Chapter Text
The Great Hall had never felt smaller.
Gone were the endless House tables. In their place stood scattered circles of furniture — low tables of dark oak, ringed with velvet chairs close enough to force conversation. No glitter, no pomp. Just candlelight in wrought-iron sconces, flames burning green and gold, shadows drawn long and close against the ancient stone. Bowls of enchanted wine smoked faintly, filling the air with a warm bite of spice.
It didn’t feel like Hogwarts. It felt like walking into someone else’s drawing room — if that drawing room was filled with predators.
Professors clustered at the edges, their voices sharp and wary. Strangers outnumbered them, witches and wizards whose faces Hermione didn’t know but whose posture spoke of influence. Ministry pins gleamed faintly in the candlelight. Others had no insignia at all, yet carried themselves with that heavy weight of importance, the kind only power could give.
It was quieter than she expected. Not silence, but a low hum, intimate and conspiratorial. Conversations folded into one another, layered like secrets.
Draco led them in. His robes were midnight black, cut narrow at the waist and sharp at the shoulders, silver-thread trim catching every flame. Theo and Blaise flanked him with deliberate ease, their eyes restless, calculating. The girls trailed after, silk whispering, perfume carrying like a sweet breath of femininity.
But every glance fixed itself on Hermione.
Her dress clung like ink poured over her skin — spidersilk black edged with green, light sliding over it with each step. She felt the weight of stares hitching on her neckline, her waist, the deliberate sweep of her stride. Whispers began, hushed but audible, slipping through the hall like blades unsheathed.
Hermione raised her chin. She had stood before Dark Lords. She could stand before this.
Draco leaned closer, his words soft but firm, meant only for her.
“Let them look. They should.”
Blaise’s grin was a knife in candlelight. “And they will. No one here has ever seen anything like us.”
Behind, Pansy’s fingers brushed Hermione’s wrist, lingering. “They’d kill for a fraction of your presence, our privelege. Don’t waste a breath worrying.”
The music in the background wasn’t grand, but quiet — a charm-touched trio in the corner, playing strings that thrummed low, seductive, almost drowned by conversation. The spidersilk shifted against her body with every movement, clinging and releasing in a way that felt like water running against her skin. Hermione told herself not to react, not to notice. But her pulse betrayed her.
At one of the tables, Theo paused, clearly intent on holding position. Blaise lingered too close. Draco’s stance remained protective, tense.
Hermione let her fingers trail against a glass of wine, its rim cold, her reflection warped in the surface. She smiled faintly, picking it up. “I’ll be fine.”
The words didn’t land. Theo frowned. Draco’s eyes swept the room again. Blaise only watched her, unreadable.
“Truly,” she said, her tone calm, firm, almost amused. “Go drink. Go dance. Watch the room. I need to breathe.”
Pansy’s mouth twisted into mock drama, though her eyes lingered too long on Hermione’s face. Finally, she looped her arm with Daphne’s. “Fine. But don’t think I won’t be watching.”
Hermione’s smile curved sharper. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
And then they left her.
The hum of voices pressed in, every whisper now directed at her or darting away just as quickly. She sipped her wine slowly, eyes sweeping over the clusters — professors trading stiff words with Ministry men, witches leaning close in hushed laughter, an unfamiliar official gesturing sharply while others nodded. The intimacy of the room was thick, dangerous, like every word might bind her into some unspoken agreement.
Hermione breathed in the weight of it. The closeness. The calculation.
This wasn’t about being seen, she thought, pulse steadying with the idea. It’s about listening. About learning who pulls the strings, and how tight.
The candlelight caught in her grey eyes, turning them to silver glass.
For the first time tonight, she didn’t feel cornered.
She felt ravenous. Learning, afterall, was her specialty.
The Great Hall had shed its usual grandeur for something subtler. The atmosphere was not a ball, but a current: circles forming and breaking, conversations weaving together like strands of a net. Music murmured faintly from a string quartet in the corner, meant not to be listened to, but to fill the pauses.
