in fusion. Darkness with storm. Cruelty with instinct. Knowledge with fury.

She felt her limit approaching, felt her breath running out, her muscles beginning to burn.

And then the air disappeared.

No grip around her throat, no physical blow—just... emptiness. As if he pulled the oxygen from the room itself. She gasped, her lungs folding in panic. Spots danced before her eyes. Everything went quiet, her wand almost dropped.

In a last reflex she poured her magic out in a wild, unshaped impulse—a defensive surge that sent sparks shooting through the space. The stranglehold on her breath broke. She collapsed to her knees, gasping for air, coughing, tasting blood on her tongue. But she kept going. Every attack was fiercer, more dangerous. Even her counters carried the threat of destruction.

And somewhere in the middle of that storm of spells, she felt his respect. Not approval. Not admiration. But recognition. Of her strength. Of her willingness to give everything, even if it broke her.

She could barely stand. Everything hurt. Her magic felt like thread about to snap. And yet—when she saw him standing there, calm, breathless, with that small nod that said she’d been worth it—she knew she would go to the end.

Then it happened.

He moved forward—not a spell this time, but pure movement. Liquid-fast. Before she really understood, he had wrenched her wand from her hand. A second later she was on the stone floor, his body over hers, one hand clamped around her wrist, the other braced beside her head.

His face hovered just above hers. Their breath mingled. His eyes burned.

And then she felt it—hard and unmistakable, pressed against her thigh through fabric and motion, as if his body held no secrets from her. Her stomach clenched, not just in shock but in the raw, confusing arousal that jolted through her body. She knew he felt it too. His grip barely shifted, but his gaze darkened, sharpened, as if he tasted her reaction and stored it away.

She hated it. Hated herself for not pulling her hip back, for not shifting her legs. But her magic quivered under her skin—not in fear or resistance, but in charged anticipation. As if their fight had never just been about power, but about surrender.

She drew a breath, ragged and high in her chest.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you yield.”

She clenched her teeth in fury. She refused to give in. Her body strained beneath him, legs scraping the floor as she tried to break free. "Fuck you," she hissed hoarsely.

His hand tightened around her wrist, his weight pressing her harder into the ground. Their gazes locked — charged, dark, burning with hatred and something more dangerous. Heat coiled in her belly and she despised it even more. But she kept fighting, breath ragged, eyes locked on his. She would not submit. Not silently. Not ever.

“Say you yield,” Voldemort repeated, voice low and commanding, his red eyes glowing with hunger and iron control.

She gasped, chest jolting against his, and snarled with raw defiance: “Never.”

Her hips twisted to shove him away, nails dragging across his arm. His grip only tightened, weight unrelenting. He bent closer, breath warm and threatening at her ear. She felt every inch of danger, every promise. She wanted to hate him — and kiss him — and she wouldn't stop fighting.

He let his breath ghost along her ear and whispered, voice dark as sin: "I love it when you fight me, Hermione. Don't pretend you don't want this. Yield to me, and I'll show you everything you're too afraid to ask for." His words dripped with promise and threat, voice velvet over steel, heavy with that dark pull that had haunted her all night.

Hermione snarled back, voice harsh and low. “Keep dreaming,” she bit out. Her eyes blazed with fury and defiance as she glared at him, lips curling into a mocking sneer despite his crushing hold. She refused to break, refused to beg. Every muscle in her body radiated defiance and raw stubbornness, even as their bodies pressed dangerously close, teetering between rage and something darker.

And then the referee’s whistle cut through the tension, declaring Voldemort the winner. He didn’t look triumphant — his eyes were dark, unsatisfied, as though he resented that it was over without her surrender. Slowly he pushed himself up, gaze fixed on her with that same hungry, controlling fire. He offered her a hand, lips curved in a sardonic, knowing smile. Hermione’s rage churned. She ignored his hand. She pushed herself up with shaking arms, chin lifted, gaze cold and unflinching. The crowd roared their approval for Voldemort, but Hermione felt no defeat. Yes, she had lost the duel. But in her mind there was one unshakable truth: she did not yield.

Shortly after the fight they both left the arena, hidden from the crowd. Hermione had wanted to say something to Elric—a look, a word perhaps—but Voldemort had taken her by the arm and led her away before she got the chance. She felt Elric’s gaze burning into her back as she disappeared. Concerned. Stiff.

The next moment they were in his house. Silence wrapped around them, thick and oppressive. Hermione said nothing. She walked straight to her room, her steps quick and controlled, and shut the door behind her without a word.

She changed slowly. Her hands trembled just a little as she swapped her outfit for soft nightclothes. She folded her leather trousers carefully, set her mask aside, and laid her wand on the bedside table. Only when she slipped her feet under the covers, lying on her side with her back to the door, did the cold sheet soothe her skin.

But her head was loud.

She thought about the duel. His eyes. His power. The way their magic had mingled—not like two opponents, but like two poles drawn to each other. She thought about his voice, the curses spoken like poetry. About how he had overpowered her.

About how he had touched her.

The memory of his body over hers made her stomach clench. She felt it again—the press of his thigh against hers, the strength in his arms, the moment she realised he had been aroused. That he had felt it. Just as she had.

But what did it mean?

Was it just adrenaline? The euphoria of battle between equals?

Or... was it more?

She hated herself for wondering. Hated that it excited her, confused her. Because beneath that reckless spark lay anger too. The memory of his threats. His control. The pact she had made, the bracelet tight around her wrist.

And yet—beneath all those layers—there was that one hunger. For knowledge. For power. For his recognition. Because he had seen her. Not as a girl. Not as an opponent. But as something worthy of him.

And that realisation, that fragile, dangerous realisation, followed her into the night.

The next morning she was woken by a soft, persistent jingling. A small silver bell hovered over her bed, ringing with annoying determination until she wriggled out of the blankets. Grumpily, she got up, dressed reluctantly, and followed the floating sound as it darted through the house like an insect.

It led her to the dining room, where Voldemort was already at the table—of course immaculate in a dark waistcoat with a silver watch chain, his hair perfectly smooth, The Daily Prophet spread out in front of him as if analysing the world news was his greatest pleasure.

Half the long table was laden with breakfast: stacks of toast in a silver basket, croissants, a pewter pot of steaming Earl Grey, soft-boiled eggs in porcelain cups, slices of black pudding, crisp rashers of bacon, grilled tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms, scones with clotted cream, and a bowl of blushing apples.

Hermione paused, struck by the contrast. It was lavish, almost old-fashioned. And it brought back memories of the Great Hall at Hogwarts—long tables, steaming dishes, the murmur of conversation. Only now there was no murmur. No others. Just him and her.

And a table full of food that couldn’t possibly be meant for two people barely looking at each other.

Hermione sat down reluctantly. She took a piece of toast from the silver basket, spread it thickly with marmalade, and took a small, absent-minded bite.

Voldemort folded the paper without looking up. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," Hermione answered curtly, eyes on her plate.

Silence fell, filled only by the soft click of cutlery and the crackle of toast.

Then he spoke again, his voice calm but unmistakably pointed. "You overextended your reach midway through the second phase. Your elemental control is strong, but still inconsistent when rushed. You rely on instinct, not intention."

Hermione pressed her lips together. Heat rose in her cheeks, a mix of irritation and embarrassment. She knew he was right.

"And yet," he continued, taking a sip of tea, "you forced me to adjust. Most can’t."

Hermione took another bite of toast, chewed slowly, then glanced at him sidelong. “Well,” she said drily, “if I’m going to get manhandled in front of a cheering crowd, I might as well make you sweat for it.”

Voldemort’s mouth twitched in what passed for amusement. He folded the paper carefully and set it aside. “Fair enough,” he said. “Though if I recall correctly, you didn’t seem entirely opposed to being overpowered.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her gaze steely. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered his body on hers. “You’re confusing strategy with submission.”

“Am I?” He sipped his tea. “You learn quickly under pressure. That’s a strength. But your style is still reactive.”

“Duelling you is hardly a controlled environment.”

He nodded slowly, almost approving. “True. But if you want to reach the edge of your potential, you must stop fighting like a student, and start fighting like a predator.”

What began as a sharp exchange of remarks gradually shifted into a real conversation. No superficial politeness or strategic sparring, but an in-depth dissection of their duel—of magic, power, and intent. They tangled in a verbal battle that had nothing to do with conflict and everything to do with fascination. His observations were mercilessly precise, her counterarguments sharp and considered. The silence at the table transformed into a charged exchange, as if the spells still crackled between them, now disguised as words.

Hermione lost track of time. To her own surprise she was enjoying it—not because it was light or relaxing, but because it kept her mind alert. It reminded her of Egypt, of the days before his betrayal, when they had talked for hours about magic. That same sense of sharpness, of being challenged, settled in her ribs again.

She jumped slightly when he suddenly stood and checked his watch. "I have business to attend to," he said, his tone businesslike. "You may use the library. I might see you later tonight."

Hermione didn’t look up from her plate. "Don’t count on it," she said shortly. "I wasn’t planning on staying long."

But once he was gone, she walked to the library. At first she only wanted to see if he still kept books out that she hadn’t dared examine before. And then—when she realised she was alone—that he wasn’t looking over her shoulder this time—she couldn’t help staying. Her fingers drifted over the spines of books, rare copies, some forbidden. She found a volume on magical identity blurring and defences against soul-splinters—an obscure, dark topic that immediately fascinated her.

She sank into the large armchair by the window, with a view of Hogwarts’ distant silhouette, and began to read. At first curious. Then engrossed. And slowly, without realising it, she was completely absorbed.

She didn’t eat. She didn’t drink. The afternoon faded into evening, shadows lengthened across the floor. Only when she turned a page and felt a sudden draft of cold air did she notice the presence beside her.

Voldemort.

She looked up, startled, her heart beating faster in her chest. Outside it was already dark. She was still in the same position she’d settled into hours ago.

"Would you care to stay for dinner?" he asked calmly.

But the realisation of lost time, of how completely she’d let herself be carried away—and with that done exactly what he’d wanted—made her jump to her feet.

“No,” she snapped. “I’m going home.”

But even though she slammed the door behind her that night, the next week she was there again.

And the week after that too.

Chapter Text

September slipped almost imperceptibly into October. Days grew shorter, mornings colder, and Hermione kept her side of the bargain. She arrived, always on time, for breakfast. So did he. Always immaculate, always ready. Conversation was the only thing expected of her—and it proved less of a punishment than she had feared.

Their talks remained intellectual, sharp, often with an undercurrent of tension. They discussed spell structures, ancient duelling techniques, the philosophy of magical dominance, obscure rituals and forgotten disciplines. Sometimes he challenged her; sometimes she provoked him on purpose. And despite everything, it didn’t feel hostile. It was a kind of constant sparring—verbal and magical—where she rediscovered her edge.

After breakfast she always went to the library. For hours she lost herself in books once forbidden to her. Sometimes he was there too—not as a guide or mentor but as a silent constant. They sat in silence, each immersed in their own study, without interrupting. Other times she was alone and had the space entirely to herself. Then she moved more freely, leafed through volumes, took notes, read slowly.

Again and again she returned to the same spot: the deep chair by the window where the distant silhouette of Hogwarts was just visible.

The silence in the library wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a calm she found nowhere else. A focus that seemed to exist only in his presence. It surprised her how easily she let herself be drawn in. As if nothing outside these walls existed but time, study, and quiet.

And yet—even amid that peace—it still chafed. She didn’t know what to do with him. She hadn’t forgotten he had let her be tortured, or what he had done in Egypt. The betrayal, the manipulation, the trust he had broken without hesitation. There was a scar in her trust that wouldn’t vanish no matter how many words he spent on it—or how few.

But at the same time she couldn’t deny she was beginning to look forward to their mornings. To his questions, his sharpness, the way he challenged her without interrupting. The conversations that had felt like obligation at first began to lift her. More and more often she caught herself thinking in the evenings about what she wanted to say the next morning. More and more often she stayed longer in the library.

She knew it was dangerous. That a single genuine smile or glance shouldn’t make her forget who he was and what he’d done. But at the margins of her distrust something was forming—something fragile she didn’t dare name. Not forgiveness. Nowhere near trust. But an opening. And maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something.

Still it gnawed at her. Every time she thought about her own time—about what he would become, what he would do—it felt like something lodged in her throat. She knew exactly how many would die, how many families would be broken, how much fear he would spread. And her? She was having sleepovers with him. Sitting at the table with Lord Voldemort. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Harry and Ron would hate her. What would Ginny say if she knew Hermione was semi-willingly under his roof, looking at him, talking to him as if he weren’t a monster?

But just as she hadn’t let herself be stopped from exploring dark magic, she didn’t stop herself from this contact. She chose her own path, buried her head in the sand when needed. The First Wizarding War was years away. It wasn’t her job to stop it. Not her fate. She had never asked to end up in this time, and now that she was here, she made the best of it.

And hadn’t she earned that? After everything she’d given up? Everything she’d lost? Didn’t she have the right to her own search—for power, for knowledge, for whatever else lay inside her? For the potential in herself no one had ever given her permission to explore?

She wrestled with the contradictions of it all. Her head overflowed with perspectives, with angles she tried to consider. Every choice felt like a balance of right and wrong—and more and more she caught herself no longer knowing what those words meant. Was life really divided in such clear lines? Or had she always just assumed that because it was taught to her? What remained of good when you knew how much darkness you carried inside?

She constantly balanced between who she thought she should be and who she wanted to be. And even that was hazy, because she didn’t know who she wanted to be. She lived in the moment, guided by curiosity and instinct. When she looked too far ahead, panic rose—like she was always falling short, choosing wrong, walking the wrong path. So she kept her eyes on the now. And in that, to her surprise, she found a kind of peace.

And although she knew it wouldn’t last forever, she held onto that feeling—those brief moments of balance. Because outside the walls of his house the world continued, with its lies, obligations, and pretence.

At home it seemed like everything had settled again. Thea and the elves had apparently accepted that she left every week to see her so-called lover. Zoltan Groza—a name that now rolled routinely off her tongue when Pippin asked how the weekend had been. Thea asked no more questions. Tink just gave her sharp looks if she forgot something, but stayed silent. It brought a peace back to the house she hadn’t dared hope for. And in that peace she played her role—daughter, friend, housemate—with a smile that became easier to put on.

On Saturday evenings she entered the Spellyard again as Rhiannon. Her outfit dark and sharp, her demeanour relaxed—until her gaze slid to the bar.

There, perched on a stool opposite Elric, sat Zoltan Groza. With his messy black hair, awkward grin and a glass of Berry Ocky Rot in hand. He was deep in conversation with Elric, words tripping over his tongue in halting English, arms waving as if recounting a fight.

Hermione had just taken a step in their direction when Zoltan’s face lit up. “Hermione!” he called loudly and cheerfully, his accent thick as syrup.

Hermione froze. She shot toward him and hissed: “Rhiannon. I'm Rhiannon here.”

Elric turned slowly to her, eyes dark. “Hermione? Your name is Hermione?”

She felt her cheeks burn. “You knew Rhiannon wasn’t my name.”

“I know,” Elric replied coolly, “but I thought nobody knew your real name here. Apparently I was wrong.”

Zoltan looked between Elric and Hermione, frowning innocently. "Is he your boyfriend?"

"No," Hermione said quickly.

Zoltan nodded slowly. "Yes yes, makes sense. Boyfriend must know name, yes? Does he want to be your... eh... boyfriend, yes?"

Elric sighed awkwardly. "Mate, come on, I'm right here."

Hermione hooked her arm through Zoltan’s and pulled him abruptly away from the bar. "Come with me," she snapped, leading him to a quieter corner of the lounge, face tight, heart thumping with irritation and mild panic.

Once out of sight of the bar, she turned on him. Zoltan beamed at her.

"I am happy to see you," he said brightly. "You... you look like... you again. Last time, was very—how you say—boom! But now, better. More... nice version of you."

Hermione's expression softened a little. She felt guilty. "I'm sorry. For dragging you into that last time. I hope Beatrice didn’t give you too much trouble because of me."

Zoltan shrugged and grinned. "Beatrice always find something to complain. She is... how you say... storm in teacup."

Hermione gave a faint smile. "I probably still owe you an apology for leaving you behind at Malfoy Manor as well. I didn’t even say goodbye."

He waved it off. "No, no! Not problem. Many people run when big boom happen. I think—'Ah, she run too!' It make sense."

Hermione nodded slowly, thoughts wandering. It surprised her. Apparently not everyone knew she had caused the explosion at Malfoy Manor. She’d expected it to have spread by now. Voldemort had never mentioned it again either. About that night she’d hit him with a Stunner. It made her suspicious, but so much else had happened between them since that it barely ranked anymore. Only one question lingered from that night: what he thought of her scar. But so far she hadn’t had the nerve to ask.

"You fight tonight?" Zoltan asked next, childishly excited.

Hermione nodded. "Every Saturday. As Rhiannon."

His eyes widened. "Is my first time here," he said proudly. "He—eh—Voldemort—he invite me."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "He did?" she asked slowly. Did that mean Voldemort was coming tonight? He hadn’t come to watch at the Spellyard in weeks. More and more he only showed up at the end of the evening—just to take her to his house. When she’d asked if she couldn’t just apparate herself, he’d explained that his wards didn’t allow it. Only he could let someone apparate onto his grounds.

The thought that he might actually come tonight sent an unexpected shiver through her. Was this planned? Would he watch her again? She felt a prickling nervousness—a need to impress him that irritated her but she couldn’t fully dismiss.

"How do you know him?" she asked cautiously. "Do you... see him as your master too?"

Zoltan’s face split in a belly laugh that seemed to shake his whole body. He slapped his knee, snorted, and had to brace himself against the wall to stay upright.

"Master? No, no, no!" he wheezed. "Is very funny! I know him from when he was in eastern Europe. He stay with me, yes? For runes. I know runes. Good with runes. He ask me many questions. Serious face. All the time."

Hermione couldn’t help but smile. His laughter was infectious.

"So no, he not my master. Very serious man, but no master. Is funny to me that so many people call him that. Like... boom, he say something, and they all nod!"

Hermione felt a wave of relief. Zoltan wasn’t a follower. And he spoke so openly, without fear or reserve. It gave her some anchor—but made her all the more curious. What was their connection then?

Zoltan had calmed down. "He come to me for runes. I study runes since Durmstrang. Very famous in Romania, yes? Also... Groza family, is old family. Like your... Malfoys. We have big library, artifacts, collections. Voldemort like that. He visit often. Sometimes bring friend. That's how I know Dolohov and other friends."

It explained how he’d moved so easily among the guests at Malfoy Manor. He knew what was expected. But it still surprised her to hear Zoltan came from an old, pure-blood family. He had none of the smug aristocracy she’d seen so often in families like the Malfoys or the Blacks. No cold formality, no haughty superiority. Just openness, sloppiness, and a disarming honesty that was almost endearing.

But maybe that was the point. The Weasleys were also an old pure-blood family—and they were the warmest, kiindest people she had ever known. Not all bloodlines determined character. She of all people knew that. Wasn’t that exactly what she had always fought for? To break those prejudices of blood and status? And now she’d caught herself doing the same—even if she hadn’t said it out loud. She’d judged Zoltan on his background, surprised when he didn’t fit the box she’d unconsciously put him in. It was painful to realise that even she, with everything she knew, could still fall into that trap.

Zoltan leaned closer, voice excited. "I am extra happy see you tonight. I want to ask... that book. The small one. From Veikko Lounela. How you get it? And how you read it?"

Hermione gave a sheepish laugh. "It kind of happened... by accident."

Zoltan’s eyes went wide as if it were the most thrilling thing he’d heard all evening. "Accident? No, no, no. Tell me all," he urged, pulling her without waiting for permission toward a low lounge seat in a quieter corner of the hall. They sank into the cushions and immediately fell into an animated conversation about the rune book, the experience of reading it, and everything it had stirred up.

As they sat there, heads close together, voices low, the mood suddenly changed. They both felt it. A cold breeze seemed to move through the space—not a draft, but magic. Hermione felt the hairs on her neck rise before she even looked up. And then she saw them.

Voldemort and Dolohov approached with an ease that seemed to still the room. Zoltan bounced to his feet with the same cheery energy as always. "Ah! Friends!" he called happily. "I was telling Hermione about rune—"

"You’re up, Groza," Dolohov interrupted with his usual grin. "They called your name."

Hermione stood as well, just a fraction too slowly. Her gaze lingered on Voldemort. He hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to. His eyes found hers, and her magic reacted instantly—like spark to fire. It wasn’t a greeting. It was a claim.

Zoltan, unaware of any tension, turned to her. "Do you know who I fight?"

Hermione shook her head. "Is it already announced?"

Zoltan nodded seriously. "Yes. Ezekiel Roe."

Her eyebrows shot up. "He’s... difficult to beat."

"Yes, I hear he is very... controversial. Fired from MACUSA, yes? Many years ago. I don’t know why. But he look like man who know how to hurt things."

Hermione nodded slowly. Ezekiel Roe wasn’t a minor name—nor someone easily taken down. Zoltan’s enthusiasm was admirable, but she wasn’t sure it would be enough.

The four of them moved slowly toward the edge of the arena, Zoltan and Dolohov in front, she and Voldemort a few steps behind. Hermione felt the tension in her shoulders rise with every step. His nearness rattled her nerves—not from fear, but something else. Something that made her stomach flutter.

As they lined up along the edge of the arena he came closer. Too close. She felt his breath brush her neck, subtle but unmistakable. Her skin shivered despite her effort to stay composed.

And then it happened.

His hands slid over her hips, deliberate and controlled, pulling her firmly back against him. Her back pressed to his chest, her hip to his thigh—and she felt him, his presence, his body. Hermione held her breath. Her heart thundered.

She didn’t step away. Her body froze, but outwardly she appeared unmoved. She stood straight, rigid, her expression giving nothing away. Only her hand, which gripped the edge of her collar as if to anchor herself, betrayed her inner turmoil. She even leaned back slightly into him, as if it were nothing.

But it was everything. His hands on her hips burned through the fabric. Her head spun with everything she felt but didn’t dare name.

Holding her breath, she watched as Zoltan entered the arena. He looked nothing like the other duelists—his posture was relaxed, gaze open—but opposite him stood Ezekiel Roe, a man Hermione herself had once beaten. Small and slight, almost unnaturally calm in his movements, Ezekiel Roe had nothing intimidating about his build. But that was precisely why he was always underestimated. One eye was milky white like a spoiled pearl, and one ear was missing—only a scar remained where it had been. His presence radiated a chill that had nothing to do with appearance and everything with intent.

"You're nervous for him," came a soft voice in her ear. His words brushed her skin.

"A bit," she admitted, eyes still on Zoltan.

"Don't be," Voldemort said calmly. "Runes aren't the only thing Zoltan is interested in."

She had no idea what he meant, but there was no time to ask—the gong sounded, and the arbiter declared the duel open.

Zoltan moved first. His body seemed to change the moment he stepped into the ring—the casual air fell away like an old coat. His shoulders straightened, his steps fluid and controlled. The look in his eyes lost all its usual twinkle and turned sharp, layered. Deadly.

Hermione watched tensely. Before her eyes, he transformed in a way that gave her goosebumps. The man who had been laughing with her on the lounge cushions now sat coiled with tension, like a predator waiting to strike. She realised she had underestimated Zoltan—she knew that now. He radiated power. Knowledge. A readiness for violence.

Ezekiel Roe didn’t wait. A fiery spell shot from his wand like a spear, and Zoltan dodged with a lithe grace that belied his clumsy reputation. An ice curse followed, which he narrowly avoided with a flickering, nearly invisible shield that flashed as it deflected.

The air between them filled with explosive energy. Dark magic—not spoken but felt. Curses that slithered in black tendrils along their spells, like shadows amplifying their will. Ezekiel roared an unfamiliar incantation that split the floor beneath Zoltan’s feet, but Zoltan leapt, half-turning in the air, and fired something back that dropped the temperature sharply.

Hermione’s breath caught as crystals of frozen air danced between the two men. She had no idea what spells he was using—but they were old. Unfamiliar. Perhaps even Romanian. And they worked.

Zoltan moved lightly, quick-footed, with small precise steps. His spells were controlled but fierce. He didn’t defend. He attacked. And the harder Ezekiel hit back, the more Zoltan seemed to come alive.

Something stirred in Hermione. Admiration—pure, deep, and unexpected. This wasn’t the bumbling, charming man who stumbled over his English while chatting about rune inscriptions. This was someone with knowledge, with control, with a power she had rarely seen. She looked at him and didn’t just see a fighter, but a master of his craft. Someone who knew a world of magic she had barely touched.

And that fascinated her. She could learn so much from him. How many secrets of ancient magic lived in his head? Zoltan Groza was anything but a clown in a duel. He was a treasury of magic. And that thought excited her.

A wave of black flames swept across the arena—Ezekiel’s work—but Zoltan countered with a circle of fierce white light—not a standard spell, more a ritual pulse. The circle exploded outward in a shockwave, throwing Ezekiel back and making the audience lean forward in their seats.

What followed was pure spell-born fury. Ezekiel raised his wand again, but Zoltan was faster—his curse sharp as a blade, slicing through the darkness. Smoke exploded around them. The arena became a blur of dust and swirling power fields.

When the view cleared, Zoltan was standing. Ezekiel was on one knee, his wand lying metres away. His hand was bleeding.

Zoltan said nothing. He simply waited.

The arbiter stepped forward. "Victor: Zoltan Groza."

Hermione cheered with the crowd. What Zoltan had shown wasn’t bluff or bravado—it was mastery in its purest form. She had watched him fight like someone who knew his magic intimately, weighing every move while daring to improvise. The intensity of his attacks, the rhythm of his defence—it was like he was duelling to music, an orchestra of old knowledge and instinct.

She couldn’t stop smiling. Voldemort had been right. She hadn’t needed to worry about Zoltan. On the contrary—he had left her amazed.

After the duel she walked back to the lounge with Zoltan to celebrate his victory. At the bar, Elric handed them each a shot, and the three of them clinked glasses before knocking them back. Zoltan beamed, Elric laughed, and Hermione felt light—until her skin began to prickle. Voldemort. She felt his gaze burning into her back, invisible but unmistakably present. She didn’t look back.

When her name was called, she left the bar and walked toward the arena. On the way she ran into Alphard. "Rhiannon," he greeted cheerfully, but there was something uneasy in his posture. "Good luck, but one suggestion—don't kill her, will you?" Before she could reply he was already moving on.

Hermione frowned. What was that? Alphard's breeziness was usually constant, but this sounded... serious. And odd.

It wasn't until she neared the arena and saw her opponent—the blonde witch with the silver mask—that she understood.

So that's what Alphard meant.

She wasn't sure how to feel about his comment. Did he really think she would kill her? Okay—fair enough—she had killed more opponents lately in the ring. Since the runes, since the Saarnivaara binding, she felt like someone else during duels. More focused. Fiercer. More dangerous.

The temptation to unleash everything she knew—every dark curse, every destructive form of magic—grew with each fight. It felt good. Liberating. Like she could take on the world. The impact, the power, the precision of her magic... it was addictive.

But no—Alphard didn't need to worry today. She hadn't become so reckless that she'd lost control entirely.

She stepped into the arena and glanced once over her shoulder. At the edge of the ring, her eyes met his—Voldemort's. His gaze was unyielding, but something in it slid over her like a finger along her skin. She looked quickly away and focused on the blonde opposite her.

Just as the arbiter raised his wand to begin, she felt something shift. The energy in the room changed. A wave of magic, heavy and cold, rippled through the space. Figures in dark blue robes with embroidered symbols rose at the edges of the stands. Hermione recognised them immediately. The Mercury.

Before she could speak, they raised their wands and aimed at the warding dome around the arena. A blinding flash filled the space—the magical barrier thickened, turned solid. No escape possible.

Hermione spun and ran for the edge, tried to apparate, but slammed into an invisible wall of force. On the other side of the dome stood Voldemort. His expression murderous, wand drawn.

The blonde witch came closer, eyes wide with fear. "What in Merlin’s name is going on?"

Hermione didn’t answer. She already had her wand up, firing spell after spell at the dome—reducto, bombarda maxima, diffindo—everything bounced off. Her breathing turned shallow, her heart pounded in her throat. It felt like the hourglass. Like when Gaspard had trapped her and time had become her enemy.

Chaos erupted in the crowd. People ran in panic for the exits. The Mercury members still had their wands aimed at the dome—and now Hermione understood why. They wanted to keep her inside. To catch her. To get to her.

Outside the shield she saw wizards gathering. Voldemort. Zoltan. Dolohov. Elric. Alphard. Even Cassius. They fired spells, trying to break it from the outside. But nothing worked.

And then—an explosion.

A blast from the stands ripped the air apart. The warding dome shattered into a thousand pieces like glass under a curse. But with the dome, part of the stands exploded too. Beams, rubble, a rain of stone. A thunderous cracking filled the arena.

Hermione was thrown backwards along with her opponent. The next moment she was buried under an avalanche of debris, her legs numb, her side bleeding. Her ears rang. Her vision blurred.

She saw flashes of spells in the air. Figures in robes rushed toward her but were repelled by unseen forces. She tried to move but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Half under rubble, half in shock, she felt blood from a head wound trickle down her temple.

And then everything went black.

The arena lay in chaos. 

Voldemort stood at the edge of what remained of the arena, wand gripped tightly in his hand. His eyes swept over the rubble, the chaos, the bodies moving—alive, wounded or dead. The air still hummed with magic. But the only thing he focused on was her. Hermione.

He couldn’t feel her magic anymore. That alone made him furious.

He recognised the robes instantly. La Main de Mercure. The Mercury. As if the filth had risen from the shadows. His lip curled in a snarl as his gaze roamed the battlefield with murderous intent. His breathing was calm—far too calm. A dangerous quiet that only preceded destruction.

They had dared to touch her.

Then he saw movement. A figure in blue crouched at a mound of rubble, digging frantically, shouting to the others. "Je l'ai trouvée!" I found her.

His body went rigid.

Hermione.

They had her. They thought they could take her. As if she belonged to anyone else. As if they’d forgotten something fundamental.

She was his.

A sharp, deadly stillness cut through his mind as his magic began to pulse. His grip on his wand tightened. The air around him felt heavier, darker. The wizards beside him stepped half a pace back—even Dolohov.

He would not allow it. No one touched her. No one.

They would pay. One by one. He would break their bodies as they had broken her. He would crush them. Destroy them. Erase them. He would make them beg.

And if they thought this was a kidnapping attempt?

Then it had become their death sentence.

He moved.

Voldemort moved with a purpose that left nothing to chance. His silhouette cut through the wreckage like a knife through dust. Every member of The Mercury that crossed his path went down—no warnings, no words. Only magic. Dark and pure. Deadly. One spell drenched in fire, another suffocating like smoke. His face remained impassive. His wand bled destruction.

And then he saw her.

Under the rubble. Blood on her temple. Her face pale. Her body limp.

One of them had found her. A man in blue, hands dusty, grip too firm on her arm. He shouted something to his comrades—a victorious cry.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

She lay there. His witch. Unconscious. Bleeding. Under someone else’s hands.

He felt it deep in his chest. Not rage this time. But something colder. More inhuman. A drive without a name. Fear, perhaps. Though he’d never admit it.

Was she alive?

His gaze fixed on her chest, searching for movement. His breath hitched. He couldn’t see it. And so he did the only thing he knew: he attacked.

With a spell that made the air contract and the ground tremble, he aimed at the one holding her.

No one. No one touched her and walked away.

The man was blown off his feet—literally. The spell struck like an invisible battering ram, hurling him metres back where he lay motionless.

Voldemort hadn’t taken another step before another Mercury member intervened. This time he was held up. A duel, quick and brutal. Spells flew with raw force, dark and precise. But Voldemort’s eyes were only half on his opponent. His gaze kept flicking back to her.

And then he saw something that made him want to roar.

Elric Dunmore.

The barman. That sentimental little puppy who was all bleeding heart and no real power.

He was the one crawling through the rubble. The one bending down, sliding his arms under Hermione’s limp body—as if he had any right to hold her, to press her close like she was his.

He lifted her.

Voldemort’s heart thundered with a rhythm that went beyond rage. His fingers clenched around his wand. Somewhere, deep inside, a sharp stab of relief: she was alive. She wasn’t moving, but she was being saved. Rescued.

But not by him.

By Elric fucking Dunmore.

He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t watch her head resting on Elric’s shoulder. His arms wrapped protectively around her. His gaze filled with concern—as if he had any right to that emotion. As if he was allowed to hold her. Protect her. Keep her.

She wasn’t Dunmore’s. She was his.

He had felt her magic, her fury, her power. He had seen her breakpoints and her strengths. He had touched her dark potential. And that gave him the right. Not Dunmore. Never Dunmore.

The spells flew harder. His opponent groaned, but Voldemort’s focus was elsewhere. Possessive. Consumed. His anger grew—not because Hermione was hurt, but because someone else was holding her.

And he wouldn’t allow that. Not if she was his. Not if his claim on her was etched so deeply into her magic, an echo he felt in every fibre of her being—just as her presence haunted him day and night, indelible.

All members of The Mercury were dead or had fled. All but one. Voldemort pointed at him and spoke to Dolohov in cold calm: "Take that one to Lestrange’s cellar. I want answers."

Then he turned. His gaze swept over the battlefield, his pace quickened. He knew where he had to be.

He found her in the lounge.

She lay on one of the sofas, face ashen, clothes still streaked with rubble and blood. Zoltan was working healing spells—his wand moving carefully over her ribs. Next to her, Dunmore was kneeling by her head. His hand rested in her hair, fingers tangled in the messy curls as if he belonged there.

Voldemort saw red.

"Get your filthy hands off her," he growled, voice thunderous.

Dunmore froze but said nothing. He slowly rose to his feet, eyes locked on Voldemort, jaw tight.

"She is my friend," he said at last. His voice wasn’t afraid, but tense. Defiant.

Voldemort stepped forward, gaze sharp as a blade. In a heartbeat he had Dunmore by the throat, slamming him against the lounge wall.

"She is mine," he hissed. His voice low. Threatening.

Dunmore’s face went pale. He gasped for breath.

Voldemort’s eyes bored into his. "If I ever see you touch her again... even breathe too close—I will erase you."

His grip loosened reluctantly. Dunmore fell, gasping. Voldemort didn’t spare him another glance.

Only Hermione mattered now.

When Zoltan had stabilised her enough to move her safely, Voldemort took her without hesitation to his castle. To where she belonged. Part of him wanted to lay her in his own bed—see her there, safe, protected—but he knew what that would mean if she woke. She'd be furious. And though he usually delighted in an angry Hermione, he wouldn’t risk it now. Not now she had let him closer again.

So he laid her in her own room, leaving a healer with her. Only when the woman assured him Hermione was fine, her wounds superficial and needing only rest, did he allow himself to breathe.

He wanted to stay. To watch over her. To put a chair by her bed and never leave her side. But something tugged at him. A more urgent matter. Something that couldn’t wait.

He wanted answers.

Why had The Mercury targeted her?

What did they want with his witch?

He apparated straight to the cellar of Lestrange Manor, where Dolohov and Lestrange were waiting.

"My Lord," Dolohov greeted, "he says he doesn’t know anything."

"Let’s find out if he’s lying," Voldemort growled.

He wasn’t lying.

And it infuriated Voldemort.

The wizard—Jules Marceau, a new Mercury recruit—trembled under his gaze. Young, inexperienced, utterly useless. The only thing he managed to stammer under legilimency, torture and threat was that Hermione had been marked. They’d been planning it for weeks.

