Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6136411.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Hermione_Granger/Tom_Riddle, Narcissa_Malfoy/?, Hermione_Granger_&
      Narcissa_Black_Malfoy, Hermione_Granger_&_Tom_Riddle
  Character:
      Hermione_Granger, Tom_Riddle, Lord_Voldemort, Narcissa_Malfoy, Bellatrix
      Black_Lestrange, Albus_Dumbledore, Professor_Beery, Professor_Galatea
      Merrythought, Headmaster_Armando_Dippet, Professor_Silvanus_Kettleburn,
      Abraxas_Malfoy, Original_Charaters
  Additional Tags:
      Time_Travel, Women_Being_Awesome_At_Magic_and_Life, women_in_charge, Sexy
      Times, Pragmatic_Behavior, grey_morality, Soulmate-Identifying_Marks,
      Narcissa_Malfoy_is_a_BAMF!, BAMF_Hermione_Granger, Manipulative_Behavior
      for_Good_Reasons, Soulmate_AU, Age_Regression/De-Aging, Lesbian
      Character, Bisexual_Character, underage_violence_to_other_underage
      characters, Underage_characters_having_sex_with_other_underage_characters
      (age_appropriate), BDSM, Polyamory, Polyamory_Negotiations
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-29 Updated: 2018-02-08 Chapters: 46/? Words: 263920
****** Our Magic Knows No Bounds ******
by PinkGlitterMasturbation
Summary
     Narcissa Malfoy is done with crazy, and she is determined to fix the
     mess her life has become. She has brains, a plan, and more than one
     dark spell to help her. But before she can put her plan into motion,
     she discovers a shocking secret about Hermione Granger, one that the
     girl doesn't even realize about herself. Before Hermione knows it,
     Narcissa has cursed them both, sending them back in time to deal with
     the Dark Lord in the form of the child Tom Riddle. Of course, Tom is
     no ordinary child, and time doesn't take kindly to being rewritten,
     so this will be a bumpy ride full of awesome, magical women,
     pragmatic decisions, and, rest assured, dear readers, plenty of sex
     eventually!
Notes
     Some disclaimers: 1) Like others who write Hermione/Tom fics, this is
     a guilty pleasure. I am self-aware enough to be able to see the
     pattern in my fic history (Sherlock/Molly, Sansa/Petyr, Loki/Jane,
     Sarah/Jareth, Alice/Luther). Yes, I like my ladies to be feisty and
     smart and my guys to be tall and dark in both the literal and moral
     sense. I don't think I can write a "good" Tom Riddle, so don't expect
     him to be warm and fuzzy. However, he will change under the influence
     of both Hermione and Narcissa. 2) I've read every Hermione/Tom fic a
     dozen times, so I would like to point out the fics I've read the
     most, in case I unconsciously borrow from them : Serpent in Red's
     "Somewhere in Time," as well as anything written by Nerys Dax,
     Provocative Envy, or Lady Miya - they have all fueled my lust for
     more Hermione/Tom fic. 3) I am a SLOW writer, and I write in fits and
     starts. My Sherlock fic took three years to finish, but what I start,
     I finish, rest assured. 4) I love the source material with all my
     heart, but since this is fan fiction, I take or leave cannon as it
     suits my plot needs. 5) My brain says soulmate marks are fucking
     ridiculous, but my heart LOVES them, and heart trumps head. I expect
     this fic will be a melting pot of every trope I've ever wanted to
     experiment with, lol.
***** Narcissa Malfoy just wants to save the world. *****
            Narcissa Malfoy was more than passingly familiar with insanity.
She’d literally spent her life acting as if the statements and actions of
disturbed individuals made perfect sense, starting as a child with her numerous
unstable Black relatives, and continuing into adulthood with her husband’s
various shady connections, both in business and ideology.  
 
             If a half-rabid werewolf who preyed on children roamed the halls
of her home, stinking of rotting flesh and muttering about dirt and blood,
Narcissa only gripped her wand tighter and swept by without a glance. If her
sister carved obscenities in the beautiful wooden panels of the Malfoy dining
room and dug up garden gnomes to practice torture on, Narcissa got up at three
in the morning to fix the damage, then went out to her rose beds to make sure
there were no more gnomes to find.
 
            Now, though, for the first time, Narcissa was truly terrified. She
was terrified that the Dark Lord would win, that this madness would never end.
Already, she could feel her desperation rising every time she looked at the
cowering shell that had replaced her husband, and the raw panic that surrounded
her son like the malevolent cloud she saw every time another Death Eater
appeared in her home.
 
            So much of her life had been spent keeping hidden in one way or
another that no one knew the real Narcissa. She was probably the most powerful
occlumens on the planet, but no one knew that – how could they? Narcissa had
been consciously hiding her thoughts since she was four years old, and probably
unconsciously since she first began to speak. Her father had used legilimency
on his children routinely, pulling out any undesirable or traitorous thoughts,
and punishing those thoughts soundly.
 
            Anyone reading her mind now (and it was a routine, off-handed,
violation performed by her sister and the Dark Lord) would only read the
thoughts she deemed safe: concern for her own and her family’s safety, normal
bothers associated with running a large estate, and an unfailing “belief” that
the Dark Lord would make the world a better place for those of pure, deserving
blood, even if the cost was high. For authenticity, she even let a low level of
her disgust at the Death Eater’s lack of proper manners in as well.
 
            Due to her birth into a pureblood family, and the assumption that
she would graduate Hogwarts only to take up her position as the Lady of a
manor, she was extremely well-versed in household and healing spells, as well
as those dealing with clothing and cosmetics. She was also quite skilled at
potions, though Severus did her the remarkable favor of neglecting to mention
how much she actually assisted him in the work he did, both for himself and the
Dark Lord.
 
           The Malfoy library was one of the largest magical collections in the
world, and Narcissa had been researching all manner of possibilities for
months. Something had to change, she knew. The Dark Lord could not win, but she
didn’t want her husband and son in Azkaban either.
 
           Meticulously, Narcissa had reviewed her past memories. She had made
a habit of pulling out disturbing memories and carefully labeling and storing
them.  It was clear upon reviewing them that everything centered around the
Dark Lord. She knew him better than he realized, and she knew that his insanity
had worsened the less of a soul he had, and the longer he went with so little
of a soul.
 
           When he had risen to power the first time, he had been strong and
charismatic – even occasionally charming. However, Narcissa had watched
carefully, and by the time he was chasing prophecies and going after the
Potters, he was already showing signs that his madness was beginning to rival
his power. Since his rebirth, he had devolved exponentially. What sort of ruler
could he ever be? He was incredibly paranoid, and Narcissa knew without a doubt
that he would rather rule over a kingdom of corpses than allow a rival to rise
to power.
 
          The Dark Lord was the problem, and he needed to be the solution.
Narcissa had found an old dark magic spell that she had painstakingly
translated from Nordic runes that could hurl enemies across space, transporting
them far from oneself. She was working to combine that spell with an even
older, darker Egyptian time travel spell, and as much as the thought frightened
her, she planned on cursing herself, sending herself back in time to deal with
the Dark Lord as a child.
 
          This plan was not perfect. Time travel, even in the more common small
increments, was dangerous and unpredictable. She accepted that she might never
see her husband or son again, that changing the time line could write them out
of existence. But Narcissa was a pragmatist, and she knew there was no future
from this point. Either the Dark Lord won and everyone lost, or Potter somehow
triumphed and she and her family spent the rest of their lives in prison.
 
          She had a target range of five years, as it was difficult to be
precise with the spell, planning to arrive before young Tom Riddle started
Hogwarts. Narcissa didn’t believe that time would look kindly on being
rewritten, especially in a drastic fashion, so killing him outright wasn’t an
option. Besides, who knew what worse horrors would rise in the power vacuum?
 
         Though the Dark Lord did not share personal details of his life, she
knew he had entered Hogwarts with no parents. If she could find a way to take
him in, set herself up as a guardian, then she could influence him. She had no
illusions that she could ‘save’ his soul, but she thought she might be able to
keep it intact. Her plan was to find him and help him rise to power without
horcruxes, to somehow keep his sanity. The wizarding world would still most
likely fall to a Dark Lord, but not a madman. Who knew? Maybe she’d somehow
steer him into politics and he could rule as Minister of Magic, with little to
no bloodshed at all. Deep inside, Narcissa’s mind smirked. The Dark Lord
clearly had both mummy and daddy issues. If she could enter as a maternal
figure, she might just save the world.
 
         The sound of blasting spells and screams of pain and rage rose to the
library, and Narcissa immediately went downstairs, wondering what fresh chaos
would greet her. It was worse than she had imagined – Bellatrix screeching at
snatchers and Draco, everyone in the room staring at three ragged teens. Three.
One a gangly red-headed boy, one a waif of a girl whose hair was a tragedy
beyond description, and one whose face was disfigured – features swollen to the
point a mother wouldn’t recognize. Of course, Narcissa knew in her heart that
this boy’s mother was long dead.
 
         She watched silently as Bellatrix urged Draco to identify the boy,
then lash out when he refused to do so in any definitive way. The boys were
hauled away and the girl was tortured, Bellatrix taking great delight in
practicing the work she’d started on the garden gnomes. Narcissa felt ill,
though she knew her face was impassive. The girl said nothing, though she
screamed loudly. Her tears streaked her dirty cheeks, and she bit her lips into
a bloody mess. In the walled part of her mind, Narcissa allowed herself to note
that the girl was incredibly strong and brave for one so young and outwardly
frail.
 
         “Bella, darling, leave some for the Dark Lord,” Narcissa spoke softly,
as one did with mad people. “He’ll want the girl to be able to speak, to answer
questions,”
 
          Bellatrix looked up, her eyes wild. “You always try to spoil my fun,
Cissy!”
 