Hermione let herself be drawn into it, her smile poised, her steps measured. She had faced courts darker than this. She had stared down death itself. And yet the simmering tension of politics had its own kind of peril, and tonight she felt it breathing at her throat.
It began with a young man — no older than twenty, his Ministry badge gleaming as if newly polished. He bowed, nearly spilling his glass. “Miss Black,” he said, reverence and nerves tangling his words. “An honor beyond words. I must confess, I had not expected—well, forgive me, but you’re even more striking in person.”
Hermione arched a brow, tilting her glass. “And here I thought the Ministry valued intellect over appearances.”
His ears pinked. “O-of course. Of course. Only—I’d hoped, perhaps, that you might take interest in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. We’re forming a new international commission—fairness in tournament adjudications. With your experience in… unconventional competitions, your insight could lend our project real credibility.”
Hermione offered a faint smile, neither acceptance nor rejection. The boy leaned too close, as if desperate to tether her. “If I might send you an owl?”
Before she could answer, another voice slid in, soft and syrupy.
“You’ll have to get in line.”
A witch swept up beside them, older, draped in sapphire robes that gleamed like beetle wings. Her perfume hit Hermione before her words did — rich and floral, cloying. “Hermione Black. I cannot tell you how long I’ve waited for this introduction. My colleagues and I are establishing a private advisory board. Educational reform, research investments, influence over Hogwarts policy. All above board, of course.” Her smile widened, sharp, betraying her words. “But what we lack, my dear, is a face. And yours is better than the best.”
Hermione let the woman’s words wash over her. The hunger in her eyes was almost embarrassing. So this is what they see when they look at me, she thought. Not a witch. Not even a student. A rung to climb.
She sipped her wine, her expression polite. “Reform can be valuable, yes. Provided it doesn’t serve only those who write it.”
The witch blinked, thrown off guard. Hermione smiled wider, enjoying it for a moment. She’d spent her life in the other world dismissed as a mudblood, as less. Here, they bent toward her like stalks toward the sun. She shouldn't have liked it. Shouldn't.
The conversations rolled on. Another young wizard waxed on about funding Quidditch leagues, as though she were a patroness of sport. A pale witch with sharp nails asked if she’d lend her name to an inter-house scholarship committee. Every one of them circling her like moths to a flame.
And Hermione realized with startling clarity—her family name was not ashes here. Black was not a fallen house, whispered of in disgrace. No. In this world, it thrived. And she was its heiress.
“Enough.”
The word cut the air like a blade. Draco.
He stepped between her and the latest petition, his presence filling the space effortlessly. His hand brushed her arm, light but deliberate, tethering her back. He didn’t even look at the gaggle of eager faces, only gave them a single, cool glance that sent them scattering like smoke.
“My cousin doesn’t waste her evening on scavengers,” Draco said, voice smooth. Then, lowering his tone for her alone: “You’re far too patient.”
Cousin. It struck her to here it from him. She hadn't thought of it until just then. Draco Malfoy was her cousin. Second cousin, but still, he wanted to marry her? She knew that in the pure blood world, a second cousin was practically a stranger. Yet, it was strange to see it in action. Now. however, was not the time to think on it, nor how little it immediately bothered her.
“Perhaps I like watching them stumble,” she murmured.
His mouth curved. “Cruel streak. Good. But come, there are others you need to meet.”
He guided her with an ease that suggested ownership, but his grip was never forceful. Just there, steady, protective. Hermione let herself be pulled through the hum of the hall until they reached a more intimate group—quieter, smaller. Not a mob of hopefuls clawing for purchase, but three figures who radiated a different gravity entirely. Their conversation dimmed as Hermione approached.
The first to greet her was a wizard in his late forties, broad-shouldered with streaks of iron-grey at his temples. His eyes were sharp, the kind that measured a person like steel on a scale. He bowed, controlled, precise.