Marceau didn’t know why. Didn’t know who ordered it. Only that she was to be taken—unharmed but secured. The orders were precise. She was too visible in the Spellyard. Too active. But when they discovered Rhiannon was an alias, they realised it was the only fixed point in her life.

They didn’t know where she lived. Who she was with. How she travelled. The Spellyard was their only chance.

So they waited.

Tonight was when they struck.

They planned to bring her to France. To Gaspard d’Aubépine.

The name sent a chill through Voldemort.

He knew d’Aubépine. An alchemist. A scholar. A manipulator of matter and mind. Leader of the Alchemist’s Guild. A man who operated from shadows, whose loyalty was as fluid as mercury itself.

What did he want with Hermione?

The question carved itself into Voldemort’s mind, echoing louder with each breath.

He shredded Marceau’s thoughts with legilimency. Scraped through every memory, every whisper of motive.

But found nothing.

No reason. No motive.

Just a name.

Hermione Granger.

And that was enough to sign the boy’s death warrant.

After he tortured and killed the boy, Voldemort turned in silence and strode to the next cell.

In the dim corner, Fenrir Greyback crouched like a feral dog. Matted hair. Greasy. Ribs showing through filthy rags. Eyes dull with starvation and captivity, but gleaming with wary intelligence as Voldemort approached.

Voldemort remained just out of reach. "I have a task for you," he said coldly. "Do it well, and I will return your freedom."

Fenrir straightened immediately, eyes wide. "Anything, my Lord. Anything."

"I need you to kill Elric Dunmore," Voldemort said slowly, savouring every syllable. "And make it painful."

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke to a familiar scene. The soft white hues of the wallpaper, the velvet-green duvet, the tall window with its heavy curtains — everything was exactly as she remembered it. It was unmistakably her room — her guest quarters in Voldemort’s house. And once again, she had no idea how she had ended up there.

He was sitting beside the bed. His posture was relaxed, his gaze razor-sharp. He occupied the green armchair as if he'd been waiting there for hours, fingers loosely folded over the armrest. He wore black — always black — and his eyes held that red-tinged intensity that made her breath catch in her throat, from tension, desire, or something in between.

"We have to stop meeting like this," said Hermione, her voice still rough but with a playful curl at her lips.

A subtle smirk ghosted across his face as he gestured ever so slightly towards the bedside table. With a soft pop, a glass of water appeared.

Hermione pushed herself upright with effort, grabbed the glass with trembling fingers, and drank gratefully. The water was cool and sharp against her throat, but it brought instant relief.

"What happened?" she asked, slowly setting the glass down. "After I... blacked out."

She hated how the words sounded — too weak, too ignorant. It gnawed at her pride that she had been taken out so easily — literally.

Voldemort looked at her. His gaze darkened, his expression tightened just a fraction, as if passing judgement before he even spoke.

"They tried to take you," he said slowly. "I killed them."

Hermione’s stomach twisted. "All of them?" she asked, voice soft.

He nodded.

She looked at him, face unreadable. "Good," she said at last.

That single word seemed to surprise him. For a moment, his brow twitched — almost imperceptibly — but she saw it. His eyes narrowed.

"You know who they were."

Shit. A cold shiver crept down her spine. She could feel the tension in the room thickening, tangible like mist. Voldemort knew now. He knew the Mercury was after her.

Hermione held his gaze, but her mind was racing. If he kept pressing... if he kept digging...

He’d find out about her connection to Mercury. About Gaspard. About the truth.

And that truth, she couldn’t give him. Not without laying everything bare — her past, her time travel, the reason she was even here. And if he found out she came from the future, then she had a very big problem.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She needed to steer him away. Satisfy his curiosity without giving him anything real. Offer just enough truth to redirect his focus.

But how much was enough?

"Why were they after you?" Voldemort asked, and this time, there was no calm in his voice — only a sharp edge.

Hermione looked at him, fingers wrapped tightly around the empty glass as if it were the only anchor she had. "Who says they were after me?" she bluffed. "Maybe they wanted the blonde."

His reaction was immediate. He leaned forward in the chair, slowly, with the precision of someone who didn’t waste his patience. His elbows rested on his knees, hands folded — but it was his stare that made her breath falter.

"Don’t insult my intelligence, Hermione," he hissed. His voice was low, controlled, but laced with threat. "I know they came for you. I want to know why."

Her heart beat faster. There was no escaping those eyes, no space to breathe between his words.

She needed time. A distraction. Anything — anything to keep him at bay.

"I worked with their boss for a while," she said finally, voice steady, but only just. "He betrayed me, so I left."

Voldemort remained still. "You worked with Gaspard D’Aubépine?"

Hermione’s gaze flickered in brief surprise. "You know Gaspard?"

"I make it my business to know wizards like him," he replied, voice taut with restrained control. "Why did they want to take you?"

"Must be my winning personality," she said with vicious lightness and a thin smile, almost mocking.

His eyes narrowed. The air in the room seemed to thicken.

"Careful. That tongue of yours will get you into trouble," he said darkly, his voice low with an edge that raised goosebumps on her arms — as though it wasn’t a warning, but a promise. "Your safety isn’t something I take lightly."

Hermione rolled her eyes, her own frustration flaring. "As if my safety means anything to you."

A moment of frozen silence followed — brittle and charged, as if the room itself was holding its breath. Something trembled in the air, as though the magic itself had paused.

His response came without warning. "It means everything to me," he snapped.

The words cut like glass. They were sharp, intense, intimate. There was something in his voice — not just anger, but something fiercer, more possessive. His eyes blazed, restless and bright, and the air between them vibrated with tension.

Hermione froze. Everything inside her shifted. The room seemed to tilt, the energy between them changed from threat to something that made her breath uneven. She didn’t know what to do with the intensity in his gaze — it burned like a curse and awakened something in her she didn’t want to name. It was too close, too raw. Too real.

And maybe, she thought — just before she could silence herself — maybe that was exactly why it drew her in so dangerously.

"Why did they come for you, Hermione?" Voldemort repeated, his voice now low but commanding.

"I don't actually know," she replied, averting her gaze. "He — Gaspard — wasn't happy when I wanted to leave. He tried to stop me. I left over a year ago, so I was very surprised myself when they came for me this summer and—"

"This happened before?!" Voldemort bellowed. His voice shook with restrained fury, and something in his presence seemed to shift — as if the temperature in the room dropped. His eyes glowed, dark and blazing at once, and the magic in the air trembled like a storm.

"Y-yes," Hermione stammered, her voice barely audible beneath the weight of his anger. "But they failed, so... nothing to worry about."

Voldemort rose from his chair. Not abruptly, but slowly — as if reining in his rage through sheer force of will. He now stood beside her bed, his presence too large for the space.

"Hermione, the Mercury wants you," he said. Each word was delivered like a sentence. "Do you have any idea how dangerous they are?"

"Of course I do!" Hermione snapped. "I worked with them! I left for a reason."

The silence that followed was heavy, loaded with all that remained unsaid. His gaze stayed on her — searching, slicing — as if he were trying to draw every shred of deceit from her skin. Her pulse thundered in her throat. She had never seen him like this. So concerned. So... possessive.

"How did you get involved with them in the first place?" he asked. His voice was calm again, but it was the calm of buried fire.

Hermione hesitated. She could feel his eyes like blades on her skin, and any answer that came too quickly would sound rehearsed.

"It started small," she said at last.

She had first read Gaspard’s name on the spine of a heavy, rust-brown book in a forgotten corner of the Restricted Section. La Dynamique de l’Âme: Alchimie et la Limite Immatérielle had intrigued her for the way it explored the division between soul and body — not from a moral or religious perspective, but as a practical, magical construct. The book was brilliant, boundary-pushing, and entirely unapologetic. She had spent weeks studying its passages, forming her own notes and questions, until eventually she found the courage to write to the author.

To her surprise, he replied. What followed was a correspondence that lasted for years. Gaspard was sharp, charming, and at times unfathomable, but he treated her as an intellectual equal. For the first time, she didn’t feel seen as “the clever Muggle-born” from the Golden Trio, but simply as herself — as a scholar, as a student of magic.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny had never been comfortable with her mysterious pen pal. They didn’t trust him. They didn’t yet know he had once led an obscure French guild — La Main de Mercure — which in their time had already been defunct for decades. Even Hermione only discovered that after she’d travelled back in time. To them, Gaspard was just a dark wizard with too many secrets, and that was bad enough. They didn’t understand that for Hermione, it had never been about trust. It was about knowledge. And Gaspard had plenty of it.

Still, she kept her distance for years. She kept the correspondence alive but politely declined every invitation — until the world around her began to shift.

At the Ministry, she started noticing her insights were no longer welcome. Colleagues mocked her tenacity. The newspapers began painting her as an agitator. Someone who couldn’t let go of the past. She kept speaking about the war, about what still needed fixing in the structures of power and bloodlines, and that was no longer appreciated.

When she saw her name in an opinion piece — “Granger Sows Division Among Young Generations” — she knew her days there were numbered. She no longer belonged. Her dedication was seen as fanaticism, her knowledge as threatening.

So she thought again of Gaspard’s letters. Of his offer, which had never been rescinded. He had invited her several times to study under him. In France. To learn what he couldn’t teach her by owl post.

This time, she said yes.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny had tried to stop her. Ron was the loudest — furious that she was even considering it. Ginny tried to reach her emotionally, and Harry... Harry had only looked at her in silence, as if he’d already lost her.

But Hermione wouldn’t be stopped. She had no one left in England. Her parents were still in Australia, their memories erased and their lives rebuilt. Harry and Ginny had each other. Ron had Parvati now, and a quiet dream of a future in which she had no place.

She had only herself. And her hunger for knowledge.

So she went.

To France. To Gaspard. To discover what he could teach her — and what she might still become.

And it had been extraordinary.

For a while.

Gaspard turned out to be a genius. His knowledge of alchemy, ancient rituals, forgotten rune systems, and the structure of magical contracts went far beyond anything she had ever seen. He taught her about magical metallurgy, about the subtle interplay between soul and body, and about ritual inscriptions that had been forbidden for centuries. His lessons were demanding — but addictive. The first months flew by.

She was exhilarated. Completely. And all the while, she didn’t contact her friends in England. Not because she’d forgotten them, but because the distance grew with every passing day.

Then came the homesickness. Gently, at first. A pang of loss when she woke up in that large, silent house where no one spoke her language. Gaspard’s home was deep in the forests of Brittany, remote and secluded. They rarely had visitors. Occasionally a student for a week, a former colleague who appeared and disappeared again. But in essence, it was always the two of them. Gaspard and her.

And although he challenged her mind like no one else, he couldn’t replace companionship. Not friendship. No laughing over silly jokes, no shared glances full of unspoken meaning. Only silence. And study. And then, on days when the house was too quiet, the ache for a hand on her shoulder — someone who knew her from before all this.

She had neglected her friendships with Harry, Ron, and Ginny. Only then did she realise how much she had taken them for granted. Only then could she admit that she had shut them out, not because she’d forgotten them — but to avoid the pain. She hadn’t been willing to surrender her fight, and she couldn’t bear that they had. That they had moved on with their lives while she remained unable — or unwilling — to do the same. And she had resented them for it.

She had resented them for working towards a better future by building normal lives, while for her, resuming a normal life meant accepting the stigma all over again. Becoming the Muggle-born girl once more, despite everything she had sacrificed to challenge that very label. She had blamed her friends for not understanding that. And so she had distanced herself from them. Refused to see that they, too, might still be hurting — just coping in a different way.

But she had never asked. She had never wanted to talk to them about it.

She tried sending letters, but the replies were slow, short, distant. Friendship, she realised, was hard to maintain when you drifted further each day.

She became torn. Should she stay? Go back? Every rational argument pointed to leaving, but every time she thought of packing her things, Gaspard would present something new. A manuscript, a ritual, a secret. And every time, her hunger for knowledge won.

But maybe, deep down, she also hadn’t been brave enough to face them. To meet their eyes and admit how far she’d strayed. She told herself they had moved on — but perhaps she had needed that excuse. Perhaps it was easier to let them go than to risk discovering they no longer recognised the person she had become. She extended her stay. Months became seasons. Seasons became two years.

And all that time, she had no idea Gaspard was offering her more than knowledge. No idea of his true intentions. No idea of his interest in time travel.

Not until it was too late.

Because when she finally made the choice to return to England, to restore her friendships, to reach out to the people who mattered most — he had beaten her to it.

The day she told Gaspard she would be leaving France was the day he betrayed her. Without warning, without explanation, he trapped her inside that damned hourglass. An experiment, he said. A necessary sacrifice.

And Hermione never got the chance to go back. To see Harry, Ron, and Ginny one last time. To explain why she’d left, why she’d gone quiet, why she’d waited so long.

Of everything Gaspard had done to her — the isolation, the manipulation, the lies — that had been the worst. Not the time travel itself. Not the loss of her freedom.

But that her friends would forever think she abandoned them.

It hurt more than she could say. That belief — that image — clung to her like a curse. She hated herself for letting it happen. For letting it get this far. She loathed the part of her that had chosen silence, chosen distance, chosen pride over vulnerability. She had failed them. And more than that — she had punished them for surviving, for healing in a way she couldn’t. She had been cruel, in silence. And now that silence echoed louder than any accusation. And perhaps that was why she had thrown herself so completely into her new persona — Rhiannon.

Because it was easier to be Rhiannon than Hermione Granger. Easier to play the mysterious witch with a shadowed past than to be the so-called brightest witch of her age, the girl who had neglected her friends and family. The stuck-up know-it-all who had chosen knowledge and magic over the people who had walked through fire for her. It was easier to walk the path of the dark arts, because on that path, she didn’t have to pretend she was better than she truly was. On that path, she didn’t have to live up to anything. She could stop pretending.

She wasn’t proud of who she had become. Not really. And perhaps that was the truest reason she had embraced the dark — because it allowed her to stop pretending she was still good.

A sharp silence cut through her thoughts — and then her voice returned.

"He responded to a letter I wrote," she said at last, her voice cautious, pushing back the painful thoughts of her friends. "I’d read one of his books — it intrigued me. I had questions. He answered them. And then more."

She gave a slight shrug, as if even now she couldn’t quite explain how it had gone so far. "Eventually, he invited me to study with him in France. I said yes."

Voldemort watched her in silence, his gaze piercing.

"I never got a chance to attend Hogwarts," she continued, more firmly now. "I wanted to learn. To really learn. And he offered me that chance."

It sounded reasonable. Honest, even. And it wasn’t entirely a lie.

But of course, he didn’t leave it at that.

"Why did you leave him?" Voldemort asked, his voice velvet-soft — and all the more dangerous for it. "What did he do?"

Hermione looked at him, and for a moment, she couldn’t tell if he was angry or genuinely curious. Perhaps it was both.

"He wasn’t who I thought he was," she said slowly. "His methods... changed. He became secretive. Manipulative. And I missed my home, so I went back to England."

Voldemort’s eyes remained on her, dark and waiting. "And now he sends his people after you. Why?"

Hermione clenched her jaw, refusing to look away.

"I left," she repeated. "And he didn’t like that. He doesn’t let go of things easily."

The silence that followed was charged. Voldemort’s stare burned into her skin like a rare curse.

"That’s not the whole truth," he said at last, a faint, humourless smile touching his lips. "So evasive again," he continued, voice like velvet on glass. "It makes me want to pin you down — until even your lies start to beg for release."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush, a heat that wasn’t only from shame. His words, his tone, the way he stepped closer — it stirred something deeper, something that betrayed her. She pressed her thighs gently together, instinctively, as though that might dull the tension coiled in her stomach. But it didn’t. Her breathing quickened, her skin tingled. And though she knew she should look away, she didn’t — caught in those eyes that didn’t just challenge her, but consumed her.

Voldemort saw it. The colour in her cheeks, the tension in her body she barely concealed. His gaze lingered on her face, then her throat, drifting downward as if memorising every detail. And then — subtly — he tilted his head.

"Interesting," he whispered, his voice a breath’s width from her. "You respond better to pressure than I expected."

He smiled again, slow and unpretentious, as if he’d uncovered a little secret he had no intention of sharing just yet. And still, there was nothing innocent in that look.

"If you keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you enjoy this little interrogation a bit too much," she said, her tone soft, with an undertone that walked the line between resistance and temptation. Not a flirt, not quite a rejection — just a subtle shift of control.

Voldemort laughed — not truly, but something low and dark, barely audible. His eyes remained on her, but the heat within them cooled to something sharper.

"Tempting as you are," he said, voice thin and controlled once more, "you won’t distract me. Not now."

He straightened, as though breaking some invisible tether, and the room immediately felt colder.

"Your safety is my priority," he went on. "And that means you are not going back to that little cottage of yours. Not if you want your mother and your elves to be safe."

Hermione drew a sharp breath, indignation rising. She opened her mouth to argue — of course he couldn’t decide that for her, of course he couldn’t lock her away like a child —

But then came the image of Thea. Of Pippin. Of Tink.

Mercury had tried to abduct her. Openly. In front of hundreds. That alone proved they feared no one. Voldemort had found her house — what if Mercury could too?

The fury didn’t fade. But it was steeped now in fear.

And yet that was exactly why she wanted to go home. Not to hide — but to protect them. If Mercury could find her house, they wouldn’t know whether she still lived there or not. They’d come if they believed she did. Her presence might be the only protection her chosen family had.

"I'm staying there," she said, voice firm. "Because if they come, I want to be there to stop them. I'm not leaving my mother and elves behind."

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. His response came slowly, almost grudgingly — but with finality.

"I can protect your house," he said. "With wards no one could break."

He let the silence stretch, allowing the implication to sink in. "But only if you stay here. With me. If you walk out… well, accidents happen. Even to those under protection."

He held her gaze, leaving no room for misinterpretation. This wasn’t a negotiation. It was an offer cloaked as a command.

Hermione dropped her eyes, but it didn’t help. Her thoughts churned — furious, contradictory, impossible to grasp.

How dare he corner her again? Blackmail her again with what she loved most in this time? It enraged her. Not mildly — but deeply, rawly, like an old wound torn open. He knew exactly where to push to unbalance her. Thea, the elves, her freedom — he used them all as weapons. And somewhere, deep down, she hated herself almost more than she hated him... because it worked.

And at the same time... there was that other feeling. That dark, warm, dangerous ache to be near him — not because it made sense, but because it awakened something inside her. Something she couldn’t deny. She didn’t want to feel it — this magnetic, confusing pull toward his voice, his presence, his gaze. And yet... it was in her skin, her thoughts, the quickening of her heart whenever he got too close.

Beneath that throbbed the thrill. The visceral awareness of his nearness. The tightening in her belly, the way control kept slipping through her fingers.

But it wasn’t just physical. It went deeper. He challenged her in ways no one else ever had — intellectually, magically, morally. Around him, she felt sharpened, as though her full potential were within reach. And that feeling, that hunger to grow, to become more than she had ever dared to dream — it was addictive.

And still, she couldn’t give in. She wouldn’t. Because if she gave him that space, if she gave in to that desire — he would use it. He would claim it. And once he moved her boundary, he would do it again, and again. He would keep pressing, keep testing, keep taking. And she... she would lose herself before she realised it.

She had to protect her boundaries. She couldn’t lose herself in his words, his touch, his power. She would not bend. Not for him. Not for attraction. Not for fear. She had to guard herself. Whatever he claimed, however much he saw, however much he demanded — he could not be allowed to break her.

But Thea... Pippin... Tink. She saw their faces. Tink, stubborn and loyal. Pippin, those wide eyes full of wonder. Thea, always shielding.

If Mercury found her house, they wouldn’t be safe. Voldemort had found it — why couldn’t they? And then? What if they thought Thea was her weakness, a way to bring her to her knees?

She wanted to scream. To fight the urge to snap that her life was her own. But what if he was right? What if he really could protect them in ways she couldn’t?

And weren’t Thea, Pippin, and Tink worth that? Weren’t they worth everything? Worth her pride, her freedom? They had given her a home when she had none. Offered her love and friendship, unconditional and without demand. Thea, who saw her as she was. Pippin, who admired her. Tink, who guarded her without expectation. They had never asked for explanations. Never demanded anything. And maybe, she thought now, they deserved more than her stubborn pride. Maybe they deserved her sacrifice.

But what if he discovered more?

Fear crept in. Not of him — but of what he might learn. About her. About her time travel. What if he saw through her lies? What if he started recognising patterns, filling in the gaps of her story? She knew how sharp he was, how quickly he could make sense of what others overlooked. What if he asked for names that didn’t exist in this time? What if he caught her on details not yet history?

And if he did — what then? Would he lock her up, dissect her magic to understand what she was? One mistake, one wrong word, and it could all collapse.

And yet... she knew what she had to do.

Because it was her responsibility to protect Thea and the elves. And if that meant accepting his offer — enduring his presence, his demands, his dark proximity — then she would do it. Not because she trusted him, but because she couldn’t abandon them.

If she was the one who had brought Mercury into their lives, then she had to be the one to drive them out. She owed them that. They were in the line of fire — because of her.

So she would do what was necessary. She would adapt. Hide. Restrain herself. Because if Voldemort even suspected a fragment of her true origins... they would all be at risk. She had to stay in control. Make no mistakes. Speak no word too many. If she had to sacrifice herself to keep them safe, then she would. Even if it meant leaving behind the only place that had felt like home in a very long time. The cottage. The evenings by the fire. Thea’s warmth, Pippin’s joy, Tink’s quiet loyalty. She missed them already. It hurt — but it was the only right choice.

She took a deep breath, her gaze still fixed on the floor. Then she raised her head and looked him straight in the eye.

"Fine," she said. "I'll stay here. But only on one condition."

His expression barely shifted, but she saw the tension rise in his jaw.

"I'm not your prisoner. If I agree to this, I go and come as I please. I keep my freedom."

A few moments passed in silence. But she held his gaze, unyielding. He would not break her. Not now.

"Otherwise," she added, "we have no deal."

Voldemort stood motionless, his gaze resting on her like a curse slowly embedding itself. His eyes drifted across her face, lingering on her lips, as if contemplating a thought he hadn’t yet voiced. It felt like he was weighing her, tasting her words for hidden meaning — and savouring the game. Then his shoulders relaxed slightly. Not as a sign of surrender, but like someone who had decided not to break his prey — for now.

"Agreed," he said softly. "You are not a prisoner… yet."

His eyes gleamed, and the threat in that final word hung between them like smoke.

"But know this," he continued, stepping toward her. He closed the distance slowly, until he stood at the edge of the bed. With measured control, he placed his hands on either side of her, palms pressed into the mattress, and leaned in — his face just above hers, his presence a veil settling over her.

His voice was barely a whisper, but every syllable thrummed with intent. "If your safety is threatened — by them, by yourself, by your secrets — I will not hesitate to make the necessary choices. Whether you like them or not."

His breath was almost against hers. "I protect what is mine, Hermione. That includes you."

The words still echoed in her head when she returned home. The familiar scent of tea, the soft floor beneath her feet, the warm wood of the kitchen table — none of it felt normal. None of it felt safe.

She hadn’t known what to say after those final words. His possessiveness had stolen her breath. It scared her — and that fear alone frightened her enough. But it had also stirred something else. Something she didn’t want to face. Something that had left her warm and uneasy all at once.

She had stood, muttered something about the bathroom, and all but forced him from the room with a cold look. He had simply watched her with that all-knowing smile that made her feel as though he already knew exactly what she was thinking. And when she’d calmed her breath and splashed water on her face, she had found him again in the library.

There, without mentioning what had just passed between them, they had formed a plan. She would go and collect her things. Inform Thea and the elves. Meanwhile, he would cast protections on the house — magical wards no one could break.

"Don’t let them see you," she had hissed while preparing to leave. "I don’t want to explain who you are. Or why you’re there."

He hadn’t said a word. Just slid an arm around her waist.

And then they had disapparated.

Now she was in the kitchen.

Across from her sat Thea, Pippin, and Tink. She had called them together, and that alone had been alarming enough. Their expressions were tense, their backs straight. Pippin bit his lip. Thea stared at her, unflinching and sharp. Tink sat with her arms crossed, but her eyes were restless.

Hermione took a deep breath. Every part of her screamed that she wanted to stay. But she knew what she had to say.

"The Mercury found me," she began, her voice flat.

Pippin let out a muffled gasp. His hand flew to his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. Tink stiffened in her seat, her lips pressed into a hard line, while Thea’s face drained of colour.

"Gaspard — he wants me back. I think. They used a lot of force. I barely escaped."

"You were attacked?" Thea asked at last, her voice low and dangerously calm.

Hermione nodded. "It was planned. Coordinated. They knew where I'd be. And they were prepared."

A silence followed in which only the creak of the wooden floorboards and the scratch of chickens outside could be heard. Pippin looked like he might break at any moment, and Tink reached a hand to him under the table.

"Are they coming here?" Thea asked, her voice hoarse.

"Not if I can help it," said Hermione. "But that's why I need to leave."

"Leave? Miss is leaving us?" Tink asked, stunned.

Hermione felt her throat tighten. Tears pricked behind her eyes, but she forced herself to sit tall.

"Why do you need to leave? Where will you go? How will you be safe?" Thea asked. Her voice didn’t tremble, but the worry in her eyes lay heavy.

Pippin began to sob. "Yes, Miss, stay," he whimpered. "We is protecting you, Miss! Pippin is saying protective spells again, just like before, yes Miss!"

"Before?" Thea repeated, her gaze snapping to him. "What do you mean, before?"

Pippin glanced nervously at Hermione, who answered just a beat too slowly.

"The Mercury found me earlier this summer. I took precautions."

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Thea asked, now sounding both angry and hurt. "Hermione, you've been so secretive, and now you're in danger. And maybe we're in danger. Why didn't you speak to me?"

Hermione swallowed. She felt horrible — guilty, heartbroken, her stomach churning.

"I know I've said this before, but I am so, so sorry," she said softly. "I messed up. Badly. I don't know what to say. There isn't anything I can say to make this right. I've been so stupid. But that's why I need to leave. I need to make this right. I need to protect you."

She drew a shaky breath, fighting the tremor in her voice. "And don't worry, I'm not alone. I'll go with Zoltan. He can protect me, and together we'll find a way to deal with the Mercury. I'll make sure they never come here."

What followed was a storm — emotional, confusing, intense. Thea and the elves begged her to stay. They gave every argument they could think of: that they were stronger together, that they couldn’t bear to lose her, that they could protect her even without magic.

But Hermione calmly explained why it was better this way. Not forever, she stressed again and again. Just until the threat passed. She promised to write. She promised to visit as soon as it was safe. But her decision was firm.

There were tears. There was shouting. And eventually, after long silences and broken sentences, the four of them sat crying around the kitchen table. Tears mingled with tea. The tension bled slowly from their bodies, replaced by something else. Acceptance.

It warmed Hermione to see how much they cared. How much they would miss her. But it also broke her heart. She would miss them terribly. She knew she’d see them again — but not knowing when made the farewell unbearable.

She rose, left the table, and walked to her room to pack. Pippin and Tink followed her immediately, their small steps hurried and anxious. They helped without hesitation, their hands flying between wardrobes and suitcases.

It was a bittersweet moment. Even in those last minutes, they made her laugh. Pippin, clumsy as ever, dropped a stack of books halfway through — his ears blazing with embarrassment. Tink, strict and practical, scrutinised every folded outfit and grumbled that she had too many trousers and not enough skirts. When she found the red dress from Malfoy’s birthday, she placed it firmly at the top of the pile.

"You is wearing this again," she said. "It brings out the fire."

Hermione smiled, took the dress, and laid it atop the hand-embroidered quilt Thea had given her for her birthday.

When everything was packed, Hermione paused in the doorway of her room. The room that had embraced her, protected her, given her rest. She looked around, letting her eyes settle on the corners where she had always felt safest.

And before she could stop it, tears slid down her cheeks as she closed the door behind her.

Downstairs, Thea, Pippin, and Tink were already waiting. The goodbye had become inevitable. Final words were exchanged, half sentences, whispered promises. Thea wrung her hands as she held Hermione’s coat, Pippin clung to her leg until the very last second, and even Tink’s cool façade finally cracked under the weight of the moment.

"You is writing us, Miss," Pippin whispered. "You is promising?"

Hermione nodded, her eyes misting again. "Every week. I swear."

She took her suitcases, shrunk them with a flick of her wand, and tucked them into her pocket. One last look at her friends, one last hug — warm, tight, far too short — and then she turned.

Slowly, she walked down the path, her footsteps dull against the gravel. At the garden gate, she paused, turned, and let her eyes wander over the cottage one final time. The roof, the stones, the light in the kitchen. Everything that had been home.

She would return. She had to. But the farewell felt timeless. Like something words couldn’t contain.

On the other side of the gate, he was already waiting. Dressed in black, his silhouette sharp against the midday light. His gaze found hers immediately — intense and unreadable.

"Let's go home," said Voldemort.

His hand slid to her back, possessive and gentle.

And without looking back, she let him disapparate them away.

Chapter Text

The first days in Voldemort's house had been strangely reassuring. To Hermione's surprise, they quickly settled into a kind of rhythm, a structure she found herself nesting into almost without realising it.

Every morning began with breakfast. They sat together at the table — he at the head, she beside him. The meals were simple but refined, prepared by Franky, a gruff yet exceedingly polite house-elf with a fondness for rigidity, silver cutlery and strict routines. He was small, with a narrow chin and knobbly hands that always seemed to be folded behind his back unless he was working. His voice had a solemn tone, as if he weighed every word for its moral gravity. Franky had once bonded to Voldemort during their Hogwarts years, out of loyalty to the Hogwarts founders — as though it were part of an old oath that could not be broken without loss of honour.

Hermione had never received anything but kindness from him, but she didn’t feel a true bond growing. Franky didn’t seem to need it either. He strictly adhered to the traditional division of roles between elf and wizard — something Hermione internally resisted at every turn. His obedience felt like a reminder of everything she'd once fought against. And precisely because he was so correct, she was painfully reminded of how much freer, more playful and more loving her bond with Pippin and Tink had been. He rarely spoke unless spoken to. Franky embodied old loyalty, silent duty and hierarchy. In his quiet, restrained presence there was a certain calm — but also a stifling reminder of all she had left behind. For no matter how kind or correct or respectful he was, he was utterly unlike Pippin and Tink.

Their absence felt sharper in his presence. Franky never spoke unprompted, never laughed at her jokes, never asked about her day. Where Pippin had looked at her with sincere admiration and Tink had teased her with clever remarks, Franky was a mirror without reflection. And that made her miss them all the more. Every time he bowed politely or watched her silently from a corner of the kitchen, she was reminded of what she had had to leave behind. It broke her heart — and kept her on her guard.

During breakfast, she and Voldemort spoke of everything: magic, politics, philosophy, old texts, forbidden spells, magical history. The conversations were fierce and stimulating. He challenged her, interrupted her, tested her logic. And she? She parried, provoked, forced him to articulate his beliefs. Sometimes a conversation ended in cold silence. Sometimes in a high, charged laugh. But there was always tension. It always burned between the words.

After breakfast, Voldemort disappeared — where to, he never said. He would rise, leave a shadow behind, and vanish in silence. Hermione had learned not to ask. Instead, she turned to the library or — more and more often — to the kitchen.

Because the kitchen was empty. Voldemort never used it. Everything he needed, Franky provided. The elf took care of meals, laundry, house maintenance. But one day, in his stately politeness, Franky had cleared a space on the counter, designated a shelf, and even delivered extra cauldrons. "For Miss Dagworth-Granger's work," he had said, with a slight bow.

There Hermione had set up her brewing corner. Glass bottles, cauldrons, mortars and spice racks gradually appeared in the corners of the kitchen. She used her free hours to brew for Slug & Jiggers. It gave her a sense of grounding. Something of her own.

But the evenings... those were the most confusing.

Every evening, as if it had become the most natural thing in the world, he sought her out. Voldemort would appear unannounced in the library, walk to the corner where she usually sat, and sink into the armchair next to her. Sometimes he said something. Sometimes nothing. Mostly, they read. For hours. In silence. The only sounds were turning pages and their breathing. But it wasn’t silence. It was charged. Tangible. Restless.

Hermione found it increasingly hard to concentrate. The words on the pages blurred in her mind the moment he came closer. His presence filled the space, brushed against her skin as if his magic deliberately caressed her aura.

And then there were the touches. Always casual. A hand on her lower back as he passed behind her. His fingers brushing her arm when handing her a book. Sometimes his knee rested just a little too long against hers when he shifted in his chair. And once — when she dropped something — he had placed his hand over hers to help, and let it linger a fraction too long.

She said nothing. But her breathing betrayed her. So did the heat in her cheeks.

They weren’t accidents. She knew that. And he knew that she knew.

The evenings always ended with a look. No farewell. No explanation. She would rise, close her book with a composed gesture and look at him — as if to prove that he didn’t completely have a hold on her — and then leave the library.

Hermione didn’t know what it was that was growing between them. She only knew it unsettled her.

She was constantly torn. On one hand, she felt more intellectually challenged than ever. She read books she had only encountered in legends, spoke spells she had until recently avoided, and was confronted every morning at the table by someone who demanded her sharpness — and rewarded her depth. But on the other hand, she missed Thea, Pippin and Tink with an intensity that sometimes took her breath away. And she hadn’t forgotten how she had ended up here: through blackmail. Voldemort had used her safety, and that of her loved ones, against her. She didn’t forget that. Nor did she forget that he had, not long ago, betrayed her by handing her over to Anubis. An experience that still gave her nightmares.

Trust was not an option. And yet here she was, under his roof, in his proximity — gradually moving closer to his presence, without realising it.

Every day she caught herself looking forward to his return. Not just to see what book he would bring or what question he might ask her that evening, but to see him. To catch that look. To hear his voice. To feel his presence, as if it awakened something in her she had never experienced before. He made her feel something — something she could hardly put into words, but that burned beneath her skin and pounded behind her ribs.

She was ashamed of that longing. She hadn’t wanted it. Not like this. Not for him. Not for someone who had blackmailed, threatened, betrayed her. And yet... she longed for the evenings. For those moments of togetherness, however silent. For the touches she would never initiate herself, but never truly rejected either. It was confusing. Sobering. And disturbingly honest.

When her mind wasn’t spinning with questions about him, about his intentions, about her own confusion — it always returned to the Mercury. She still didn’t know how to resolve it. Gaspard was out there. And he wouldn’t stop until he got her back. She had considered returning to France to confront him. But that idea had quickly been dismissed. Gaspard was unpredictable, dangerous, manipulative. She didn’t know what he would do to her if he got his hands on her. Besides — Voldemort would never allow it. She hadn’t even been permitted to go to Diagon Alley alone.

The first Friday she wanted to deliver potions to Slug & Jiggers, he had sent Dolohov after her. Not as company, but as a guard. They had argued. Fiercely. So fiercely that they hadn’t spoken for the entire weekend. And as if that wasn’t enough, even the Spellyard offered no escape: it was still in ruins since the explosion last week.

The second Friday of her stay, Hermione decided to try again. Voldemort had barely left when she prepared her crate of potions and headed for the fireplace. Using the Floo connection Voldemort had specially set up for her — anchored into the wards of his house by his own hand — she could now travel straight to the Leaky Cauldron. She had barely stepped out of the hearth when her eyes met a familiar — and unwelcome — grin.

"Morning, feisty one," Dolohov said with a bow that made absolutely no sense. "Nice surprise, isn't it?"