         “No,” Narcissa soothed, adopting the words from their childhood. “I
always try to keep you safe. You are my sister. You are the Dark Lord’s
favorite, but he will not be happy if you damage the mudblood beyond repair
before he’s ready for that to happen.”
 
         Bellatrix squeezed her thighs tightly against the girl’s ribs, which
were most likely broken from the extended cursing. She smiled at the strangled
sound of pain that emitted from her prey and pushed back her sleeve to reveal
the Dark Mark.
 
        “Bella!” Narcissa couldn’t afford to speak softly now. “Please, wait.”
 
        “Cissy,” Bellatrix growled, her angry magic crackling around her.
 
        Narcissa put up her hands in what was half-plea, half-prayer to
whatever deities might be listening. “Just an hour, Cissy. Only an hour. I am
certain the hex on the second boy’s face will be faded by then. Let us please
be certain before we call on the Dark Lord.” Because she knew her sister felt
most powerful when reminded of others’ weakness, Narcissa added, “For me, for
Draco, please. We cannot afford to displease Him anymore. We are not favored as
you are.”   
 
        After a moment’s silence, then a spiteful jab of her wand into the
girl’s neck, Bellatrix rose from astride the girl, leaving her bleeding and
convulsing into the four hundred year old carpet. Narcissa cast a minor healing
spell nonverbally, and the girl’s whimpering lessened. Bellatrix was across the
room, pacing. Draco and Lucius were standing still, as if pretending to be
statues would somehow solve this disaster of a situation.
      
       “One hour, Cissy! That is all!” Bellatrix swept away regally, as if she
were a magnanimous queen extending mercy to unworthy subjects.
 
       “I’m going to move her to the dungeons,” Narcissa announced to no one in
particular, casting a levicorpus and floating the girl’s body in front of her
as she walked out of the room. No one protested, nor did anyone follow her.
 
         It was truly her plan to deposit the girl in the dungeons, after a few
more healing spells. Narcissa needed to leave soon, and this girl’s nasty fate,
along with that of her friends, would hopefully be rewritten or even written
completely out of existence once Narcissa made it back to the past.
 
        That idea was thrown to the winds as the bottom of the girl’s dirty and
frayed shirt caught the edge of one of the many Malfoy ancestors’ portrait
frames. The fabric rose up, revealing pale flesh, a sunken stomach, and ribs
that were too prominent to be healthy. But what ruined all of Narcissa’s
careful planning was the magical writing circling the girl’s navel. In a
slanting, beautiful cursive, the words What are you? What are we?spiraled
inward like the curve of seashell.
 
         Narcissa stared, barely daring to breathe. This type of magical
writing, embedded in the skin deeper than any Dark Mark, was a very rare, very
special occurrence. There were enough instances in history that she knew
exactly what it was, but not nearly so many that it didn’t shock her. These
were the first words that her soulmate would say to Hermione Granger when they
met. Everyone had a magical soulmate, someone whose magic melded perfectly,
someone who made the other stronger, better. But only those with incredibly
powerful magic were ever marked in such a way. The history books said that
Merlin and Morgana La Fey had such marks, and even though they did not have a
happy ending, there was no doubt their magic both separate and combined, had
been formidable.   It was also rumored that Godric Gryffindor and Salazar
Slytherin had been marked for one another, though that had ended in tragedy as
well. There were a handful of others, with happier outcomes. What Narcissa
knew, though, was that soulmates found one another, time and space be damned.  
And what she also knew was that the words etched into the stomach of one of
Harry Potter’s best friends were in the handwriting of Lord Voldemort.
 
         The words themselves had to be spoken in the past, Narcissa decided,
her mind working at lightening speed. The only word likely to come out of the
Dark Lord’s mouth towards the girl now was crucio. There were time circles and
paradoxes at play here, and she hadn’t even spoken the damn curse yet!   Her
frustration mounted, but her determination strengthened.
 
         This was the moment. Not the one she’d wanted, but the one she would
seize. It would be nothing to add this girl to her spell, and if even half of
the reports she’d heard of this girl were true, then she’d be a powerful ally,
not even factoring in that she was apparently Lord Voldemort’s soulmate. She’d
cast legilimens on the girl while Bella had been torturing her and found an
intelligent mind with a strong moral code, but also pragmatic and flexible like
her own – it was a mind Narcissa was sure she could work with.
 
         Turning the corner, she took the girl into a long, narrow linen closet
only ever visited by the house elves. She cast several silencing spells, a few
more healing spells, and then ended the levicorpus, and instantly cast a
petrificus totalus.
 
         The girl’s eyes were wide, but she was frozen, as well as too shocked
to panic.
 
         “Hermione Granger,” Narcissa began, immediately deciding to leave off
any talk of soul mates for now. As a muggleborn, the girl might not have any
idea what the marks were, and they didn’t appear until the age of majority, so
the girl wouldn’t have had them long – she was not much older than Draco.
“Listen to me carefully. The Dark Lord will be here any minute. There is no way
this war will end without unacceptable losses for everyone. I am going to
change everything. I am going back in time. You can stay here, oblivated, and
hope that you and your friends aren’t killed in the next few hours, or you can
come with me. We will rewrite history and shape the magic of England.” She
arched a perfect brow. “Don’t you think it’s time witches were in charge?”
 
        There was no response as the girl was still petrified. Narcissa pointed
her wand at the girl’s head. “I am going to go into your mind, but only to
listen for one word. You must tell me “yes” or “no” to my offer, and you must
tell me now, because I will be leaving with or without you.”
***** Hermione Granger Also Wants to Save the World, But She Has a Few
Questions *****
Chapter Summary
     The ladies discuss plans and iron out some issues (you know, that
     giant herd of elephants in the corner of the room).
Chapter Notes
     Egads! Writing time travel is a headache and a half! I tried to
     address the concerns that popped into my mind, but honestly, as soon
     as I dealt with one, another one would come up, so I just did my
     best. There may be discrepancies that will need to be fixed later,
     but it will suffice for now. Thanks to all the readers!
          Hermione Granger was sure that she’d finally lost her mind. The
stress of hunting horcruxes, of being hunted themselves, of camping with
quickly dwindling supplies and even faster dwindling patience for two teenage
boys, listening to the steady drone of dead or missing friends and allies on
the wireless, combined with wearing that fucking horrible, soul-draining
pendant – all of it had finally fried her brain, like pouring a can of soda
over a computer’s circuit board.
 
          And then? Then she’d been tortured by the person who’d haunted her
dreams for the last two years. Of all the Death Eaters, Bellatrix Lestrange had
been the one who scared her the most. Yes, Dolohov was frightening, as were the
others, but Voldemort’s fiercest follower was positively feral, and Hermione
would never forget her cackling taunts the night she'd murdered Sirius.
 
          Lying under the madwoman who salivated over each of her cries like a
rabid dog, Hermione’s mind had shut down. She couldn’t afford to say anything –
she would die before betraying their cause – so she allowed herself to focus on
the pain, to enter it fully and respond only to it.   The technique was not
difficult; Bellatrix’s curses were the strongest she’d ever felt. Her thoughts
briefly strayed to the Longbottoms, and she wondered if she somehow survived
whether she’d be placed near them in St. Mungo’s. Bellatrix screamed questions,
but Hermione’s brain processed nothing except the pain. She hadn’t even felt
fear when the insane bint had pulled out a knife. After all, pain was pain, and
the terrible burning in her arm was at least localized, not wracking through
her entire body like the cruciatus.
 
           It had taken several minutes for Hermione to recognize she was no
longer being beaten, cursed, or cut. She slowly opened her eyes a crack and saw
Narcissa swish her wand silently in her direction. Instantly, Hermione’s pain
lessened. Bellatrix was pacing and yelling. Narcissa was responding quietly,
and before she could make sense of anything, Hermione’s skin began to tingle as
her body rose into the air.
 
           Narcissa was taking her out of the room. Why? Hermione wondered, but
quickly decided that it didn’t matter. Draco’s mother was infinitely preferable
to his aunt. For starters, she had discreetly healed Hermione though that
action didn’t benefit her in any way. She was most likely taking her to where
the boys were, which was exactly what Hermione wanted. They were always
strongest together.
 
           She felt cool air hit her stomach as her clothing caught on
something. Suffering the after-effects of Bellatrix’s cursing, Hermione had not
realized that Narcissa had stopped moving her until she heard the gasp. Even
her eyelids ached, but she raised them to look at Narcissa, who was clearly and
deeply shocked.
 
          What had caused Narcissa’s surprise? Hermione thought, but she
answered her own question as she remembered the strange writing that had
appeared only a few months earlier around her navel. It was a mystery, but
Hermione had determined to the best of her ability that the odd magical tattoo
was not dark or dangerous, and as much as she loved to solve mysteries, she had
horcruxes to hunt and Harry and Ron to keep alive. Her plate was full. She
could research to her heart’s content when Hogwarts was liberated and Voldemort
was defeated.
 
          Then, it was Hermione’s turn to be shocked beyond speech when
Narcissa had steered her into a linen closet, healed her, and asked her to
accompany her, a Death Eater’s wife (and mother,for that matter) back in time
to “fix” things.
 
          Narcissa didn’t give a detailed explanation, but Hermione had no
doubt that Narcissa was serious, and that she was capable. She saw Narcissa
raise her wand, and let her mind race through her options. The horcrux hunt was
crawling along. Yes, they had destroyed the locket, and thought they might know
where the cup was, but there were still others, under who knew what magical
protections – Dumbledore had been dying from the curse on ring before Snape had
killed him.
 
          Hermione had spent the last year reading every dark magic book and
treatise she could obtain, and it was obvious to her that Dumbledore would have
died eventually from that magical damage. If Dumbledore, the most powerful
wizard Hermione had ever known, could be permanently felled by the magic of
Voldemort, what chance did three teenagers stand against it? She loved Harry as
dearly as a brother, and she believed in him, but she wasn’t sure if belief was
enough any longer. Dumbledore was gone, Snape had betrayed them, Hogwarts and
the Ministry had fallen, and she and the boys were in the clutches of Bellatrix
Lestrange, with Voldemort on his way. And if the pureblooded wife and sister of
Voldemort’s inner circle members was also saying that he needed to be stopped?
He must be even less stable than Hermione had feared. As gut-wrenchingly
terrifying as Bellatrix was, she was nothing compared to her lord and master.
 