“Cassian Rowntree,” he introduced himself. His voice was clipped, each word cut clean. “Undersecretary to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Policy drafting and regulation enforcement fall under my pen.” His gaze lingered on her, as if memorizing the curve of her face. “Hermione Black. I’ve been looking forward to this moment.”
Beside him stood a witch whose robes were ink-stained and smudged with chalk, as though she’d come straight from a workshop. Her auburn hair was wild, her spectacles perched crookedly on her nose. She smiled in the distracted, earnest way of someone who lived half in their mind. She reminded Hermione of... Hermione. Granger, not Black.
“Meredith Selwyn,” she said, shaking Hermione’s hand before Draco could interject. Her fingers were cool, quick, calloused by years of scribbling. “I run the Experimental Charms Division. Hardly glamorous, but it keeps the world spinning. I cannot tell you how many times your theories have crossed my desk.” Her eyes gleamed. “You have quite the mind.”
The third was younger, a woman barely into her thirties, yet her presence carried assurance. Her robes were immaculate, silver-threaded, her black hair sleek and pinned back. Her smile was soft, deliberate, as though she’d studied it in a mirror until it fit every occasion.
“Dahlia Travers,” she said smoothly. “Deputy to the Department of International Cooperation. I serve as liaison with foreign councils and academies. Which means, Miss Black, that I hear your name spoken in more countries than you might imagine.” She inclined her head, eyes intent. “And always with respect.”
Hermione’s lips parted. Respect. Reverence. Power. The word Black wrapped around her like a cloak. She recovered quickly, offering a calm nod. “Then I must thank you, Miss Travers. I confess, I hadn’t realized the scope of my… reputation.”
Cassian chuckled, though his laugh held no warmth. “Reputation is currency. And you, Miss Black, are wealthier than you know.”
Selwyn leaned forward eagerly, her words tumbling. “Your stabilization essay... That one circulated through half the Department before someone locked it away in the archives—brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I argued for weeks that it could form the basis for a new generation of warding enchantments, but of course bureaucracy throttles innovation. You’d understand.” She pushed her spectacles higher, smudging the glass.
Hermione blinked. She didn't know a thing about this stabilization essay, though—oddly enough—she had written one in 6th year, but never attempted to publish it. And not in this world. In fact, she'd lost the thing shortly after, or so she thought. “I... Wasn’t aware it had been read so widely.”
“Not officially,” Meredith grinned. “But what is genius for, if not a little smuggling?”
Dahlia Travers spoke next, her tone velvety, deliberate. “Genius is one thing. But influence is another. Your name opens doors. I’ve seen it myself. The Russian covens nearly spat us out of their halls — until I invoked Black. Bellatrix, not yourself, though they spoke greatly of you regardless. Suddenly, treaties were back on the table. The Scandinavian academies speak of your family with deference. You could walk into Durmstrang tomorrow and be treated like a guest of state.”
Hermione tilted her head, the weight of her glass balanced in her hand. “And what exactly would you ask of me? You speak of genius. Of influence. Both are currencies. But what is the cost?”
Cassian’s eyes gleamed. He respected the bluntness. “Cost? That depends on your appetite. With your name, we could push reforms that have been languishing for years. Enhanced regulation of dark artifact trade. Stricter Auror protocols. Funding for enforcement divisions.” He leaned closer. “The world bends for power, Miss Black. Best it bend in a direction of our choosing.”
Meredith waved a hand impatiently. “Law and enforcement, Cassian, always your hammer. But research is what matters. Imagine: unrestricted funding for experimental spellcraft. Libraries opened. Generations of witches and wizards liberated from archaic restrictions. With Hermione Black lending her voice, we could challenge the Ministry’s entire research hierarchy.” Her eyes burned with fervor.