Hermione sighed deeply. "Of course you're here."

"He likes precautions," Dolohov said with a shrug. "Can I help it that I'm his favourite brutish bodyguard?"

"You're not even discreet," she muttered, shifting the crate on her hip.

"Discretion is overrated. Come on, let’s walk. Before you know it, you’ll be back safe among the calming herbs and sleeping draughts."

They walked side by side down the street, Hermione with a clenched jaw, Dolohov with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"I get it, by the way," he said casually. "Why you’d rather go without me. I wouldn’t trust me either."

Hermione snorted, though one corner of her mouth betrayed her. "At least you're honest."

"You know, honesty’s my best quality. Right after turning up uninvited and annoying everyone."

By the time they reached Slug & Jiggers, Hermione had laughed — briefly, almost against her will — a momentary escape from the suffocation of the days before. Maybe, she thought, it wasn’t entirely impossible to tolerate Dolohov. Maybe he was even... a little less awful than she had thought.

When they returned to the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione let out a sigh that sounded more weary than relieved. She had no desire to return to the grand, silent house where only Franky would greet her with his mute politeness. The past weeks had caged her — first in her own house, then in Voldemort’s. She had either hidden behind glass jars and cauldrons in the kitchen, or sat across from Voldemort at breakfast, or sat silently with a book in the library. She was tired of the stillness. Her magic itched beneath her skin, restless, like an animal that had been kept in a cage too long.

She wanted something else. Something unexpected. Something that didn’t begin with a book or end in a debate.

Her thoughts turned to Zoltan. She knew he was in England — their correspondence over the past week had confirmed it. Perhaps he was here, at the Leaky Cauldron. He had stayed there before. Perhaps, like her, he spent his days between worlds.

The impulse came unexpectedly, but was irresistible. With Dolohov on her heels like a determined shadow, she walked to the bar and asked the innkeeper whether Zoltan Groza had taken a room.

Before the man could answer, Dolohov cut in. "If you want to know where Groza is, you could have asked me. He's staying with me."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Come and find out," Dolohov said with a challenging grin.

Hermione hesitated. She wasn’t sure she trusted Dolohov. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go with him. But she also knew she didn’t want to be caged anymore in routines that choked the breath from her. Her whole body itched with restlessness, with hunger for something else, something unexpected. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe she would regret it. But right now? Right now it was exactly what she needed. It promised something new. And Zoltan would be there.

She nodded slowly. "Fine. Lead the way."

They eventually arrived at a place that looked vaguely familiar. Only when she let go of Dolohov and looked around did it begin to dawn on her. The old farmhouse loomed from the morning light, surrounded by wet leaves and muddy paths. It looked no less abandoned than before, but autumn had given it a new kind of bleakness — a living, breathing menace that crept beneath her skin. She immediately felt the unease of that earlier day return, when Zoltan had brought her here after she had been possessed by the Veikko book.

Hermione frowned slightly, glancing around. "What is this place?" she asked quietly.

Dolohov just smiled, eyes glinting. "My playground," he said, voice low and teasing, offering nothing more.

Dolohov began walking towards the farmhouse without further explanation. Hermione lingered, watching him. There was something in his voice that made her wary. Reluctantly, she started moving, eyes narrowed at his back. She was curious enough not to let him go without answers, but the term "playground" echoed in her mind in a way that felt anything but innocent. It sounded grim. Knowing what she knew about the older Dolohov, it could only be something repulsive — that Dolohov had always enjoyed experimenting.

They stepped into the farmhouse and Hermione let her gaze drift around. It was cold and cluttered, with old furniture that didn’t match and stacks of yellowed books on chairs and crates. Belongings were strewn everywhere. Her eyes slowly scanned the walls and mess, noting every detail. The air smelled of damp and aged wood.

She heard a soft scraping sound. Only then did her eyes fall on the kitchen table, where Zoltan was eating breakfast, hunched over a maze of parchment filled with runes and symbols. It took him a moment to look up.

"Hermione!" he called out loudly.

In his haste, he dropped his toast, which landed marmalade-side down on the parchment. He didn’t even seem to notice as he strode towards her and kissed her on both cheeks.

Dolohov raised an eyebrow and drawled dryly, "He never greets me that warmly."

Zoltan glanced over his shoulder and replied in his characteristically halting English, "Because you... you are ugly brute, Dolohov."

"Fair enough," said Dolohov with a shrug, making the toast vanish and cleaning the parchment with a casual flick of his wand.

Hermione took a step closer to the table, hesitating and studying the mess before she spoke. "What are you doing here?" Her gaze drifted to the table full of parchment. She recognised some of the marks as Futhark runes and others as intricate Kylvian symbols, scribbled and layered atop one another.

Zoltan followed her gaze and his eyes lit up. "Ah! I am... eh... staying with Dolohov since Malfoy ball," he said enthusiastically. "Voldemort wants... eh... experiments. With runes. Old combinations. Dangerous ones."

"What kind of experiments?" Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued.

Dolohov and Zoltan exchanged a meaningful glance. "Let's show her, shall we," said Dolohov with a wicked grin.

Hermione noticed how naturally they interacted — friendly, almost brotherly. It reminded her involuntarily of Harry and Ron, and a sharp pang of pain and longing stabbed her chest. She swallowed it down and followed them as they pushed open a door into an adjoining barn.

Inside it was cold and dark, with a floor of packed earth and the smell of old blood and sweat. Iron hooks and chains hung from the walls. Several cages stood about, some empty, others lined with filthy straw. A heavy wooden workbench stood in the centre, strewn with tools and spell residue, and beside it, a sort of stretcher with leather straps for binding arms and legs. Along a long wall stood an alchemical lab, full of retorts, mortars and cauldrons from which thin, fuming smoke rose. Hermione looked around with growing horror. From one of the cages came a raw sound, and her stomach turned when she saw a human figure curled into a foetal position.

But what horrified her most was what she saw on the figure’s back. There, along his spine, runes were tattooed — familiar runes. Similar to hers. Hermione froze, her breath caught as she looked from the man in the cage to Dolohov and Zoltan. Dolohov met her gaze with a calculating smile, Zoltan looked away, visibly uncomfortable. Hermione's heart pounded in her chest.

"What is going on here?" she whispered, her voice hoarse with shock.

The realisation sliced through her — they knew about her runes.

And if they knew, Voldemort had to know as well. Her thoughts spun.

What did it mean?

What had she stumbled into?

Dolohov shrugged. "Well, a little birdie told us about your runes."

Hermione looked at Zoltan in alarm, but he hastily raised his hands as if to show he was innocent. "Beatrice," he said with his heavy accent, eyes cast sheepishly to the ground. "She told us... about your runes. Said... she was surprised you still alive. Still... yourself." His words faltered, but the meaning struck like a blow. Beatrice had told them.

Hermione's mind raced. Why were they only telling her now that they knew about her runes? Why had they never brought it up before? A chill crept down her spine. Voldemort had to know too. Of course he did — Beatrice would have told him everything she knew. Or she told Dolohov who told Voldemort. He’d want to know what the runes did. But more than that, he’d want to know why she had them. That thought made her stomach twist. He would want to know everything about her past. How long had he known? An icy dread seeped in. Was that the reason he’d pursued her so deliberately? Was it never about her power, about her? Just about the runes? Panic flared in her chest, mixed with a raw ache. The idea that he might not see her at all — only the magic carved into her skin — hurt more than she wanted to admit. But he’d never said anything. Why not? Was he waiting until she trusted him completely? Waiting for the moment she'd tell him everything? Voldemort was patient. He had all the time in the world.

She felt her mouth go dry, but before she could gather her thoughts or demand an explanation, Dolohov’s voice cut back in, dragging her from her spiralling fear.

"We're researching how to repeat the process, how to recreate it the way it worked on you," said Dolohov cheerfully, though something cold flickered in his eyes.

Zoltan looked at her with a mix of nonchalance and faint disappointment and muttered, "They... they all keep dying."

"We started with Muggles," Dolohov continued calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to use people for experiments, ignoring how revolting Hermione found the idea. "But they were far too weak for the runes. So we switched to witches and wizards. Not that it’s worked yet."

Her head spun. Why did they want to research this at all? What did they hope to achieve? Her own runes protected her from Legilimency — but that couldn’t be Voldemort’s only goal. Why would he want that? What could runes carved into skin offer him and his followers beyond that? Her thoughts stumbled over each other, but no answer brought comfort.

"Ezekiel here lasted longer than most," Dolohov went on, nudging the cage with his boot. "Most are dead within a day, but he's pushing three. Doesn't look good for him though."

"Ezekiel? Ezekiel Roe?" she asked in horror.

Dolohov saw her reaction and pulled his mouth into a rough smile. "Don't feel sorry for him. Do you know why he was sacked from MACUSA? You probably don't want to know. Let's just say he had a taste for women... unconscious women."

Hermione felt a knot form in her stomach. Disgust at what Dolohov said about Ezekiel, but also revulsion at the image of the man in the cage, reduced to a test subject. She opened her mouth to say she wanted nothing to do with this, but Zoltan spoke first: "We think... your runes... they are why you survived the Saarnivaara binding. Why you stayed... yourself. They protected you from complete take-over."

That caught her attention immediately. "Let's talk about that... but... not here," Hermione said at last, turning and walking back towards the farmhouse’s living quarters. Zoltan followed her instantly while Dolohov remained behind with a shrug, remarking that he still had some "work" and would keep Ezekiel company.

In the sitting room, Hermione turned to Zoltan, and her fury erupted.

Her voice rose, shaking with rage. "What the hell, Zoltan! How could you do this! This isn't research, it's torture! These are human beings. They're trapped in cages like animals. Do you even hear yourself? 'They keep dying'—like it's a minor inconvenience! How can you stomach this? How can you just watch them scream and beg and pretend it's for science? How can you justify standing there acting like it's some academic exercise? Don't you see how sick this is? Don’t you care at all?" She was trembling now, her face flushed, breath heaving as her anger poured out in shaking, accusing words.

Zoltan scratched behind his ear awkwardly, his gaze drifting as though unsure where to look. But he didn’t seem particularly shaken. "But it is... eh... academic, I say. We are just... curious how the runes work. Why they worked for you and not others. How else... do you think we can test this?" he muttered.

Hermione gasped in outrage. "You're smart enough — think of something else!"

Zoltan shrugged. "We... we need to test it on living things. I am not testing on poor animals..." He looked at her with almost childlike sincerity. "We... we need humans. And it would be... nice if people would volunteer, but you think... they would? When they know... they probably die?"

Hermione felt her frustration boil over. She couldn’t argue with the logic entirely, but she could not and would not accept it. She felt sickened by his calm reasoning. "Then you stop experimenting!" she snapped, her voice trembling with emotion.

Zoltan sighed and looked at her with a kind of resigned innocence. "We're... eh... curious. And Voldemort... he wants us to."

Hermione’s eyes flashed. "I thought he wasn’t your master," she spat.

Zoltan slowly shrugged. "He's not. But... eh... as I said, I am curious. You know... I like runes."

Hermione couldn’t comprehend it. She stared at him, searching for a flicker of remorse or understanding, but saw only that childish, almost naïve fascination. It made her doubt herself — was she the one being unreasonable? That she found this so horrific, so impossible to justify? Her frustration burned in her chest as she tried to remember who she was and what she stood for.

Thoughts overwhelmed her. A part of her tried to justify it. Of course they needed living subjects — how else would they ever know why it had worked on her? She understood Zoltan’s curiosity. Even she didn’t know why she had survived. How could they study that without test subjects? She hated it, but she couldn’t think of a simple alternative. So much testing was done on living beings against their will — how was this truly different from experimenting on animals? And was Ezekiel Roe an innocent victim? If Dolohov was right, he had been despicable. But still... he was a man in a cage. Her stomach turned.

What might they discover from those runes? Different patterns? She caught herself thinking about how to make the process more humane. Maybe give subjects a room to recover. She could organise it better. Make it more ethical. But even as those thoughts crossed her mind, she felt revolted by herself.

Yet still, a small voice whispered in the back of her head: Think of what you could learn. How much you could discover. She bit her lip and tried to push the thought away. But it lingered. Because she wanted to understand. She wanted to know why she had survived and others hadn’t. She knew that knowledge could be dangerous — but also invaluable.

And Zoltan’s hypothesis echoed in her mind: that her runes had protected her from the Saarnivaara binding. That that was probably why she had survived. Maybe she had never truly been possessed. That thought brought unexpected relief, more than she had known she needed. Because the binding still haunted her — its raw edges had never really healed. It had made her magic hungry, more sensitive to the Dark Arts. She had felt dirty, weak and vulnerable because of it. But if it were true that the runes had protected her, it suddenly felt like a weight lifted from her shoulders.

If the runes could shield her from something that powerful and dark, what else could they do? She couldn’t help but wonder what other forms of protection might be possible. What spells could be bound to skin? Could there ever be a rune that protected against the Killing Curse? Or the Imperius Curse? The idea was both terrifying and fascinating. What a difference that would make in Defence Against the Dark Arts. No more constant vigilance, no need for reflexes — just runes embedded in your skin that offered permanent protection. She felt a stab of frustration with herself that she had never thought of it this way before. When she’d first had the runes tattooed and realised they worked, she had only felt relief that her thoughts were safe from Voldemort’s intrusions. She had never stopped to consider what that might mean, how many doors it opened, how much power — and protection — it could provide.

And what a difference it could make in the wars to come. If people had protective runes, they could resist the Imperius Curse. Voldemort wouldn’t be able to manipulate them so easily. It could undermine his entire grip on power, throw his plans into disarray. How many lives could she save if she pursued this magic further? She thought of Zoltan’s experience with runes, her own alchemical knowledge learned from Gaspard — together they might make real breakthroughs. And Dolohov... she wasn’t sure what he could contribute, but he certainly had ways of finding "test subjects." Hermione felt strange as the thought took shape. Suddenly, she had a purpose. This magic could make a difference. Maybe she didn’t need to actively change the timeline — maybe it would shift on its own if she made this kind of protection possible. She wouldn’t have to fight in the war — and still, she could do something that mattered.

Suddenly, she thought of Albus Dumbledore’s words. His old motto with Grindelwald: For the Greater Good. She had always found it repugnant, a justification for their dark ambitions. But now... now she wasn’t so sure. Of course she believed it was wrong to imprison people and use them for experiments against their will. She was disgusted with herself for even considering accepting it. But if it meant she could save thousands of lives? Didn’t she owe it to the world to think about it? To give people a real chance to resist Voldemort’s power? She felt torn. Because part of her understood — she understood Zoltan’s curiosity, his drive to understand. She felt that same drive within herself. But it frightened her. Frightened her to realise what she might be willing to sacrifice for that higher purpose.

"I need a drink," Hermione muttered at last. She walked into the kitchen and began opening cupboards with restless movements. Zoltan watched her for a moment, shrugged, and walked to a cabinet in the sitting room. He returned with a bottle of firewhisky, holding it out like an olive branch. She took it and sank down with him on the worn sofa. She unscrewed the cap, took a deep swig, and rubbed her face tiredly.

"I get the curiosity," she said softly, her voice calmer now. "And maybe I can help... but no cages. No chains. No treating them like animals. They get real beds, real care. They get to recover, talk about it, give informed consent if possible. If we're doing this, we do it humanely. Or I walk."

"Deal," Zoltan said with a grin.

"Now," Hermione muttered, taking another swig straight from the bottle, her eyes narrowing. "Tell me about the experiments."

Zoltan and Hermione fell into conversation again, talking for hours about runes and the possibilities of protective runes in the skin. Hermione noticed how her head grew lighter as the whisky took hold. At some point Dolohov rejoined them, and before long they had emptied the bottle and started on a second. The mood turned loose and teasing. Zoltan and Dolohov were already brotherly in their banter and soon pulled Hermione into it. She nearly forgot why she was supposed to hate Dolohov in the first place.

After a while, the topic drifted away from runes. Zoltan suddenly asked if she would come with him to the Malfoys’ Halloween Ball.

Hermione shook her head. "I wasn't invited. And I'm not sure I can handle another ball at Malfoy Manor."

"P-please Hermione," Zoltan slurred with a grin, waving his hands. "I can bring... eh... plus one. You be my date! We can... eh... steal silverware!"

"Don't let Voldemort hear you," Dolohov drawled with a smirk. "He'll kill you for even joking you're her date." He turned to Hermione. "But you should definitely come. Think about how much fun last time was."

"I'm not forgetting you crucio’d me last time!" Hermione slurred, giggling as she threw a cushion at Dolohov. Dolohov blinked and tried to look innocent.

"He did WHAT?" Zoltan banged his hand on the table. "Crucio? Really?"

Hermione was wheezing with laughter. "You should be my test subject for the decapitating curse," she said thickly, pointing at Dolohov. "S-serves you right... for all those test subjects you keep... locked up in your shed!"

Dolohov let out a laugh and held his hands up in mock surrender. "I can be your best test subject, Hermione. Got the best head for a decapitating curse. No one's got a better head than me." He waggled his eyebrows dramatically, slurring a little.

"Agreed," Zoltan giggled, leaning against the couch, glass in hand. He turned to Hermione with a pleading look. "Please come! It'll be... eh... so boring without you."

Hermione rolled her eyes, feeling warmth spread in her chest from the firewhisky. "I blew up his office last time. I'm pretty sure Abraxas Malfoy doesn’t want me anywhere near his perfect manor after that."

Zoltan's eyes widened. "That was YOU?!" he shouted, both horrified and awed.

Hermione burst out laughing. "Guilty!" she hiccuped.

Dolohov cackled and shook his head. "Don't you worry about prissy princess Abraxas," he drawled, waving a lazy hand. "He doesn’t know it was you. Nobody does. Except me and Voldemort. And he doesn’t want anyone to know."

Hermione blinked, tipsy confusion wrinkling her brow. "What? Why not?"

Dolohov gave her a sly smile. "You tell me, feisty. Probably for the same reason he makes me guard you with my life."

Hermione snorted, rolling her eyes again as she reached for the bottle. "You're all bloody insane," she muttered, but she was grinning.

Hermione slumped back and wiped the back of her hand across her warm cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed like this. It was ridiculous, really — absurd, even — in this old, cold farmhouse with Dolohov of all people.

Her mind, once so bright, was definitely slipping into madness.

Chapter Text

Hermione was still sprawled on the worn-out sofa in Dolohov’s house. It was cold and musty, the air tinged with the scent of stale drink and smoky hearth. Zoltan had fallen asleep, slumped over with his mouth open and an empty firewhisky bottle dangling from his hand. Dolohov and Hermione remained, each on their own couch opposite one another, taking turns trying to toss Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans into each other's mouths.

Hermione giggled softly when she landed a shot, and Dolohov cursed loudly as he tasted the flavour of mashed peas. Her head felt warm and light, the whisky still flowing through her blood. She felt drowsy and strangely happy, almost absurdly far from all her problems.

But suddenly the front door slammed open with a sharp bang. A gust of wind swept through the room, making the candles flicker.

In the doorway stood Voldemort, his silhouette stark against the light from outside. His eyes found hers immediately, and the darkness in his gaze made the rest of the room feel suddenly and bitingly cold.

Dolohov jerked so hard he nearly fell off the couch and scrambled upright, swaying unsteadily. "M-my lord," he stammered, suddenly unsteady on his feet. Voldemort shot him a murderous glare that drained the colour from his face, then looked at the still-sleeping Zoltan, the empty whisky bottles scattered on the floor, and finally fixed his sharp gaze on Hermione.

Her stomach twisted with nerves, but she couldn’t suppress a nervous giggle. She pulled a crooked grin and raised the bottle mock-innocently. "You want a drink?"

Voldemort kept staring at her with a furious, icy expression. "No, we're going home," he snapped. He strode toward her and extended his hand. Hermione gave a sheepish look, but let him pull her to her feet, shivering as the draft brushed her bare arms.

With a sigh of irritation, Voldemort slipped off his cloak and wrapped it around her. She nearly disappeared inside the too-large fabric, but pulled it tighter with gratitude and inhaled instinctively — his scent. Voldemort placed a hand on the back of her neck and gently nudged her toward the door. As he cast Dolohov one last withering look, he said coldly:

"We will speak about this tomorrow."

"Yes, my lord," Dolohov mumbled, suddenly far less self-assured than Hermione had ever seen him.

Voldemort led Hermione outside, pulled her tightly against him, and without another word, disapparated them both into the night.

When they arrived on the grounds of the castle, the cold air hit her face and the alcohol exploded in her system. Apparating hadn’t helped, and only now did she realise how drunk she truly was. Her legs gave out, and she had to cling to Voldemort to keep from falling.

He growled in annoyance and, without warning, swept her up into his arms. Hermione let out a startled yelp and threw her arms around his neck.

He walked on steadily toward Keenbridge Castle and pushed open the door, while she was overwhelmed by his proximity, his scent, the warmth of his arms. She felt ridiculously safe, despite the angry tension still radiating from him. As he carried her up the stairs, she stared at him: the glowing red eyes that shone in the darkness, his sharp jawline and perfectly shaped mouth that looked dangerously inviting.

She swallowed hard as nausea rose from the motion, but she couldn’t stop looking at him.

His eyes flicked to hers, suspicious.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked curtly as they neared her room.

"I just like this," Hermione whispered hoarsely.

"You like what?" he growled.

"Being in your arms," she blurted, her voice sharper and more biting than she intended.

His eyes darkened even further, and he pulled her tighter but said nothing.

"I shouldn't though. It's wrong," she added softly, her voice breaking into a whisper.

Voldemort stopped just before her door. "Why?"

"Because you’re Voldemort. I should hate you. But I don’t... and I hate myself for that."

He processed her words slowly, stared at her intently, then kicked the door open and carried her inside. He set her gently down on the edge of her bed and knelt to remove her boots. She stared at him, surprised by his tenderness.

He looked up, raising one brow in dry amusement. "Got me on my knees for you now, haven’t you?"

"Well... it's a good look on you," she said, a tipsy giggle escaping as her cheeks flushed pink. She tried to hold back another laugh but couldn’t stop grinning at the sight of him kneeling there.

Voldemort’s mouth curved into a rare, crooked grin. It wasn’t a friendly smile — he was too sharp for that — but it was hypnotising. It held her gaze, made her heart skip, and sent a warm flutter through her belly. She couldn’t look away, enchanted by the unlikely image: Voldemort, smiling in a way that almost seemed real.

She bit her lip, cheeks burning, then giggled again and slipped under the covers. He pulled the blanket up over her with unexpected care, brushed a loose strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning on one arm beside her so that he loomed over her. His presence filled the entire room — heavy and intense, but not threatening. Intimate.

Hermione’s heart thudded in her chest. She could smell him, that dark, spicy scent that reminded her too much of safety and danger at once.

"Why were you angry earlier?" she asked softly, eyes on his. "I like you better smiling. You have a beautiful smile."

Voldemort held her gaze for a moment, the flicker in his eyes almost uncertain, as if unaccustomed to hearing such things. Then he answered slowly, deliberately:

"I didn’t like coming home and you not being there." His voice was low and heavy, but there was something in his tone that sounded almost vulnerable. "I like knowing you're mine to come home to."

Hermione swallowed and felt her throat go dry. She turned her face slightly toward him, her eyes wide in the dimness.

"I like it when you come home too," she admitted softly. Her voice trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on her after she spoke, dark and searching, but with an undercurrent that made her breath catch. His eyes trailed over her face, past her mouth, and paused at her neck as if he wanted to mark it as his own. Her heart pounded, the air between them charged with something she couldn’t name — a tension that made her cheeks flush and her stomach tighten with anticipation.

A slow, mocking smile crept over his lips, barely there but all the more dangerous for it. His eyes sparked red in the shadows of her room, and he leaned in just a fraction closer, as if to say she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

But then he pulled back with the same measured control and said in a low, tight voice, "Go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

He rose from the bed, his cloak still heavy and warm around her, and turned toward the door. Hermione watched him go, her heart still racing in her chest.

"Wait," she whispered.

He stopped halfway and turned slightly, eyes sharp again as they locked onto hers.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to swallow the giggle that bubbled up from nerves, and gave a crooked grin. "Don’t be too hard on Dolohov. I still need him as a decapitation practice dummy."

Voldemort stared at her for a beat, eyes narrowed, before a low, dark laugh rumbled from his chest — a sound equal parts amusement and menace. He slowly shook his head, mouth curled in that dangerous smile, and without another word, pulled the door shut behind him, leaving her alone in the dark and quiet.

The next morning, Hermione woke with a pounding headache. It felt like a herd of hippogriffs was stampeding through her skull. She groaned softly and buried her face in the pillow, but the hangover was relentless. Her mouth was dry as parchment and every movement made the throbbing worse.

Slowly, the fog in her head began to lift, and memories of the day before crept in. Zoltan and Dolohov in that remote house... their experiments that still made her shudder. She pictured Ezekiel Roe curled in that cage, runes burned into his skin, and felt a sickening wave of revulsion.

And yet — they had laughed. She’d spent hours talking with Zoltan about runes, trading theories like colleagues. And Dolohov... she never would have believed it, but he had made her laugh. It was such a strange contrast: the horrifying experiments in the shed, and then the ease with which the three of them had gotten drunk in that crumbling house.

But no matter how often she tried to steer her thoughts elsewhere, they always returned to him. Voldemort. The way he’d looked when he found her on the couch. The conversation in her room, the tension that always seemed to stretch between them like a wire ready to snap. The way he had carried her — warm and firm against him, as if he didn’t want her out of his grasp for even a second.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed as she remembered what she’d said. She had admitted too much. Far too much. She’d told him she liked being in his arms. That she didn’t hate who he was, though she knew she should. It felt like she had undressed herself before him, revealed her vulnerabilities.

And he would use that against her. Of course he would. Voldemort never let anything go to waste. Especially if it was about the runes. Maybe that was all he saw when he looked at her — not her, but the lines on her back, the potential of that protection. Maybe all he wanted was to understand how it worked so he could replicate it, twist it into something dark.

She bit her lip and pulled the blanket tighter around her. Why had she said so much? Why had she let him in? She felt foolish and exposed, and somewhere deep inside, a flicker of shame gnawed at her. She had given him a glimpse of something no one should have seen — her longing for warmth, for connection.

And he would never forget.

Yet even as she cursed herself for her honesty, she couldn’t stop thinking about the other moments. The unexpected tenderness. How he had wrapped his cloak around her without a word when she was cold. The cloak she was still curled up in, still steeped in his scent — that dark, spicy, unmistakable scent that both soothed and unsettled her. How he had knelt to take off her boots, his fingers unexpectedly gentle. How he had touched her face, brushed a strand of hair from her eyes — a gesture absurdly intimate for someone like him.

And those words. He had said he liked her being there when he came home. That sentence kept echoing in her mind. What had he meant by it? Was it just his way of claiming possession? Of knowing where his toy was so he could control it? Or was it something else? Something he maybe didn’t fully understand or want to admit? The thought made her nervous. She didn’t want to be naïve. She didn’t want to believe there was something soft or real behind his words. But she couldn’t stop wondering.

She was still brooding when the familiar chime appeared in the corner of her room and began to ring. The irritating, shrill sound was unmistakably the signal that she was expected downstairs for breakfast. Hermione groaned and pulled the pillow over her head, but it didn’t help — the ringing only grew louder, aggravating her headache.

With a curse, she tossed the pillow aside and hauled herself upright. Her head throbbed with every movement. She stumbled to the adjoining bathroom, splashed cold water on her face and brushed her teeth. She twisted her curls up with her wand and tried to ignore the dark circles under her eyes.

Back in her room, her eyes lingered on the cloak still wrapped around her shoulders. Slowly, she slid it off and held it for a moment. It still smelled like him. Something in her resisted the idea of giving it back just yet. Not now. She folded it carefully — far more neatly than necessary — and tucked it under her pillow. As she did, she tried not to think about what that said about her.

With a sigh, she took a deep breath and made her way downstairs, her stomach still queasy from the hangover and nerves. In the dining room, he sat in his usual place at the head of the table. Back straight, shoulders relaxed but alert, the Daily Prophet folded in his hands as if he’d been waiting for her for hours. His eyes found hers the moment she entered — sharp, watchful — and Hermione felt her heart skip a beat.

She took her seat slowly, her movements stiff and cautious as if any sound might worsen the pounding in her skull. She reached for a piece of toast, but the very thought made her stomach churn. With reluctance, she took a small bite and began to chew slowly, hoping it wouldn’t come right back up.

At the head of the table, Voldemort folded the paper with deliberate slowness and set it aside. His gaze moved to her, icy and sharp, but with a faint gleam of amusement. One corner of his mouth twitched up into something that almost resembled a smirk as he studied her.

"Franky," he said in a commanding tone, not taking his eyes off her. Instantly, the house-elf appeared with a soft pop.

"Yes, Master?" said Franky solemnly, his hands folded behind his back and his chin lifted as though conducting a formal ceremony.

"Get Hermione a hangover potion."

"At once, Master." With a short bow, he vanished again with a crack.

Silence settled over the dining room, broken only by the faint clink of cutlery, while Voldemort continued to watch her with that faintly mocking glint in his eyes. Hermione tried to ignore him but felt heat rising in her cheeks.

Moments later, another pop signalled Franky's return. This time, he held a small glass filled with a smoky, murky potion that steamed faintly. He placed the glass precisely in front of her and bowed deeply to Voldemort.

"Your potion, Miss Dagworth-Granger," he said solemnly, then stepped back and disappeared with a soft crack.

Hermione frowned at the glass. Her eyes darted to Voldemort, who didn’t even bother to look innocent — he leaned back in his chair with the same smug, overconfident smile.

She sighed and looked away. Her head hurt too much to care. She grasped the glass and downed it in one go. It tasted vile — bitter, burning, almost syrupy. She gagged and had to fight to keep it down.

Voldemort’s mouth twitched further into a smirk, never taking his eyes off her. It irritated her more than she could say.

But then she felt the difference. The headache ebbed, the nausea faded, and the fog in her head began to clear. She took a deeper breath and felt herself slowly returning to normal.

Voldemort was still watching her, his tone dry and faintly mocking as he asked, "Better?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes but nodded reluctantly. "Yes."

She continued her breakfast in awkward silence. She prodded her toast without really eating, her eyes fixed on her plate while she desperately tried to pretend he wasn’t there. But it was impossible. She could feel his gaze the entire time — unabashed, analytical, almost predatory in its calm.

It made her nervous. Her heart beat faster, her shoulders tense. Her thoughts spun: about yesterday, about the things she’d seen in that shed, about everything she’d told him. And of course, about the runes on her back. She knew he knew. Zoltan and Dolohov had made that very clear.

She clenched her jaw, but eventually she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She set her knife and fork down slowly and drew a deep breath without looking up. Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but also inescapably:

"So... you know about my runes."

"I do," Voldemort replied calmly, without so much as a twitch. His voice had that dangerously calm edge that made it all the more threatening.

Hermione balled her hands into fists in her lap. Her voice trembled slightly as she pressed on:

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

One corner of his mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile — more a cold acknowledgment of her naïveté. His eyes gleamed ominously.

"Because, Hermione," he said softly, almost contemplatively, "knowledge is power. And I don’t give my power away so freely."

"Why exactly are you experimenting with them?" Hermione asked, her voice still tense but determined to get answers.

"Because I want to know what they’re capable of," he answered calmly, his gaze unwavering on hers. "And because you should be dead. But you’re not. I want to know how. And why." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes dark and piercing. "Why did you have them done?"

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She’d known this question was coming. It was inevitable. She didn’t want to answer, but she knew she had no choice. If she refused, he would dig. And that was the last thing she could afford. She swallowed and cleared her throat, her thoughts racing for the right words. Lies, but laced with just enough truth to be believable.

"I got them as soon as I realised the Mercury had tracked me down."

Voldemort stared at her in silence, his gaze heavy with expectation. She felt exposed under that assessing stare and exhaled shakily before continuing.

"I didn’t just leave Gaspard. I stole from him. It was groundbreaking — his most important work. I destroyed the manuscript he’d been working on. Set his workshop on fire and fled. But all of it’s in my head now. That’s what they’re after. So I found a way to protect my mind. So they can’t get to it."

Voldemort slowly raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing as he spoke in a cold, calculating tone:

"If it really was his manuscript, surely he’d know it himself?"

Hermione bit her lip, forcing herself to look at him with a kind of sheepish innocence.

"I kinda... obliviated him," she admitted softly. "I wanted to wipe myself entirely from his memory, but I didn’t have time before I had to flee. So now they know I stole from him and they’re after me for it."

She was almost surprised by how easily the lie came. How smoothly she wove the story — one real enough to be convincing. Of course, there were truths in it. She had tried to make Gaspard forget her before she fled France. And she had burned some of his research notes in a fit of rage over what he’d done to her. Only... she didn’t carry that knowledge with her. She didn’t want anything to do with it. She wanted nothing to do with time travel. She’d known from the beginning that returning to her own time was impossible.

Why the Mercury was still hunting her, she honestly didn’t know. Especially after so many months had passed since her escape from France and that first confrontation in Knockturn Alley. Most likely, Gaspard just wanted revenge.

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, gaze locked on hers, his voice low and heavy with dark interest.

"What was his manuscript about, then?"

A cold curiosity passed over his face — sickly almost, the hunger for forbidden knowledge unmistakable in his eyes.

Hermione felt the tension creep up her neck as she stared at him. Then slowly, she pulled one corner of her mouth into a defiant, mocking grin.

"Well," she said softly but sharply, "as you so poetically put it — knowledge is power. And I also don’t just give mine away."

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed dangerously at her words. For a moment, the air between them seemed to tremble with tension, thick and charged like a thundercloud. His jaw tightened; it was clear he didn’t appreciate her turning his own words against him so neatly. And yet something else flickered through his expression — a spark of admiration, almost hungry, that made her skin prickle.

He leaned in slightly, his eyes scanning her face as if memorising every detail.

"Well played," he said at last, his voice low and smooth but edged with irritation. His lips curled into a cool, calculating smile. "Very clever. Dangerous, too."

He let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of his gaze, before adding more quietly, with unmistakable tension:

"You know, Hermione, it’s infuriating how much I enjoy that defiance in you."

A shiver ran down her spine as his eyes lit up. He hadn’t said it the way she would have — but she saw it. He was impressed. That she could challenge him in ways few dared.

It meant more to her than she wanted to admit. It gave her a sense of control, even power, if only for a moment. She knew how dangerous he was, how calculated — that any sign of weakness would only invite him to strike harder. But this… this was her arena. Words, wit, intellect. Here, she could land blows.

She forced herself not to smile, to keep her face composed and neutral. She didn’t want him to see how much it pleased her to unbalance him, to prove he couldn’t simply dominate her. But inside, her confidence swelled — warm and fierce, a quiet triumph she clung to.

The table fell silent for a while. She felt his eyes still on her, heavy and expectant. She knew she couldn’t avoid it forever.

Hermione took a deep breath and traced the edge of her plate with her fingers. She had no idea how he’d react, but it felt foolish not to address it.

"Zoltan and Dolohov asked me to come with them to the Halloween Ball at Malfoy Manor," she said airily, though it sounded just a little too forced.

Voldemort’s head barely moved, but his gaze sharpened instantly. It was like the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

"Did they now..." he said slowly, the words laced with dangerously soft emphasis. His eyes stayed fixed on her, dark and glinting with a look that quickened her pulse.