          There really was no question – no option. Hermione felt Narcissa’s
entrance into her mind. The older witch’s intrusion was surprisingly gentle, a
slight nudge for an answer. Hermione allowed her agreement to come to the
forefront of her mind. Yes.
 
 
                       -oOo0oOo-
 
            Hermione was on a soft bed, covered with blankets. She stretched
experimentally, and found that most of her body’s aches were faded. Sitting up
cautiously, she looked around the room.
 
            It was a small bedroom, and had the look of a hotel room. There
were a few decorations – dried flowers in a vase on the dresser by the window,
and a magical picture of a chubby blonde child playing with a rambunctious
puppy – but nothing personal.   A fire blazed in the grate, and Narcissa Malfoy
sat in one of two over-stuffed chairs on either side of the fireplace.
 
            She looked over at Hermione’s movement, and walked to the bed.
Hermione noted that her clothing and hairstyle were different – more of what
had been worn in the 1940s.
 
            “Are we in the 1940s?” Hermione asked, her voice sounding like a
public service announcement against smoking.
 
            “Drink this,” Narcissa handed her a cup of what looked and smelled
like chamomile tea. She arched an eyebrow when Hermione did not immediately
drink. “Distrust now? You’ve already made an irreversible leap of faith, Miss
Granger.”
 
            Hermione noted the logic and took a sip. The temperature was just
barely below scalding, but it was soothing on her throat, so strained from
screaming.
 
            “And, no, we are not quite in that decade,” Narcissa continued. “It
is the end of June, 1938. And we need to get to the Dark Lord before Dumbledore
does.”
 
            Now it was Hermione’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “The Dark Lord? I’m
pretty sure calling him that when we first meet will not set the right tone.”
 
            Narcissa’s eyes flashed with brief anger, then settled. “Yes, well,
years of terror do take their toll,” she sighed. “He starts Hogwarts this year.
I had hoped to arrive a bit earlier, to shape him at a younger age.”
 
            “What exactly do you know about Tom Riddle’s early years?” Hermione
asked. She had the information Dumbledore had shared with Harry, and what
little bits Harry had gleaned from his connection with Voldemort, but hoped
Narcissa knew more.
 
            Narcissa refilled Hermione’s cup, then poured a second cup for
herself. “My sister’s father-in-law, Sebastian Lestrange, and my father-in-law,
Abraxus Malfoy, both went to school with Tom Riddle, and were members of the
original Knights of Walpurgis. And, of course, the oldest Death Eaters – the
elder Avery, Mulciber, and Nott were also members, along with my grandfather
Rosier and Dolohov.”
 
            Hermione shuddered, running an unconscious hand down her
breastbone, where she still bore the scar from the battle at the Department of
Mysteries. “Yes, I know Dolohov, but I can’t imagine any of those men saying
anything about Voldemort’s past, especially when he seems determined to obscure
it.”
 
            “They didn’t speak of it,” Narcissa conceded. “When they were
sober. I am sad to say that my home became quite the Death Eater gambling hell
and drinking den. Late at night, when those men were in their cups and the Dark
Lord was away, well, they could gossip and bicker like teen girls.”
 
            The two witches quickly shared what they knew, and Narcissa frowned
when Hermione told her of Riddle’s parents, his birth, the orphanage, and the
disturbing behaviors Dumbledore had been so suspicious of.
 
            “Raised in a muggleorphanage during a depression and wartime? No
wonder he had such hatred toward them.” Narcissa looked ill.
 
            “You think that’s an excuse for his behavior?” Hermione felt her
temper flare, and knew that they needed to get a few issues cleared between
them before proceeding any further. “That it was reasonable for him to become a
genocidal maniac simply because he was an unwanted child at a time of deep
poverty? That it is fine because he mostly wanted to hurt muggles and
mudbloods?”
 
            “That is notwhat I said,” Narcissa said sharply. She set down her
tea cup, took Hermione’s away, then pushed up the girl’s sleeve to reveal the
thick magical bandages she’d carefully placed over the carving Bellatrix had
made. “I can’t pretend to be something I am not, and I will never fully
understand muggles or the muggle world, but I am not my sister. I am not a
Death Eater. I am a human, and I have my own opinions and prejudices, but I am
willing to adapt,” she tapped gently on the bandage. “And you must be willing
to as well.”
 
             Before Hermione could respond, she continued. “I was merely
commenting on how difficult it would be for a magical child to grow up in the
muggle world, with no family, and burgeoning powers that probably ostracized
him from others, and how that unpleasant experience most likely fueled his
future behavior.”
 
            Hermione nodded slowly, swallowing her anger. She reminded herself
that Narcissa had given up just as much as she had to come here, and they had
to make this work. “Yes, I agree. My parents were incredibly understanding once
my Hogwarts letter arrived, but I know that my accidental magic as a child was
frightening to them, and to other children. It set me apart, and not in a
pleasant way.”
 
            “Did you have many magical ‘outbursts’ as a child?” Narcissa pulled
Hermione’s sleeve back down.
 
             “A fair few – usually when I was upset or wanted something quite
badly,” she admitted.
 
             Narcissa cleared her throat delicately. “And I understand that you
were teased at Hogwarts, by Draco and many others, for being a ‘know-it-all’
among other things?”
 
            “Yes.” Her surprise at Narcissa admitting her son’s behavior must
have shown on her face, because Narcissa gave a small, tight smile. “But you
were probably also teased in your earlier, muggle school, were you not? For
similar reasons?”
 
            “Yes,” Hermione repeated, feeling sad at the memories, as well as
confused.
 
           “My point is that you are called the brightest witch of your age,
even by your enemies, and the Dark Lord was certainly the brightest wizard of
his own age.   Children, whether muggle or magical, will always tease others,
and they will especially target those who are different, so it is reasonable to
assume that,” Narcissa paused and swallowed hard, clearly struggling to speak
the word, “Tom had a similar experience in the orphanage to what you had before
coming to Hogwarts, as well as the initial adjustment period.”
 
            Hermione sat quietly, taking in Narcissa’s implication that she,
the very type of person Voldemort hunted, tortured, and killed on a regular
basis, could “relate” to his childhood. There were so many landmines there,
Hermione was afraid to open her mouth.    
 
            Narcissa must have taken her silence for some level of agreement
because she continued. “Clearly, Albus Dumbledore doesn’t know how to deal with
Slytherin children,” she sighed. “Especially ones who have come from abusive
backgrounds. How did he expect a talented, magical child with the blood of
Salazar in his veins would behave when he was being mistreated?”
 
            “Dumbledore didn’t know then that Riddle would be sorted into
Slytherin; he just noticed that Riddle was a dangerous bully,” Hermione
protested, though weakly. She had always privately thought Dumbledore, though
brilliant, expected too much from children, and cared too little for their
well-being. After all, he had left Harry in the custody of Dursleys, knowing
Petunia’s distrust and disdain for her sister, and he hadn’t bothered to check
on him for almost a decade! Years of physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, as
well as neglect. With all Harry had gone through, and his mind’s connection to
Voldemort, it was a miracle he’d turned out so well. And changing Voldemort’s
past, giving him a place to call home besides Hogwarts, that would have to make
a difference, wouldn’t it?
 
            Narcissa was laying out the contents of a bag on the bed. There was
some money, and a few official looking documents with seals, written in French.
 
            “What are these?” Hermione asked, ready to change the topic.
 
            “It’s easier to transfigure false documents on paper that has
already been magically infused to be a legal document. Fakes on normal
parchment are detected quickly, but some clever spells that are disguised as
corrections, not forgeries, will produce us with new identities.” Narcissa
sighed. “You do speak French?”
 
            Hermione bristled a bit. “Yes, I do. Not fluently as a native of
course, but I can get around Paris without trouble.”
 
            “That will have to do,” the older witch sighed, pushing a lock of
her pale blonde hair over her shoulder as she carefully pointed her wand at the
paper. “I am now a distant cousin of Gaunts from France, Narcissa Bonneau, nee
Rosier, and you are my daughter, Hermione Bonneau. My husband, your father, was
killed in battle with Grindelwald. With the unrest in France and Germany, we
decided to move to England, where I have cousins on my Rosier side. In going
through our family papers in our preparation to move to England, we discovered
the family connection to the Gaunts, and to Meriope, and subsequently, her son,
and we have come to claim him.”
 
            “Am I a pureblood?” Hermione didn’t think she could possibly pass
as one, even if Narcissa drilled her privately day and night until September.
 
            Narcissa shook her head. “No, that would be too difficult to prove,
too much scrutiny. We will say that I came from a pureblood family, since I
know enough about the older history of my French Rosier cousins, and my husband
came from a wealthy half-blooded family. You can and will pass for half-
blooded.”
 
            Hermione examined the papers Narcissa had made. The work was
excellent. “You know that muggle documents will be different,” she began.
 
            “About that,” Narcissa smiled. It was a dangerous smile. “We are on
a mission, Hermione. Too much is at stake to be morally squeamish.”
            A cold shiver ran down Hermione’s spine. “What do you propose to do
to the muggle orphanage director?”
 
            Narcissa laughed at her. Laughed. “I’m not going to avadaanyone! I
was thinking a well-placedconfundus.”
 
            Hermione let out a breath, then decided total honesty was the only
way to build trust. “That is good. I didn’t think you would kill anyone, but I
thought you might use imperius.”
 
            “Have you ever used an Unforgiveable, Hermione?” Narcissa’s voice
was hardly a whisper.    
 