Dahlia’s smile remained steady, the practiced calm of a diplomat. “And both of you miss the greater game. Politics is not domestic anymore. It is continental. International. Miss Black, your name is already whispered across borders. With your presence at the right summits, Britain’s standing rises. Foreign alliances, financial partnerships, knowledge exchanges. You could change the map. You could change the world."
The three of them looked at her — three visions of power, three futures dangled like threads.
Hermione let the silence stretch. Her mind spun, not with panic but with sharp clarity. In her old world, the name Granger had won her sneers, mutters, disdain. Here, Black drew reverence. Here, doors opened.
She smiled faintly. “You each speak passionately. Tell me, what drives you? Why this fight? Law. Research. Diplomacy. Why tether yourselves to these causes?”
Cassian’s jaw tightened. His answer came low, unpolished. “Because corruption festers. I’ve seen men buy their way out of murder with gold and bloodlines. Power without law is tyranny. I would see law unshakable.”
Meredith spoke over him, words tumbling like an avalanche. “Because ignorance kills. How many spells collapse in duels, how many wards fail, how many children choke on outdated protections? Knowledge is survival, Hermione. I want to tear down every barrier that keeps us blind.”
Dahlia’s answer was softest, but the most deliberate. “Because the world is larger than Britain, larger than Hogwarts. I’ve watched our Ministry shrink, cower, clutch at itself while the continent moves on without us. I want strength. Influence. A Britain that speaks and is heard. A world that bows, not ignores.”
Hermione’s chest tightened. She saw truth in all of them. Law. Knowledge. Power. They weren’t wrong. And each of them looked at her as if she were the missing piece of their design.
Draco had remained silent, his hand brushing hers only once when her expression had faltered. Now he finally spoke, whuspering in her ear. “You see? The jackals want scraps. The wolves want allies. Choose carefully.”
Hermione inhaled, steadying herself. She had expected flattery. She had not expected this.
Hermione swirled the wine in her glass, her reflection fractured in the red. Perhaps, she thought, this gathering will give me more than I anticipated.
But beneath the surface of her calm expression, unease stirred. The policies they spoke of — reforms, research, diplomacy — none of it rang true to the Voldemort she had known. Her Voldemort had built his empire on terror, on blood and purity and chains. Yet here, under his shadow, these officials spoke of law and structure, of knowledge as liberation, of Britain taking its seat at the world’s table.
Were they rebels in polished robes, using her name as a shield? Or had the Dark Lord, in a Britain already bent to his will, shifted from tyrant to sovereign? War had not been needed to carve his throne. Perhaps extremism had softened into pragmatism.
Hermione’s lips curled faintly. Dangerous questions, and answers that could remake her understanding of this world. Voldemort was less a monster and more a man, more Tom Riddle... Could she truly inspire change?
She tilted her glass toward Cassian, Meredith, and Dahlia in a quiet gesture of farewell, then turned with Draco at her side, her mind burning.
Draco was speaking when Theo slipped in at his side, tugging his sleeve with a half-apologetic grin. The interruption came in the shape of a Hufflepuff girl, ginger-haired and draped in robes of pale yellow, who seemed far too comfortable laying a hand on Draco’s forearm. “My mother asked me to deliver a message,” she purred, smiling in a way that suggested she knew she didn’t need an excuse.
Draco’s sharp features softened—politeness, but also calculation. "Susan."
He looked back at Hermione, reluctant but bound by old ties. “One moment,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on hers just long enough to say stay close.
And then he was gone, swept into another current of conversation, leaving Hermione suddenly unmoored.
She was left standing alone at the edge of the gathering, candlelight gilding the curve of her glass. She took the solitude as a reprieve, a chance to breathe without eyes on her—until she felt the weight of a stare pressing at the back of her neck.
“Lady Black.”
The voice slithered through the quiet. Hermione turned slowly, her face a careful mask.
Thorfinn Rowle loomed there. Broader and taller than most men in the room, the sweep of his greying, blond hair just untidy enough to suggest he didn’t care—or wanted it to look as though he didn’t. The scar along his jaw gave him an edge some women might have found attractive. Hermione, however, felt her stomach turn. His pale eyes were already devouring her, slick with something possessive.