Hermione squirmed in her seat, suddenly feeling far less brave. She shrugged and glanced away.

"I'm not sure I'm going," she added. "Last time was... more than I bargained for."

Voldemort’s mouth curved upward slowly, but it wasn’t a friendly smile.

"Yes. Last time... was rather eventful," he said darkly. His voice was soft, but full of menace in everything he didn’t say.

Hermione’s stomach tightened. Of course he hadn’t forgotten. She swallowed, searching for the right words, but it didn’t help that he was still watching her with that piercing intensity.

"You never told me what you thought of my scar," she said at last, her voice a touch higher than she meant. Nervous, but also determined. It was time to finally have this conversation — she needed to know what he thought.

He gave a short, almost dismissive laugh.

“Well... with the rather explosive way you made your exit, I didn’t imagine you’d be keen on discussing it. Though I suppose I ought to be grateful you didn’t burn the whole place to the ground."

His voice dripped with sarcasm, but beneath the sharp words lay something she couldn’t quite place.

Hermione furrowed her brows and shifted nervously in her seat, unable to stop herself from snapping back.

"Well you deserved it," she said hotly, her eyes flashing. "I was having a perfectly lovely evening, enjoying a stroll with a very interesting man — and next thing I knew I was thrown on the floor and tortured."

Voldemort smiled again — but it was a cold, controlled smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze was razor-sharp, almost predatory.

"Yes," he said softly. "You did make quite the impression."

He let the words hang there, his voice low and dark, as though reliving that evening in his mind. The tension between them thickened — ominous, and something she couldn’t fully name or deny.

His gaze darkened further, like a storm gathering just before it broke. He leaned forward a fraction, his eyes locked on hers.

"You will go to the ball," he said slowly, commandingly, his voice soft but unmistakably authoritative. He let the silence settle, the threat clinging to the air before he added:

"With me."

Hermione felt her heart hammer in her chest. It hadn’t really been a question. There was nothing tentative in his tone — no room for discussion or refusal. Her spine straightened with instinctive defiance. She hated being ordered around, especially by him. Every part of her wanted to snap back, to tell him she wouldn’t go anywhere if this was how he chose to ask.

But at the same time, something twisted in her stomach — a flutter she didn’t want to acknowledge. A wave of something dangerously close to excitement. She could already picture it, against her will: walking into the ball on his arm. Entering while everyone watched — and knew she was with him. That no one would dare question it, or touch her.

The thought sent a flush to her cheeks and a warmth through her belly. She tried to push it away, to remind herself who he was and what he’d done. But it didn’t help. The image of his hand on her lower back as he guided her through the ballroom, of his breath near her ear as he murmured something biting — it clung to her.

She bit her lip and forced herself to meet his gaze. But she knew he saw it. He saw everything.

Voldemort let the moment stretch, his eyes still fixed on hers. When he spoke again, his voice was low and charged.

"And to answer your question..." His voice dropped, dangerously soft. "You come from a magical family. That’s all anyone ever needs to know. That scar... is a lie. And if I ever discover who marked you like that, I will not just kill them. I will destroy them. Slowly."

Hermione swallowed, something tight clenching in her chest at his words. She tried to keep her face neutral, but her thoughts were spiralling.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that he chose to ignore her supposed descent from a squib and a Muggle. Of course he didn’t see that as relevant truth. Because if he acknowledged it as a disqualifier from the magical world, he would, in effect, be placing himself outside it too. It made sense, in his cold, unrelenting logic.

But she also heard the warning in his words. That’s all anybody ever needs to know. There was no room for nuance. He didn’t want her to talk about it — didn’t want her heritage to be a topic of discussion. He was dictating what she was, what she was allowed to be.

That he viewed it as a weakness was obvious. Anything less than purely magical, anything that didn’t fit his ideal of strength and purity, he rejected. The idea that someone of ‘impure’ blood — a Muggle-born — could be worth as much as an old-blood heir was laughable to him. So insisting she came from a powerful magical line was, in his eyes, necessary. He couldn’t allow any alternative into his world — because it would unravel the very ideology that upheld his power.

And she didn’t know what to make of that. It should be reason enough to reject him outright. It was the very arrogance, the same violent, narrow-minded supremacy she had spent her life fighting against. He was the embodiment of everything she despised — the perfect example of what happened when someone believed blood equalled worth and anyone outside that deserved subjugation or death.

But Hermione found she didn’t want to walk away. She had spent so long defending her origins, shouting that it didn’t matter, that she was equal. But in that battle, she had lost herself — worn down, broken, hollow. She was tired of the stigma. Tired of always having to prove she belonged.

And now she lived in a time where that stigma didn’t touch her. Where no one called her Mudblood, where no one treated her like she didn’t belong. It was dangerous and despicable and everything she had sworn to oppose — but the temptation not to fight it, just this once, was almost overwhelming.

She inhaled slowly, exhaled, her hands resting in her lap as she let her gaze fall to the table. Everything in her was in conflict — her anger, her ideals, her longing. She knew she had to protect herself, not just from him, but from what he awakened in her. Because even now, after everything she had seen and heard, part of her wanted nothing more than to surrender to that darkness he wove so effortlessly around them.

And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying thought of all.

Chapter Text

The days before the Halloween Ball Hermione divided carefully between brewing potions in the kitchen and long brainstorming sessions with Zoltan at Dolohov’s house. She tried to limit herself as much as possible to planning and analysing formulas, keeping well away from the experiments in the shed. Yet even without seeing the blood and hearing the screams, she knew by now what had happened there. Ezekiel Roe was dead.

It lingered in the air at Dolohov’s house: a kind of relieved silence, cold and unpleasant, as if a discordant note had been removed from a choir.

Dolohov said nothing about his conversation with Voldemort, but in the days afterwards he was curt and more reserved. Not that Hermione minded much; she still did not know what to make of the increasingly, almost friendly, manner between them. But when, on the morning of the ball, she went to deliver her production at Slug & Jiggers and Dolohov once again accompanied her, he was his usual sarcastic self. To her slight frustration, Hermione caught herself realising that she actually got on with him rather well.

“Tell me,” drawled Dolohov as they crossed Diagon Alley, “what grand tragedy do you think will unfold at this ridiculous ball?”

Hermione shot him a dry look. “Oh, you mean apart from the usual pure-blood posturing and petty bragging?”

He smirked. “Please. I’m hoping for at least one duel that ends in someone’s hair on fire.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh really? I could volunteer you for that demonstration. You know how good I am with fire.”

Dolohov gave her a slow, mocking grin. “Don’t be greedy now. I already offered you my head for your decapitating curse. At least let me keep a shred of dignity by hanging onto my hair.”

Hermione snorted. “Fine, keep the hair. But I’m shocked you’re not thrilled for the annual pure-blood spectacle.”

Dolohov’s expression shifted, just a fraction. “Don’t confuse me with those Sacred Twenty-Eight snobs,” he said more seriously. “Pure-blood means power. Tradition. History. It means understanding your family’s craft, knowing where your magic comes from, remembering the people who built it all. It’s not some costume ball with velvet robes and fake Latin. It’s meant to be a duty, not a privilege you inherit without lifting a finger. Not dressing up like royalty and expecting the world to bow because you’re too lazy to earn real strength. I have no patience for that.”

Hermione looked at him, surprised by his sudden earnestness. She had expected him to laugh it off or make some vicious remark about the ball, but this sounded sincere. And to her own surprise, she felt a flicker of recognition in his words. Was this not exactly what she herself had once told Voldemort? How can these be the most powerful witches and wizards in our world if they never have to prove themselves with anything other than their last name?

It made her pause. She had never expected someone like him to see precisely that.

Hermione tilted her head a fraction and asked, “Then why bother with them at all?”

Dolohov shrugged slowly. “Because, ridiculous as they are, you can’t deny they hold power. It’s always useful to have those connections. And they work with My Lord. Which means, whether I like it or not, they work with me.”

Hermione frowned slightly. “And what exactly are you all working toward?”

Dolohov’s eyes narrowed a little, thoughtful. “A world where we don’t have to hide what we are. Where our power doesn’t have to stay in the shadows. Where wizards rule, openly, as they were meant to. That’s the point. They want to preserve their names. My Lord wants to preserve magic itself. No more dilution. No more bending to Muggle ways. No more pretending we’re not dangerous.”

“Magic is might,” Hermione whispered softly.

“Exactly,” Dolohov replied with a grin.

Hermione fell silent. It was absurd to hear those words in this time — the very slogan that in her own era had justified so much suffering. Back then she had seen no nuance in the idea: it was wrong, barbaric. But now she found she could no longer take it in such stark black and white. She would never believe Muggles were worth less than wizards, but she was beginning to understand how such a thought could arise when seen from the perspective of someone raised in this world. What must it be like to hide who you were and what you could do from the moment you were born? To use your power only in secret, always wary of being discovered? To learn as a child to conceal your talents, never to perform magic where anyone might see, always afraid a Muggle would catch you? No wonder you began to feel distrust. And no wonder there were people who had grown weary of making themselves small. Rather like she herself was tired of diminishing her own power because others found the Dark Arts uncomfortable.

She did not believe wizards ought to rule over Muggles — absolutely not — but it could not be denied that wizards could do things Muggles never could. In the Muggle world there was inequality too: the rich ruled over the poor, western nations over colonies. Where there was money, there was power. She saw the hypocrisy of the Muggle world, where the wealthy bought influence and countries exploited others. Power had always dictated boundaries. Why should it be different in the magical world? In the wizarding world it was magic that bestowed power. She remembered how fiercely she had once argued that it was unjust to see Muggles as inferior. And she still believed that. But what Dolohov had said was something else. It was not about suppressing Muggles — it was about acknowledging magic, not hiding it. She felt uneasy that she could understand it.

And as she learned more about the Dark Arts, she could not deny that much was forbidden because someone had once decided it was wrong. Not necessarily because it was evil, but because someone had deemed it dangerous. Because power always had to be curbed, controlled. Just as it had once been decided that magic must be concealed from Muggles. Of course she did not think wizards should dominate Muggles — but why could they not live alongside one another? Why could magic not exist openly? Why was it not possible to coexist, in the open, without fear? How wondrous could a world full of magic be? What would such a world look like? A world in which magic was not hidden behind closed doors but could flow and flourish freely, without shame or fear. Both light and dark. The idea was terrifying and beautiful all at once. The possibilities were endless.

She thought back to what Voldemort had once said during Midsummer. Do not chain yourself to morals you did not choose. Do not hold back out of fear of their judgement. At the time she had dismissed it as manipulative rhetoric meant to sway his followers, something dangerous she must resist. But now she was no longer so certain. She was beginning to see more truth in it. Was it so wrong to examine your own moral compass? To question the rules others had set for you? It felt treacherous to agree with him, but she could not deny that it resonated.

۞

A few hours later Hermione stood before the mirror in her room, letting her gaze glide slowly over her reflection. With Franky’s help — who, to her surprise, proved to have just as much flair for presentation as Tink — she had transformed herself into something she could only describe as a gothic queen. She wore a black birdcage veil that made her eyes glimmer mysteriously, dangerously. Her curls were elegantly pinned up, with a few loose strands falling playfully along her neck. Her gown was of deep black velvet, cut tight around her waist and hips so that her curves were unmistakably visible, but with a long slit that revealed her leg at every step. The bodice bore a subtle beaded embroidery in the pattern of raven’s wings, catching the light with each movement. The sleeves tapered elegantly to her wrists, while the back was almost completely open, crossed only by thin satin ribbons. She had cast a glamour over her tattoos to conceal them. She radiated dangerous allure and assured power, seductive yet undeniably intimidating — alluring and dark.

An unexpected excitement welled up within her. She knew she looked stunning in this outfit and could not deny that part of her was curious about Voldemort’s reaction. A part of her could not wait to see how he would look at her — if he would show anything at all — and the thought made her lips curl despite herself.

Before going downstairs, she painted her lips a deep red and whispered a no-smudge charm to keep the colour flawless. She had just admired the result in the mirror when the familiar chime sounded in her room. She was being summoned. Hermione immediately felt a wave of irritation rise. She hated that cursed bell, and even more the thought that Voldemort believed he could summon her like a dog. Out of sheer stubbornness she dawdled even longer. She went to the loo once more unnecessarily, checked again that her wand was securely strapped to her thigh, and tried to pin an escaped curl back into place. The bell kept ringing, more insistent and louder each time. Only when Hermione decided she had kept him waiting long enough did she take a deep breath and head downstairs.

She reached the stairs and saw him waiting below. Voldemort stood in the hall, motionless but with unmistakable tension in his stance. He wore a black robe of heavy, lustrous fabric that fell perfectly about his shoulders and waist, high at the collar, severe and plain without ornament. The sleeves were broad and pleated, edged with fine black embroidery that seemed to reveal sinister patterns with each movement, like living shadows. His eyes moved slowly upwards along her body as she descended the stairs, unhurried and unashamed, lingering on her slit gown and the lines of her figure. It was a gaze that felt like a touch — cold and hot at once. She felt her breath quicken as he took her in with that icy, detached sort of interest, but with a flame barely veiled in his eyes.

He tilted his head a fraction, his lips moving ever so slightly, almost a smile, but too calculated and dangerous to be reassuring. The silence between them was heavy, charged with tension. Hermione felt it tugging at her skin like static electricity. Every step she took seemed to echo louder. She could hear her heart pounding. He said nothing, letting his gaze speak — and it told her everything. She had been seen. Not merely looked at, but penetrated, stripped to the bone.

She stopped halfway across the hall and lifted her chin a little, defiant, challenging. His eyes met hers and held her fast. For a moment a spark flickered in his gaze — something that looked like appreciation, something dark and perilous. He moved forward slowly, every motion controlled, almost graceful but with a predator’s threat. The air seemed to grow heavier between them.

Hermione felt warmth creep up through her belly, a wave of excitement she wanted to be ashamed of but could not. She had dressed to be noticed, but now, under his gaze, it felt as though he set her ablaze with nothing but his eyes. She swallowed but did not break the stare. She would not yield, would not flinch. She would show him no weakness.

His eyes swept over her once more, slowly, as though committing every detail to memory. At last he spoke, his voice soft and low, yet edged with cutting clarity. “You do realise,” he murmured, dark amusement threading through his tone, “that looking like that is practically an invitation to sin.”

Hermione let her lips curl into a slow, defiant smile, her eyes flicking over him in return. “Oh? Maybe you have to prove that to me.”

Voldemort’s mouth curved into a dark grin, a glimmer of something dangerous and calculating lighting his gaze. It was no friendly smile, but one that spoke of control and desire alike. He looked every inch the man accustomed to getting what he wanted — and making no secret that he wanted her. A predator, a leader, someone who could bring others to their knees with a single word. That tension, that danger, only made his allure more potent. It was dark, toxic, irresistible.

Slowly, he extended his arm to her, saying nothing, but with a commanding inevitability that brooked no refusal. Hermione let her gaze linger on his hand before she stepped closer and placed her fingers lightly upon his forearm. Without hesitation, he led her towards the drawing room and halted by the fireplace. Voldemort tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames, which roared high and green. His voice was clear, decisive: “Malfoy Manor.” Together they stepped into the swirling emerald fire and vanished.

A heartbeat later they emerged from a fireplace into a hall other than the grand entrance at the front door. It was quiet, empty; no other guests in sight. No doubt Voldemort had secured a privileged arrangement to arrive directly here.

They were brushing the ash from their robes when a house-elf appeared, bowing so low its long nose brushed the floor in reverence. The creature scurried ahead with quick, servile steps to guide them to the grand reception hall.

The familiar tableau awaited: Abraxas Malfoy and his wife stood by the doors to welcome their guests. A long queue of witches and wizards in opulent robes and gowns waited their turn to greet them. Voldemort spared the line no glance, pulling Hermione firmly with him straight towards the hosts. Abraxas spotted him at once and immediately broke off his conversation with another guest. He bowed hastily, a tight smile on his face. “My Lord, we are honoured by your presence,” he said pompously.

Mrs Malfoy offered a polite smile and slight nod. “My Lord, may I ask the name of your… most distinguished companion?”

Voldemort turned his head barely, speaking clearly enough for both to hear: “Miss Hermione Dagworth-Granger.”

Mrs Malfoy’s attention slid obsequiously to Hermione. “Miss Dagworth-Granger, what an honour to receive you. I do hope you both have a most wonderful evening.”

Voldemort gave no reply, offered not a shred of polite return, but turned slowly away and swept into the hall with Hermione firmly on his arm. He led her on with supreme confidence, not wasting a moment on courtesies. The grand doors of the ballroom opened before them. Inside, an extravagant spectacle awaited, worthy of Halloween itself: candles floated in the air within grotesque twisted chandeliers of black iron, slender pillars wrapped in black silk glimmered subtly, giving the place an air of lavish, mysterious darkness. The light was dim, warm orange flickering from dozens of artfully carved jack-o’-lanterns in antique style and magical lanterns that cast dancing shadows over the velvet-draped walls. The guests wore opulent, theatrical robes in black, blood-red, emerald, and midnight blue, masks glittering with gemstones or engraved with ornate silver. An orchestra played dark, elegant waltzes, while house-elves poured champagne and carried silver trays laden with delicate canapés. It was elegant, decadent, eerily refined — a Halloween Ball that more than lived up to its reputation.

Voldemort walked with her at his side into the ballroom, beginning a slow circuit. Almost at once they were surrounded by witches and wizards eager to approach, fawning in their greetings, bowing their heads, offering him exaggerated respect. He answered their words with that calculatedly charming mask, a small nod here, a short, piercing reply there, each striking precisely the right note. At times he looked almost friendly, but there was always something predatory in his eyes. Now and then Hermione was drawn into the exchanges when someone addressed her formally or offered her a compliment. Then she would smile politely and reply, but more often she stood silent at his side, studying him with growing fascination. It was extraordinary to watch him at work. How he wielded his charisma and words like weapons, how he gave just enough to leave them craving more, how he coiled them all around his finger. It felt like stepping into a living history book — her history. This was how he had built his power once. Not by fear alone, but by seduction. By charm. By masterful strategy. She could not help but be impressed. How he could enthral, manipulate, bend others almost without their noticing until they offered their loyalty of their own accord. He was an artist with words, almost poetic in his dark conviction. Here there was no crude murderer, but a man who knew how to make people want to follow him. She knew it was a path she could never walk herself, but in this moment she could only admire him. Admire, and shudder, for he was frighteningly good at it.

She listened closely as he engaged a magistrate from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in talk about proposals for harsher penalties on magical offences. Voldemort spoke calmly, with subtle persuasiveness, his voice smooth but laced with undertones. “Surely you see that harsher penalties only turn us into pawns of the Ministry. And all these new regulations? They don’t make us safer. They make magic smaller. Tamer. Less dangerous, yes — but also less creative. Less alive.” He issued no command, merely let suggestion slip into his words. He made it sound like reason. The magistrate hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yes, yes… perhaps you’re right. The Minister is always pushing it so far.” Voldemort’s smile was minimal, a calculating flicker in his eyes as he tapped his glass. “Precisely. A lapse in judgement that invites decay. I’m glad you see it clearly.” A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine as she watched him lure the man almost kindly to his point of view.

As they moved on together, his hand drifted slowly to her bare back. His fingers traced lightly over her skin, circling with just enough pressure to break her concentration. It was maddening how entirely it unsettled her, how she could barely register his conversations. He, meanwhile, remained perfectly composed, speaking smoothly and charmingly as though his touch meant nothing at all. But his hand did not leave her, even as they crossed the room. When she spotted Dolohov and Zoltan ahead and angled to greet them, his arm slid firmly about her waist. He drew her closer, his fingers pressing insistently at her side. The message was unmistakable: she was to stay at his side. For now, at least, she would not stray.

And as she moved beside him, she felt every eye in the room upon them. It gave her a strange, tingling sense of power. She felt invincible at his side — as though nothing and no one could touch her so long as he was there. She hated to admit it, but it was thrilling to feel how his presence made her important, as if she were borrowing a fragment of his power. It was seductive and dangerous all at once.

Meanwhile, the dance floor was slowly filling with stately, elegant couples gliding in circles across the black marble to the strains of the dark waltz. Voldemort stood behind her, his gaze sliding over the dancers as he spoke in a low voice. “Imagine us there. You in my arms, every eye on you, knowing exactly to whom you belong.” His hands slid to her hips, drawing her lightly back against him, his chest to her spine. His breath touched her neck, warm and tingling, and she felt gooseflesh rise across her skin. She tried to steady her breathing but felt her heart quicken. His fingers traced over the fabric at her hips, slow and possessive, as he continued in a murmur laced with dark amusement: “You’d look devastating in motion, you know. All that power wrapped up and offered to me for one dance.”

Hermione let a slow, challenging smile curl over her lips. “Lead the way then, Dark Lord.”

Voldemort stilled for just a fraction, before his mouth curved into a dark, satisfied grin. “Dark Lord? I rather like the way that sounds. Especially from your lips.” His voice was low and dangerous, his breath still at her ear, warm and perilous. He kept his hands on her hips for another lingering moment, his thumb circling over the soft fabric, before he turned her with a subtle, commanding motion until she faced him. Their eyes locked, brimming with tension and promise. Then his hand slid into hers and he led her slowly towards the dance floor, never breaking the gaze, a predator with its prey firmly in sight.

The music swelled as they reached the edge of the floor. Voldemort turned fully to her, his grip still on her hand, and set his other low against her back. She felt his fingers glide slowly over the bare skin, circling lightly, a subtle claim. He drew her closer, their bodies scarcely apart. Her heart thundered as his cool, iron control pressed against her own shivering unrest. He moved with almost lazy grace, but every step was absolute command, leading each turn, each motion, so she had nothing to do but follow.

His breath brushed her cheek as he spoke: “Relax. Tonight you move exactly how I want you to.”

She hated how weak her knees felt. His thumb stroked down her spine, just above the edge of her gown, and she could barely breathe. She tried to form some sharp retort but no words came as he spun her into a half turn and drew her straight back into him. She felt every taut muscle of his body pressed to hers. She could not escape. She did not want to. His eyes, half-lidded but fierce, stayed locked on her face as he murmured: “Look at them. Watching you. Wanting you. But you’re mine.” The words were soft but steeped in possession.

Her breath caught, her teeth closing over her lip as she gave in to his lead, her thoughts chaotic and aflame. Beneath the excitement, something darker coiled — fear. How could she dance like this with Voldemort? How could she be his? She did not want to want it. Images of her own time, her friends, guilt — Harry, Ron, everything she had fought for — surged through her, and she felt like a traitor. It was wrong. But nothing had ever felt so right as this: his gaze fixed on her, his hand on her skin. She knew she ought not to want what he offered. Yet the burn in her belly betrayed her, tugging at something she could not deny. Panic and longing rose together, tangled and consuming. She did not want him. She must not want him. But in this moment she could not deny it.

She tried to break free and whispered, “Yours tonight… perhaps.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and possessive. He pulled her tighter, his breath hot at her ear as he hissed, “I don’t share what belongs to me.” His hand pressed harder at her back, holding her just a fraction too firmly. His breath ghosted across her neck, leaving her skin tingling between fear and desire.

Panic surged. Forcing her voice steady, she said, “I need some air.”

She tore herself from his hold, breath quick, slipping away before he could stop her, hurrying through the crowd towards a side door.

Her heels struck sharply against the floor as she strode down the corridor, breathing as if she had been running. Her mind spun. Relief that she had pulled away. Relief to be free of his devouring eyes and hands. But anger too — anger that she had left, worse still, regret for leaving. Disgust that she could feel regret. She was torn, confused. How could she want him? How could she crave something so wrong? And yet no touch had ever set her aflame like his. She swallowed hard, her pulse still racing as she walked.

Then footsteps echoed behind her in the empty hall. Slow. Steady. Relentless. She turned — his gaze bore into hers, intense, predatory. She felt like prey. Her heart thudded as he closed the distance, dark eyes burning with possession and controlled fury.

She wavered, torn between fleeing and stepping towards him. To outrun his stride she would have to run — too dramatic, even for her. She was Hermione Granger, a Gryffindor, a war hero. She was brave. Reckless, perhaps. But she could face this.

She stopped, spine straight, defiant. When he reached her, he seized her hand at once, dragging her without a word through the nearest door. They stumbled into a narrow linen closet, and before she could register it, he had slammed the door shut and pressed her back against the wood with his body. His hands braced either side of her face, his eyes blazing red with anger and desire. “Never again tell me you’re not mine,” he hissed, his voice trembling with danger. His breath scorched her skin.

Hermione gasped, lust and fear surging together. “I can’t be yours,” she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of the need he ignited.

He leaned closer, his mouth almost brushing hers. “You already are.”

❦❦❦

His lips crashed against hers in a brutal, claiming kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t a kiss, it was an assault of need, of ownership, of desire sharpened to a blade’s edge. She whimpered into his mouth as his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to force her head back, exposing her throat in a vulnerable arch. She gasped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, his tongue sliding over hers with sinful precision. His growl rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against her ribs as he bit her lower lip, hard enough to make her moan, before soothing the sting with a wet, languorous sweep of his tongue.

He didn’t let her breathe, didn’t let her think. His teeth found her jaw, scraping lightly before biting at the delicate skin of her neck, leaving hot, possessive marks. She let out a choked sound, a desperate plea for something she couldn’t name, her fingers clawing at his robes. She felt every taut muscle under the dark fabric, the heat of his body pressing her against the door so firmly she couldn’t move. Couldn’t even try.

When she shifted, trying to get leverage, his hand snapped down to her thigh, fingers biting into the bare skin revealed by the slit in her gown. He yanked her leg up around his hip, forcing her open, closer, until she could feel him, hard and insistent, grinding against her core. A jolt of heat shot through her belly and she gasped against his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"Fuck," she breathed, voice cracking, but he swallowed the word with another feral kiss. His other hand cupped her face, thumb stroking possessively over her cheek before pressing into her lower lip. She sucked it in reflex, the obscene, wet sound making his eyes darken to blood-red slits.

“Mine,” he growled into her mouth. “Do you understand me? Mine.”

She tried to answer but it was a broken sound, half moan, half sob. He pulled back just enough to see her eyes, his own narrowed and blazing with triumph. He dipped his head again to her neck, biting harder this time, enough to bruise, to claim. She cried out and he licked the hurt gently, murmuring something dark and soothing that made her shiver.

Her mind was chaos. This was wrong. He was wrong. But nothing had ever felt this right. His scent—smoke and spicy and something sharp —filled her head. Her hips moved against him instinctively, rolling to find friction, shameless in her need. He chuckled low and dark, the sound vibrating through her ribs.

“That’s it,” he purred, voice like poisoned honey. “Look at you. Writhing for me. For the man you claim you hate.”

She shook her head weakly but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Say it," he demanded softly, dangerously. "Say you’re mine."

“I—I can’t,” she gasped, breath hot and ragged.

His eyes narrowed, cruel and hungry. "Wrong answer." He pushed harder, his hips pressing her even tighter against the door, the hard line of his erection grinding into her. She felt molten heat pooling between her legs, her vision swimming.

His hand slid higher up her thigh, under the edge of her gown, fingers tracing the line of her garter, making her shudder. She felt his smirk against her mouth when she whimpered, a high, embarrassing sound that seemed to echo in the tiny room.

Her leg tightened around his hip, pulling him in. She hated herself for it. Hated that she wanted him this badly. That she wanted him to take her right here, against this door, no matter who he was. No matter what he was.

He seemed to sense it, his smirk fading into something darker. He kissed her slower now, but with no less dominance, tongue sweeping possessively through her mouth. She felt like she was being devoured, remade in his image. His teeth dragged across her lower lip, leaving it swollen, aching.

He pulled back, eyes heavy-lidded, voice low and guttural. "You’re mine, Hermione. I’ll carve it into your fucking soul if I have to."

She shuddered, breathless, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. "Don’t—don’t talk like that."

He huffed a dark laugh, biting the side of her throat again. "I’ll talk however I fucking want."

Her head fell back, exposing more of her neck. He took advantage immediately, mouth latching onto her pulse, sucking hard enough to mark. She cried out, her leg tightening further around him. His hand gripped her thigh so hard she was sure it would bruise. But she didn’t care. She wanted it. Needed it.

His other hand slid up, wrapping around her throat lightly, thumb brushing her pulse. Not enough to choke. Just enough to claim. She felt the shiver of fear and excitement all at once. Her breath stuttered. His eyes burned.

“Say it,” he ordered again.

She closed her eyes. "Yours... tonight…"

He snarled, pressing his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling hot and uneven. "Not perhaps. Not tonight. Always. Mine."

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t lie. Couldn’t tell him no. So she kissed him instead, a broken, desperate thing, giving him the answer he wanted without saying it.

He accepted it with a groan, kissing her back hard, possessive, overwhelming. His fingers flexed on her thigh, on her throat. She felt every inch of him pressing her down, dominating her utterly. Her mind was gone. Her world narrowed to him: his mouth, his hands, his heat, his whispered promises of possession.

And she wanted it.

Merlin help her, she wanted all of it.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood before the mirror, barely recognising the woman staring back at her. Her carefully pinned hair had half tumbled down, unruly curls falling over flushed cheeks. Her lips were swollen, red from biting and kissing, and her neck…

Merlin, her neck was littered with dark marks. Bruises. Bites. She looked owned.

The thought sent a hot shiver racing through her spine, both thrilling and terrifying.

She raised a trembling hand to her throat, fingertips grazing the tender skin as memories of the linen closet flooded her. That kiss—no, those kisses—had changed everything. It hadn’t been gentle. It hadn’t been sweet. It had been claiming, consuming. It had felt so impossibly right that her heart clenched just remembering it. She’d come alive in his arms, like every nerve ending in her body had woken up just for him.

She could still feel his hands on her skin, the bite of his fingers on her thigh, the cruel possessiveness in his voice. Mine. He’d said it so many times, like a brand burned onto her very soul. And she wanted it. Merlin, she wanted it so badly she felt sick with it. She wanted him. Not just physically, but completely. She wanted to belong to him, to surrender, to be his.

The realisation shook her to the core. She couldn’t lie to herself anymore. She wanted Voldemort. More than wanted—she craved him. She wanted to give herself to him entirely, body and soul. But her mind rebelled at the thought.

She hadn’t lied to him in that closet. She couldn’t be his. How could she ever give herself to someone like him? Someone who had caused so much pain, who would cause even more? How could she, Hermione Granger, war hero, champion of the innocent, ever justify giving herself to the Dark Lord?

But her heart… her traitorous heart whispered different truths. Her heart remembered the heat of his body, the rough silk of his voice, the way he made her feel like the only person in the world. The way he saw her. The way he wanted her. And that want was intoxicating. It was dangerous. Addictive.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, lost in the memory of his mouth devouring hers, his tongue conquering, tasting, branding her. How his hands had mapped her body like it was his territory. How she’d given in. How she’d liked giving in. It changed everything. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She wanted to explore that fire, that dark connection that made her feel more alive than anything else ever had. How could she walk away from this now? How could she live knowing this kind of passion existed and deny herself it forever?

But she knew she had to. She had to. Didn’t she? How could she trust herself not to lose everything she’d ever fought for? How could she give him all of her when she carried so many secrets? When she knew what he would become? When she knew the destruction he would unleash? She couldn’t walk that path with him. She couldn’t let herself be consumed by that darkness.

Even if part of her wanted nothing more. Even if part of her whispered that maybe, just maybe, she deserved to choose something for herself for once. She had given everything in her first life to the right side. She had fought, suffered, sacrificed. Why couldn’t she choose differently now? Why couldn’t she choose passion, fire, him?

Her heart beat painfully at the thought. She pressed her palm flat against the glass, staring into her own wild, lost eyes. She didn’t have answers. All she had was the memory of his lips on hers, his voice in her ear, the way he made her feel. And the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same.

Hermione still stared at her reflection, her breath slowly steadying after the storm in her head. Voldemort had left her in the linen closet, granting her just enough space to breathe, though his eyes had held her captive with undeniable hunger. He had told her he had matters to attend to. The message had been clear, no room for argument. He had ordered her to join Zoltan, so that he would know she was safe. Hermione had had to bite her tongue to stop herself from exploding; she had wanted to protest his controlling commands. Yet deep down she knew she would have gone to Zoltan anyway, order or not. So she had kept her mouth shut. Before leaving, he had pressed one last merciless kiss to her lips, his hands in her hair, his teeth at her lip. It had left her empty and yet far too full. Her heart had still been hammering when he departed, leaving her alone with her thoughts and racing pulse. Only once she was certain he had gone had she staggered, unsteady on her feet, towards a powder room. She had desperately needed time to breathe, to collect herself.

Now, staring at her reflection in the mirror, she knew it had been necessary. She picked up her wand, moving it slowly across her skin, murmuring charms that pinned her hair neatly again, restored her lips to their normal shape, erased the flush from her cheeks, and vanished the bruises and bites. Only when she reached her thighs did she falter. Her gown was split high, and beneath the velvet the imprints of his fingers were visible, dark patches on her skin. She left them. Because she wanted to remember. Because she wanted to feel that it had truly happened. And somewhere, no matter how insane it was, because it excited her.

Hermione left the powder room and made her way back to the ballroom, where the celebration was still in full swing. Couples danced gracefully across the floor, soft light glittering off their masks and jewels. Groups stood laughing and drinking, boasting and mocking without shame. Voldemort was nowhere to be seen—both a relief and a disappointment—but her gaze soon caught Zoltan and Dolohov at the side of the room. Zoltan waved enthusiastically with a large champagne bottle in hand, nearly losing his balance when he spotted her. "

Hermione, finally!" he called, his grin wide and genuine.

Dolohov looked up from the massive platter of hors d’oeuvres he had shamelessly settled on his lap—clearly pilfered from a house-elf—and arched a mocking brow. "Ah, look who finally decided we're worth gracing with her presence," he drawled in his usual sardonic tone, his grin as sharp as ever.

Hermione arched a brow and shot him a dry look. "Well, someone has to make you two look respectable." She stepped closer and, without hesitation, snatched the champagne bottle from Zoltan’s hands. "Honestly, you lot are hopeless," she added before taking an unapologetically large swig straight from the bottle.

"Takes one to know one," Dolohov laughed with a wink in her direction. Hermione let out a genuine laugh and shook her head. "So what have you two been up to?" she asked as she dropped onto the sofa beside him.

Zoltan grinned wickedly. "We were betting, yes? On which of these, ah, elegant wankers would fall over their own robes. I lose one galleon when that pompous one in emerald, he somehow manage to stand back up at last moment."

Dolohov snorted. "Tragic, really. I was counting on the duchess of obnoxious purple to faint from the weight of her own jewellery."

Hermione laughed at their confessions and threw in her own wager for the next round. Soon all three of them were completely absorbed in the game. Before she knew it, Hermione had already lost three galleons. They grew increasingly inventive: who would be the first to spill wine on themselves? Who would tread on someone else’s cloak? Who would get so drunk they’d be thrown out of the manor? Dolohov, with his usual sarcasm, suggested betting on who would burst into tears first. Zoltan insisted they award points for the most ridiculous compliment given to Abraxas Malfoy. Hermione nearly doubled over with laughter.

She was enjoying herself thoroughly until her eyes suddenly caught on a group of women moving purposefully in her direction. Mrs Malfoy led the way, her posture smooth and elegant but her eyes calculating, followed by Druella Black and an unfamiliar woman with a sharp nose and an opulently adorned veil. All three glittered with priceless jewels, their expressions cold and aristocratic.