            “I’ve thought about it,” Hermione looked directly into Narcissa’s
eyes. “I’ve wanted to. And if it came down to my life, I think I might. But I
would like to avoid putting myself or others in that situation. Have you?”
 
            Narcissa met her gaze calmly. “I’ve never killed or tortured
anyone. I have used imperius, but only once, and it was an extreme
circumstance.” She glanced away, as if looking into her past. “I would not use
it again unless I had to.”
 
            She rose and crossed to a set of drawers. Opening the top one, she
took out several pieces of fabric. She came back and laid out underclothes,
hosiery, and a dress on the bed. “You can shower through there,” she pointed
toward the bathroom. “Then, we’ll get you dressed and head out.”
 
            “Thank you, Narcissa,” Hermione began.
 
            “Mother,” Narcissa corrected. “You’ll need to get used to calling
me mother. And don’t thank me yet. You haven’t heard the part you’ll object to
most - we’ll need to de-age you to be the same age as Tom.”
 
            “What?” Hermione had no desire to be ten again, especially not a
seventeen year old mind in an eleven year old’s body. But even as she
protested, she knew it made sense to have someone at Hogwart’s keeping an eye
on Riddle, and Narcissa wouldn’t be able to do that as an adult.
 
            Hermione didn’t elaborate on her complaints, but she did grab the
clothing roughly off the bed and stomp toward the bathroom, closing the door
with more force than necessary.
 
            An hour later, Hermione didn’t recognize herself, or Narcissa, for
that matter.   Hermione was her younger self, but Narcissa had wordlessly fixed
Hermione’s teeth and used about three different spells to force her hair into
calm, lovely ringlets held back by a green leather headband which matched her
navy dress with green piping at the rounded collar, sleeves, and hemline that
fell mid-calf. She also wore gloves, and a light weight summer sweater.
Narcissa had charmed her hair into a sleek bun, and turned the color all one
shade – a slightly darker, less striking blonde. She wore black, as a recent
widow would, but her dress fit in a way that screamed she had money.
 
            That thought raised a question in Hermione’s mind. “I’m not trying
to be gauche, but how will we afford to live? Some things can’t be created by
magic.”
 
            “I am more than aware of that,” Narcissa adjusted Hermione’s
collar, even thought it was perfectly fine. It was something a mother would do,
and Hermione suddenly ached for her own mother, the woman she’d obliviated and
sent far away. “I had been planning this trip for a while, Hermione. I have
plans in place. I researched investments, and I have enough to keep us until
those investments pay off.”
 
            “Why did you bring me?” Hermione blurted out. “And what do you know
about the words on my stomach?”
 
            “I will tell you all about it, but right now, we need to get our
plan underway.” Narcissa transfigured her bag into more of a muggle purse shape
and tucked her wand into her sleeve. “Once we have Tom Riddle, I’ll breathe
more easily, and we’ll have time to discuss this. We need to be his first
interaction with magical folk, not Dumbledore.”
 
            “Fine,” Hermione agreed, pushing her annoyance aside for the
moment. “Let’s go adopt Voldemort.”
***** Tom Riddle has NO desire to save the world. *****
Chapter Summary
     Tom meets two strange ladies, and plots accordingly.
Chapter Notes
     Hello again! I'm so inspired at the moment (thanks to everyone for
     the comments). I did some research, and some sources say Tom met
     Dumbledore in 1937, but I'm sticking with 1938. I have to say writing
     from Tom's perspective was fun (I'm not sure what that says about me,
     lol), though the next chapter will probably switch back to the
     ladies. I would like to reiterate my warning from chapter one that I
     CANNOT write a 'good' Tom. Based on personal beliefs and various
     readings, including the fascinating book The Sociopath Next Door, I
     don't think anyone is born evil, but I also don't think that
     sociopaths are completely made by circumstance. I think a small
     portion (1-4%) of the population has little to no conscience due to
     brain chemistry and structure, but whether or not that person will be
     driven to violence is dependent on many external factors. Tom will
     never be good, but he can be less violent, and more reasonable
     (though right now, he is a nasty little shit).
          Tom Riddle was having a bad day. Though, if he really thought about
it, this day wasn’t much different from any of the days before. Wool’s
Orphanage was short on food, as usual, and Tom’s stomach was grumbling, even
though his angry scowl over breakfast at the new boy two plates down had earned
him an extra slice of bread. That boy, Shawn, had mocked Tom yesterday, had
tried to take Tom’s book, but he’d learned what a mistake it was to cross Tom
Marvolo Riddle. The memory of how his skin had tingled, like a gentler version
of an electric shock, and how the skin on Shawn’s hands had turned red, like a
bad sunburn, was a good one, but it was already fading.
 
            Those fleeting moments, when Tom made his will manifest, were the
only bright spots in his life. He was surrounded by inferior people; Tom knew
he was better than them all. He didn’t hate the weak children who were smart
enough to recognize their own weakness. Children like little Sarah who always
flattened herself against the wall to let him pass, or the older, slower,
Jonathan who didn’t hesitate to hand over anything he held that Tom showed
interest in. He didn’t mind those type of children, and he had even stepped in
with a menacing smile when Jane, a nasty redhead who liked to sneer at Tom with
disdain, had tried to take Sarah’s sad excuse for a doll. Jane had dropped the
doll instantly, clutching her head in pain. Let it not be sad that Tom wouldn’t
protect those who did as he told them. No, the people who earned his ire were
the ones who didn’t realize how stupid they were or those who openly defied
him. Those idiots deserved to burn, and not only in their hands.
           
            Tom knew, though, from past experience, that it would take a few
days to feel that delicious tingle of his willpower again. Making things happen
was tiring, especially the amount of fury he had directed at Shawn. Tom didn’t
think he believed in love like some of the silly girls he heard tittering
around the orphanage or at school, but if he did come close to love, it was for
books, for knowledge, and for things he had claimed as his. That imbecile had
dared touch something of Tom’s, and Tom wasn’t satisfied with the minor
punishment he’d inflicted yesterday. Once his energy was restored, Shawn would
be sorry on a more permanent basis, even if Tom were incapacitated for a week.
 
            His hunger pangs diminished by his plans for revenge, Tom allowed
himself a smile at his reflection in the spotted mirror over the bathroom sink.
His clothes might be ill-fitting and shoddy, but everything was clean and
pressed, and Tom knew he was a handsome boy. It was time for school, and even
though Tom’s teachers were sadly lacking in the ability to challenge his
intellect, he much preferred school with its books over the orphanage, where
almost all time not spent sleeping or eating was devoted to various monotonous
and meaningless chores. One day, Tom was confident, his superior intelligence
and ability to charm others when needed would help him to rise above his
circumstance, find his father, and claim his birthright, which he knew had to
be magnificent. Being his, how could it be anything less?
 
            “Tom?” a voice, thick with hesitation sounded from the door.
 
            He glanced over and saw Jonathan hovering nervously. “Yes?” Tom
knew his voice was cold, and he was pleased when Jonathan fidgeted more under
his gaze. On days when he couldn’t exert his will forcefully, he had to rely on
intimidation.
 
            “Mrs. Cole asked for you,” Jonathan said, his hands behind his
back. Tom smirked. He must have seen the red blisters on Shawn’s hands. “In her
office.”
 
            “Fine,” Tom replied, brushing past the older boy and heading
downstairs to Mrs. Cole’s office. It was a drab, dingy room, like the rest of
the orphanage, but it was small, and the fireplace made the room overly warm.
Though the night had been cool and damp, it was late June, and the temperature
was already rising.
 
            Mrs. Cole’s face was flushed, and the grey hair around her temples
damp. Tom put on his most charming smile, but he knew it faltered when he
realized that there were two other occupants in the room. Tom recovered
quickly, bowing his head slightly and giving a broad smile, making sure it
reached his eyes.
 
            There were two of them, both women. The older woman was beautiful,
with pale blonde hair, aristocratic features, posture that had to be reinforced
with steel, and impeccable, expensive clothing. She looked like the rich women
he saw on the walk to school, when he passed by the high street, with its
department stores and boutique shops. This was the type of woman who should
have been his mother – elegant and clearly intelligent, from the way she met
his gaze. He also had the disquieting feeling that this woman knew more about
him than Tom normally allowed, but he was intrigued, and that meant he would
reserve judgment for now.
 
            When he glanced over to the other woman, a girl, really, he felt
his energy rise to the surface of his skin involuntarily. The tingle in his
flesh, so strong and unexpected, was startling, and Tom fought to keep his face
neutral. He could nearly taste the energy on his tongue, a coppery flavor more
intensely than he ever had before, and he swore he heard it crackle gently
around his body, as if trying to reach her.
 
            And even more spectacularly disturbing? The girl seemed to be
crackling as well. There was the barest hint of a shimmer around her, and a
faint smell like air during a storm. Objectively, he noted that she was a
lovely girl, though she didn’t favor the older woman. Where the older woman was
coldly alluring, like a sharply cut, flawless diamond, there was something wild
about the girl – something that belonged deep in a forest. She put him in the
mind of a painting of the goddess Diana that he’d seen on a rare school trip to
the National Gallery, but even as he admitted this to himself, he knew it
didn’t make logical sense. The girl was dressed and coiffed in a most civilized
manner. Her curls, a dark chestnut brown, full and glossy, were neatly held
back by a headband, not a hair out of place. Her eyes, the color of the
precious sprinkling of nutmeg put over the once-a-year eggnog, with their
flecks of gold highlighting the irises, looked everywhere but in his eyes, like
a properly brought up young lady who hadn’t been introduced. She clearly had
hidden depths, and at that moment, Tom decided he would discover them, no
matter the time or effort he had to expend.
 
            He tore his eyes away from her at the annoying sound of Mrs. Cole’s
“Hmm, hmm.”
 
            “Mrs. Cole,” Tom began, keeping his anger at being distracted well-
hidden. “You asked for me?”
 