Still, she inclined her chin. “Rowle.” Her voice was cool, polite—perfectly measured.
He grinned, as if her speaking his name was intimate. Stepping closer, he reached for her hand before she could pull it back, bowing slightly as his lips brushed her knuckles. The kiss lingered far too long, his mouth warm, almost wet against her skin. His thumb pressed against the base of her finger, stroking in a way that made her every instinct scream.
Hermione didn’t flinch. She did not recoil. She let the mask hold. A faint smile, a subtle tilt of her head, as though this were the most natural greeting in the world.
“Exquisite,” Rowle murmured against her skin before finally lifting his head. His pale gaze stayed fixed on her, hungry, almost worshipful. “You haven’t changed. Not in the ways that matter.”
“I imagine you mean that as a compliment,” Hermione said lightly, withdrawing her hand at last with a grace that made it look like her choice. “Though you’ve seen fit to change your approach.”
Rowle chuckled, rough and self-satisfied. “What can I say? A man remembers when he’s touched fire. And some flames don’t let themselves be forgotten.”
Inside, Hermione’s revulsion sharpened. She remembered nothing—nothing of the “fire” he so clearly clung to. Hermione Black had lived that encounter, not her. And yet here he stood, enamored, sleazy, certain of some bond between them.
She smiled anyway, soft and unreadable, sipping her drink to cover the bitterness on her tongue. “And some men,” she said, voice low but steady, “ought to be careful not to get burned a second time.”
Rowle only smirked, mistaking her warning for invitation.
He shifted closer, forcing her back a fraction toward the wall. His breath ghosted over her cheek as his lips dipped near her ear, the words seeping out in a low rasp meant for her alone.
“You think I could forget?” he murmured, voice thick. “The way you had your hand on my cock that night—slow, firm. You didn’t beg, Black. You didn’t need to. You just took what you wanted.”
Hermione’s pulse thundered. Her spine locked rigid, though outwardly she tilted her head in a parody of indulgence, as though humoring him. Inside, bile rose.
“You worked me like you owned me,” he went on, his mouth almost brushing the curve of her jaw now. His tone had lost the smoothness of a charmer and settled into something raw, needy. “Left me spilling in your palm and smirking like I was nothing more than your toy. Merlin, I’d let you do it again. Use me. Break me. Fuck, I’d beg for that.”
Her grip on the stem of her glass tightened until she thought it might snap between her fingers. Heat prickled under her skin—not arousal, never that, but fury mingling with the effort of keeping her mask seamless.
She laughed lightly, a sound rehearsed and brittle as crystal. “You sound almost desperate, Rowle. Surely there are easier ways for a man like you to keep himself… occupied.”
Rowle only grinned, eyes dragging over her with unashamed hunger. “Occupied? You’ve ruined me for anyone else. No cunt, no hand, no mouth compares to yours. You’re poison, Hermione Black. And I want the venom again.”
Hermione’s smile froze, so sharp it might have cut him if he’d had the sense to look beyond the curve of her lips. She inhaled once, steady, and leaned closer as though confiding something back, her words razor-thin:
“Poison kills, Thorfinn. Best you remember that, before you choke on it.”
His grin faltered for just a moment, a flicker of something—uncertainty, wariness—before his bravado returned. But Hermione had seen it, and his continued defiance despite it had her biting the inside of her lip, anger pooling.
Rowle’s hand slid bold and rough along her hip, fingers digging in as though to remind her of a claim he believed he had. His mouth hovered at her ear, breath hot and rank with drink.
“You remember,” he whispered, more vulgar now, more insistent. “The way your little hand squeezed me—tight, perfect. I still get hard thinking about it. You didn’t care if anyone heard, didn’t care if I begged. You used me like your cock-toy, and gods—Hermione—I want you to do it again. Right here. Against this wall.”