"Go," Dolohov muttered beside her, giving her a shove. "Don’t think they’re here for me."

Hermione groaned softly, rolled her eyes, and rose reluctantly to her feet. She smoothed her gown and walked towards the women, arranging her features into a diplomatic smile.

"Miss Dagworth-Granger, what an absolute delight to secure a moment of your time," Mrs Malfoy drawled with her eternally polished smile. Her tone dripped with honey and poison all at once.

"I do so want to introduce you to my closest friends. Druella Black and Petronella Parkinson."

"Nelly, if you please," Mrs Parkinson corrected with a small, stiff smile. Hermione studied her closely and suddenly recognised the same narrow eyes and pointed chin as Pansy Parkinson—a memory she would rather not dwell on.

Druella Black inclined her head slightly, her mouth pulled into a thin smile. "Oh yes, Miss Dagworth-Granger. We’ve actually met before. Such a pleasure to see you again." Her voice was sweet but hollow, the sort of sycophancy aristocratic women had perfected into an art form.

Hermione kept her face neutral, nodded politely, and allowed her gaze to flick briefly over the glittering jewels. Her fingers itched to snatch the champagne bottle back up.

She smiled diplomatically. "The pleasure is mine," she said in her most polite tone.

Mrs Malfoy gave the faintest approving nod. "And tell me, Miss Dagworth-Granger, how are you finding the ball thus far?" she asked.

Hermione held her back straight and betrayed no trace of irritation. "It is quite enchanting," she replied smoothly. "And the company is truly delightful."

"Fantastic," purred Mrs Malfoy with that frozen, perfect smile. "We are, of course, terribly particular about the invitations—one does try to ensure the highest calibre of company, you understand. It’s actually quite funny," she added with a tinkle of false amusement, "me, Druella and Nelly were just discussing how we’ve known everyone in this room for years and years." Her smile sharpened, just a hint of teeth showing. "Which makes it so very... interesting, you see, that you are rather new to us all. In fact, I dare say you’re new to almost everyone here. There’s been such a... buzz, wondering about the beautiful young lady on Lord Voldemort’s arm."

Hermione felt the hair on her arms prickle, forcing herself to keep her expression pleasant. She could tell perfectly well they were fishing, watching for any crack in her composure. And they smelled blood in the water.

Her smile remained cool as she spoke with polished courtesy, though her gaze grew just a shade harder. "Well, I’m sure it’s only natural to be curious. New faces do tend to invite a bit of interest. But I’m afraid there’s nothing terribly scandalous to share." She let her tone dip subtly, almost honeyed. "Of course, if anyone has questions, I’m more than happy to answer them directly. Saves everyone the trouble of whispering behind fans, don’t you think?"

Mrs Malfoy’s eyes tightened ever so slightly, clearly displeased with Hermione’s response, though she recovered quickly and bestowed another elegant smile. Druella Black, however, wasted no time in seizing her chance. "What, may I ask, was your Hogwarts house then?" she drawled, her voice dripping with polite curiosity.

Hermione stayed calm. "I was homeschooled," she answered smoothly.

All three women looked visibly surprised. Mrs Parkinson let out a startled laugh. "Homeschooled? How very... unusual."

Mrs Malfoy tilted her head subtly. "Indeed. And tell me, dear, how did you come to make Lord Voldemort’s acquaintance?"

Hermione betrayed no emotion. "Dolohov introduced us," she said vaguely.

Mrs Malfoy’s eyes gleamed with amused sharpness. "Ah. And how do you know Dolohov, might I ask?"

Hermione smiled thinly. "We share some common interests."

Druella Black leaned forward just a fraction too much. "You know, we haven’t heard much about the Dagworth-Grangers in quite some time. So curious... how come?"

Hermione lifted her shoulders lightly in a careless shrug and smiled sickly sweet in return. "Perhaps we’re simply not the sort of company you deem ‘highest calibre.’"

Mrs Malfoy’s eyes narrowed a fraction, a trace of impatience flickering through her perfectly fixed smile before she mastered herself once more, her voice returning to velvet. She tapped her fingers lightly against her fan, impatience betraying itself in the smallest gesture. Her smile grew falsely friendly again. "And tell me, Miss Dagworth-Granger, can we expect to see you at more of our little gatherings?"

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but suddenly felt her magic flare—not in warning, but in recognition. That strange, undeniable magnetic pull that always ignited whenever he was near, a kind of awareness that stirred her own magic awake. She noticed how all three women straightened almost unnaturally, their eyes wide and attentive, smiles suddenly syrupy with false civility. It was obvious they had spotted someone approaching behind her. She didn’t even need to turn to know who it must be.

A hand pressed against her bare back, warm and unmistakably possessive. Voldemort had appeared at her side, his presence ice-cold and commanding.

"Yes, you may indeed expect her with me next time," his low, implacable voice told Mrs Malfoy. “She’s mine.”

The three women’s eyes widened in mild shock, their gazes darting at once to Hermione’s hand, where no engagement ring glittered.

Mrs Malfoy recovered in an instant, her smile once more velvet-smooth. "But of course, my Lord. We would be simply delighted to welcome Miss Dagworth-Granger again."

Druella Black chimed in at once, her voice syrupy. "Oh yes, I simply can’t wait to get to know you better, Miss Dagworth-Granger." Mrs Parkinson nodded quickly in agreement, her smile just a shade too wide.

The trio dipped in a small, almost deferential bow towards Voldemort before hastening away. Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and leaned briefly into him, relieved to have escaped the talons of those three vultures.

Voldemort’s fingers slid slowly across her bare back, his cold yet electric touch instantly raising gooseflesh. Hermione’s thoughts raced back to earlier that evening, to their kiss in the linen closet, the raw possession in his voice and the burning hunger in his eyes. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest as the fire reignited low in her belly. Voldemort seemed to sense the effect he had on her all too well; his breathing quickened ever so slightly and his voice dropped, hoarse with restrained tension, as he said: "We’re leaving."

Hermione didn’t even have the chance to bid Zoltan and Dolohov farewell. Voldemort steered her straight through the hall, his hand firm on her nape, unmistakably claiming her. She felt his thumb stroke lightly along her skin, just enough to drag back the memory of their kiss and quicken her pulse. His presence was dominant, his stance a declaration to everyone: she was his. Guests stepped aside hastily as he led her across the ballroom to the fireplace where they had first arrived. The green Floo flames roared to life and, a moment later, they stood once more in Keenbridge Castle.

Before she could say anything, she was pulled against him with brutal certainty, his hungry mouth crashing onto hers as he kissed her like he meant to claim her anew. She moaned into his mouth, surrendering for a moment to the kiss, her hands clutching at his robes.

But then the alarm bells began to ring in her head again. The voice that told her this was wrong, that she had to stop. And above all she heard his voice echoing in her mind: You’re mine. It felt like a promise and a curse all at once.

With effort, she tore her mouth from his. She tried to create space, but his hands gripped her hips possessively, pulling her back in. He was already bending forward to kiss her again.

“Wait, I—” she stammered, breathless, her wide eyes darting into his. His gaze narrowed, dark and blazing with unmasked lust, but also sharp.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered, flustered.

He stared at her, his chest heaving, his eyes drilling into her. His entire stance radiated frustration, anger, desire. But slowly he released her. He took a step back and slipped his hands into his pockets, but it was a pose stripped of ease—his shoulders were rigid, his jaw tight.

“Why not?” he bit out, his voice low and hissing.

Hermione swallowed and searched for words, her head spinning with emotion. “Because… because everything is wrong,” she began hoarsely. “Because you betrayed me. Because you blackmailed me into living here. Because you expect me to give you everything and you give me nothing in return!”

His eyes flickered, his head tilting slowly as though he meant to read her to the very depths. The silence between them was heavy, thick with everything left unsaid.

Voldemort gave a soft, disdainful sound, his gaze narrowing, dark, his nostrils flaring with barely contained anger and something perilously close to hurt. He made no effort to hide his dominance. “What do you want then?” he asked, his voice low, threatening, every syllable precise but laden with his impatience and dark hunger.

Hermione swallowed, her heart pounding. She tried to marshal her thoughts. What did she even want? She wanted him—that much she knew. But the problem was, she had nothing of him. She hardly knew him. Yes, she knew the history, the horrors, the monster he became. She knew the stories through Harry and Dumbledore, but all of that was hearsay. Never from him. He didn’t even know how much she knew. And what she wanted was for him to tell her. To trust her. She wanted him to give her his name. To show her who he truly was. She didn’t want a title, a mask, a Dark Lord. She wanted the man. She drew a deep breath, her voice almost breaking. “I—I want… I want to know you,” she whispered at last. “I want to know who you are. I want to know about your family—” His eyes blazed at that, the tension between them thickening, searing. “I want to know your name.”

His lips curled in a sneer. “You already know my name.” His voice was cold, biting.

Hermione shook her head. Her eyes glistened but she refused to let the tears fall. “Your real name. Not the title you’ve forced your followers to use.”

Voldemort growled, his hands clenching into fists in his pockets, his knuckles white. “I cannot give you the name you seek. I buried that name. It is dead.”

Hermione felt a wave of grief and anger surge through her. She straightened, lifting her chin in pride even though her hands trembled. “Then I can’t be yours.” Her voice was soft but resolute. She gestured between them, her fingers trembling. “This thing between us… it’s dangerous. It will consume us both. I need to protect myself. And as long as you’re not ready to meet me halfway, I can’t give you what you want.”

Voldemort continued to stare at her for several long seconds, his eyes flickering with fury and something raw that looked very much like pain. His lips curved into a dangerous, cold smile. “If you think distance will save you from me, you are mistaken,” he drawled, dark and threatening, his voice low and deadly soft. “You’ll burn for me, Hermione. Whether you want to or not.” His eyes lingered on hers a fraction too long, searing with dark possession, before he finally turned away. His cloak flared as he swept from the room without another word, leaving her behind with her pounding heart, tangled desires and racing thoughts.

In the days that followed, Hermione saw little of Voldemort. He was often gone before she sat down to breakfast, and in the evenings he did not seek her out in the library. Hermione didn’t know whether he was playing some sort of reverse psychological game, withdrawing to draw her to him—but it was working. Her thoughts were constantly with him. A few days after the ball she had even risen early on purpose in hopes of finding him, only to discover with frustration that he had already left. She felt ridiculous, like a lovesick schoolgirl wandering the house in search of a glimpse of him. So she resolved to avoid the castle altogether.

In the mornings she brewed her potions at the cottage, and after lunch she invariably left for Dolohov’s house, where she and Zoltan tested which runes stood the greatest chance of success. Hermione still kept well clear of what went on in the barn. Zoltan and Dolohov had assured her that the test subjects were no longer kept in cages, but in private rooms with beds. They were also kept under constant sedation, so no one need suffer needlessly, and there was informed consent. Dolohov recruited them in Knockturn Alley and other such dens across Europe, promising that the experiment might grant them protection or added power—though there was a considerable chance they would not survive the process.

Hermione had been shocked by how many witches and wizards were nevertheless willing to take part. Apparently, the promise of power or safety was tempting enough for them to risk it. Or perhaps they were simply arrogant enough to believe they would survive. Hadn’t she been just as stubborn and reckless when she had her runes carved into her own flesh? Whatever the case, the new set-up of the experiments gave her a measure of reassurance—but she tried not to dwell on it, for fear of drowning in her own guilt.

The days at Dolohov’s house grew increasingly familiar. Even the awkward reunion with Beatrice could not diminish that. The first time Hermione had found Beatrice seated at the kitchen table beside Zoltan, the silence had been almost unbearable. Beatrice had fixed her with a sharp stare without saying a word, until Hermione broke it.

“Good to see you again, Beatrice,” Hermione murmured politely.

“I can’t say the same,” Beatrice replied coolly.

Hermione sighed softly. “I suppose I owe you an apology for last time.”

Beatrice raised a brow. “Go on then.”

Hermione swallowed. “I’m sorry. Truly. It won’t happen again.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes to slits, then tugged the corners of her mouth down in something that was not a smile. “I agree. Because you’re still not welcome at my shop.” Hermione had given an awkward laugh, but Beatrice had lifted her hand. “But… that doesn’t mean we can’t work together here.” Hermione had smiled in relief and nodded. It was something.

Thankfully, Beatrice was not there often. She came only to ink the tattoos and left again without wasting many words. She rarely exchanged a word with Hermione, and Hermione found she didn’t mind at all.

۞

On a rainy morning Hermione found herself at the Hogsmeade Post Office to collect her weekly letter from Thea, Pippin and Tink. The room was filled with chatter and the muffled sounds of hundreds of owls peering down from colour‑coded shelves. Large grey specimens for long‑distance deliveries blinked lazily, while tiny scops owls hopped nervously for local post. The air smelled of straw and parchment, and the clerks slid letters across ink‑stained counters. It was a familiar chaos where she always had to wait her turn, but it gave her a small sense of home.

After collecting her letter, she left the post office and followed her usual route through Hogsmeade towards the Three Broomsticks. Since moving in with Voldemort she had made a habit of showing her face here, hoping that the Mercury would pick up her trail there rather than searching near Thea, Pippin and Tink. Voldemort knew nothing of this weekly outing. Having noticed that he sent Dolohov after her like a bloodhound whenever she left Keenbridge Castle, she had grown extra cautious. Both he and Franky remained unaware of her trips to the wizarding village full of memories.

Hogsmeade had traded its Halloween decorations for Christmas cheer: pine wreaths with red bows hung from the lampposts, shop windows were adorned with snow‑covered miniatures and enchanted lights twinkling softly like frost flowers. The air smelled of cinnamon and resin. Hermione enjoyed strolling through the familiar streets, especially on weekends when Hogwarts students filled them with scarves and cloaks, completing the nostalgia. But today the wet, grey Saturday morning was quiet. Only her footsteps echoed on the glistening cobblestones as her breath clouded in the cold air.

She pushed open the door of the Three Broomsticks and stepped inside, where it was cosily warm compared to the chill outside. It was quiet, with a handful of guests lingering over breakfast, cutlery tapping on plates and low conversations drifting above the crackle of the fire. The smell of fried eggs and bacon hung invitingly in the air. Hermione pulled off her damp cloak and hung it on the rack before heading to her favourite armchair by the window. Madam Rosmerta soon approached, her blonde hair loose and shining, her youthful face still surprisingly fresh. Hermione found it absurd to think that this Rosmerta looked barely older than herself. In a brief earlier conversation Rosmerta had told her she had inherited the Inn after the sudden death of her father.

Hermione ordered a coffee and sank into the chair. When the steaming cup was placed on the table beside her, she unfolded her letter and began to read.

Dear Hermione,

How wonderful to hear about that Halloween ball of yours – it sounds truly magical. I’m so glad you had such a lovely evening, even if I wasn’t there to see it with my own eyes. I daresay you were the most beautifully dressed of them all.

We haven’t been idle here either. The vegetable garden has been readied for winter; we covered the beds with straw and sowed some hardy herbs. It’s hard work but it keeps us warm. I’ve set aside my crochet for the moment – I’m knitting in earnest now. Pippin is so patient and tries on all my creations, even if some are still a bit crooked. I’m almost finished with a hat and matching scarf, and as soon as they’re done I’ll of course send them on to you.

I still laugh when I think of last year, when I tried to teach you to knit and your masterpieces… well, you must remember those shapeless things yourself! I do hope everything is going well with you. By the way, I picked up a Pepper‑Up Potion at Slug & Jiggers. They told me it was the last in stock, so it’s clearly in high demand. Hardly surprising at this time of year. I’m quite convinced it was your recipe, because it was of exceptional quality.

Take good care of yourself, sweetheart.

Love,

Pippin, Tink and Thea

Smiling, Hermione looked down at the letter. A warmth spread through her and for a moment she closed her eyes, savouring the thought that they had not forgotten her. But soon the ache of longing welled up, sharp and uncomfortable. She thought of Thea, Pippin and Tink, and how far away they were – not just in distance, but in the safe world they had promised one another. She chuckled softly as she thought of her own so‑called knitting “talents”. She had once managed to convince herself and Thea that she was rather good at it. After all, she had spent an entire year knitting socks to free house‑elves in her fourth year, but even she could now admit it had been a hopeless endeavour.

Around this time last year they had decorated the entire house for Christmas: garlands of pine, magically dancing lights, and fragrant cinnamon bread. Hermione wondered whether Voldemort would do anything about Christmas decorations at Keenbridge Castle, though it was hard to imagine. Perhaps Franky would like the idea; he had worked at Hogwarts, after all. She would bring it up with him. She loved Christmas.

She drew a deep breath, shook off the thoughts, and pulled a piece of parchment from her bag. She began writing her reply to Thea and the elves.

When she had carefully sealed the letter and set it aside, her eyes fell on the staircase. A dark‑haired man was descending, casually pulling Rosmerta to him and planting a strikingly passionate kiss on her mouth. Rosmerta laughed and pushed him away, her cheeks flushed bright red. Hermione’s lips curved at the sight, but only for a second before her breath caught. It wasn’t just any dark‑haired man – it was Alphard Black.

Without thinking, she lifted her hand and waved. Alphard frowned in her direction and approached with a pensive expression. The way he came closer made it clear: he didn’t recognise her. “Do I know you?” he asked curiously when he stood before her. It struck her like a blow: he only knew her as Rhiannon – not as she sat here now, unmasked, with her own loose curls and simple clothes. She was barefaced.

“Did the explosion in the Spellyard damage your memory?” Hermione teased, one brow arched challengingly.

Alphard blinked, his eyes widening. “Rhiannon?!” he exclaimed incredulously, before bursting into laughter. “I can’t believe you actually exist in the real world.”

Hermione smiled dryly. “It’s Hermione. And yes, not just a figment of your imagination.”

Alphard dropped into the armchair beside her and grinned broadly, letting his gaze roam over her with open boldness.

“Bloody brilliant,” Alphard said with a crooked smile. “Good to see you’re still in one piece. Who were those guys? And what did they want with you?”

Hermione shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “No idea. I blacked out pretty soon and when I woke up no one could tell me anything.”

Alphard grinned dangerously. “Liar. But it’s all right. I won’t push you if you don’t want to tell me.”

Hermione felt her cheeks warm and was relieved when Alphard’s attention was drawn away by Rosmerta, who was clearing a table. Her gaze caught on Rosmerta’s long blonde hair and suddenly the penny dropped.

“No way,” Hermione said in astonishment. “Rosmerta... Rosmerta is the blonde witch? The one with the silver mask?” She couldn’t believe it had taken her so long to make the connection.

Alphard turned his head back to her, grinning broadly. “I know. Great, isn’t she?”

Hermione laughed softly. “Good for you, Alphard.”

They chatted for a while about the Spellyard and the restoration, until Alphard’s expression suddenly grew serious.

“Wait. I totally forgot—did you hear about Elric?”

Hermione’s brows knitted together. “What about Elric?” she asked, a sinking feeling knotting her stomach.

Alphard swore softly. “Shite. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Elric... he’s dead.”

Hermione froze. Her breath caught and her fingers gripped the armrest. It felt as though the world had dropped out from beneath her. Tears welled in her eyes but didn’t fall. She swallowed heavily, her throat burning. Elric. Dead. The words echoed in her head, hollow and unreal, as a wave of grief crashed over her.

Though he had always known her as Rhiannon, her alias, the loss felt painfully personal. Elric had always been there for her. He had been her safe point of contact in the Spellyard, someone who never judged her but understood. He had given her space and never pushed her when she didn’t want to talk. He had been a friend, even if she had never spoken the words aloud. The thought that he was gone, that she would never again see him to check in or hear him crack a dry joke, made her heart ache. She drew in a deep breath and brushed quickly at her eyes before any tears could fall.

“How?” she asked hoarsely.

“A quarrel in Knockturn Alley that got out of hand, from what I heard,” Alphard said grimly.

Hermione stared at him, horrified. “Why would someone attack Elric? I can’t imagine having a problem with anyone — he was always so... so non‑violent.”

Alphard gave her a thoughtful look. "Then you didn’t know Elric very well," he said gently.

"What do you mean?"

Alphard shifted uncomfortably. "Well... Elric wasn’t just a bartender at the Spellyard. Obviously, he had another job. He worked with Selwyn on some shady business. Smuggling Runespoor eggs, poaching unicorn horns and blood. Last I heard, they were trafficking Veela."

Hermione’s stomach lurched. The words struck her like a blow—so unexpected, so appalling that she felt momentarily dizzy. Smuggling, poaching, trafficking. Elric. She could not reconcile it. The Elric she knew was gentle, loyal, always kind. Someone who left her be when she needed space, who handed her a drink without questions. She could not imagine him ever being involved in something as vile as the trade in living beings. It was revolting. It felt as if the ground had been ripped from under her. As if she were suddenly looking at a stranger. Everything she thought she knew about him was shaken.

And if Elric had indeed involved himself in such dark dealings, it was not unthinkable that he had crossed paths with the wrong person. Perhaps he had witnessed something he should not have seen, or offended someone who tolerated no opposition. As terrible as it was to consider, it might be that Elric had partly brought about his own end. The thought made her stomach twist again, this time with disgust and disillusionment.

And then she thought of Voldemort.

He had never hidden his disdain for Elric. More than once he had hinted that he wanted nothing to do with the barman. But what reason would he have had to kill Elric? Elric had no dealings with his followers, stood outside any power structure that mattered to him. He was no threat. No obstacle. Why then?

Hermione shook her head, as if to physically banish the thought. No. It could not have been Voldemort. Could it?

A wave of unease swept through her. She did not want to face this possibility. She did not want to confront the idea that he was capable of such a thing all over again. She told herself it had been Elric’s own dealings. That he had gone too deep into a world where he never truly belonged. But it did not help. The doubt remained.

When Hermione left the Three Broomsticks a little later, she drew the damp air deep into her lungs. She apparated straight to the spot outside Keenbridge Castle from which she could walk back.

As she made her way along the gravel path, her boots crunching into the pebbles, a battle raged in her chest. Grief for the sudden death of someone she had considered a friend. Elric, who had always allowed her to be herself, who had never passed judgement. But at the same time, revulsion. At what she had just learned about him. It could hardly be true. Smuggling. Poaching. Trafficking Veela. It didn’t fit the man who understood her dry humour and poured her another glass when she needed it.

And again and again that voice, that single nagging whisper: had Voldemort had something to do with it after all? She didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want to investigate. So she clung to the story Alphard had told her. It had to have been Elric’s own dark dealings that landed him in trouble. It had to be.

But the doubt... it gnawed at her like a stone in her shoe.

Once back at the castle she stepped into the entrance hall and came to an abrupt halt. Voldemort was pacing restlessly, his movements sharp and tense. His whole posture radiated contained fury: his hands clenched now and then into fists, his gaze dark and flashing, his strides almost impatient. It was as though he were on the verge of snapping.

Hermione felt a stab of surprise. She had not expected him to be waiting for her like this, a predator caged too long. There was something menacing in his movements, and she realised her heartbeat quickened—not only from the emotions still roiling inside her, but also from a faint sense of caution.

"You left," he said icily calm, every word honed like glass as his eyes locked on hers. His voice remained low and controlled, but threatening, his gaze deadly cool. "Without an escort. You left and I didn’t know where you were. What if the Mercury had found you?" His words were spat out, his stare fierce and demanding. He stepped closer, his shoulders taut with tension. "I already told you, Hermione. If your safety is threatened—even by yourself—I will not hesitate to make the necessary choices to keep you safe. Don’t let me make you a prisoner." His eyes burned into hers, cold and blazing all at once, every muscle in his face tight with anger and something that looked perilously like fear.

Hermione felt her indignation flare, like a flame suddenly given oxygen. How dared he speak to her like that? As though she were a child misbehaving. The control in his voice, the way he swallowed her words as though she were his property—it made her fury churn. She clenched her fists. She had come here distraught, searching for answers, and this was what she received? A tirade about escorts and forbidden ground? She was no possession. She was no pawn. And she was certainly no prisoner.

"Don’t start with me," Hermione snapped back, her eyes blazing. "We agreed I go and come as I please. So guess what, I did just that." Her voice trembled slightly with anger and grief.

"You know I want eyes on you every moment you’re out of my sight."

"I don’t care what you want," Hermione shot back, the tears she had been holding in since Alphard’s news finally pricking free. "I can’t deal with you right now."

Voldemort looked at her sharply, but it was not gentle concern that emanated from him. There was something obsessive in his gaze, something impatient, as though he loathed having no control over what she felt or thought. His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, his voice low and compelling: "What happened, Hermione? Who hurt you? Tell me—and I will make them regret it."

"Nobody hurt me," Hermione sobbed. "I just—I just heard my friend is dead. Elric."

Voldemort stiffened, his eyes narrowing, but something unfathomable flickered there. His face remained impassive, a mask, not a single muscle betraying that he knew more than she. When he spoke, his voice was icy, controlled. "The bartender?" he asked slowly.

"Yes, the bartender."

"How?" Voldemort asked, the very same question she had earlier put to Alphard.

"I’m not sure," Hermione answered, her voice hoarse with emotion. "Apparently, it was a fight in Knockturn Alley that went badly wrong."

His eyes remained fixed on her, probing, calculating—but not a single sign betrayed that he knew more than he admitted. And somewhere, very cautiously, she began to believe it. That he truly had nothing to do with this. His reaction seemed sincere, controlled, even distant—not devoid of interest, but not coloured by hidden knowledge either. The thought brought no real relief, only confusion. She wanted to hate him, to blame him, but it became harder when she looked at him like this. Perhaps, she told herself, this was something he truly had no part in.

Voldemort stepped towards her and before she knew it he pulled her against him. His arms closed around her, firm and protective. She surrendered completely, burying her face against his chest as soft sobs escaped her. It felt unfairly good to be there, to be held by the man she both feared and desired. His scent, his warmth—it was confusingly comforting and addictive. For a moment she felt safe again.

When her shoulders no longer shook and her breathing had steadied into a trembling calm, he slowly released her. His fingers gripped her face and tilted it up so she was forced to look at him. With his thumb he gently brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I am sorry about your friend,” he said quietly, without true emotion. He bent forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Hermione melted briefly at that unexpected tender gesture. But when their eyes met again, his expression shifted. His gaze turned sharp, possessive. “The next time you leave without an escort... will be the last time you leave this castle without my permission.” His voice was soft but unmistakably threatening, a promise of control. It was sinister, yet devilishly enticing. He let her go slowly and his mouth curved into a thin, cool smile.

“Now go pack a bag. We’re going to Romania.”

Chapter Text

Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around her as she appeared on the path before an imposing, dark manor in Transylvania. It was November, and the storm drove autumn leaves into spirals across the cobblestones. The façade was of dark grey stone, with gothic arches and tall leaded windows in which a soft light glowed. Ornate gargoyles and pointed tracery stood out sharply against the restless, clouded sky. Iron gates framed the grounds, and along the gravel path bare, black-glossed trees stood like sentinels. The house radiated not decay, but ancestral pride and threatening elegance—a pure-blood residence with a centuries-old history. The wind howled along the towers, lashing rain in slanted streaks against the doors, while Hermione watched her breath warm in the cold as she braced herself to enter.

Beside her stood Voldemort, wrapped in a heavy black cloak that billowed in the gale like wings of smoke. He still held the copper soup ladle in his hand—the portkey that had brought them here. Rain streamed down the hood that obscured part of his face, but his eyes glittered dangerously in the scarce light of the windows.

Hermione swallowed hard as she took in the manor. Her thoughts drifted back to the moment when they had still been in England. Once again, she had argued fiercely with him, reminding him that he was not her master and could not decide what she did. Voldemort had coolly explained that he had business in Eastern Europe and would not leave her unprotected in England, not with the Mercury on her trail—especially after she had just slipped away without an escort, leaving him unwilling to trust it would not happen again. She had snapped that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—but he had refused to take the risk. Only when he told her they would be staying with Zoltan’s family, and that Zoltan himself would be present, had her curiosity won out over her principles. She hated that he was once again deciding the course of her life, but she could not deny that the prospect of meeting Zoltan’s family intrigued her.

Guilt gnawed at her—that her curiosity about Zoltan and his family had triumphed over her principles, that she had agreed to travel with Voldemort when he insisted she should not remain in England. That he thought he had to protect her from the Mercury—as if she could not manage that herself. The words she had snapped at him still burned: that he was not her master.

And yet, despite everything, he had decided. And she had said yes.

Meanwhile, something else twisted in her chest, rawer and deeper. She thought of Elric, his death still so fresh and painful that every breath scraped along an open wound. The grief cut deeper than she had expected. She longed to know what had truly happened to him. Whether he had family now mourning him. Whether someone had found his body. Whether it had been quick. The questions kept piling up, and it gnawed at her that she had no answers.

And on top of that was the confusion. The shock of the darker side of Elric’s life—if it was truly as it seemed—stood in harsh contrast to the man she had known. She no longer knew if she could trust him, even in memory. And still, it hurt. She had cared for him.

She had decided that after their trip to Romania she would investigate. She wanted to know what had truly happened. She realised she could not let it rest until she had more answers. She wanted to understand, but above all she wanted to silence the voice that kept whispering that Voldemort might have had a hand in it. She needed to know. And so she would search. Until that voice fell silent—or proved her right.

Without a word Voldemort began to walk. His hand rested lightly on her back, not pushing, but leaving no room for contradiction. Hermione felt his presence like a shadow moving with her, powerful and untouchable. Together they walked up the gravel path, braving the storm, leaves whirling around their feet.

When they were almost at the front doors, the heavy doors swung open with a sonorous creak. There stood Zoltan. His dark hair gleamed in the flickering light of the hall, his eyes sparkled, and his voice was warm and exuberant:

"My friends! Bun venit!"

They climbed the three stone steps to the entrance, water dripping from their cloaks. Voldemort greeted Zoltan with a short, measured handshake—not distant, but carrying the undertone of mutual respect. Zoltan immediately turned to Hermione, clasped her hands, and with charm and conviction pressed a kiss to each cheek.

Hermione felt Voldemort’s hand subtly tighten against her back, and when she glanced sideways she saw his gaze following the scene with icy disapproval.

She stepped across the threshold, letting her eyes roam the hall.

The manor’s interior reflected its exterior: rich, old, and meticulously maintained. The hall was lofty and vaulted, with dark wood panelling climbing halfway up the walls and, above that, velvet tapestries in deep purple depicting ancient spells and coats of arms. Heavy chandeliers hung from the ceiling, dozens of floating candles shedding warm golden light across the marble floor. The staircase at the far side divided elegantly into two arms, their iron balustrades wrought in the shapes of coiling snakes and bat wings.

Along the walls stood statues of family patriarchs in polished black stone, their eyes lost in shadow. The air carried a scent of resin, old leather, and something spiced that reminded her of dragon’s blood and winter wine. Nothing was gaudy, yet everything exuded power and heritage—a house in which every stone knew its lineage.

“I show you rooms,” said Zoltan cheerfully, turning and ascending the stairs with a spring in his step.

“We only need one room,” said Voldemort, his voice low and unwavering, with an undertone both calm and commanding. There was a haze of threat in his words, as though he were not offering a suggestion but stating an inevitability—something long since decided, without her input. His gaze lingered on her face, cold, controlling, almost challenging, as if daring her to dispute it.

Hermione’s head snapped round towards him. “Excuse me?” Her voice was sharp with outrage. “I’d like my own room, thank you very much.”

Voldemort turned to face her, his features shadowed in the candlelight, his gaze cool and cutting. “Not a chance,” he said slowly. “I don’t trust anyone with your safety but me.”

Hermione sniffed, her eyes glittering with restrained fury. “We’re in Zoltan’s home! Nobody is going to hurt me.”

She looked to Zoltan, searching for support, for affirmation—anything. But Zoltan merely shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

“One room it is,” he said lightly, as if he had not heard her words—or chose to ignore them.

A wave of disappointment and anger surged through her. She felt betrayed—not only by Voldemort, but by Zoltan as well.

Without a word she stamped up the stairs, her footsteps ringing loud against the marble. She kept her gaze fixed ahead as she followed Zoltan through a maze of shadowed corridors, not even pausing to take in her surroundings. Her cheeks burned with frustration. Everything in her railed against this situation—against the control Voldemort continued to exert over her.

But she stayed silent. Inside, her thoughts stormed. The idea of sharing a room with him made her nervous, in a way she barely dared admit to herself. Sleeping—in the same space as Voldemort. The man who had once been her enemy, now her ally, her protector. Her something. She did not know what.

Part of her felt flattered, even thrilled. As if sharing a room would break a boundary that had been blurring for weeks. She could not deny her attraction to his presence—the magnetic field he carried, drawing her ever closer. But at the same time, it frightened her. The intimacy. The control. The question of whether she still trusted herself around him.

He was dangerous. Unpredictable. Everything about him spoke of power, and she—she was tired, grieving, confused. She did not know if her desire was a symptom of weakness, or a result of his influence. But what she did know was that this journey would shift boundaries. Perhaps more than one. And she did not know if she was ready.

After they had left their cloaks and belongings in their chamber—and Hermione had restrained herself with difficulty from staring at the bed they might have to share—they followed Zoltan once more through the house. Voldemort walked beside her with unhurried ease, his manner relaxed, almost familiar. He moved with the assurance of someone who had been here before, and it irked her more than she cared to admit.

The corridors were tall and narrow, with dark panelling and deep alcoves where mirrors and paintings loomed, indistinct enough to be unsettling. The atmosphere was both stifling and magnificent. Everything about the house reminded her of a luxurious version of an old horror film. She could easily imagine a ghost gliding through a wall, or hearing knocks on the ceiling at night without any apparent cause.

Zoltan led them into a grand drawing room with a high ceiling and heavy velvet curtains of deep purple. An ornate fireplace burned softly and warmly, its copper screen gleaming in the firelight. On either side stood tall armchairs with curling armrests, and on a low table crystal decanters and glasses brimmed with dark red wine.

Two figures were already in the room—unmistakably Zoltan’s parents.

The woman was the first to rise. Tall, slender, and graceful, she moved towards them almost soundlessly, her black gown flowing like water around her. Her eyes shone with gentleness, her smile friendly yet faintly dreamy.

“Voldemort,” she said melodiously, greeting him with a graceful bow as though receiving an old friend into her salon.

Then she turned to Hermione and embraced her without hesitation, warm and heartfelt. “Bun venit, dragostea mea. My name is Andrada Groza, and my... uh husband Gheorghe,” she said in a thick accent. “We... we are... how you say... very honoured, that you stay... with us.”

Next appeared Gheorghe, a short, broad man with an impressive moustache and twinkling eyes. His energy radiated the same wholehearted friendliness as Zoltan’s, but with a touch more flamboyant flair.

“Voldemort, prietenul meu!” he cried jovially, seizing Voldemort’s hand in a firm shake. Then he turned to Hermione and, with exuberant warmth, planted a kiss on each of her cheeks.

“Is... such beauty! Voldemort, you have... very good taste, yes?” he chuckled, his moustache trembling with each laugh.

Hermione blushed faintly, taken aback by the sudden warmth. Voldemort remained silent, his expression unreadable, his stance austere.

After the introductions, Zoltan poured them each a glass of wine, chattering in Romanian with his parents. Voldemort strolled to the window and leaned casually against the piano, staring out as the rain slid in slow rivulets down the glass.

Hermione sank onto the sofa, releasing a near inaudible sigh of relief when Zoltan dropped down beside her. It felt like a buffer, a safe barrier between her and the figure by the window.