            “Yes, Tom,” Mrs. Cole smiled, though she seemed uncomfortable,
almost afraid. “I did. I,” she paused, looking down at papers on her desk.
 
            To his amazement, Tom watched as the older woman moved her arm in a
subtle manner, and whispered something under her breath. Then, she stood and
held out a hand to Tom, ignoring Mrs. Cole, who sat back down in her chair with
a dazed expression on her face.
 
            “Forgive our hurry, Tom, but we must conduct our business and leave
quickly,” the woman’s voice was as polished as her appearance. “This will be a
great shock, but we are distant relatives of yours. I am Lady Narcissa Bonneau,
and this is my daughter, Hermione. We only learned of our connection to your
mother’s family in the last few months, when we were preparing to leave France.
We would like you to come and live with us, and we will have plenty of time to
go into more of our family’s history, but we have very strict travel plans and
we need to leave as soon as possible.”
 
            Tom was shocked, especially when the woman mentioned his mother. He
had always assumed for some reason that when he did find some remaining,
distant family, it would be on his father’s side. He was also absolutely sure
that the woman was lying, at least in part, but he didn’t care. An opportunity
to leave the orphanage? He would never have passed that up, even if it hadn’t
arrived in such an intriguing package as these two strange women.
 
            “Of course, my Lady,” he bowed over her hand, kissing her cool
skin, and his lips buzzed, in the same way his energy did. As he had read in
the book Alice in Wonderland, things were getting “curiouser and curiouser.”
Luckily, Tom knew he was more snake than rabbit, and he had no fear of dark
places. He would tumble down into this mystery and rise victorious. “I am
honored that you have sought me out and pleased to leave with you immediately.”
 
            The Lady Bonneau met his eyes with her own, and he saw fear and
determination, coupled with amusement and awe. What a strange combination, he
thought. Yet another puzzle to solve.
 
            “Do you have any belongings to collect?” she asked, looking over
his clothing in a way that riled Tom’s temper. “We will, of course, provide you
with a new wardrobe.”
 
            Tom thought briefly of the treasures he had collected here, but
dismissed that idea just as quickly. He wanted nothing to do with this place
again, no shoddy scraps from annoying orphans to accompany him into a future
with people of quality. “No, we may leave at once.”
 
            From the corner of his gaze, he saw the younger girl touch Mrs.
Cole’s arm and murmur something unintelligible. She was still avoiding his eye.
Lady Bonneau took his arm, as if he had politely offered it to her, and marched
out the door, the girl following silently. He was a bit put-off by her
assumption of control, but she was the adult, and she wastaking him from this
wretched place, and there would be plenty of time to establish his dominance.
The fact that both women seemed to want to hurry made him very alert, and he
decided watching them closely was the best plan for now.
 
            Outside the high gates of the orphanage sat a motor car, idling.
Tom had never been in one, though he had wished to be, on mornings when he
arrived at school soaked to the skin because the rain jackets provided to the
orphans at Wool’s were second-hand at best.   The driver was not in a livery,
which meant it was a hired car, not one owned by the Bonneau family.
 
            The girl, Hermione (what an odd name, like Narcissa…like
Marvolo)was the one to open the door, and Lady Bonneau climbed in readily
enough, but not before Tom saw a look of trepidation and mild disgust cross her
face. Did it bother her to be in a public cab? Tom followed, and was happy to
find the seating clean and smelling of some kind of lemon polish.   He waited
for the girl to follow, and was surprised to see that she was the one talking
to the cab driver, giving him instructions.
 
            She entered and pulled the door closed behind her, and nodded to
her mother. “He’ll take us near to the entrance of Diagon Alley. It should be
about a twenty minute drive or so.”
 
            “Thank you, Hermione,” Lady Bonneau looked relieved, as if talking
to the driver was a task she couldn’t possibly face.   And that simply didn’t
make sense. Lady Bonneau exuded wealth and power. What was a lowly driver to
her?
 
            There was a sudden jolt as the car hit a rut, and Tom’s hands came
out involuntarily to steady himself. His fingers gripped the seat beside
Hermione’s knee, and he felt a shock, stronger and almost painful, jump from
her to his skin. The thought that had been forming in the back of his mind
solidified and he knew without a doubt that this girl was like him. She could
do what he did, or something like it.
 
            For once, Tom couldn’t censure his tongue. The words spilled out
before he even knew he was speaking. “What are you? What are we?”
***** We are Magic *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione has a surprising reaction to Tom Riddle, but that only leads
     to more questions.
      
     I posted in a hurry in order to get something up today. Please
     forgive mistakes.
           Hermione Granger, oh wait, make that Hermione Bonneau (seriously,
from Malfoy to Bonneau, wasn’t that a bit on the nose, Narcissa?) was no
stranger to sacrifice. She had given up her education, the comforts of
civilization, even her parents’ knowledge that she existed, for the greater
good. She been tortured from a woman who was known for driving people insane
rather than speak of her plans with Harry. In the last twelve hours, she’d even
traveled through time, probably destroying any future, good or bad, she might
have had, and allowed a woman who had been an enemy only yesterday to de-age
her and claim her as a daughter – all to make a brighter future for everyone
else. So, it was not hubris for Hermione to consider herself braver and tougher
than most people her age.
 
            And yet, at this moment, Hermione wasn’t feeling brave. As she sat
with Narcissa and the orphanage matron in a stifling office, she thought the
inside of Wool’s was as dreary as the outside, the walls papered with faded
designs that couldn’t really be recognized, the baseboards and other woodwork
battered, the floors scrubbed yet still stained dark and worn horribly. The two
chairs had seen better days perhaps twenty years prior, and the boy the matron
had sent to fetch Tom was dressed in clothes patched and altered too many times
to retain much shape. Hermione felt pity for any child who lived here, even the
future Lord Voldemort, then felt anger and disgust at herself for those
feelings. Really, wasn’t it a bit like feeling sorry for Hitler because he
didn’t get along with his father? Wasn’t empathy wasted on sociopaths? Then,
she scolded herself for judging him. She needed to stick to the plan. Accept
him. Likehim, or at least do a fucking fantastic job of pretending to.
 
            Narcissa had confounded Mrs. Cole as soon as the matron began
asking too many questions about ‘legal proof’ of their relationship to Tom
Riddle, though it was clear she was a bit relieved at the thought he might be
leaving. Hermione saw the look in the woman’s eyes when she said Tom’s name,
and, as Narcissa had predicted, it did remind her of how she had been looked at
as child when she had inadvertently used magic.
 
            During the trip by train from the wizarding village of Tutshill in
the West Country to London, Narcissa had spoken more than Hermione had
expected. She had still put off answering any questions about the magical
words, but Narcissa had told Hermione about being raised magically, and
pureblood customs, and the more she spoke, the more Hermione had begun to like
Narcissa Malfoy against her will.
 
            Hermione had always despaired of the many old-fashioned and often
vaguely sexist rules of what she saw of pureblood families, but the truth of
Narcissa’s life was more like a Victorian novel than that of a modern woman.  
Narcissa had been passed from father to husband, and then once her husband
joined Voldemort, yet another man had ruled her life. That Narcissa had been
strong enough to hide her true self, and yet keep that true self intact for at
least forty years was mind-boggling to Hermione. And then to have the bravery
to risk the only way of life she had known? Perhaps the lady snake had a bit of
the lioness in her, after all.
 
            “You know that you’ll need to ask the hat to be sorted into
Slytherin,” Narcissa spoke into the silence that had formed over the last few
miles. “Hogwart Houses are very insular, and we want Tom to trust you, as much
as we can manage.”
 
            Hermione nodded grimly. She had come to that conclusion as well.
Yet another part of her identity she would have to relinquish. She would need
to become a snake. What would be left of her? She looked down to see Narcissa’s
hand, pale, slim, and cool on her own slightly more olive-toned wrist.
 
            “This is unbearably hard, I realize,” Narcissa said, and there was
sadness in her eyes. “Our way forward has only the vaguest of plans, but I have
faith in us, Hermione.”
 
            “I’d like to have stronger faith, Nar- Mother,” Hermione corrected
herself. “But I have to be honest, I am concerned about the future you think we
will be able to create. I agree that killing Tom Riddle is too drastic,” she
chewed on her lip thinking about the changes she’d made with Harry when she’d
had the time turner. “Still, I wonder how much we can influence his beliefs.”
 
            “Why, a great deal,” Narcissa insisted. “If Tom enters Hogwarts not
as a poor orphan, but associated with a magical family, has a place to call
home, and is exposed to more temperate ideas in the form of you, Hermione, I
imagine we can work wonders.”
 
            Hermione opened her mouth, but Narcissa raised her hand and
continued, “Though I hope you use that ‘brightest witch’ brain to recognize the
need to look at the bigger picture. Tom Riddle will never be content to simply
work for the Ministry of Magic or run a profitable business. We aren’t here to
save his soul,”
 
Hermione made a sound between a scoff and a choke. “As if he has one,” she
muttered.
           
            “His soul, and keeping it intact, is the precise reason we are
here, I remind you.” Narcissa narrowed her eyes, just as a displeased mother
whose child had dared to be insolent would.
 
            Being a mother, it was probably easy for her to fall into that
role, Hermione thought, and she needed to embrace being a daughter again, a
role that she had feared she had given up for good. “I’m sorry, you are right,”
Hermione was determined to keep the peace. “It’s just fear of the unknown
that’s bothering me. I like to plan, to control outcomes as best I can, but
everything here is chaos.”
 
            “Oh, Hermione, life is chaos,” the older woman had that far away
look again. “Control is mostly an illusion. The only control we have are the
choices we make, and we must dedicate ourselves to making the best possible
decisions.”
 
            “But how can we know what those are?” Hermione protested. “What if
our presence here, now, is already creating a bleaker future?”
 