Her mask faltered, just barely. A tremor in her hand. The urge to recoil. To slice him open.
Something deep inside her pulsed—her magic, but not the kind she’d ever encountered before. Not clever, careful, righteous magic. This was black, viscous, eager. It thrummed through her veins like poison turned to power, dark and sinister, answering the fury she buried beneath her skin.
For a heartbeat, she ached to feel his blood under her nails, to rip, to silence him forever. The desire was so sharp it terrified her, a hunger so alien it nearly buckled her knees. She had never wanted to kill before—not like this. Not with such intimate craving.
Her vision blurred, a red haze crawling in at the edges. Her breath came shallow, fast. If he touched her again—if he dared—
“Rowle.”
The voice cut clean through the storm in her mind, resonant and commanding. Kingsley Shacklebolt, tall and immovable as a fortress, had appeared at her left shoulder. Beside him, Lucius Malfoy glided into place, his pale presence as deliberate as a blade slid between ribs. Both bore small, silver Ministry pins that gleamed beneath the soft torchlight.
“Miss Black seems occupied,” Lucius drawled, voice cool silk hiding steel. His gray eyes fixed on Rowle with a predator’s patience. “Surely you’ve learned by now not to overstay a lady’s tolerance?”
Kingsley didn’t smile. His deep voice carried the weight of a verdict. “Step back, Rowle.”
The command wasn’t shouted, but it hit like a spell. Rowle stiffened, defiance flickering in his eyes, but the weight of two powerful men—one a Ministry lion, the other a Malfoy patriarch—pressed down with the suffocating inevitability of law and bloodline.
Rowle’s hand fell away. He gave Hermione one last leering glance, something between a sneer and a plea, before retreating with an ugly mutter under his breath.
Hermione’s hands trembled at her sides. The darkness in her chest snarled, unsatisfied, before curling back into its cage. She fought to school her face back into its serene mask, but the echo of that ache—that hunger—lingered.
Lucius turned his gaze on her, sharp, searching. Kingsley simply inclined his head in polite acknowledgment.
And Hermione breathed, steady but shaken, caught between relief and the chill knowledge of what she had just felt inside herself.
Hermione’s fingers twitched at her side, the aftertaste of dark fury still hot on her tongue. She drew a slow, measured breath, willing her mask to stay in place.
Kingsley’s deep voice rumbled low, steady, the sort of tone that could make walls feel sturdier. “You alright, Miss Black?”
Her lips parted, but before she could form an answer, Lucius cut in, eyes glinting like quicksilver. “The better question, I think, is whether he is.” His tone was dry, tinged with a curl of amusement. “The look you gave Rowle was… shall we say… uncharitable.”
Kingsley huffed something close to a laugh. “Not to mention the magic.” His dark eyes flicked toward her, unblinking but not unkind. “You were bleeding it like smoke, thick enough for half the hall to feel it. I daresay it wasn’t you we saved—it was him.”
Hermione froze, breath caught. The words hit, sharp but not condemning, and the tension in her chest eased in a rush she hadn’t expected. They weren’t calling her dangerous to shame her. They were… teasing. Reassuring, even.
Her lips quirked despite herself, a small, sharp smile. “Then perhaps I owe you less thanks than I thought.”
Lucius inclined his head, pale hair glinting beneath the candlelight. “Even so, my dear, restraint is sometimes the sharper weapon.” His eyes lingered on her for a beat longer than courtesy demanded, assessing, intrigued. Then, softer, pitched only for her, “If you can spare a moment, I would value a word in private.”
Kingsley gave a small, knowing grunt, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll keep the wolves off her for a while longer, Malfoy. Don’t tarry.”
Lucius’s lips curved in a faint, dangerous smile as he extended an arm for Hermione.
And though her pulse still thundered from Rowle’s vulgar assault, she felt herself steadying, caught between their subtle reassurance and Lucius’s looming invitation.