Soon she found herself in conversation with Gheorghe and Andrada, who were visibly curious about her. Gheorghe leaned forward, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. “You... you are fighter, yes? Duel? I see, from Zoltan’s letter... very strong, very quick! Like... panteră!” He laughed loudly and clapped her jovially on the shoulder. “Is good! Witch who fights—respect!”

Andrada nodded slowly, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. “Witches... have much more than beauty. Magic, knowledge, power. You... you show that to world. Is important.”

A warm glow spread in Hermione’s chest. It was strange—here, in a foreign land among people who hardly knew her—she felt surprisingly welcome. No suspicion, no distance. Only openness, warmth. Suddenly she understood how Zoltan had grown into such an engaging man, raised by parents so generous and kind. And no matter how much she tried to hold herself back, it did her good. More than she dared to admit aloud.

In turn, Hermione asked questions of Zoltan’s parents, curious about their lives, their work, their roles in this world that felt so familiar to Voldemort, yet to her was still strange and fascinating. She learned that Gheorghe dealt in dark magical artefacts—something he recounted with infectious enthusiasm, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Andrada, meanwhile, was a lawyer specialising in magical cases, with a preference for complex family disputes and inheritance battles.

Hermione found it intriguing to learn more about the Eastern European wizarding world, which seemed in some ways more conservative, and in others more liberal, than the British. She enjoyed herself more than she had expected, and to her surprise felt herself relax. Even her wine tasted softer now.

She had nearly forgotten that Voldemort was still in the room, until a high, eager squawk split the air.

A stunning woman with dark curls and glittering eyes swept into the drawing room, her black robes flaring like a flame in the doorway.

“Voldemort!” she exclaimed, her voice sultry and delighted, like liquid honey laced with excitement and desire.

She glided almost literally towards him, hips swaying with each step, until she stood directly before him and without hesitation flung her arms around his neck. Hermione saw her fingers sink into the fabric of his robes, her body pressed close to his as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Hermione’s stomach clenched. Jealousy, sharp and unexpected, seared through her like fire. It was an emotion she had not felt in a long time—raw and ugly, yet impossible to ignore. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful, radiating pure sensuality. Her curves fell in all the right places, her eyes glittered with confident hunger.

Hermione was certain: there had been something between them. She saw it in the way their bodies aligned, in the brief touch of Voldemort’s hand against her side—in the way he needed no words to acknowledge her.

Suddenly she felt small. Insecure. As though she sat on that sofa like a child who did not know where she belonged. She could never compete with this. Not with that body. That allure. That history.

Anger bubbled up, sudden and fierce. Why did he allow this? Why did he permit her to touch him so, when she—she, Hermione—scarcely knew where she stood in his life?

Her magic reacted faster than her mind. She felt it surge, electric and sharp, as though the room were suddenly charged with lightning. It crackled around her, over her fingers and across her neck. No one seemed to notice.

Except him.

His eyes shot to hers, swift and piercing, and when he caught her gaze, something flickered across his face. Not shock. Not apology. Only that faint, near-triumphant smile. As if he knew exactly what this did to her—and allowed it on purpose.

Luckily for the woman, she released him at that moment, her arm sliding slowly from his shoulder as she cast him one last lingering glance. For Hermione was not sure she could have endured another second. She felt on the verge of leaping up, of dragging her away from him and raising her voice to something she herself did not wish to hear.

“Irina,” said Voldemort calmly, with that characteristic composure he so rarely lost, though this time laced with an undertone Hermione could not quite place. “May I introduce you to Hermione.”

He gestured carelessly in her direction, as though little more explanation were necessary. Only then did Irina seem to truly notice her. Her eyes narrowed by the smallest fraction—just enough to betray her first reaction—before a wide, near-perfect smile spread across her face.

She glided towards Hermione, her steps smooth and confident. “How nice to meet you,” she said, her voice sing-song and sweet, yet void of sincerity. “And you are...?”

“She is mine,” said Voldemort, his fiery eyes fixed unwaveringly on Hermione.

Hermione felt the words jolt through her like an electric current. Every part of her wanted to protest—to cry out that she belonged to no one, least of all him. But her mouth stayed closed. She said nothing. Because another part of her, the darker, wounded part, wanted Irina to hear it. To know. She wanted Irina to understand that Voldemort was not available, that her intimate greeting did not mean he belonged to her.

It was vile. Hypocritical. And yet it hurt in a way that unsettled her. She felt jealousy curl like acid around her ribs, and she hated herself as fiercely as she hated Irina in that moment.

She had not denied it. And he knew.

His gaze lingered on her still, but now with a flicker of something else—satisfaction, perhaps. Voldemort needed no recognition. But that she allowed it, that she let his words stand... that was enough. A victory. And he knew it.

The corner of his mouth tugged upwards, scarcely perceptible, the shadow of a smile. Triumphant. Self-satisfied. Dangerously calm.

And Hermione—tasting her own silence as betrayal—sat rigid, her knuckles white around the stem of her wine glass.

Irina poured herself a generous glass of red, the liquid gleaming like blood in the firelight. As she swirled it slowly in her hand, she spoke with Zoltan and his parents in rapid Romanian. Hermione could not follow a word, but the tone of Irina’s voice was pointed—questioning, perhaps demanding. Zoltan and his parents gave short replies, until Andrada suddenly intervened with severity.

“Irina, we talk English with guests here,” she said, casting a warning glance.

“Of course, mama,” Irina answered with a feigned smile. She turned back, glided towards Voldemort, set her glass carelessly on the piano, and laid a hand on his arm. Her voice dropped to a seductive whisper.

“Let me play piano for you,” she purred flirtatiously. “I know you like my music.”

Without waiting for his reply, she seated herself at the instrument. Her gown flowed around her as she settled on the stool, and just before she began to play, she shot Voldemort one last sultry glance, lips faintly pursed, eyes glittering with expectation.

The first notes filled the room—warm, melancholic, perfectly timed. Hermione’s stomach clenched again. She knew little of music, but this... this was beautiful. And she despised it. Despised that she found it beautiful, despised that Irina wielded such power.

At that moment Gheorghe leaned towards her with another question, something about duelling with fire spells, and Hermione forced herself to turn her head. She tried to listen, tried to re-engage with Zoltan’s parents, but her thoughts kept straying back to the piano.

Voldemort still stood there, his hip resting casually against the instrument, his face angled towards Irina. But his gaze—his gaze was on her. On Hermione. And she knew it. She felt it. His eyes burned through her.

But why did he remain there? Why did he stay by Irina?

Her heart pounded in her chest. She could barely contain herself. Every muscle in her body was taut, her fingers itched. She hated that Irina had touched him, had played to him with her music, as though he were hers. And she hated even more that he allowed it.

What had there been between them? Hermione wondered, her eyes fixed on the scene by the piano. Had he ever truly desired Irina? Perhaps even loved her? Had he ever called her “mine” with that same possessive intensity? The thought alone made her stomach twist.

What he had just said of her—“She is mine”—was infuriating, overbearing almost. But the idea that he might once have said it of another, of Irina, was a thousand times more unbearable. She wanted to reject his words, to push them back, but instead she could think only of the past he might have shared with Irina. And here she sat—Hermione—in the same room, an outsider to a history in which she had played no part.

Worst of all, she was ashamed of how deeply it cut her. It was one thing to admit that she wanted Voldemort, that she had for weeks now, quietly, secretly. But jealousy? That was another matter. Jealousy over Lord Voldemort—someone she had despised for years, someone she should loathe, someone she should want nothing to do with.

And yet it gnawed at her. Crawled beneath her skin, slithered up her spine, lodged in the tension of her clenched jaw. She caught herself considering a dozen ways to pull him from Irina’s side. A remark, a touch, a strategic question... anything to make it clear that he was not hers. But what would that make her?

A fool, most likely. And yet she could not help herself.

Slowly, an idea took shape. If he could make her jealous, then she could do the same. Two could play this game.

With calculated calm she placed her hand on Zoltan’s arm, a little too casually to be innocent. She did not look at Voldemort. Instead, she turned to Zoltan with a smile teetering between innocent and provocative.

“I’ve been dying to see your library. Can you show me, please?”

Zoltan’s grin widened, clearly surprised yet delighted. “I was wondering when you’d ask!”

“Ah yes, library is great, yes!” Gheorghe called cheerfully from behind his glass. “Go, go!”

Hermione rose with Zoltan, offering his parents a warm smile. Without casting another glance at Voldemort, she strode confidently from the drawing room.

Zoltan led her up a narrow staircase, until they reached a heavy door on the attic floor. When he opened it, her breath caught.

The library was immense—a long gallery stretching the entire length of the manor. Vaulted ceilings were supported by gothic ribs, copper lanterns with softly glowing flames hanging between the beams. The walls were dark wood, interspersed with tall stained-glass windows admitting the last shreds of twilight in muted hues.

Bookcases soared to the ceiling, interrupted by ornate pillars upon which artefacts were displayed: broomsticks banded in silver, ancient daggers, parchments beneath glass domes, and jewels that pulsed with magic. Glass cases held darker objects—a hand that seemed to twitch under glass, a pendant that whispered when one leaned too close.

It looked more a museum than a reading room. Yet everything was elegant, perfectly placed. No dust, no clutter. Only power, knowledge, and a reverent hush.

Hermione almost forgot why she had come here in the first place. Her eyes roved across the rows of books, the displays, the relics whispering of forgotten times, forbidden rites, and lost names. Zoltan guided her around, his voice brimming with passion, and she hung on his words. He pointed out details, explained, joked—but she heard it all through a haze, bewitched by the place itself.

And then jealousy struck. Not of Irina. Not of Zoltan. But of what he possessed. Of this house. This legacy.

For the first time in her life Hermione felt envy for someone’s heritage. Here lay a wealth of knowledge, carefully built and preserved, passed from generation to generation. She wondered what it must be like to grow up in such an environment, where magic and scholarship were as natural as breathing. Where one’s power did not need to be fought for, but was nurtured, recognised, expected. Where one had roots—not battling prejudice, but cushioned in certainty.

She imagined what it would be to embody magic, not justify it. To be the norm, not the exception. Not an intruder, but an heir.

For the first time she understood—truly understood—why some pure-bloods clung so fanatically to their traditions. Not merely to preserve power, but to pass on something living: a culture, an identity, a secret continuity affirming their place in the world. It was not only about blood. It was about belonging. Inheritance. Home.

And she? She had always been a guest in the world she had tried to defend. A world which, however welcoming some appeared, feared her deep down. Feared change. Feared the loss of what had defined it until then. What did she, Hermione, truly bring? Different customs. Different values. A different vision of what magic was, and for whom.

She began to see why her presence was perceived as a threat. Not because she lacked skill—but because she embodied disruption. Because she carried something that did not fit their system, that pressed against the rigid forms and boundaries of their world. As outsiders often do in closed communities: they confront, they question, they reflect back what was taken for granted. And that made her dangerous in their eyes.

She began to see why some wished to keep the gates shut. Not from hatred, but from fear. Fear of losing control. Fear that making room for another meant surrendering part of oneself. Fear that their heritage would dissolve into something general, unrecognisable.

And though she disapproved, suddenly she could also understand. Not condone—but comprehend.

For what she now saw around her as legacy—this library, these artefacts, these stories—countless other pure-blood families possessed as well. Each case, each book, was proof of generations’ work, of carefully curated knowledge and guarded secrets. She realised that what she called progress, others experienced as the endangerment of something fragile and irreplaceable.

They had something to lose.

And for the first time she felt the weight of that awareness—not as excuse, but as explanation. As context. And that did not simplify her view.

She heard footsteps behind her, soft but resolute. Voldemort.

He joined them effortlessly, as if it were the most natural thing. Without a word he placed his hand on her hip and stood beside her, his grip firm, possessive. Zoltan kept talking, enthusiastically describing a dark artefact once used in an ancient Moravian ritual, but Hermione heard only half.

Her heart beat faster, not only from his touch, but from the fact that he had followed them. She tried to keep her expression neutral, her breathing steady, but inside she felt a flicker of triumph. He had not remained with Irina. He had followed her. And from the way he held her—too long, too tightly—she had the distinct impression he was anything but pleased that she had left without him.

And secretly, she relished it.

She had won this round. Without words, without confrontation. And it felt damn good.

When it was nearly time for supper, Voldemort and Hermione walked back together to their chamber to freshen up. The corridors were steeped in shadow, heavy with magic and anticipation. A charged silence stretched between them—not hostility, but something else. Something that tingled in her stomach and crept along her skin. Every movement, every glance, seemed laden with more than words could say.

Once inside, Hermione made straight for the adjoining bathroom. But before she could reach the door, he seized her wrist and yanked her back against him. Her spine struck the wall, his body caging her in. One hand pressed against her hip, thumb hovering dangerously still. The other tilted her chin upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.

His eyes burned like molten rubies, deep and searing.

“Don’t play this game with me, Hermione,” he said, his voice dark and seductive. “You will not win.”

Hermione swallowed, her heart pounding in her throat, but her voice emerged surprisingly steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, wide-eyed, feigning innocence. “I’m not playing a game.”

She knew better. He knew better. And he was not finished with her.

“She means nothing to me,” he went on, his tone low and sharp as a cutting wind. “Never did. Never will.”

“I don’t care,” Hermione retorted, though her chest loosened at his words. She hated that relief—hated that it mattered.

His gaze cut through her lie as if slicing it apart.

“You are mine,” he said then, “as I am yours.”

The breath rushed from her lungs. Her heart hammered, her fingers froze. She wanted to object, to deny him, to protest—but no words came. Because she wanted to hear it. More than she dared admit.

He leaned closer, his mouth near her ear. “I never planned for someone like you. Never wanted it. Never allowed it. But you’re in my grasp now. And I don’t share.”

The words seared into her mind, dark, raw, brutally honest. This was no declaration of love. It was a fact. A threat. A vow.

And Merlin help her—she felt answered.

She held his gaze, breathless, caught between what she ought to feel and what she did. Between what he took—and what she was all too willing to give. The fact that he had followed her, pressed her to the wall, claimed her—confirmed everything she had not yet dared to speak.

They locked eyes, unblinking, breath uneven. The air between them thickened, charged. The pull throbbed—an unspoken command, a challenge, a hunger.

Voldemort bent slowly forward, his eyes never leaving hers, until his lips hovered a hair’s breadth from her own.

But just before he touched her, she whispered, “Tell me your name... give me something...”

Every part of her yearned to surrender. It took all her strength not to yield to the overwhelming gravity of his presence, to the intensity of his focus. But she could not. Not like this.

She needed more. Not words of possession. Not heat and power alone. Proof that this—whatever it was—went beyond lust, beyond control. That she was not merely something he claimed and discarded. She needed to believe there was more between them than this game of push and pull. That somewhere, deep within, lay loyalty. Trust.

And until he gave her something, she would not give herself. Not fully.

Voldemort closed his eyes for a fraction, jaw taut, exhaling slowly. Then he stepped back. When he opened them again, frustration burned within—yet something else smouldered there too. Something fierce, unspoken. He dragged a hand through his hair, as if regaining composure, then slipped both hands into the pockets of his cloak. A gesture of false nonchalance Hermione had long since learned to recognise. He always did that when he sought control again.

“Tonight after dinner, I leave for a meeting,” he said, his tone abruptly closed, almost cold. “Zoltan will stay with you. You are not to leave this manor. Do you hear me?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, folding her arms. “Not this again. I am not a child. You do not decide what I can or cannot do.”

His gaze sharpened. His shoulders tightened, and he scarcely moved, yet his presence swelled, engulfing the room like a shadow. His eyes glowed dark, his voice low, but beneath it lay an unmistakable threat.

“I do when your defiance risks what’s mine,” he said, calm yet menacing. “This is not a discussion, Hermione. It never was.”

Chapter Text

The rain lashed against the stones of the path like scourging whips as Voldemort pulled shut the heavy front door of the manor behind him. The wind tugged at his cloak as though it, too, wished to restrain him, to force him to remain where the light still burned, where the voices lingered, where she was. But he drew the hood over his head and stepped, resolute, into the darkness.

The air smelled of wet earth and leaf rot, laced with the briny promise of a coming storm. It was close to midnight. No moon. No stars. Only the restless breath of the night and the shreds of magic that, despite his outward calm, still quivered beneath his skin.

Hermione.

She was still in the library, where he had left her after dinner with Zoltan. They had eaten, but the food had been incidental. Everything about that moment, that evening, had been contained in her. The way she moved. The shadow of her smile. The flame of her voice when she posed a rhetorical question to Zoltan that visibly challenged him. Her eyes — Salazar, those eyes — that glimmered in the candlelight as though they knew their own source of light.

And he had remained silent. Almost the entire meal.

Not because he had nothing to say — he had wanted to say a thousand things. But any attempt would have betrayed his attention. Would have revealed to her what he could not yet admit, not even to himself. He had studied her with the intensity of a conjurer balancing on the edge of control. Every word she spoke he had stored away. Every gesture. Every laugh that she did not grant him had carved itself into him like a wound.

Irina had noticed. Of course she had.

Like a neglected cat she had claimed his attention with a brazen entitlement that had deeply irritated him. Her voice had droned in his ear like a whining gnat: endlessly soothing, chattering, pressing in with seemingly innocent questions that were nothing more than glorified mating calls.

She had slid her shoe along his shin. Slowly, calculatedly. And then he had had enough.

With an invisible hand he had shoved her leg aside, his touch nothing but cold rejection. No sensuality. No play. Only disdain. And for a fraction of a second — that single second — he had let his grip slide upward to her throat. Firm. Not strangling. But unmistakable. The message had been clear. Stop. Now.

She had made no sound. Not a whimper. Only a flash of panic in her eyes. He had seen it. Felt it. And he had savoured her silence.

She was nothing to him.

Nothing.

The memory of their one night together was nothing more than a mistake — a moment of weakness to which she, tragically, had given eternal significance. As though a single touch entitled her. As though she thought her body meant something to him.

But he barely remembered what she felt like.

Not like Hermione. Who had sat across from him, radiant in her simplicity, in her strength, in her unyielding intelligence. Who had not sought his attention beneath the table with her foot, but had silenced the entire company with her words. She had not looked at him, not directly. But he had noticed — the absence of her gaze. The way she deliberately did not look at him. It had been torture. Brilliant, confident torture.

And that was why he had given Irina the pretence of attention.

He had wanted to know.

If Hermione would see it.
If she would feel anything.
Jealousy. Anger. That dark edge he so loved to rouse in her. And she had not disappointed him.

Her eyes had flickered once. Not much. One second. But enough.

He had felt it. Like a stab beneath his skin.

A confirmation. She saw him. She felt him. Even when she kept her gaze on Zoltan, she belonged to him.

The rain struck harder against his face. He lifted his head, closed his eyes, and felt the magic rage beneath his skin.

She was his.

Whether she admitted it or not.

And that realisation — that all-consuming, burning realisation — made the darkness no longer seem to matter.

It was the only place where he could think clearly.
Where he could be himself — and take her in, in thought, as only he could.

He would claim her.

But not yet.
Not yet.

Let her think, for a while longer, that she was free.

The faintest crack announced Voldemort’s arrival at the foot of an ancient Gothic church, hidden deep among the wooded hills of northern Romania. The stones of the church loomed above him, rough and weathered by centuries of rain, snow, and war. Spires pierced the clouds like fingers, and the stained-glass windows glowed faintly in the darkness, as though the church itself breathed light through its age-worn panes.

At the edge of the trees, where the shadows pooled more thickly, a group of men stood waiting for him. Their silhouettes were faintly lit by the dying blue glow of a spell. Zabini stepped forward first, followed by Avery and Dolohov. They bowed their heads slightly and murmured, “My Lord.”

Voldemort did not look at them. “Let’s go,” he said simply, his voice low and resolute.

They fell silent and closed ranks behind him as he strode up the moss-grown path to the church. His steps made scarcely a sound on the wet stones. Two wizards in heavy cloaks flanked the ancient wooden doors, their wands crossed before them. They glanced up as he approached and, without a word, swung the doors open with a slow, echoing creak.

Inside, light burned. The space was vast and hollow, its vaulted ceiling lost to shadow. No pews. No altar. Where once services might have been held, there stood now only a single round table in the centre, massive and dark, as though carved from the stone itself. Around it sat a dozen wizards, their faces caught half in shadow, half in the flickering glow of floating candles.

Those who had already seen him enter looked up. Conversations died. The energy in the room shifted — like a sudden draught in a sealed chamber.

Voldemort advanced without slowing, his silhouette sharp against the light spilling in behind him. The doors closed silently at his back.

On the largest chair at the table sat a man who did his best not to stir. He had grey hair, a short, neatly trimmed beard, and a posture meant to radiate authority. His hands rested folded on the dark wood before him, his chin lifted slightly, as though he wished to betray nothing. As though he controlled the situation.

But Voldemort saw it at once. The tension in his shoulders. The neck held a fraction too stiffly. The gaze that lingered a moment too long. This man, Anselm Krafft, was intimidated. In spite of himself.

“Krafft,” Voldemort said, his voice a soft blade. “What an interesting workplace you have.”

Anselm Krafft. Once one of the most devoted followers of Gellert Grindelwald — a name that had long since lost its weight. When Grindelwald fell, Krafft had seized his chance. The remnants of the Alliance, a fading echo of what had once been revolutionary, fell into his hands. For twenty years he had tried to give that echo new volume, to breathe life back into the old ideology. But what had it become? A gathering of spent wizards, idealists and fanatics, drifting through Europe’s shadows. Rarely influential. Rarely relevant.

And yet there he sat. On a chair he himself had crowned a throne, surrounded by a circle of like-minded men clinging to the last shreds of a once-glorious dream. As though appearances and trappings could conjure power. As though he were anything close to Gellert himself.

Voldemort saw it for what it was: theatre. Masquerade. A man inflating himself, hoping no one would notice. But he noticed.

And yet it did not displease him. On the contrary, he admired Krafft for one thing: he had managed to hold something together. A structure. A circle of wizards who, however weak their leader, still believed at the core what he believed. And that was valuable.

They did not need to match him. They only needed to follow.

He would give them something they had never dared hope for: direction. Purpose. And power, if they proved worthy.

But first he would break Krafft.

“Voldemort,” Krafft spoke with forced geniality. “Velcome to Romania. Take a platz.”

Voldemort did not answer. He lowered himself into the empty chair opposite, his movements unhurried, the movements of a man who knew every gesture left an echo. Then he fixed his gaze on the older wizard. Not hostile. Not challenging. Merely… looking.

Long enough for the silence to press on every shoulder in the hall. Long enough for Krafft to shift, to clench his jaw, to glance away for the briefest instant — and then, piqued and uneasy:

“So you vanted a meeting. So talk.”

Voldemort’s head tilted a fraction. His eyes narrowed, barely.

“You mistake my arrival for an obligation,” he said softly, his voice icy and controlled. “I don’t attend meetings. I offer opportunities.”

He let the words fall like velvet daggers, leaning forward slightly.

“We share the same curse, Krafft. The same exhaustion. Year after year, we bend, we shrink, we vanish into forests and crypts and abandoned halls, merely to keep our magic hidden from creatures who don’t deserve to understand it. To fear it.”

His voice was stronger now, smoother, almost hypnotic.

“We were born to rule. Not in the shadows, not in whispers. Openly. Proudly. The world yields easily when it sees a hand strong enough to hold it. You once knew that. So did your master. But where Grindelwald fell, I stand. And I offer you this: unity.”

He spread his hands slightly.

“A common cause. A shared strength. And the promise that what we begin tonight will never again hide.”

Krafft’s mouth twitched into something like a smile, though there was an edge in his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, fingers interlaced as though weighing a case.

“Ich cannot deny we share beliefs, Voldemort,” he said slowly, his accent blunting the sharp edges of his English. “Und it is… pleasing, ja, to see zat parts of Britain once understood Grindelvald’s vision. But I fear zere is… a misunderstanding.”

He lifted his chin, his voice gaining something triumphant.

“You speak as if you replace him. As if you take his place at ze helm of a movement zat long predates your rise.”

His gaze slid briefly across the table, as if to measure support.

“Unity, yes. Strength, sicher. But leadership? Zat… still belongs to me.”

The silence that followed was filled with something that was not sound but tangible — a shiver of power, of threat, that emanated unmistakably from him. Voldemort’s magic coursed through the space like a cold current, slipping along walls and vaults, trembling in the marrow of the stone floor. It was not an outright attack but a warning. A promise. Candle flames guttered as though in fear, chairs creaked beneath taut bodies. A few of the wizards shifted uneasily, their eyes darting, their breath shallow, as if their bodies instinctively longed to recoil from the source of that invisible force.

Voldemort had scarcely moved. But his gaze — cold, gleaming, unreadable — rested on Krafft as though stripping him apart, layer by layer.

“Then you misunderstand more than just my purpose,” he said with velvet menace. “But by all means — do continue.”

Krafft, visibly strained, straightened his back. He struggled to steady his voice, to keep his features composed, but it cost him.

“Ve velcome your interest, Voldemort,” he said. “You are… free to join us. But do not make ze mistake of thinking zat ve vill follow you.”

Voldemort smiled. Not kindly. It was a smile like fingernails tapping on a gravestone.

“I follow no one,” he said slowly. “I did not come here to ask for allegiance. I came to observe. To measure. To see if what lingers in the corners of Grindelwald’s shadow might still be of use.”

His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow filled the entire hall.

“Make no mistake — I have no need of your approval, nor your permission. I have purpose. I have power. And I will walk the path that leads to dominion whether you choose to join me or not.”

He rose, unhurried, his hands loose at his sides, as though the weight of the room did not touch him.

“But I offer you this: a place at my side. Not because I require you — but because it would be… efficient.”

His gaze swept from face to face.

“Choose wisely. The world we seek will not wait for those who hesitate.”

A murmur rippled around the table. Not loud, but undeniable. Whispered voices, fleeting glances, a few nods. The wizards no longer looked only at Krafft — they looked at him. At Voldemort. With something very near to awe.

Krafft noticed.

He cleared his throat loudly, as if to break the stir by force. His hands lay suddenly flat on the table, fingers spread, his voice hard.

“Zey have already chosen,” he said, with forced calm. “Zey chose me. Not you.”

Voldemort slowly turned his head back to him, the shadow of a smile on his face.

“Yes,” he said coldly. “And look what that choice has earned them.”

His gaze skimmed mockingly along the high, hollow walls.

“An empty church. A seat in the shadows. And a legacy no one fears.”

Krafft flushed scarlet. His cheeks burned with rage as he lurched to his feet, planting his hands on the table with force. “Genug!” he roared. “I’ve heard genug from you. Ve vill never follow you. You cannot be trusted.”

His voice rang out, but was smothered by the freezing silence that followed. Then he sneered — not with joy, but with spite.

“Und you are not ze only dark wizard to knock on our door, Voldemort,” he said, venom dripping from every word. “Not so long ago, another came to me. He vas looking for a witch. A witch zat you… protect.”

Voldemort’s gaze froze.

Hermione.

Her name was not spoken, but it filled the space with a force more potent than any spell could conjure. His fury was suddenly tangible. Not loud. Not explosive. But white-hot, frozen into his bones. That they dared to name her. Here. In this place. Where he wanted her name unspoken. Where he did not even wish them to know she existed.

Krafft had noticed. He pressed on, entertained by the tension he had provoked.

“Zis other wizard — he knew how to approach. He showed respect. He vanted alliance. Und I am happy to help him… return Hermione Granger to her rightful master.”

There was no warning sign. No build-up. Only the slicing sound of movement — Voldemort’s wand lifted in one fluid, lethal arc and levelled at Krafft.

Magic erupted. A shockwave tore through the church like an invisible explosion. Flames leapt, a few candles guttered out. Chairs scraped. Stones groaned. Hands shot for wands everywhere.

Krafft began to laugh. Low, rough, threatening.

And then — as though the very walls breathed it — the church filled suddenly with movement. Dozens of figures in blue robes appeared along the walls, between the pillars, upon the balcony.

Mercury had arrived.

But they were too late.

With a motion swifter than breath, Voldemort unleashed a curse. No warning, no time for shields — only a black jet that struck Krafft squarely in the chest.

The sneer froze on his face as his body was flung backwards and crashed lifeless to the stone floor. Dead. At once.

And then the battle erupted.

۞

In the library, an open book lay between Hermione and Zoltan, its pages filled with engraved symbols and translations from Old English. They were debating — fiercely, yet with control — the origin of a derivative Fuþorc rune, which Hermione insisted had been wrongly identified as a protection symbol.

“It’s not just phonetic,” she argued. “There’s context in the structure. Look at the alignment—”

A sudden white light filled the room. Hermione jerked upright, her gaze snapping instinctively to the source: a copper spatula lying on the side table beside Zoltan, glowing with blinding intensity.

“What in Merlin’s name—” she began, as Zoltan leapt to his feet with a cry.

“Verdammt!” he hissed, rummaging in his robes for his wand. “It is emergency portkey. Voldemort gave it to me before he left. If it glows, it means they in trouble.”

Hermione’s breath caught. She stared at the object in his hand, her heartbeat quickening.

A portkey. From him.

Her thoughts spun.

He would never use this unless it were truly necessary. He trusted no one. He never asked for help. If he was calling for reinforcements now… then it was dire. And then—

A shiver slid down her spine.

She did not want to admit it touched her. That the thought of him — wounded, alone, in danger — made her tremble inside. He was Lord Voldemort. Surely capable of saving himself. She knew that. She wanted to believe that.

But it gnawed at her.

And she would only believe it — only bear it — if she saw it with her own eyes.

“Well, let’s go then!” she blurted, panic sharp in her voice, as she reached for the spatula.

“No!” Zoltan shouted, alarm ringing in his tone —

But it was too late.

Her fingers closed around the burning metal, and with a wrench that stole her breath, she felt the hook seize behind her navel.

The library vanished.

She was yanked through space and wind and darkness.

With a crack, Hermione crashed onto the stone floor.

Her knees absorbed the blow, her palms scraping against the cold surface. The air was filled with screams, with crackling spells, with the sharp stench of ozone and scorched dust. She gasped, her heart hammering in her throat.

A church.

But no longer a church.

It was a battlefield.

Bodies lay strewn around her. Some still writhed, groaning or rolling in pain, others lay utterly still — lifeless. Flashes of light tore through the air in every colour, a macabre lightshow without end.

Hermione scrambled to her feet, her eyes darting everywhere. It took only a fraction of a second to realise.

The blue robes.
The insignias.
The faceless wizards she knew from her nightmares.

La Main de Mercure.

With an icy jolt the truth crashed over her. Mercury. Here. Dozens. Perhaps more.

Her eyes swept the chaos — and found him.

In the thick of it, where the fighting was fiercest, stood Voldemort. His cloak whipped like a shadow around him, his wand flashing with deadly precision from target to target. Seven assailants had gathered to encircle him. But he moved with a speed and grace scarcely human — dodging, striking, obliterating. Magic rippled in his wake like a storm with no rest.

A little further on she spotted Dolohov, fighting back-to-back with a stocky wizard whose brow was split and mouth bloodied. Together they held against four attackers pressing them between pillar and wall.

Hermione’s heart pounded. She wanted to call out, but her voice failed. Her legs moved before she could think — forward, toward the fray, toward him.

Toward the fire.

She had not yet been noticed.
No one was looking at her.

Hermione drew her wand in a single fluid motion, her breath fast, her heart racing in her throat. She saw a cluster of Mercury wizards crouched by the right-hand pillar, their focus fixed entirely on Dolohov and his partner.

She did not need to think.
The spells came on their own.

A jet of flame burst from her wand and struck the first wizard in the side. He screamed and collapsed, burning. The others turned — too late.

The second shrieked, his body convulsing under her curse. Hermione felt the force of the spell tear through her own arm — sharp, painfully pure.

She stepped forward, eyes narrowed, lips dry.

A dense cloud of black smoke surged from her wand and coiled like a writhing ribbon around the throat of the third. He thrashed, then fell.

There was no hesitation. No restraint.

Hermione plunged into the fight as she rarely had before. Magic surged inside her, dark and keen, like molten steel in her veins. Her spells were old, powerful — forbidden in some corners of Europe. But here, now, it mattered nothing. There was no Ministry oversight. No moral committee. Only life and death.

She chose life.
Her own life. And his.

At last a Mercury wizard spotted her. He turned, eyes wide, wand rising —

She was faster.

A hollow crack. His chest imploded.

Hermione stood amid the settling ash and dust, eyes dark, wand still raised.

There were more.
And she was not finished with them.

But now they saw her.

A shout rang to her left, followed by a cry farther off. Several voices at once:

“La voilà!” “C’est la fille Granger!” “Prenez-la vivante!”
There she is! It’s the Granger girl! Take her alive!

The Mercury wizards turned as one. Blue robes, wands lifted, faces twisted with fanatic resolve. They surged toward her, enemies from her past, driven by orders they had never questioned.

Hermione braced herself, heart racing in her chest. But at that moment, it happened.

Her gaze shot to the centre of the hall.

He had seen her.

Voldemort.

Amid the carnage, between fire and ruin, he turned to her. His eyes locked onto hers as if all else were irrelevant — as though space itself folded around that single moment of recognition.

No words.
But everything in him spoke.

White-hot fury. Panic. A raging, raw fear that had nothing to do with weakness, but with possession. With power. With desire. With her.

His jaw was tight. His eyes blazed. His grip on his wand clenched as though he might crush the universe itself if it touched her.

Magic detonated.

There was no incantation. No command. Only pure, unfiltered force that burst from him in a wave — an eruption of energy that stormed through the church.

Hermione just managed to raise her wand.

“Protego!”

The shield folded around her like a glass dome, just in time to deflect the explosion of power. Windows shattered with deafening crashes. Shards and rubble filled the air. Wizards were flung backwards like rag dolls.

Hermione’s hair whipped back, her knees nearly buckled under the pressure, but she held. Breathing. Trembling.

And then, in the hushed aftermath of destruction, she looked at him again.

He was still standing.
And he was looking only at her.

Around them, some wizards staggered back to their feet, swaying, bleeding, wands raised once more. Hermione drew a deep breath, her lungs burning with tension and smoke, and moved forward. Toward him. Toward the epicentre of it all.

He, too, began to move — slow, resolute, as though forcing his way through an unseen field — as though nothing mattered now but her.

Until something caught her eye.

To her left, between two carved pillars, she saw him. Dolohov.

He had collapsed against the stone, his face contorted in pain. Blood poured from his nose, running down his chin, dripping onto his chest. His hand clutched his side. He barely moved.

Close by, a Mercury wizard loomed. Wand raised, lips already forming the words of the spell to come.

Hermione froze.

Panic surged through her. Raw. Unbidden.

Why… why did it strike her so?
Why did the thought of Dolohov’s death seize her so fiercely?

But she knew.

In recent weeks, against all expectation, something had grown between her and the Death Eater who in another life had carved the dreadful scar upon her chest. Not friendship as others knew it. Not trust. But… understanding. A shared darkness. An unexpected bond she could not yet bring herself to sever.

And so she acted.

The words slipped from her lips like a whisper.
A curse she had once glimpsed in the Spellyard. Once murmured. Once practised. Never tested.

Until now.

A silver arc burst from her wand. The Mercury wizard spun — too late.
His head was wrenched from his shoulders and flew back in a grotesque arc, a grimace still frozen on his face. His body crumpled like an empty cloak.

Hermione gasped.
Not in horror.
But in relief.

She surged forward, wand already raised. Without hesitation she placed herself before Dolohov, between him and the chaos. He tried to speak, but she shook her head.