            “There could be no bleaker future,” Narcissa’s voice was low, but
firm with conviction. “The Dark Lord would have won – he would have slaughtered
the three of you as soon as he arrived, and his insanity would have progressed
further, and the whole of Britain, if not the world, would have eventually
died, if not in body, then surely in spirit.”
 
            Hermione didn’t argue – it didn’t matter now, though as an inside
witness to Voldemort’s behavior, Narcissa painted a compelling and terrible
picture.
 
            “So, we’re making it up as we go along, then?” Hermione tried to
sound lighthearted, but failed.
 
            “Mostly,” Narcissa admitted. She had been thinking of the soulmark,
and she wanted to tell Hermione about it, but she needed to let them meet for
the first time without any interference in their conversation, and she was
afraid an outright rejection from Hermione would cause irreparable damage. Tom
had to see them as allies from the beginning.
 
“Hermione, you have seen the aftermath of the Dark Lord’s work, but I have
borne witness– I have seen more cruelty, torture, and death than you can
imagine, and I have seen it unfold in my own home. I have been the one to
levitate corpses, the one to hear pleas and screams day and night, with no
escape. Do not think I don’t understand what I am about to ask, because I know
fully.”
 
            Hermione was getting nervous. What the hell was Narcissa going to
ask?
 
            “I need you to be nice to him, not simply tolerate him. We need to
be his family, Hermione,” there was a plea in Narcissa’s voice, a vulnerability
that Hermione hadn’t heard before. “If we don’t make him feel invested in us,
in our ideas and beliefs, we can not sway him later. He will discover Dark
Arts, and he will like them – from what you’ve said, he already has a taste for
them, without even knowing his powers. We need to set up the conditions for him
to come to uswith questions, to know that we will not judge or reject him, or
he will turn from us, and we will lose the advantage we have sacrificed
everything for.”
 
            Everything Narcissa said was true, and Hermione had already decided
that she would need to put on an act with Riddle, to pretend to like him, but
she realized now that wasn’t enough. Tom had already done several dodgy things
at the orphanage, but he wasn’t Voldemort. He hadn’t killed anyone, but he was
smart, probably at the genius level if his prodigious magical talent, along
with the memories from Dumbledore were any indication. He wouldn’t be fooled if
Hermione only pretended to like him. She had to give him a legitimate chance,
somehow divorce the child he was now with the monster she had seen in the
future.
 
            There was no going back to the future. The only future now was the
one she and Narcissa would shape, the one Tom would probably still rule in some
way. If she couldn’t accept that, well, she had no place here.
 
            “Yes, you are right,” Hermione finally said. “I will do my best.”
 
            Narcissa gave her a rare, full, smile. She’s so beautiful when she
actually looks happy, Hermione thought, then frowned.
 
            “What’s wrong?” Narcissa watched Hermione’s face fall.
 
            Hermione shook her head, then admitted slowly, “No one is going to
believe I’m your daughter. You are very pretty, and I’m,” she paused. “Not.”
 
            “We girls are so hard on ourselves, aren’t we?” Narcissa took out a
small, round metal object and handed it to Hermione.
 
            “What’s this?” she asked.
 
            “It’s a mirror spelled to only give compliments, as well as helpful
beauty suggestions,” Narcissa smiled. “I think you need to hear some. Honestly,
dear, the only problems with your appearance were the teeth and hair, both of
which I have corrected, though I will need to teach you the hair spells – I
suspect they will need to be repeated daily. You are a lovely girl, with fine
features and a nice complexion. Don’t internalize nasty comments you’ve heard
over the years.”
 
            “That’s easier said than done,” Hermione murmured, tracing her
fingers over the gold filigree on the compact case. Narcissa Malfoy giving her
a peptalk? What had her life become?
 
            “Do you doubt you are a brilliant, powerful witch?” Narcissa
prodded.
 
When Hermione shook her head, she added, “Then why can’t you see yourself
objectively? The lines of your jaw, nose, lips? Are they not symmetrical? The
distance between your eyes? Completely still, your features are pretty.
Animated, you are beautiful. And you must be confident in this – in all
things.”
 
            Hermione was quiet, taking in the compliments uneasily, and
Narcissa spoke again. “My sister had once been beautiful, though madness,
hatred, and years in Azkaban ruined her. Still, she had no doubt that the Dark
Lord would favor her, and he did.”
 
            “I don’t think modeling my future interactions with Tom after
Bellatrix is a good idea,” Hermione snapped, her anger rising. She took a deep
breath to steady herself. Any and everything seemed to be setting her off. She
needed to be calm, to be collected, or this plan would fail before it started.
 
            “I wasn’t suggesting you should,” Narcissa said coolly. “The Dark
Lord was attracted to power and confidence, so long as that power and
confidence served him, rather than challenged him. Tom is still a child, but I
am sure he will respond to power and confidence,”
 
            Horror rose in Hermione as a thought crossed her mind. “You don’t
imagine that I will be his girlfriend, do you?”
 
            Pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, Narcissa took a few
moments to reply. She was absolutely sure that Hermione and Tom would
experience intense attraction for one another eventually, but with the age
differences and time travel, there was no way this would be an easy or even
linear journey.
 
“No,” Narcissa lied easily, “but this type of response is exactly what I was
talking about earlier – you cannot look at him with absolute horror and
disgust. There are many types of attraction, Hermione. Remember, you may feel
seventeen inside, but you are only a few months from being twelve on the
outside. Tom is eleven as well, and I doubt he has an eye for girls. He will
still seek out power, though, and if you are a source of it, he will come to
you.”
 
            “This is so fucking convoluted,” Hermione moaned.
 
            “Language,” Narcissa murmured reprovingly.
 
            The absurdity of the situation, along with the panic at the
overwhelming odds rose in her, bubbling over in laughter that bordered on
hysteria. Hermione laughed for the first time in what felt like weeks, and she
couldn’t stop. Narcissa watched her silently for about ten seconds, then seemed
to make a decision. She swiftly moved to the seat beside Hermione and wrapped
her arms tightly around the younger girl. Hermione’s laughter quickly turned
into sobs. How long had it been since anyone had hugged her? Narcissa smelled
opulent, a mix of honey and almonds and ambergris; it was nothing like the
light scent of lilacs and fresh soap that had always accompanied her mother’s
touch. But Narcissa wasn’t holding back; she was completely enfolding Hermione,
holding her like a mother would, and Hermione, though strong and brave,
dissolved into tears.
 
            “What have we done? What have we done?” she repeated.
 
            Narcissa surprised even herself by kissing the top of the girl’s
forehead. She had always wanted another child, a girl, and she laughed bitterly
inside her mind at how fate had fulfilled her wishes. “We did what we had to,
and we will continue to do so, Hermione.”
 
            She pulled away slowly, allowing Hermione to collect herself. “We
need to find a way to help you act younger. I expect you were always a mature
child, but you must try to remember your younger self and act accordingly.”
 
            “Okay,” Hermione agreed, though she wasn’t sure how exactly she
would go about doing that.
 
            The conductor’s voice carried from the hall outside their private
compartment, announcing the stop in London in fifteen minutes time.   Hermione
straightened her shoulders. It was time to test the limits of her strength and
bravery. Narcissa was smiling approvingly at her, as though she could read
Hermione’s intentions. How strange that Narcissa Malfoy should look at her with
pride, and even stranger still that Hermione should be glad of it.
            
       -oOo0oOo-
           
            The next two hours had been a flurry of planning and activity. They
had traveled to Diagon Alley, rented rooms, visited Gringrotts and Madame
Malkins, and ascertained the exact location of Wool’s Orphanage. Narcissa had
sent letters by owl to her great grandfather Rosier, informing him that she was
a cousin on the French side of the family, and asking for advice and assistance
in procuring a permanent home now that she was widowed and no longer wished to
live in France. Hermione had grimaced, hoping she would never have to meet the
rest of the family.
 
            Then, Narcissa and Hermione had stepped out into muggle London, and
Hermione had helped Narcissa hail a hansom cab. Even though she was clearly
uncomfortable dealing with a muggle, Narcissa said nothing, and even squeezed
Hermione’s gloved hand with her own as they stepped out in front of the
orphanage gates.
 
            “My mother asks that you wait for us,” Hermione smiled brightly at
the cab driver. “We will only be a few moments, and we will be bringing another
passenger with us, a boy my age,”
 
            “I’ll wait,” the man nodded, looking grimly at the orphanage’s
forbidding exterior. “It’s a kindness to be taking a child away from here, I
reckon.”
 
            Hermione only nodded in return, wondering how Tom Riddle would have
reacted if he had seen the pity for his situation in this man’s eyes. She
turned and followed Narcissa inside.
 
            Now, she waited for the first sight of Tom Riddle. She felt him
before she saw him – a rising energy in the air around her, something she’d
only experienced a few times in her life, and only when spells had flown
thickly around her – in the Department of Mysteries, in the Astronomy Tower, in
the woods, running for her life from snatchers. She couldn’t help but feel some
grudging awe at how much raw magic was concentrated in this boy. It seemed
impossible, but Hermione swore that for an instant, she saw his magical energy
in a blur around him.
 
             And when she snuck a look at his face while he was staring at
Narcissa, she understood how he had fooled everyone for so long. He was more
than a handsome child – he was beautiful, with the kind of classical features
that in the future would have had modeling agents stalking him with offers to
be on posters for Gap or Abercrombie Kids. God help her in four or five years.
Gilderoy Lockhart had nothing on Tom Riddle. His gaze moved toward her, but she
quickly looked to the floor. She needed a minute before she could look at him.
Maybe she needed several minutes. Why was her own magic rising inside her,
unbidden. She felt strange and unsure and neither of those feelings set well
with her.
 
            Narcissa came to the rescue, rising to speak to Tom, and as soon as
he agreed, she led him out the front door to the cab. Hermione kept her eyes
focused on the driver as she asked him to take them back to the street where
they’d been picked up, and promised him extra money if he could make the trip
quickly. The shorter period of time that she was in a small, enclosed space
with Tom Riddle, the better. Had the de-aging process affected her magic? Her
control over her involuntary magic? Did it recognize Tom as an enemy, even as a
child? Would she somehow harm him?
 
            Narcissa had promised to talk to the Headmaster of Hogwarts within
a few days, to make sure both Tom and Hermione were enrolled for the coming
year, but they wouldn’t get their own wands until about a week before the
beginning of school, and Hermione’s old wand was somewhere on the floor of
Malfoy Manor, in a future that probably no longer existed.
            With a bit of panic, Hermione entered the cab, and sat beside
Narcissa, keeping her eyes fixed on the scuffed floor. She noticed that Tom’s
shoes were more worn than the floor, and that the soles were beginning to
separate. It reminded her of the clothing Harry was forced to wear on his
summer holidays, and she felt so sad and angry at once that she wanted to
scream.
 
            Just then, the cab lurched as it hit a rut, and Hermione did give a
little surprised scream, but not because of the movement under her. It was the
sudden appearance of a pale white hand beside her on the seat, Tom Riddle’s
fingers brushing her knee as he attempted to avoid colliding entirely with her,
that made the sound escape.
 
            As though her head was on a string, being pulled, she looked up
into his eyes, which surprised her with their light shade of blue, no hint of
red, and felt her magic jump to his hand, almost like an electric shock. Those
eyes widened in something like recognition and delight, and he spoke directly
to her for the first time, “What are you? What are we?”
 
            Hermione’s heart thudded as though she’d run miles. He had said
those words to her. Something of fate was at play here, something that
transcended time. She felt her mouth move, and words spilled out, unbidden, “We
are magic.”
 
            Tom grasped at his arm, sitting back in his seat and pulling at the
worn sleeve as though his skin was on fire. He pushed up the fabric, and there,
before Hermione’s very eyes, her words appeared on his skin, in her own neat
handwriting, down the inside of his forearm. He brushed his fingers over the
letters, then glanced up at her.
 
           “How did you do that?” he demanded, in a voice more astonished than
angry, but still a bit cold. “Why did you do that?”
 
            Narcissa spoke quickly, “She didn’t. It was involuntary.” She
really didn’t want to have this conversation now – she was shocked his mark had
shown up so quickly. Their connection was clearly a powerful one. “I will
explain it, but perhaps it would be better if I start with the larger question
of the existence of magic in this world?”
 
            Hermione sat silently, still trying to calm her racing heart. What
had happened? She was angry at Narcissa, who clearly knew what it was, but
refused to tell her. However, it did make sense to give Riddle more of a
general understanding of the magical world before going into something Hermione
knew had to be complicated.
 
            In the fifteen minutes left of the drive, Narcissa laid out the
basics of the wizarding world, and Tom listened quietly, asking several
intelligent questions that reminded Hermione of the ones she had asked of
Professor McGonagall in her parents’ living room.
 
           “So,” Tom asked, “my mother was a witch?” He shook his head. “That
makes no sense – if she had magic why did she allow herself to die?”
 
            There it was, Hermione thought, an obsession with death, thinking
death could be conquered by magic.
 
           “Having magic isn’t the same as having immortality. Witches and
wizards get injured, sick, and old, just like muggles do,” Narcissa said. “And
childbirth is hard for all women, magical or not.”
 
           “And my father?” Tom inquired. “Was he a wizard?”
 
            Narcissa shook her head. “Riddle is not a wizarding name, Tom. We
haven’t found your father, but we are fairly certain he is not a wizard.”
 
           “Why would a witch marry someone without magic?” Tom scoffed. “Why
would my mother want to live outside the magical world, if it is as wonderful
as you describe?”
 
             “Love,” Hermione finally spoke. “Love is the most powerful magic,
and everyone, wizard and muggle alike, has access to it.”
 
            Tom gave her a condescending smile, as though she were a three year
old. “Love? You are no better than those silly girls at school.”
 
           “Children,” Narcissa intoned. “I think we have arrived.” She took a
bit of muggle money from her purse and handed it to Tom. “Will you pay the
driver, please?”
 
           Hermione was surprised for an instant, but then thought it was smart
of Narcissa to have Tom continue to interact with someone non-magical, and to
give him a job that made him more a part of their group, not an outsider.
 
            Tom stared at the money for a moment, and Hermione wondered if he’d
ever held so much at one time. In the midst of an economic depression, probably
not. He opened the door and held out a hand to help both women down, paid the
driver, then returned and offered his arm to Narcissa. For an eleven year old,
this kid knew how to charm, and use polite mannerisms to his advantage,
Hermione thought.
 
             Narcissa smiled graciously and led them to the brick alley. When
she pulled her wand out fully and tapped the bricks, Tom’s eyes filled with
hunger. Hermione understood how he felt. She wanted a wand again as well.  
 
             Before they stepped through the open entrance, Narcissa turned to
Tom. “Tom, it is important for you to know that there are some people in
magical society who do not exactly welcome children of mixed magical and non-
magical unions, nor children born into muggle families who are inherently
magical. This is not necessarily just or fair, but it is the state of things,
and it is my hope you will rise above such old-fashioned thinking. My husband,
Lord Bonneau, was half-blooded, which makes Hermione half-blooded as well. I
think the two of you will be turning tradition on its head at Hogwarts this
year.”
 
           Hermione listened to Narcissa, feeling like she had been turned on
her own head. Narcissa Malfoy telling Tom Riddle not to believe half-bloods
were inferior? Was it possible this whole crazy adventure was a dream? If she
pinched herself hard enough, would she wake up in a cold tent, wearing a
horcrux locket and eating increasingly watery root stew? She even went so far
as to push hard into her palm with her fingernails, but she remained in Diagon
Alley in 1938, following her new “mother” and Tom Riddle.
***** The ladies are going to need some more calming draught *****
Chapter Summary
     Tom considers the changes in his life. Hermione does, too. Guess
     which one is happier?
Chapter Notes
     Oh, dear readers, I am in a pickle. I'm enjoying writing this story
     soooo much! But I want them to be older! I've written myself into a
     sex-free zone, and I don't deal well with PG. I want sexy times, but
     I think it's important to lay a strong foundation for these two, to
     discuss their beginnings together at Hogwarts...what do you all
     think? Should I do a time skip? If so, how far forward? I'm
     interested in any and all theories. Let me know.
             It wasn’t often the Tom Riddle found himself surprised. Like any
unwanted child deemed a burden by society, he was an expert at reading people
and situations. He was also highly intelligent, and no adults seemed to expect
that of children, so that gave him yet another advantage. And Tom liked having
the advantage.
 
            Today, though, today was hardly real. Tom had always known he was
destined for great things, that he was different – in a wonderful, special way.
The appearance of long-lost, wealthy relatives was exactly the type of scenario
Tom had imagined.   That alone would have pleased him, but what had happened
next was so much more.
 
            We are magic. The girl had said it so simply, so easily, as if it
were as natural as breathing. Her magic had jolted his hand, then her words had
marked his arm. Marked him. He had been angry, had wanted to punish her, but at
the same time, for the first time in his life, he was fascinated. She was
powerful. He knew it in the same way he knew he was powerful. There might be a
whole hidden world of wizards and witches, but Tom Riddle would stake his
incredibly precious life on the belief that even among magical people, he and
Hermione were somehow apart, were better.
 
            Hermione’s mother was very competent as well, though her magic
didn’t appear to him in the same way as the girl’s did. He was glad that he
would be in the custody of an adult he could tolerate. The Lady Bonneau was not
an embarrassment like the half-witted Mrs. Cole who could barely keep a small
group of orphans under control. No, she was a woman to be reckoned with and
respected.
 
            He watched as shopkeepers, clerks, and other customers made space
for her. She was beautiful and regal, and being associated with her raised his
status. Tom thought he could grow to be fondof Lady Bonneau. He was pleased
that she had informed him about the truth of the social structure, which
allowed him to school his features and keep an impassive expression even as the
most wonderful sights were unfolding around him. No one would know more about
him than Tom allowed them to know. Some privileged group thought he and
Hermione were inferior? Well, he would make it is business to correct their
thinking when the situation eventually presented itself.  
 
            Tom was fitted for robes and other clothing, magically measured
with floating tapes and chalk.   His school clothes were immediately replaced,
as were his shoes. Afterwards, dressed in clothes that fit him for the first
time in his life, they went to a book store, larger than any library Tom had
been in, and Hermione handed him a stack of books with a quiet murmur, “you
will like these.” Perusing them briefly, he agreed with her assessment, and
gave a polite “thank you,” because that was the charming thing to do, and Tom
had made up his mind to thoroughly charm the two Bonneau women.
 
            After Lady Bonneau bought him all the books, as well as a stack for
Hermione nearly as tall as she was, they came to a writing supply store. The
store’s wares were excellently displayed, with glass cases full of various
quills and engraved seals, stacks of parchment in every shade, and shelves
packed with inkpots and wax sticks.   Tom stood as orphans always did when they
entered a store – in the center, not touching a thing. For a moment, he wanted
everything he saw so badly that he was unaware of himself.
 
            He started when a warm, gloved hand slipped into his own,
accompanied by a tingle of magic. Tom didn’t need to look to his side to know
it was Hermione. Would it always feel like that when they touched? What would
it feel like without the fabric of her gloves as a barrier? He hated it and
craved it at once. He wanted to yank his hand free and yell at her for touching
him without permission, but what he did instead was grip her hand firmly, and
face her.
 
            “Yes, Hermione?” he asked, surprised at how calm his voice sounded.
He would say this girl was a witch, but that was obvious now.
 
            “Which feather would you prefer?” she pointed to the glass display
mounted on the wall, which was clearly filled with the most rare and expensive
feather quills the store had to offer. Unlike at the orphanage and in the cab,
where she had exuded a mixture of hesitation, fear, and a tinge of hostility,
here, in this store, she looked relaxed and even happy, her solemn expression
traded for a broad smile.
 