“Don’t move,” she hissed. “I’ve got you.”

Mercury closed in. Two wizards broke from the group and rushed her. Hermione braced, feet rooted to the floor, meeting them with a volley of spells that made the air thrum.

She attacked with an intensity she rarely allowed. Her magic was not controlled. It burned. Pure force coursed through her veins like venom and fire all at once.

Her spells landed like blows — fast, merciless. Explosions shook the ground, cracks split the floor, skin tore. One opponent was hurled back, smashed aside by the sheer force of her strike. Another froze, collapsing beneath a curse that stole his breath.

A third came from the right. Hermione wheeled without thought, arm slashing. The wizard was flung back, crashed against a pillar, and slumped motionless.

Her hair clung to her temples, sweat mingled with dust and blood. But she stood. And Dolohov lived.

And then she felt him.

Voldemort.

His presence shivered behind her like a storm on the verge of breaking. She turned her head — there he was. His face cut by a gash along his jaw, his eyes glowing like molten steel. His cloak was torn, his breath ragged, but his strength undiminished.

Without words he joined her. Side by side.

Mercury charged four at once, wands aimed at the two figures standing as a living wall.

Voldemort raised his wand. Flames of black magic spread across the floor, curling outward. Hermione followed through. A blizzard of razor ice shards folded over the enemy line.

They moved as one. A choreography of destruction. Hermione’s magic cracked like a whip — mindless, merciless. Voldemort’s force was sharper, but no less fatal.

They were struck — cuts, bruises, torn clothes, sweat and blood streaking their skin — but they did not yield.

One by one the Mercury fell. Some screaming. Some fleeing. Others burning, freezing, crushed beneath the flood of power unleashed upon them.

And then silence.

The floor lay strewn with bodies. Some dead. Others gone. None advanced.

Hermione still stood.
And beside her: him.

Voldemort.

His gaze held hers, now the dust had settled and the fighting stilled. Without a word he stepped closer. His eyes — dark, commanding, blazing with ferocity — devoured her, inch by inch. Then he touched her.

His hands, cold with adrenaline and magic, moved over her shoulders, her arms, her sides. Not tender. Not caressing. Inspecting. Demanding. He tilted her head, fingers tracing her jaw, her throat, as if to see whether she bled, whether anything was missing, whether someone had broken her.

His breath was harsh, ragged, but no words came. Not yet.

Only when he was sure she was whole — or at least not fatally wounded — did his eyes lock with hers again.

His voice was low, sharp with fury barely restrained.

“Why are you here?”

His eyes blazed dangerously.

“Where is Zoltan? I gave the portkey to him — to him! Not to you. I told you not to leave the manor!”

He lunged a fraction closer, his face barely a breath from hers, words spilling like venom.

“You were not meant to be here, Hermione. This—this was never meant to touch you and I—”

His voice broke into a growl, unhinged with possession. “You should have stayed where I put you, Hermione. Where you are mine. Safe. Untouched. Only where I decide.”

His voice trembled. Not with weakness — but with something else. With the monster beneath his skin, straining violently against its chains. The monster that guarded what was his. What he had chosen. What no one was permitted to break.

He kept staring at her. As though he could tear her apart and reassemble her anew. As though he longed to curse her and hold her in the same breath.

Then she raised her hand. Shaking, but resolute. Her fingers brushed over his chest, his shoulder, his jawline. She felt the wound — fresh, raw — and closed her hand around her wand.

Without speaking she cast the healing charm in her mind. Her magic spread softly across his skin, knitting, mending.

Then she holstered her wand.

“You’re not the only one who wants the other safe,” she said, her voice fierce, her eyes dark with feeling. “I didn’t think — I just saw the portkey glow and all I could think about was getting to you.”

She swallowed, breath ragged.

“Zoltan said it would only activate in case of emergency. So I came. Because if it was bad enough for you to ask for help, I had to see it with my own eyes. I had to know you were still—”

She broke off, shaking her head faintly.

“You’re not the only one who protects what’s theirs.”

Something shifted in his gaze, like a crack in an armour that had always been unyielding. Her words — simple, honest, spoken without fear — touched something in him no one else ever had.

His breath caught. His eyes stayed locked on hers, but something had changed. The control, the armour of menace and power, the ice-cold mastery of himself — it split open, for a single breath.

And then he seized her face.

Rough. Not with anger. With urgency. His fingers gripped her jaw, his thumb at her temple. He yanked her towards him, hard, as if he needed her against him, as if he could not exist without her touch.

His mouth crashed onto hers in a kiss that was everything unsaid — raging, possessive, desperate. No tenderness. No doubt. Only fire. His hands slid to her neck, her hair, her back, pulling her against him with a force that left no space for breath, no space for distance.

Hermione gasped against his lips but did not yield. Her hands clutched his cloak, her body melting into his as though in his fury she found her own stillness. Their magic quivered in the air around them, raw and volatile, echoing what surged between them.

There was no right or wrong. No future. No past. Only this: two forces, fused in a moment that defied everything.

Until a raw, nasal voice shattered the spell:

“Don’t mind me. Bleeding to death at your feet while you two snog like teenagers.”

Hermione started, wrenching her head towards Dolohov, still slumped against the pillar, bloodied and broken, but with a crooked grin curving his lips.

“I am so sorry,” Hermione muttered, tearing herself away from Voldemort and crouching beside Dolohov. Her wand shook faintly in her grip as she cast healing charms, voice low, urgent. The injuries were grave — broken ribs, internal bleeding — and though she felt his consciousness slipping, she refused to let him go.

It wouldn’t be enough. He needed a healer. But if she could keep him steady, they could move him.

Behind her, footsteps crunched across rubble. Voldemort moved through the ruined church, sharp-eyed, tense as a predator in the aftermath of slaughter. He knelt at another body — one of his own, motionless. Without visible emotion, he inspected it.

“You bring Dolohov to Zoltan,” he said, without looking at her. His voice was once more his own: calm, cold, commanding. “I will bring them home first.”

Hermione looked up, her gaze flicking to the two corpses he meant.

“Are they…” she began carefully.

Voldemort looked up, his eyes like blades in the dark. “Dead,” he said. The word cut like steel. No emotion. No tremor. Just fact.

Hermione swallowed and bent back to Dolohov. She would not lose him.

She hooked her arm under his, lifted him gently, slinging his arm over her shoulders. He groaned, head heavy against her, but did not resist. With a twist on her heel she disapparated them both to Groza Manor.

The church’s darkness was replaced by the sharp, cool night air of the estate. Zoltan was pacing outside, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face pale with unease.

When he saw them, he froze — then bolted towards them.

“Antonin,” he breathed, his voice breaking. The rawness of it, so startlingly intimate, made Hermione glance at him. Zoltan dropped to his knees beside Dolohov, cradled his face in his hands, brushing away blood and hair from his eyes.

The gesture was tender. Not brotherly.

Hermione stared, wand still in her hand, breath caught. Something tilted in her understanding.

She had been wrong.
What bound them was not camaraderie.
It was something else. Another kind of love.

But there was no time to linger. Together they carried Dolohov inside, laying him upon the settee in the parlour. Zoltan seized his wand at once, sending a silver-grey patronus — a raccoon — whispering through the house. Moments later Irina appeared in the doorway, her face hard, her gaze fixed on the bleeding man.

She and Zoltan exchanged clipped words in Romanian. His voice trembled. Irina only nodded, without another word, and began.

“My sister… she is good healer,” Zoltan said softly, shaken. “She will make him better.”

But his eyes clung to Dolohov. And his voice, however determined, sounded as though he were trying to convince himself. Not her.

Hermione stayed with him, silent, a steady presence, while together they watched Irina work. Time thickened, each second stretched with the weight of their unspoken breath. Only when Irina finally turned, meeting their eyes, and nodded — Dolohov out of danger — did they both exhale as one, as though they had held it all along.

Zoltan sank to his knees beside the couch, every shred of him fixed on the man there. Irina leaned close again, murmuring as she carefully cleansed the blood from his face and clothes, as if coaxing him back to something familiar.

That was the moment Hermione withdrew. She gave them space, understanding without words that what lay there was intimate, tangled, and not hers.

She walked the hall in silence, into her chamber, into the bath. Her hands shook as she turned the tap. Her skin was tacky with blood, grit, sweat. The face in the mirror was that of someone who had fought harder than she wished to admit — and not only with magic.

She had just dried herself and pulled on a robe when she heard it.

The bedroom door opened — and closed again. Soft. Intentional.

He had returned.

Hermione lowered the brush she had been dragging through her curls and stepped into the room at once. He stood there in the glow of the hearth. His cloak hung in tatters from his shoulders, drenched with blood and grime. His face was torn, unreadable, fierce. But his eyes — his eyes found her at once.

The air between them trembled.

There were no words. They simply faced each other, the silence between them blistering, suffocating. His gaze crawled over her like a second touch, invasive, consuming. And she? She stepped forward.

Certain. Strangely certain of her own movements.

She took his hand — cold, rough, bloodied — and guided him to the bed. Voldemort allowed himself to be led, his eyes never leaving hers. He sat on the edge, shoulders heavy, his body still humming with the aftershock of battle.

She lifted her wand from the nightstand. Wordlessly she worked over him, murmuring precise charms, stripping the dirt from his face, drawing the blood from his clothes, unraveling the tatters of his cloak until nothing remained.

He did not move. He only watched her. As if memorising her. As if the sheer force of his will was the only leash restraining him.

Her touch was gentle, but threaded with power.

And the silence between them throbbed.

Then he hissed suddenly, like a serpent in pain, when her spell brushed his side.

“What?” Hermione asked at once, alarmed. She bent closer. “Where are you hurt?”

For a moment he seemed unwilling to yield — jaw locked, eyes evasive — then gave the smallest nod.

In an instant his cloak and shirt vanished, dissolved by unseen magic. He sat bare before her now, scarred and startling. Not overbuilt, but cut sharp with strength. His ribs jutted faintly, marred by a bruise sprawling dark across his flank like spilled ink on marble.

Hermione’s eyes roamed his torso. Her pulse thundered, her fingers twitched. The aura of magic clinging to him, his unflinching confidence, the way he looked at her — it was irresistible. She felt it roar beneath her skin: want, fear, need. Her thoughts reeled.

But she forced herself to focus. She levelled her wand, whispered the healing spell, and watched the bruise fade, layer by stubborn layer, until only a shadow lingered.

Just as she drew back, task finished, his hands clamped around her wrists.

Her breath seized.

His eyes — gleaming, fevered, brimming with fire and possession — locked onto hers. In one swift movement he wrenched the wand from her grip, set it on the nightstand without breaking eye contact, and caught her by the belt of her robe. He drew her in, closer, until she stood between his knees. His breath seared her throat, restless and hot. His fingers traced her back, her skin — tender and yet suffocatingly possessive.

Hermione’s heart hammered. Her body was one live nerve — taut, trembling, desperate. Her control fractured, her thoughts collapsing into a single certainty: him.

His touch. His stare. His presence.

And then he spoke, raw and hoarse:

“Hermione…”

A breath.

“My name is Tom.”

Only four words. But they struck like confession, like a blade willingly placed in her hand. It was his. Something real. Something unguarded. And he gave it to her.

It was enough.

Hermione staggered beneath the weight of what she felt for him — feelings she had never dared to name, never wanted to permit. But now… now she did.

❦❦❦

She took his face in her hands, fingers brushing along his jaw, her thumbs pressing into his cheekbones. Her eyes burned, her breath came heavy — and then she kissed him. Fierce. Overcome. Ablaze.

He answered at once, as if he had been waiting only for her surrender. His arms locked around her waist, dragging her closer, closer, until she had no choice but to yield to his grip. Her knees found the mattress, and he pulled her onto his lap.

His hands slipped beneath her robe, over her back, her thighs, her sides, as their kiss deepened. Everything in her trembled. Everything in him burned. And for the first time it did not feel as though they were fighting against something between them — but as though they were finally permitted to give in to what had always been there: raw, perilous, inevitable.

He pushed the robe from her shoulders. The fabric slid like water from her skin and fell soundlessly to the floor. Now she sat, utterly bare in his lap. His eyes roamed her body slowly, hungrily, as though he were truly seeing her for the first time. There was nothing gentle in his gaze — only searing admiration, pure desire, and a possessiveness that made her skin prickle.

Hermione had never felt so seen. So wanted. As though her body itself were magic, and he the only one who had ever understood it.

He leaned in, his lips finding her throat — soft at first, then with teeth. His mouth trailed downward, leaving a path of fire across her skin. Her nipples — already taut, sensitive — were captured by his mouth. His tongue circled, his teeth toyed.

A shudder coursed through her.

His hand slid to her back, pulling her closer, and his teeth grazed playfully over her ear. She gasped. Her hand seized his hair, holding tight. With the other she dragged her nails hard across his back. He growled — raw, unrestrained — a primal sound that only spurred her higher.

In one motion he rolled them over.

Now she lay on her back, he above her. His weight, his heat, his strength — it enveloped her. With a jerk of magic his trousers and boots vanished. He was naked, above her, between her thighs, his eyes dark with hunger.

They kissed again, harder, greedier. Hands roamed. Bodies pressed and shifted. His hand slipped lower, between them — warm, deliberate, controlled. And then he began to touch her.

Slowly. Exploring. Devastating.

His voice was low at her ear, his breath hot.’ "I want to know every inch of you. Feel you come apart beneath me."

Hermione moaned softly. She could no longer find words. Only him. Only this.
Everything burned.

And the magic — their magic — seemed to feel it.
It shivered through the room, sparking between their bodies like static on the verge of release. The air trembled. Candle flames flared without wind. Something old and powerful stirred between them, as though their desire summoned more than physical hunger.

Their bodies moved against each other, but beneath it surged something else — magic flooding them, wild and unfiltered, like a storm in their blood. As if their touch ignited not just their skin but their very cores.
As if even the magic knew they were about to cross a boundary from which there would be no return.

Hermione lost herself in the rhythm of his touch, her head pressed back into the pillow, her lips parted in soundless cries of pleasure. Her whole body shook beneath his hand, her skin seared wherever he whispered her name. The tension built, fire mounting, a consuming desire that left no space for logic or shame.

When release crashed over her, she convulsed against him, her fingers digging into his arms. “Yes… Tom,” she moaned — the name a confession, a surrender, a brand.

She felt him go rigid above her. His gaze fixed on her, dark, addicted, undone by her voice. The sound of his name on her lips drove him past the edge of restraint. With a guttural growl he thrust into her, brutal, relentless, as though claiming her anew — body and soul.

A cry escaped her, their eyes locking. Together they looked down, to where their bodies were joined, raw and intimate, like a sealing. It was the most erotic sight Hermione had ever seen.

Then she looked up again, at his face. His crimson eyes were almost black with arousal, his breath harsh, his body straining above hers.

She could not fathom that she was doing this. With him. With Voldemort.

And when he began to move — slow at first, deep and consuming — every thought fell away.

There was nothing but him.
His touch. His hands. His mouth. His name.

And his voice — rough, spellbound, close to her ear:

“Mine,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”

His words were no request. They were a demand, muffled in hunger.

But deep inside, between the pounding of her heart and the burning of her skin, something resisted. A fragment of will. A whisper of reason. Of who she had been, of what this meant.

“I can’t,” she whispered, trembling — not in rejection, but confusion. Her body did not resist. Her mind did. He was too much, too close, too consuming.

Voldemort stilled. His eyes on her. His grip unrelenting, but he did not move further. He waited.

“Tom…” she moaned, her hips shifting unconsciously. “Tom, please, I need— I need…”
But the words faltered. She did not know what she asked. Only that she could not be without him. Not anymore.

His lips brushed her jaw, his breath ragged. His hand slid up her throat, fingers curling just enough to catch her breath. Not choking — but controlling. Commanding. A wordless decree that thundered through her body.

“Say you’re mine,” he whispered, his voice a dark vow, “and I’ll make you forget you ever belonged to anyone but me.”

Hermione gasped. Everything inside her burned. Shook. Dissolved.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, voice trembling, breathless. Her eyes locked to his. “I’m yours, Tom.”

It was as if the words consumed him whole. Something inside him snapped loose. His movements turned deeper, fiercer — as though carving himself into her with every thrust, making her his in a way that allowed no return.

Their magic crackled through the room like stormlight. And everything, everything collapsed into a single inescapable point:

Him. Her. And the fire between them.

Sweat gleamed on their skin, their bodies sliding against one another in a rhythm that grew ever more intense. His fingers dug into her hips as though he wanted to pull her deeper into him than was physically possible. Every movement was a strike of power, obsession, surrender. Hermione moaned, her body nothing but tension and abandon. Her head fell back, her fingers clutching the sheets as his pace quickened.

Magic sparked around them like a storm without direction. Curtains whipped though no wind blew. The floor trembled under the weight of their union.

And then, with his mouth at her ear, his voice hoarse with strain and hunger:

“You’re not walking away from this. Ever.”

He lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes — his gaze nothing less than fire. His hand slid over her thigh, her stomach, back to her breast.

“No one else gets to see you like this,” he whispered. “Only me.”

Hermione gasped, her whole being aflame beneath his touch, his words. She was already lost in him — in the fire, the rhythm, the storm of power and possession binding them together. There was nothing left of distance or restraint.

Only him.
Only this.

“Tom—please,” she moaned, her voice ragged with need, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

It was enough.

He growled deep, his whole body strung tight — and then everything exploded. His breath tore against her throat, his grip on her tightened, and together they convulsed in one last overwhelming wave of release.

Magic flared once more, fierce, incandescent — like lightning tearing through their veins — and then fell silent. The storm subsided. The air hummed in its wake.

They lay against each other, skin to skin, panting in the aftermath. His forehead rested against hers, his hand still fixed at her side. Their breathing was uneven, their bodies flushed and damp.

Hermione closed her eyes, her heart still racing in her chest.

Something had shifted between them.
A bond. Invisible. Indelible.

And as she opened her eyes to meet his, she knew one thing with certainty:

Her life would never be the same again.

Chapter Text

The first thing she heard was the rain.

Soft, relentless tapping against glass. A steady rhythm that settled into her temples.

Hermione opened her eyes slowly, as if she had to push through a layer of mist. The room was dusky, tinted in cool blues and greys, as though it were still night outside or the morning refused to break. She lay beneath heavy sheets, her cheeks warm from the heat beneath the covers, her skin bare against cotton.

For a fraction of a second, she did not know where she was. The walls were dark wood, with faded wallpaper in a pattern she did not recognise. A hearth stood opposite the bed, holding only the faintest glow of embers, and the window to the right was half-covered by a heavy curtain that blurred the outline of the world beyond into something watery and vague. It smelled of smoke, of magic. And of something that made her heart suddenly race — the scent of him.

She turned her head. Beside her, in the pale morning light, he sat.

Voldemort.

Tom.

He leaned against the headboard, the top sheet carelessly draped across his lower body. His bare torso was relaxed yet alert, and in his hands rested a book — an old, leather-bound volume he read with restrained focus, as though he were unaware of the world outside. Or perhaps very much aware, merely waiting for her to stir.

Everything came back at once. The portkey. Mercury. The searing fight in the church. The scent of blood and copper. And him. His hand, reaching into the dark. The way he had fought beside her, without hesitation, without words. And then — the room. The fire. His mouth. His hands.

Hermione swallowed. She could still feel his touch on her skin, a brand of heat. Her muscles protested every shift — not from pain, but from memory. She had slept with him. She had let him in. Not as a calculated move, not as surrender, but as a choice rooted too deep for logic to untangle. And he now lay beside her, calm, unyielding, absorbed in a book. As if nothing had changed.

But for her, everything had.

Panic bubbled up, raw and sudden. Her head spun with confusion, her chest tight, as though her heart could not decide whether to race or stop entirely. Last night had been the best night of her life. Not only because of touch, desire, intensity — but because she had felt seen. Held. Wanted. Every fibre of her body had responded to him as if they had been made for each other. She had never felt anything like it. And that feeling… she never wanted to let it go.

Yet that longing now clashed with her reason. For how could she allow this? How could she look herself in the eye after everything? She had slept with him — with Voldemort. With the man she had despised, fought, feared for years. She had given herself to him as if it meant nothing… when it meant everything. What had she done?

“Your mind is louder than the rain,” he said suddenly, without looking up from his book.

His voice cut through the silence, calm yet piercing. As though he had plucked a thread in her mind, knowing precisely what thoughts coiled there before she could grasp them herself. It should not surprise her — not with him. Nothing escaped his notice. He read rooms as books and people as paragraphs; nuance was to him as visible as colour. Even now, without glancing at her, he knew exactly what she felt. He knew her — perhaps better than she knew him. Better than she knew herself at this moment. And that alone was frightening enough.

“I was just thinking how different it is to wake up in a room with you in the bed, instead of next to it,” Hermione mumbled, her voice still rough from sleep and unease.

The words sounded absurdly light in her own ears, as though she were trying to reduce their night together to an observation — almost a jest. But they lingered in the air, weighted with everything she had not spoken.

Voldemort still did not look up, but the corner of his mouth curled slowly into a half-smile, confident and knowing. He closed the book with deliberate ease, his fingers resting briefly on the leather, as though marking the end of a chapter that had nothing to do with pages. Then he turned towards her, sliding soundlessly down into the bed until he loomed above her.

His warmth pressed against her, his face close to hers. “Always lying,” he whispered, his voice low and rough with intent.

His lips brushed her throat — at first soft, almost inquisitive. Then he pressed a slow line of kisses, deliberate and unhurried, a trail of fire across her skin. Hermione gasped, her body responding faster than her thoughts. Her back arched slightly towards him, her hands clutching the sheets as if she needed to hold on to something.

When his mouth finally reached hers, a shudder tore through her. All doubt, all panic, all logic was drowned out by the simple fact of him. His scent. His skin. His desire. And hers.

His lips barely rested against hers when he spoke again, scarcely audible but razor-sharp in intent. “You’re mine,” he whispered, each syllable pronounced as though it were a spell. “You gave yourself to me — and there’s no going back.”

His words cut through her, dark and final. Not as a question, not as a request. As a truth she had confirmed last night — with her body, her choices, her surrender. Hermione could not reply. She did not want to.

Because he had shared his name with her. Not the name the world feared, but the name he had buried — and which he had now, willingly, entrusted to her. That was no game, no careless slip. It was a gesture. A sign of trust. In his world, where control was law and emotion rarely allowed space, that meant more than any sweet word ever could.

For the first time, she felt that he had revealed something. Not only his desire, not only his possessiveness, but something beneath. Vulnerability. Recognition. Something that resembled equality. And that… that was what she had needed.

As long as it had been a one-sided claim, she had resisted. Because she could not belong to him. Because she knew what his name would mean in the future. Because she thought she should not want this. But now… now it shifted.

His name had done more than earn her trust. It had opened a door. To the possibility that this was more than lust. More than power. That it was real.

And perhaps, she thought as her hand slid over his chest, perhaps it was not wrong to want to explore this. Perhaps it was finally all right to feel what she had been trying to deny all this time.

What followed happened in silence. Her legs folded around his hips as if by instinct. His hand found her thigh, her hip, her neck — as though he already knew every line of her. There was nothing hurried, nothing rough. Only the slow, relentless certainty of a claim reaffirmed.

The rain still tapped against the window, echoing the rhythm of their bodies’ movements.

By the time they had surrendered to each other for a second time that morning, the bathroom had filled with steam and breathless cries. Now, freshly bathed and dressed at last, they sat at the long, dark breakfast table of Groza Manor.

Zoltan sat at its head, clad in a grey tunic, his gaze sharp as ever. At his right hand sat Dolohov, still a little pale, but alert. His posture leaned slightly forward, as though he had to remind himself how his body worked, but the spark in his eyes was the same. He would recover fully within days, Zoltan had assured them. They had decided to remain in Romania another week to give him that rest. Besides, Hermione was certain Voldemort still had business to attend to in Eastern Europe — especially after what had happened yesterday.

“What in Salazar’s name are we going to do about the Mercury?” Dolohov asked, his voice hoarse yet brimming with anger. “The vermin should all be dead by now, shouldn’t they? After the Spellyard… after yesterday?”

“Gaspard still lives,” said Hermione, though she tried not to be distracted by the hand resting on her thigh beneath the table. His fingers did not move — they merely lay there, warm, present, claiming — but it was enough to quicken her pulse. She felt his gaze, knew he was watching her.

“I—I hate I missed it,” said Zoltan, his accent heavy, his voice raw with frustration. He looked from Dolohov to Hermione, his hands clasped tightly on the tabletop. “I am sorry, Hermione. You was in danger because me.”

Hermione shook her head. “You tried to stop me. I didn’t listen. That’s not your fault.”

A second of silence fell.

Then his voice sounded, dark and implacable. “No it’s not,” said Voldemort. His hand tightened slightly on her thigh. “And it won’t happen again. You will not put yourself at risk like that ever again.”

His tone was measured, almost gentle — but beneath each word lay an unyielding layer of possession. Not like a jealous lover, but like a ruler defending his territory. It was no request. It was law.

Hermione turned her head towards him, her gaze sharp and defiant. “I have just as much right to protect the people I care about as you do,” she said coolly. “I had it under control. You saw that. You know I can take care of myself.”

Her voice did not tremble, though something flared beneath her words. It was no defence — it was a reminder. Of who she was, even without him. Of what she could do, even if he would rather forbid it.

Voldemort did not respond at once. But his body language spoke volumes — the tilt of his head, the slowness with which his fingers continued to rest against her thigh, as though he wanted her to feel without words that he not only heard her, but already had her enclosed. His gaze, when it finally caught hers, was so intense it felt as though he pierced her with nothing but his silence. No anger. No smile. Only that quiet, absolute dominance.

But Dolohov spoke first. “You care about me? I’m touched!” he grinned mockingly, his voice still hoarse, but light enough to break the tension.

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she felt her cheeks flush. She had said it aloud. She had admitted it. She did not know exactly what she felt for the three men at the table. There was no clear definition, no sharp boundaries. But she could not deny she cared for them. Dolohov, with his sarcasm. Zoltan, with his unfathomable intelligence and opportunistic ease. And Voldemort… Voldemort was everything at once.

And perhaps that was what surprised her most — that she felt connected to them. As though she belonged somewhere. As though she were part of something larger than herself, yet not diminished by it. It gave her breath. Space. Strength. It felt like coming home, to a place she had never known she longed for.

“I’ll find out soon enough what happened to the ones that fled,” said Voldemort calmly. His voice cut through the room like a well-honed blade — controlled, even soft, yet steeped in power. “We won’t play Gaspard’s game.” His tone now held a thread of cold disdain. “He thinks he’s clever. Smarter than us.”

He let the word ‘us’ hang heavy, as though it amused him that someone like Gaspard dared to place himself on the same field.

“But he’s wrong. And when he realises just how wrong he is—” he paused, his eyes razor-sharp, “—it’ll be far too late to matter.”

His tone was not loud, not overtly threatening. But beneath it lay something glacial. Something cruel. It was the promise of total eradication — not out of rage, but out of principle.

He lifted his gaze, and for a moment the room seemed to shrink. “But I’ll find him. And when I do, he will cease to be a problem. Permanently.”

A silence fell that was not uncomfortable, but charged. His words were not a threat — they were a promise. A fact. As if he could rewrite the course of reality with nothing more than his will.

Hermione felt her stomach twist, not from fear, but from something that burned low in her belly. Desire, excitement — and a near-rebellious pride. She could not take her eyes off him.

How was it possible that this man — this formidable, dangerous, brilliant wizard, who could freeze a room with a single sentence — had whispered her name against her skin only that morning?

And more: that he wanted her? Not merely her body, not simply a trophy, but her — with all her stubbornness, her fire, her defiance.

It made her dizzy with longing. And strength.

For the first time in her life, she did not feel obliged to keep the overview. To be the one who thought ahead, who saw every scenario, who bore the weight of the bigger picture. That had always been her role — the strategist, the thinker, the planner. Even in the war. Even as a child.

But now? Now Voldemort was the one holding the reins. Speaking with a certainty no doubt could pierce. Making decisions without consulting her — and yet it did not feel belittling.

It felt like rest.

It was new, to have something to lean on. To feel that she was cared for, without having to give anything in return. That someone else — he — observed the danger, made the plan, held the momentum. And that she was free to simply be. Powerful, yes. Independent, always. But also carried.

And that realisation, that new experience… only made it harder not to want him.

The days that followed unfolded in a dreamlike rhythm. Voldemort was often away, usually early in the morning, without explanation. “It won’t take long,” he would say, before vanishing, his cloak a shadow pulling itself from her. Hermione wondered what he was building, who he met, what he plotted — but he gave no answers, and she asked no questions.

He left her with Dolohov and Zoltan at Groza Manor. While Dolohov recovered, she and Zoltan buried themselves in their study of runes. Their work was intensive, theoretically demanding.

The love she had suspected between Dolohov and Zoltan seemed absent. They spoke as friends — warm, practical, without tension. But sometimes she caught a look in Zoltan’s eyes when he glanced at Dolohov: a flicker of longing, a shadow of pain. Dolohov did not notice.

When Voldemort was present, he rarely strayed from her side. If he was not away at business or secret gatherings, he could be found within a single pace of her. Always.

At first she had thought it would smother her. That it would be too much. But to her shame she had to admit she had become the same.

If he was gone too long, she wandered restlessly through the halls of Groza Manor like a lost spirit. Her magic quivered impatiently beneath her skin when she missed his presence, as if her body could only settle when he was near.

She felt ridiculous. A lovestruck teenager. And yet — yet it felt like the most powerful thing she had ever experienced: to be the centre of someone’s complete attention. Not just anyone — but him.

Tom.

Voldemort.

The wizard before whom nations would bow.

And he bowed to her.

The week began each morning with his arms around her, their bodies entwined. A week in which every evening ended with their clothes strewn across the floor and his voice whispering her name in the dark.

She had never known intimacy could be so complete. Not only the desire, the searing, overwhelming fire that coloured their nights — but the calm that followed. The quiet knowledge that he held her as though he not only desired her, but feared losing her.

And through all those nights she had not once had a nightmare. Not of Anubis. Not of the Voldemort from her own time. Not of Gaspard. The darkness had no hold on her as long as he held her. His presence, his warmth, his magic — they offered a protection deeper than spells or barriers.

She had slept in his bed, in his arms, on his chest — every night. And each evening she had looked forward to that moment as though it were the only anchor in her days. As though everything before it was only preparation for where she now lay. In bed in their guest chamber. Together, in an old, beautiful manor that smelled of fire and magic.

She smiled softly as her thoughts wandered. They had tested nearly every possible surface in their room that past week: the floor by the hearth, the window ledge, the carpet before the mirror, the downy bed — which was no longer in its original place. And as if that were not enough, they had desecrated rooms beyond their quarters as well.

She thought with a mix of shamelessness and delight of the afternoon in the library, when Voldemort had pressed her against a bookshelf, his hands beneath her skirt, his breath hot in her ear — and Irina had turned the corner and seen them. The look on her face — that rare expression of human surprise — Hermione would always remember. Yet strangely she had not felt caught. Only… sated.

She had never been shy of desire. But with Voldemort it was something else. Something deeper. Something that went beyond lust.

Hermione looked at his sleeping form. His arm rested heavy across her waist, his hand flat on her stomach, as though he had fused her to his body even in sleep. His face was half-buried in her hair, his breath ghosting slowly across her neck. Even in slumber he held her fast — as though his subconscious refused to let go. As though he feared she might vanish the moment his grip slackened.

She shifted just enough to look at him without waking him. Even in sleep he looked tense. His brows drawn too tight, the corners of his mouth barely softened. As though even in rest he had no access to lightness. As though his dreams, if he had them, were as sharp and purposeful as his waking plans. Not a man who simply drifted into sleep — even in surrender he controlled.

But he did sleep. With her.

His skin was warm against hers, their bodies tangled as though they had never lain any other way. She pressed herself a little closer, her forehead resting against his temple. His scent filled her lungs, his skin radiated warmth as though he had been born of fire.

Somewhere far off, birds sang. The day had begun. Today they would leave Romania. And somewhere deep inside, Hermione felt she was not ready.

Here, within the old walls of Groza Manor, it felt as though their bond still grew under protection — shielded from the outside world, from expectations, from the past. As though they lived together in a bubble where only they existed. Returning to England would mean the end of that shield. A return to reality. To responsibility. To others who would judge. Or most of all, to herself, who would judge her more harshly than anyone else.

And she did not know if she was ready. She did not know if she was strong enough to acknowledge that part of herself — the part that wanted him — openly.

So Hermione remained there — caught in that single fragment of morning where the world had not yet intruded, and he still held her as though nothing else existed. As though the two of them were enough for everything. As though he had become her home.

Later that morning, at the front door of Groza Manor, Hermione stood before Gheorghe and Andarna. The rain had ceased, but the grass still glittered with dew, and the landscape radiated that melancholy stillness that only farewells carried.

Gheorghe clasped her hand in both of his, his face serious yet warm. “You brought good fire to this house,” he said, his accent still thick but his words sincere. “I hope you come again. You are… very brave.”

Andarna laid her hands on Hermione’s shoulders, her eyes glistening with emotion she did not entirely permit. “You are alvays velcome here,” she said softly.

Hermione smiled politely and inclined her head. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said. “You have a beautiful home — and a remarkable library. I’ve learned a great deal.”

Voldemort stood beside her, his hand resting lightly at her back. He gave them both a nod. “Thank you for the generous welcome.”

Gheorghe bowed his head briefly. “Ve hope ve see you again soon.”

“Indeed,” Andarna added with a nod. “Safe travels.”

Then they parted. While Zoltan and Dolohov prepared their own portkey for the return journey, Hermione and Voldemort activated theirs. With a brief touch of the guard, the world vanished into light — and silence.

They appeared on the castle grounds of Keenbridge Castle.

Hermione breathed in the cool, damp air of the English autumn. It felt strange to be here again. As though she had been away far longer than just a week. Everything that had happened in Romania — everything that had happened between them — seemed to have carved a chasm between who she had been there, and who she was expected to be now she was back here.

Without a word she walked inside with steady steps. Her shoes clicked against the stone floor of the hall as she climbed the stairs to her room. She wanted to retreat for a moment. To unpack her belongings. To order her thoughts.

But when she reached the corridor… she froze. Her door was gone. Where once the dark oak had stood, there was now nothing but an unbroken wall. Hermione stared at it, as if her gaze alone might force the entrance to return. But there was nothing. No edge, no handle, no trace. Only smooth, cold stone.

She turned in disbelief — and there he was. Voldemort. Entirely at ease, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, as though he had not just erased her bedroom.

“Our room is that way,” he said simply, inclining his head towards the corridor behind her.

Hermione felt her temperature rise. Not only from the thrill his presence always evoked, but from pure frustration. How dared he? Of course she knew he was accustomed to leading, to keeping control — but this? Without discussion? Simply erasing her room?

“You can’t just kick me out of my room!” she snapped, her eyes sparking with indignation.

He arched a brow. “What room?” he asked, with feigned innocence and a dark grin that twisted her stomach with equal parts fury and desire.

And then she lost it.

“Oh, don’t you dare use that tone with me,” she began, her voice balanced precariously between sarcasm and self-control. “You might be Lord of whatever, but that doesn’t give you the right to redecorate my life like it’s some bloody chessboard! You don’t just get to remove doors, assign rooms, or rearrange my existence without so much as a polite ‘Hermione, dear, would you mind if I—’ NO. Absolutely not. That’s not how this works.”

She gestured furiously at the wall where her door should have been. “This—THIS—is not a partnership! If we’re actually trying to be something — and Merlin help us both if we are — then you’ll need to learn the revolutionary concept of communication. You know, two people talking. Like civilised adults. Not growling commands and vanishing my bloody door!”

Her breathing quickened, her cheeks flushed with outrage — and somewhere, deep beneath her fury, a fierce, inappropriate yearning burned that she could not suppress.

His eyes darkened — deeper than red, almost black with desire — as he looked at her as though she were the only thing in the world, the single defiant, fiery point of his attention. He stepped forward. And again. Like a predator, calm and inexorable, until he was right before her.

“Hermione, dear—” he said, his voice nonchalant, with an undertone of something far more dangerous, lightly mocking but saturated with hunger. “Keep talking like that, and we won’t make it to the room.”

His hand slid slowly over her side, his mouth close to her ear. “Walk or be carried,” he whispered. “Either way, you’re coming with me. Let’s not waste time pretending you don’t want exactly what I'm about to give you.”

Her breath caught. Her body had long since ceased trying to resist. Only her mind still wavered on the barricades — and even that seemed to be crumbling.

He was right. She wanted him. The room did not matter.

She followed him without a word, her heart pounding, until he opened a door and drew her inside.

She had not even had time to take in her surroundings before she stepped into his room — no, their room. Within seconds he had lifted her and thrown her onto the bed: a great four-poster with dark green satin sheets that whispered softly beneath her back.

Every touch that followed struck precisely where she was most sensitive, greedy, and unguarded. It was wild and tender at once, as though they were finally speaking each other’s language fluently. His fingers explored her with assured slowness, as though he knew exactly where her body would melt. Her breath hitched each time he kissed her where no one had ever touched her before. His mouth found her neck while their magic shivered along her spine. She did not know where he ended and she began. Their magic flared as though it mimicked their body language: pulsing, glowing, entwined. Her skin tingled wherever his hands roamed, like sparks dancing across her ribs. Their bodies moved on the edge of restraint — but he set the rhythm.

He held her, guided her, pushed her only as far as he wished. His fingers tightened around her wrists as she writhed beneath him, his mouth a command against her skin. “Come for me.”

And she did. Harder than she ever had before.

When silence finally returned, she lay with her back against his chest, his hand loosely stroking her arm. He reclined against the headboard, his gaze fixed on her as she at last took in her surroundings.

The room was as austere as the rest of the castle. A bed. A wardrobe. A doorway leading to an adjoining bathroom. The only personal belongings filled an enormous, wall-spanning cabinet at the side of the room. Books, rolls of parchment, artefacts, vials — the whole gave an impression of disorder and order at once, as though he tolerated chaos only within strictly defined limits.

From the bed she could not see the details clearly. She tilted her head slightly to look more closely, but was distracted by a gentle movement. His finger slid down her arm, tracing over her scar. Agonisingly slow. Following the letters of the word mudblood. She held her breath.

“I want you to wear my mark,” he said suddenly, his eyes fixed on her arm.

Hermione froze. Her stomach clenched, her heart skipped a beat. Panic came instantly. Unmistakable. This was too far. Far too far. That mark stood for everything that had gone wrong. For fear, oppression, death. For everything she had fought against in the war. For everything she had resisted.

“That mark is for your followers,” she said sharply. “I am not your follower.”

“But you are mine,” he replied simply, as though that were all that mattered.

“I am not wearing your mark,” she insisted firmly.

“It will mask your scar,” he said, as if offering a logical solution to a technical problem.

“I don’t care about my scar,” she snapped back, insulted by his lack of understanding.

His eyes narrowed. “This scar endangers you.”

“Yeah? By whom? Who in my life would endanger me because of this scar?” she shot back. Her voice trembled with tension as she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Her gaze challenged him.

She knew she was playing with fire. Provoking him.

His jaw tightened visibly, but he said nothing at first. Frustration radiated from him — not loud, not explosive, but like tension beneath the skin, like magic building with no outlet. As though he held himself back. As though he knew something she did not.

Then he spoke, his voice flat but charged.

“My mark — it isn’t just a way for me to call my followers. It is a way for me to reach them.”

Hermione eyed him warily.

“If you have my mark, I can always find you. To keep you safe.”

“To keep me safe?” she repeated, outraged. “To keep tabs on me, you mean! As if I’m a—”

And there she went again.

“As if I’m a prisoner, or one of your underlings, or — Merlin forbid — one of your little Death Eaters you get to summon at will! You want to slap a tracker on me and call it affection? Believe it or not, Tom, being stalked is not romantic. You don’t get to monitor my every move under the noble guise of ‘protection.’ If you care about me — actually care — then you trust me. You don’t brand me like cattle and pretend it’s intimacy!”

She snorted. “So no. Absolutely not. No thank you!”

He did not move at once. But his gaze darkened. His hand — still resting on her arm — gave a brief, barely perceptible squeeze, as if he were channelling his frustration there instead of contradicting her again. His jaw was tight. Her refusal clearly stung — not only as irritation, but as something he was unaccustomed to hearing.

Then he relaxed again, with a controlled sigh. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said slowly, his hand sliding to her other arm — to the place where the serpent bracelet clasped her wrist like a shackle.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Your deals are no good,” she muttered.

He smirked, but his tone remained serious. “You can choose if — and when — you accept the mark.”

He whispered a spell she did not recognise, and at that moment the bracelet began to glow. Warmth spread from her wrist upwards, a slow, deep radiance seeping into her skin — pulsing, alive. She felt the magic anchor itself, as though he had fastened something within her.

“What did you do?” Hermione asked, now tense.

“If — when — you decide,” he said, as though her earlier protests had gone unheard, “you can activate the bracelet. The mark will appear. And I will know where you are.”

Hermione stayed silent. Her eyes flicked to her wrist. The serpent seemed to coil a little tighter than before.

“If you’re ever in danger,” he continued, “this will bring me to you. No matter where. No matter who stands in my way. I will find you.”

His voice was soft, yet unwavering.

“Because you’re mine, Hermione. And nothing — no one — keeps me from what is mine.”

For a moment Hermione did not know what to say. She did not even know what to feel.

His words, his voice, his certainty — it was all so much. So intense. She felt overwhelmed, conflicted… and moved. Because what he said was possessive, yes, even manipulative — but it was also something else. It was protection. Devotion. A promise no one had ever made her before.

She swallowed. And without truly thinking, she nestled closer to him.

His arms tightened around her at once. His hand slid slowly along her arm, soothing, spellbinding.

For a moment there was only silence.

Then she asked softly: “How do I activate it?”

She knew she would never do it. That she would never wear his mark. But still she wanted to know. Perhaps to hear his answer. Perhaps to convince herself she would always have the choice.

Voldemort lowered his head to her ear. His voice was barely more than a breath.

“Morsmordre.”

The word sent a shiver across her skin. Not from arousal — though perhaps that lay beneath it — but from something deeper. An echo of fear. Of memory. She swallowed and tried to mask her reaction, but her muscles tightened. Flashes shot through her mind: night skies lit by a menacing green sign, screams, smoke, chaos.

And then — a face. Gaunt. Eyes wild. Black, untamed curls. Bellatrix Lestrange. The woman who had given her this scar. The woman who had once borne the same mark he now wanted her to accept.

Hermione’s stomach turned. But what struck her most was jealousy. The raw, stinging thought that another woman had once carried his mark. That she might have stood closer to him — closer than Hermione herself perhaps ever could. She felt ashamed of it at once. But she could not deny it. She felt it. It pricked beneath her ribs, burned behind her eyes.

And then she heard herself say: “I’ll also make you a deal.”

Voldemort stayed silent, but his head tilted slightly, attentive. His lips brushed lightly against the shell of her ear.

“I’m listening,” he said, as he pressed slow kisses along her neck.

Hermione drew a breath, her heart pounding.

“No other woman but me will ever wear your mark,” she said calmly, but every word carried the weight of fire.

Silence fell. She felt him grin against her skin. His lips trailed along her jaw and nipped at her throat — not hard, but enough to steal her breath.

“Or I’ll cut off my arm...” she added. “...and then hers.”

Voldemort’s breath quickened faintly. He drew back a few inches to look at her, his gaze glittering with excitement and dark delight.

“Now that,” he whispered, “is the kind of madness I find irresistible.”

He rolled her beneath him with a certainty that allowed no argument, his eyes blazing with possessive hunger as his hands pinned her wrists above her head.

His mouth found hers in a kiss that asked nothing, but claimed everything.

And as he kissed her as though she were his only religion, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: The world could burn — so long as he held her.

Chapter Text

Hermione let her fingers drift slowly along the edge of the cabinet. The wood was dark, heavy, steeped in the scent of old leather and something spicy she could not immediately place. Every shelf was crammed to the brim—not with neat rows of books, but with a chaotic, almost organic arrangement of objects and knowledge. As though its contents had been collected rather than arranged, and together they formed the only place in the castle that exuded a trace of life and personality—a silent imprint of Voldemort’s own choices, interests, and obsessions.

On the upper shelf stood leather-bound volumes, some with their titles embossed in gold or silver, others without any marking at all. Their colours had dulled through years of handling and dust. Here and there, a parchment slip or ribbon jutted out from between the pages. Her gaze lingered on a sturdy, dark tome whose spine was nearly coming loose—the wear spoke of countless times it had been opened, flipped through, reread. Secrets of the Darkest Art. The white letters had faded, the cover cracked. This was no trophy for display; this book had been used. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she thought of all that had sprung from these pages—knowledge that had ruined lives, magic that led irrevocably to destruction. For a moment she felt the tension like a hand at her throat, a mingling of fear and a dangerous curiosity that made her fingers tremble.

Beneath the books lay narrow boxes of polished ebony, fitted with discreet locks without keyholes. One box bore a scorch mark at the corner, as though something once stored within had burned too hot, or too fiercely. A faint metallic odour reached her, as if the object inside still radiated magic.

On a lower shelf lay artefacts that drew her eyes with their unmistakable menace. A silver compass without a needle, its glass clouded as if fogged by breath. A folded piece of parchment sealed with dark wax through which runes seemed to pulse. A row of bottles, each filled with fluids in impossible colours: pitch black that swallowed light, a pearlescent mist that constantly shifted shape, and one flask in which something appeared to be sleeping—a small, gleaming creature that did not open its eyes when she leaned closer.

And then, almost carelessly placed among the rest, a simple bronze ring with an irregularly cut stone. It seemed an unimportant trinket, until she noticed the way the light broke against it: not in colour, but in shadows, as if the piece itself made its surroundings a shade darker.

Then she felt it. Something subtle, yet undeniable. A presence that pulled at her attention without her consciously seeking it. The more she focused on it, the stronger it grew—like a distant echo drawing nearer. Her eyes swept back over the cabinet, searching for the source. The sensation was strangely familiar, as though it called to her.

And then, soft and clear in her mind, she heard it: “I know you.” Her breath caught. She knew that voice. The feeling settled deep in her gut, the same oppressive, wrongness she had felt when she carried Slytherin’s locket. But now… now it felt different. Comforting. Soothing. Like an old friend.

She began to search, letting her fingers drift along the spines of the books and over the artefacts, but nothing explained why the feeling held her so tightly. Until her gaze slipped from the cabinet, to the room itself. She followed the silent call, and when her eyes found the nightstand beside the bed, she knew at once: that was where it lay.

With cautious steps Hermione moved towards the bed. Her chest felt tight, caught between the hunger to know what called to her and the instinct warning her to leave it alone. Yet curiosity pulled harder than fear. She crouched by the nightstand, slid her fingers around the cold iron handle, and pulled slowly. The drawer moved grudgingly, the wood groaning under the strain. Her breath hitched when she saw what lay within: in the centre of the empty, dark wood rested a black diary.

And she felt it. She felt him. It was exactly the same as when the locket had been near. “There you are,” whispered the sinister voice, silky but unmistakable. “I’ve missed you.”

Hermione gasped. How was this possible? The diary could not know her—it could not. She had never touched it before. And the fragment of Voldemort’s soul she had met could not yet know her, not in this time… could it? That meeting was still years away. Or did this magic reach further than the bounds of time itself, bending and breaking as gravity bends light? Was this something that slipped free of cause and consequence, a force gliding straight through the fabric of time and space?

She could not believe she had stumbled upon his diary so carelessly. That it lay here, unprotected, without any apparent spell or ward, as if it were no more than a forgotten notebook. Her heart pounded in her throat, overwhelmed by the sudden, crushing moral duty to seize it and destroy it at once. A single act, and she could break a chain of events: the Chamber of Secrets would never be opened again, Ginny would never fall prey to the magic slumbering within, and countless lives would remain untouched. It was a chance to rewrite history—and it was literally within her reach.

But beneath that layer of rational duty, something else gnawed, sharper still. Guilt. The realisation that, with all the knowledge and power she possessed, she stood in a position to make an unimaginable difference… and yet chose not to act. That instead of seizing the moment, she had allowed herself to bind to Voldemort—to seek his company, to give him her body. Perhaps even pieces of her heart. The thought twisted her stomach. In that moment the diary became more than an object; it became a mirror, merciless in what it revealed. A silent accusation that laid bare her failings and forced her to confront how deep she had already descended into shadow.

Quickly she shoved the drawer shut with a decisive movement. The dull thud echoed louder in the still room than she expected. She decided to leave the diary where it was. She had no means to destroy it now—at least, that was the excuse she offered herself to postpone the discovery. The truth was that she was not yet ready to decide what to do. As long as it stayed in its place, she could always choose later… and until then, she could pretend the choice did not yet haunt her.

Instead, she forced her thoughts in another direction. Elric’s death. It was something she had scarcely allowed herself to dwell on during the past week, but now it gnawed at her. She had to know what had happened to him—and whether Voldemort had had a hand in it. A part of her fervently hoped not, but the doubt lingered. She wanted to prove to herself that she was wrong, that there was innocence on his part.

As she tried to form a plan, she realised how little she actually knew about Elric: no idea if he had family, who his friends were, where he had lived. Merlin, even what Alphard had told her had shocked her. Never had she thought Elric capable of such deeds.

Alphard was her only lead, yet she did not even know how to reach him. Until suddenly a name surfaced in her mind:

Beatrice.

She had met Beatrice through Elric. Perhaps she knew more, or at least could point her in the right direction. Hermione knew Beatrice was hardly her greatest admirer, but Zoltan might be able to help. Otherwise, she could always consult the library to search for Elric’s family—just as she had once traced her own link to the Dagworth-Grangers, which had ultimately led her to Thea.

A slow-growing sense of relief took hold of her. She had two leads. Two possible routes to answers. That gave her, if only a little, the feeling of regaining control.

The next morning she went straight to Dolohov’s farm, where she found Zoltan preparing breakfast for himself.

“Good morning, frumoasă!” he said excitedly. “I was hoping you come here today! I found amazing new book you need reading!”

Hermione could not help but grin broadly at him. In his presence she always felt an unexpected warmth, as though there was a piece of home in him. It was easy to be at ease with him, as if her worries lost their grip on her for a while.

While Zoltan ate, they talked about the book he had found—a work on the effect of dragon’s blood on magic. The text offered new insights into why their earlier experiments had repeatedly failed, yet at the same time it stirred a fresh, gnawing frustration in Hermione. The more she learned, the less she understood how she herself could possibly have survived three runes.

“Where is Dolohov?” Hermione asked halfway through the morning, when she still had not seen the Death Eater.

“Him and Voldemort busy with business,” Zoltan answered airily. “Many problems after fight last week.”

“What kind of problems?” Hermione asked, a mix of curiosity and concern in her voice.

Zoltan shrugged. “Do not know. Do not care.”

Hermione burst out laughing at his sassy reply. She was so glad Zoltan was not a Death Eater. Though he was a good friend of Voldemort’s, and certainly supported him in certain matters, Zoltan always insisted—as she did—that he would never become a follower. Hermione did not even know if Zoltan subscribed to the pure-blood propaganda. She had never dared ask. He had never shown any sign of prejudice against Muggle-borns, but then again, she had never seen him in the company of someone like her.

“Sounds like a perfect day for a field trip!” Hermione said, trying her best to sound light-hearted.

Zoltan’s eyes lit up, his brows arching curiously as his mouth curved into a wide, expectant grin. “Field trip? What field trip?”

“Well,” Hermione said. “I kinda need your help with Beatrice. I need to talk to her.”

Zoltan frowned. “About the experiments?”

“No, actually—” Hermione began. “I am looking for some answers. My friend, Elric, you’ve actually met him in the Spellyard, the bartender—”

“Oh yes! The not your boyfriend who didn’t know your name, yes?”

Hermione’s stomach twisted at his words. A mix of grief and guilt crept into her chest as she thought of Elric—how, despite everything, he had always shown her he cared. And how, in the past weeks, she had deliberately kept her distance after his confession of feelings, avoiding him, when in truth he had done nothing more than try to be her friend.

“Yes, him,” Hermione said sadly. “Last week I heard he died. He was killed. So I want to know what happened.”

Zoltan looked at her with genuine sympathy and placed his hand comfortingly over hers. “I am sorry,” he said, then added thoughtfully: “But why do you want to eh talk to Bea?”

“Elric was the one who introduced me to Beatrice,” Hermione replied. “I hope she can tell me where I can find his family or friends. Or maybe she heard something about this.”

Zoltan nodded in agreement. “Okay, let’s go to Bea then. Let start the field trip!”

With a handful of Floo powder they stepped into the fireplace, and Zoltan commanded the flames to take them to Beatrice. Before Hermione could even brush the ash from her cloak, an angry voice rang through the room in Romanian. When she looked up, she saw Beatrice storming towards Zoltan, jabbing her finger hard into his chest before pointing at Hermione. The furious glare that followed was so intense that Hermione nearly turned around and fled back into the fire.

“What are you doing here?” Beatrice snapped. “Didn’t I tell you multiple times that you’re not welcome here anymore?!”

Zoltan tried to say something in Romanian, but Beatrice’s focus was locked on Hermione.

“Beatrice, I’m sorry for intruding,” Hermione began awkwardly. “I’m not here for myself—”

“You better hope you’re not here for yourself,” Beatrice cut her off, sharp as a striking basilisk. “I am not helping you. Ever. Again.”

Hermione straightened her back. She could understand that Beatrice was displeased with the unannounced visit, but there were more important matters.

“Elric is dead,” Hermione said coldly.

The sharpness in Beatrice’s eyes did not fade, but it sank into something heavier. Her mouth pressed into a hard line, and a shadow of sorrow crossed her face—not surprised, but with the gravity of someone who already knew, and had silently grieved.

“I’ve heard,” Beatrice said heavily, her shoulders slumping slightly and her arms folding tightly across her chest. “Stupid idiot. I told him a thousand times he wasn’t cut out for the business he was meddling in.”

Hermione hesitated, then asked carefully: “Do you know who did it?”

Beatrice shook her head slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor. “No… but I’ve heard plenty of rumours.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked back up, suspicious. “Why do you even want to know? Elric’s gone. Nothing you can do about it.”
Zoltan cast Hermione a worried look, but she stood firm. “I just want some closure. And maybe find his family or—”

Beatrice’s bitter laugh cut her off, dry and without the slightest trace of humour. “His family? Don’t you know anything about Elric?” She shook her head, her mouth set in a hard line. Hermione felt frustration rise in her chest—why didn’t Beatrice just tell her? Why speak in riddles?

“Just tell me, Beatrice,” Hermione hissed, her patience fraying. “Don’t make this a guessing game.”

With a theatrical roll of her eyes, Beatrice finally relented. “Elric was a bastard. Literally. He was Cassius’s half-brother. Selwyn senior had an affair with Elric’s mother, but she died when he was still a kid. Selwyn took him in, but the rest of that clan despised him for it—despised Elric. His mother was Muggle-born, so they felt their precious bloodline had been sullied. They kept quiet about who his father really was. Hardly anyone knows he’s a Selwyn. Cassius and Elric grew up together and, Merlin help us, they were close enough to get into all sorts of shady business. But the rest of the Selwyn lot never forgot where Elric came from.”

She let her arms drop and fixed Hermione with a hard stare, more serious now. “One of the rumours is that one of the Selwyns themselves had a hand in it. Can’t see why, though—it’s not as if Elric ever tried to claim a place in the family. He never once spoke about his father. So you won’t find answers there. And they won’t talk to outsiders anyway. They’d rather the whole world stayed ignorant of it.”

Hermione felt a stab of frustration, spreading slowly into a burning ache in her chest. Again and again, things were being revealed about Elric she had never known—about his origins, his family, the shadows he had moved in. The more she heard, the more she began to doubt whether she had ever truly known him at all. The thought gnawed at her, as if her memories of him were suddenly worth less. And at the same time, she had to admit to herself that she should not pretend her search was entirely noble. Because deep down she mainly wanted to rule out that Voldemort had anything to do with it—not so much to avenge Elric’s death. The desire to ease her own fears outweighed the desire to do justice to Elric’s name. That realisation stung, but she could not deny it.

“So not his family then,” Hermione said slowly, thoughtful. “Who else would’ve wanted him dead?”

Beatrice looked at her impatiently, her fingers drumming against her upper arm as if counting the seconds until Hermione finally left. But Hermione was stubborn and held her ground; she was not about to leave without answers. At last Beatrice let out a sharp sigh, as if she knew that keeping quiet would only saddle her with Hermione’s presence longer.

“Well, he was trafficking Veela,” she said curtly. “They’ve got a vicious temper, and it’d be more than fair if they finished him off for it.”

Hermione could hardly argue. In silence she even thought she hoped that was the case—then the Veela would have had their revenge, and Voldemort would have had nothing to do with it.

“But…” Beatrice let the word hang for a moment, her gaze flicking briefly to Zoltan and back again. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Some of my contacts in Knockturn Alley said there were an unusual number of werewolves about that day. They tore through the place, hurt plenty of people. Some say Elric was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Others reckon it wasn’t an accident at all. That Greyback was after him. Specifically.”

Hermione froze. Her fingers curled into fists of their own accord, a chill racing down her spine. The name alone hurled her back to images from her own time, to stories she never wanted to hear again. Her breath caught, and it felt as though the room had suddenly shrunk.
Inside, her thoughts spun wildly. Greyback. The brutal werewolf who in her own time had been Voldemort’s instrument, unleashed as both weapon and monster. If he was already in play now… what did that say about Voldemort? What if this truly had been his order? The thought cut deep: that Elric, flawed as he was, might have died at the command of the man she both distrusted and desired. Her stomach churned.

What would that mean for them? Her moral compass screamed this had to be the end—that there could be no return if Voldemort truly had a hand in Elric’s death. But everything in her, everything that craved his nearness, wanted to smash that compass to pieces and cast it aside. Wanted to ignore this, pretend it meant nothing. She despised herself for that thought.

Why would Voldemort have had Elric killed? The question gripped her throat. She knew how possessive he could be, how sharply his jealousy sometimes showed, but could that truly be enough reason to have someone murdered? The idea was monstrous. And yet… part of her understood it was possible. The way he looked at her, the ownership that sometimes flashed in his eyes—it had frightened her before. But now, as she lived through this scenario, she found that the same awareness also excited her. The powerful, chilling notion that someone so dangerous, so formidable, might be capable of such acts… because of her. Her cheeks burned, her heart pounded, and she hated herself for not being able to shake the feeling.

She closed her eyes briefly and forced herself to breathe. How could she recoil and desire at the same time? How could she in one breath reason that it was all wrong, and yet secretly feel the pull of its poisonous allure? It made her furious—at Voldemort, at Greyback, but most of all at herself. And somewhere she knew that, whatever the truth turned out to be, the answer would never leave her untouched.

Hermione opened her eyes again, determined not to prolong the conversation. She forced herself to thank Beatrice, however bitter it felt. “Thank you for your time… and I’m sorry for dropping in unannounced,” she said with a small nod. Without another word she took a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the fireplace and spoke clearly: “Leaky Cauldron.”

Zoltan looked at her with a frown, as though he wanted to say more, but he kept silent. Dutifully, he stepped into the green fire with her. An instant later they were standing amidst the bustle of Diagon Alley. Hermione briskly brushed the last ashes from her cloak and immediately set course for Knockturn Alley. She kept her stride brisk, as though any delay would only make her thoughts louder.

It was only when she reached the narrow alley that led to the Spellyard that she slowed down. Her heart pounded as she spoke the password. But the old rubbish bin remained still, as if it no longer recognised her.

“Maybe we can just go home,” Zoltan said carefully, his voice low, almost pleading. “Ask Antonin. Maybe he knows.”

“No,” Hermione replied more sharply than she intended. “I don’t want him to know. He… he’ll tell Voldemort, and I definitely don’t want him to know.”

Zoltan frowned, his dark eyes searching hers. “Why not?”

“You know how he is,” Hermione answered vaguely. She swallowed, searching for words but deciding not to explain further. “I just… let’s keep this between us, all right? At least for now.”

Zoltan hesitated visibly, his shoulders tense, his hands slipping restlessly in and out of his pockets. His gaze flicked from her face to the bin, back again, as though weighing whether he could trust her with this secret. At last he let out a long sigh and nodded reluctantly. “For now,” he agreed. “So… now what?”

“Now I’ll ask some acquaintances of mine what they know about that day,” Hermione decided, already turning back into Knockturn Alley.

The next hours took them through half-shadowed shops and dim pubs, places where Hermione had by now become a familiar face thanks to her endless quests for forbidden knowledge. Yet prising out information proved a stubborn process. Time and again she had to open her purse, lay down galleons to loosen tongues. And even then she received only scraps, fragments, never a consistent story.

One claimed there had been a whole gang involved, a coordinated assault. Another swore he had seen only Greyback. Someone else insisted it had all been a trap set by undercover Aurors. The more she heard, the more her frustration grew—every coin she spent seemed only to buy more contradictions.

Zoltan walked beside her in silence, but his unease became ever more visible. His eyes darted nervously through the streets, his hands trembled slightly as he urged her again and again: “We should go. Hermione, let’s just go back.” When she pressed for details once more, he finally hissed: “Think about Mercury.” His voice was tense, almost sweating.

Hermione looked at him and saw the discomfort, the nervousness in his every movement. It struck her with painful clarity. She could not do this to him. She could not make him complicit in her obsessive hunt for answers. Perhaps she had not been a good friend to Elric—that realisation still weighed heavily. But she would learn to be better for Zoltan. She would learn to take into account the people who cared for her. And if that meant putting aside her own needs for his peace of mind, then she would.

At last Hermione nodded and agreed to go home. The relief that washed over Zoltan was almost tangible. His tense posture melted away, and within moments he was his cheerful self again. With a wide grin he made a light-hearted joke about the last shopkeeper they had questioned—something about his foul breath and how even a dementor would flee from it—that made Hermione laugh despite herself.

They had barely returned and collapsed onto the sofa when the door swung open. Dolohov and Voldemort entered. Hermione felt a wave of relief that they had not come home earlier, for then Voldemort would undoubtedly have asked questions she did not want to answer. His gaze found hers almost immediately. Hungry, eager, charged with a tension that made her heart pound in her throat. It was as though the very air grew thicker, saturated by the pull between them. Hermione felt warmth spread through her, and she knew he felt it too.

He wasted no time. Before they could even exchange a word, he took her home. They did not make it past the stairs. Voldemort pulled her close, his hands urgent and determined, his mouth on hers as if he could no longer restrain himself. And Hermione let him. She let go of all thoughts of Elric, let herself be swept away by desire, surrendering completely to the dark intoxication his nearness always stirred in her.

The days that followed Hermione used to arrange a meeting with Selwyn—in the guise of Rhiannon, under the pretext of discussing the future of the Spellyard. In the meantime, she focused again on her potions and spent nearly every day with Zoltan and Dolohov, where their research continued unabated. Though she and Zoltan had worked through dozens of impressive rune theories by now, they were no closer to explaining why Hermione had managed to survive three runes. By this point there were a few who had survived the process if it involved only a small rune tattoo, but most paid a price: part of their sanity. And that was not even new, for those results had already been known from Beatrice’s earlier experiences.

December had now arrived, and the first snowfall had turned the world around her white and still. It had prompted Hermione to instruct Franky to decorate the castle for Christmas. He had set to it solemnly, but with visible enthusiasm. She still took pleasure in the great Christmas tree that greeted her each time she arrived home through the fireplace. What Voldemort thought of the decorations, she could not quite guess. He had observed them in silence, but in his eyes she thought she saw a flicker of approval—or perhaps it was only wishful thinking.

It took a week before Hermione finally received a reply from Selwyn. His letter was brief and businesslike, but he invited her to meet in the Spellyard.

On the day of the appointment Hermione travelled, as usual, to Dolohov’s farm, where she lightly lied that she needed to return home early because of a supposed ‘women’s problem’. The men had reacted so awkwardly that, to her relief, they had not pressed further. They did not even find it odd that she did not use the Floo to go straight home, but instead left by the front door and apparated out of sight. A short while later she arrived in Knockturn Alley. With a pounding heart she entered the narrow passage for the second time that week. This time the old rubbish bin did respond when she gave the password, and turned slowly aside to let her through.

It felt strange to be back in the Spellyard. The smell of burned wood still hung in the air, and parts of the stands had been cordoned off with spells and half-restored beams that showed the scars of the fight. The lounge had remained untouched. It was there, in the dim calm, that Hermione found Cassius.

"Well, well, well," Cassius said with a grin, his eyes slowly appraising her. She was wearing her Rhiannon outfit, but his look betrayed that he knew more. "Good to see you again, Rhiannon… or should I just call you Miss Dagworth-Granger?"

Hermione cursed herself silently. How had she been so naïve? Of course it had been simple to link her name to Rhiannon, especially since Voldemort had paraded her about Malfoy Manor without shame. A cold tension ran through her. She trusted Selwyn not one bit. As she sat opposite him she kept her wand within reach, her fingers trembling slightly but resolved. Every fibre of her being was on alert. Yet she showed none of it. Her expression remained as cool and composed as Rhiannon’s always was, her posture relaxed and controlled, as if Cassius’ words could not unnerve her for a moment.

"Restoration is coming along nicely," Hermione said coolly, ignoring his jibe. "When do you expect to reopen?"

"Aiming for the new year," Cassius replied, watching her closely. "Can I expect you then?"

"Well, if you learn to organise your security better, I might consider it," Hermione replied coldly.

Cassius’ jaw tightened noticeably and his smile froze; the chill in his eyes betrayed how little he appreciated her laying the blame at his door. He leaned forward slightly, his voice curt and blunt: "What do you want?"

"First of all, my condolences on the loss of your brother," Hermione said, studying his reaction closely.

Cassius’ grin faded. For a flicker of a moment surprise crossed his features, then his look shifted to something more guarded. Very briefly, almost imperceptibly, a shadow of sorrow passed over his eyes before he hardened his jaw and straightened his back.

"As you know, Elric and I were friends," Hermione continued, her voice controlled but edged with determination. "I want to know what happened. Do you know?"

Cassius’ face contorted. His eyes flared as he slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. "You dragged me here for this? To talk about him?" he spat angrily. He leaned in, his tone sharp and cutting. "Stay out of my family’s business, Rhiannon. Keep your nose where it belongs, or you’ll regret sticking it into matters that don’t concern you."

Hermione remained composed. She did not allow his eruption to intimidate her and replied calmly, her tone icily restrained: "Why? Because your family killed him?"

Cassius laughed scornfully, without a trace of humour. His eyes glittered with anger as he stared at her. In the tension of his jaw and the contemptuous twist of his mouth lay a glimpse of disdain for his own kin, as if he could scarcely be bothered to waste words on their name. "They didn’t," he snapped. "Elric had no claim to anything of the Selwyn name, nor did he want it. He was no threat to them."

"So who then?" Hermione pressed. "Veela? Or some other dodgy partner you lot were mixed up with?"

"You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with, little girl," Cassius snarled, his tone growing more menacing. "Pipe down."

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. "Keep talking to me like that and see what happens. You know whose protection I’ve got."

Cassius’ expression hardened, and a repressed anger flickered across his face. He knew she was right—that she was under Voldemort’s protection—and that he could not risk openly threatening her. His lips curled into a mocking smirk as he retorted provocatively: "Oh yeah? So he knows you’re here then?"

Hermione’s heart missed a beat. She did her utmost to appear unaffected, but inwardly she knew she had made a grave mistake. Selwyn was a follower of Voldemort. The first chance he had, he would betray her. She should not have provoked him. She ought to have flattered him, stroked his ego, approached him differently. Damn. How could she fix this?

"Of course he knows," Hermione bluffed, her voice flat but firm. "You know how he is. But that’s not what matters right now. Elric does. He’s dead, and I want to know who I should blame. So I can make them regret it." She emphasised her words, deliberately, as if to make Cassius feel she stood on the same side—on Elric’s side.

His reaction was subtle but telling: the tension in his jaw eased slightly, his gaze flicked fractionally to the side, and a reluctant respect passed over his features, mixed with a hint of resentment. It was not an outright concession, but it gave her just enough to see she had won a small measure of credit.

Cassius snorted and his eyes narrowed. "It was Fenrir Greyback," he told her, his voice dripping with anger. The loathing in his look was unmistakable; his lip curled in an almost bestial grimace, as if the name itself defiled him. "Filthy beast. I don’t know why, but I know they went for him. I’ve been looking into it, but so far I’ve got nothing. We’ve never had dealings with that monster. I don't think he even knew Elric." His voice cracked with disgust, but there was something in his look that undermined his words: a fleeting shadow of grief, barely visible, that betrayed that Elric’s death had truly affected him. It was only for a moment, a spark he immediately smothered beneath layers of anger and pride.

Hermione felt an unexpected flicker of relief and hope. Selwyn was a follower of Voldemort, of that she was certain. If Voldemort was already working with Greyback in this time, then Selwyn would surely know. But Selwyn knew nothing—calling him merely a filthy beast. That could only mean there was not yet any collaboration.

"He’ll pay," Cassius continued, his voice raw with anger but carried by a dark resolve. "I’ve already got people looking for him." His fist clenched, knuckles white as he spoke.

"Let me know when you do," Hermione said, her eyes keen, her words charged with the same fire. "I’ll be there with you to take him down."

Cassius looked at her, at first measuring, as though testing if she meant it. Then he nodded slowly, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. It was no warm agreement, but an acknowledgement—a sign of mutual respect that, however fragile, hung between them for a moment.

۞

Earlier that week, far from the lights of London, a chill mist clung to the weathered trees of Ashdown Forest. The air smelled of damp earth and rotting leaves. Among the trunks stood derelict huts, sagging beneath their own weight, roofs patched with moss and gaps that let the cold wind in. Here the pack lay low, steeped in an atmosphere as menacing as it was foreboding.

One of the younger werewolves hurried along the muddy path to one of the huts. Inside, by the flickering light of a meagre hearth, sat Greyback on a wooden chair that resembled a throne of rough branches. His eyes glowed yellow in the gloom.

“Alpha,” panted the young wolf, mud caked to his knees. “There’s a witch. Asking questions about you. In Knockturn Alley. She calls herself Rhiannon.”

Greyback’s lip curled into a wolfish grin. A low growl rumbled from him, slow and threatening, as his claws dug into the arm of the chair. “So… she’s sniffing around, is she?” His voice was rough, every syllable dragged over gravel. He leaned forward, baring yellowed teeth. “Then we’d best arrange to meet this little witch. Time she learned what happens to those who dare stick their nose into a wolf’s den.”