            Tom had the strangest sensation at her question. He had taken
things he wanted. Many things. But in his eleven years, no one had ever shown
him a collection of beautiful items and told him that he could have whatever he
wanted. In that moment, looking at her while she stared so intently at the
feathers, her magic pulsing with his own between their clasped hands, he
decided that when he started his new collection, this time of magical things,
Hermione would be the prize jewel. She was already his by blood, even if she
was a very distant cousin, and she had dared to mark him. There was no escape
for her. Her knowledge and magic would be an extension of his own, and it would
be magnificent.
 
            When he didn’t immediately respond, she pointed at a smoky grey
feather with brilliant scarlet markings that ended in a tip so sharp, it looked
as if it could slice off a finger. “That looks your style,” she smiled, her
lips quirking to the side in amusement at some unspoken joke.
 
            As with the books, he agreed with her taste, but he didn’t want to
let her know that. Tom Riddle made his own choices. He dropped her hand, even
though part of him didn’t ever want to let go, and gestured to a deep brown
eagle feather that was fringed gold, making the edges of the feather indistinct
and shimmery. “I prefer that one,” he said, pushing away the thought that the
colors reminded him of Hermione’s hair and eyes.
 
           She shrugged, and then showed him the parchment she liked, as well
as shared her opinion on the different inks. He noticed she was back to being
grave and factual, and as much as Tom understood both the need and the desire
for a clever mask, he was not pleased she was wearing one around him.
 
          When they came back to the strange inn with their purchases, Lady
Bonneau showed him his room, which was his alone, and next door to hers and
Hermione’s. She told him that they would have dinner downstairs at seven, and
he was free to rest in the meantime.   He thanked her and closed the door.
 
          Of course, Tom was far too energized to rest. He went to the stack of
books and began to read about his legacy. The top book, Hogwarts: A History,
was the one Hermione had recommended reading first, and he didn’t plan on
stepping foot into that school until he knew everything about it.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
         Hermione wasn’t sure what was happening to her, but she was sure that
1) she didn’t like it, and 2) it was related to the words on her and Tom
Riddle’s flesh.   From the moment she touched him, Hermione had felt a strange
calm that seemed to disconnect her temporarily from her brain. Why in the world
had she simply blurted out, “We are magic”? There were certainly better ways to
ease Tom into the knowledge.
 
         Thankfully, Narcissa had carried the rest of that conversation because
Hermione hadn’t been able to concentrate. She had watched him carefully in
Diagon Alley, looking for clues of sociopathic behavior, some excuse to hate
him in the here and now, but instead she had seen his restraint and felt
saddened. He had taken Narcissa’s warning about children from muggle and mixed
backgrounds to heart, and closed away his reactions to all the wonderment
around him. Despite this, Hermione knew he was thrilled to have things all his
own – nice clothing and books.
 
          Then, in the quill and parchment shop, her heart had broken a little.
His guard had fallen, and he wasn’t anything except an unwanted orphan child
who could barely fathom that he would be freely given something beautiful.
Without thinking, she had done what she would have done for Harry; she had
taken his hand, and as soon as she did, there was that feeling again, that
palpable concentration of magic buzzing between them. She was thankful for the
old-fashioned custom of wearing gloves, because she could feel his energy
strongly as it was. He gave the slightest of tugs, but then tightened his grip.
For some reason that she chose not to explore further, that relieved her. As
awful and traitorous as she should feel, holding the hand of Tom Riddle simply
felt right, which was so absurd her brain simply refused to process it.
 
         When he dropped her hand a few moments later, the loss was there, but
it was outweighed by relief. She hadn’t wanted to pull away from him. Heaven
knows he didn’t handle rejection well, and she could already see the gleam of
possessiveness in his eyes. Like Slughorn, Tom Riddle was a collector. He
sensed her magic, and he wanted it. She had to make sure that he didn’t find
out about his writing on her skin for as long as possible. There would be no
escaping him then.
 
          Hermione wondered how extended amounts of time with Riddle would
change her. She was keenly aware of her reaction to him – her whole being,
excepting her brain, wanted to like him, to comfort him, to help him. She felt
this way immediately, and it had only grown stronger in the few hours they had
spent together. What would an entire school year be like? And holidays together
with Narcissa?
 
          Back in her room, she excused herself to the bathroom and unbuttoned
her dress. Her stomach was smaller, and the words were more tightly curled, but
they were the same, and Hermione knew without seeing Tom use his quill that it
was his handwriting, just as she had recognized her own on his arm. She traced
the words, but they didn’t feel any different than her other skin. If Narcissa
didn’t tell her the whole story soon, Hermione would find out using her own
tried and true method: the Hogwarts library.
 
          When she stepped back out, Narcissa was writing at the small desk in
the corner. Hermione glanced down and saw a list of potion ingredients, a
rather fanciful list – things like butterfly dust, baby’s breath, and laughing
hibiscus.
 
          “What is that for?” Hermione asked. “Sounds like the ingredients of a
potion for cheering someone up?” She couldn’t imagine trying to cheer up any of
the three of them artificially.
 
           “I suppose it will have some mild mood enhancing effects,” Narcissa
continued to write. “But it’s a potion to compliment your de-aging, to help you
feel younger, more innocent – to act like a child, not an adult.”
 
            Hermione shook her head furiously. “No, we can’t do that! I need to
be on my guard with him! I need the advantage of my years, of what I know.”
 
            “It isn’t a forgetting potion, Hermione,” Narcissa added unicorn
hair to the parchment. “But you are wrong about being on your guard. That is
precisely what we need to avoid. He won’t come to trust you if you are
guarded.”
 
            “I don’t think he’s actually capable of trust,” Hermione snapped.
It was much easier to feel anger and loathing toward him when he wasn’t
present, filling the air with some weird magical buzzing.
 
             Narcissa rolled up the list and turned to Hermione. “You are doing
exactly what you said you would not – judging him. I find that interesting,
since when you are in the same room with him, the two of you seem to gravitate
to one another. And don’t think I didn’t see you take his hand earlier, or the
fact that he held it firmly for several minutes.”
 
            “Yes, what is that about?” Hermione stabbed her finger at her
stomach. “What are the words about? Neither of us will leave you alone until
you tell us the truth!”
 
            “I’ll tell you,” Narcissa rose and crossed to the heap of shopping
bags. She pulled out a small vial of a familiar potion. “But you must take this
first.”
 
             “Calming draught?” Hermione groaned. How bad was this going to be
if she needed to take the potion before she heard it? Still, the calming
draught wouldn’t impair her senses, only help her not to freak out, so she took
the vial and drank quickly. “Okay. Tell me.”
 
             Narcissa looked like a small animal trapped in a corner by a
predator.   She obviously did not want to have this conversation. She sat on
the edge of one of the twin beds and motioned for Hermione to sit beside her.
 
             “Just tell me,” Hermione urged. “Rip it off quickly, like a band-
aid.”
 
             “A band-aid?” Narcissa started. “What?”
 
             Hermione normally would have made a noise of frustration, but the
potion was kicking in and she just calmly waited instead. “Never mind. I meant,
tell me the main point first, then go into the details.”
 
             “Fine,” Narcissa took a deep breath, then took the vial out of
Hermione’s hand and drank the rest.
 
             “You do realize you are scaring the shit out of me, even with the
potion?” Hermione raised her eyebrows.
 
             “Ladies do not refer to ‘shit’,” Narcissa corrected.
 
              “Stop trying to avoid the issue at hand,” Hermione ignored the
previous comment. Whatever was coming would probably be worthy of a few f-
bombs.
 
              Narcissa met her eyes, and Hermione could see fear and sadness
there, and maybe the tiniest bit of hope.   “You and Tom Riddle share one
another’s words because you are soul mates.”
 
             “What?” Hermione’s mouth dropped open, and she thought somewhere
in the back of her mind that she should be screaming, but the calming draught
was doing its job admirably.
 
              “I believe that muggles have a concept of soul mates; you must be
familiar with it,” Narcissa waited for Hermione’s dumbfounded nod. “Well, in
our world, it is similar, though of course with a magical component. Every
magical person, every magical being, really – fairies, elves, I suppose even
trolls, has a magical signature, which has unique properties. Magic is energy,
and there are many types. For every magical signature, there is another that
compliments, strengthens, and completes it. You may have many family members
and friends with whom your magic cooperates and mixes well, but only one soul
mate. The connection is different, much more intense, and”
 
              “Romantic? Sexual?” Hermione squeaked.
 
              “Not necessarily,” Narcissa hedged, then caught Hermiones’s
disbelieving stare.
 
              “Yes, the link usually blooms into a passionate relationship,”
she admitted. “But not everyone ends up with or even finds a magical soul mate.
With arranged pureblood marriages, and the widespread nature of magical
settlements across the world, it simply isn’t that common. And, honestly, it
doesn’t impede a fine, fulfilled life. I know Lucius wasn’t my soul mate, but I
loved him, and we were happy in our marriage.”
 
             Hermione unconsciously rubbed her stomach. “I get the magical
compatibility aspect, but what about the writing? No one I know has ever
mentioned anything like it.”
 
             “It’s a mark of the power of the connection, and of those
connected, and it is much more rare than finding a soul mate at all.   When it
does occur, those soul mates will meet. It happened with Merlin and Morgana,
with Gryffindor and Slytherin,” Narcissa paused, a thought coming to mind. “It
is a soul connection, so it’s logical that Tom’s mark didn’t show up until
there was a version of him available after you were born who had his soul
intact. When did your mark appear?”
 
             “A few weeks after we destroyed the locket,” Hermione said
quietly. “At New Year’s.”
 
             “You were exposed to part of his soul, it may have even attached
itself to you,” Narcissa mused.
 
             “Are you saying you think I’m a horcrux?” Hermione felt sick. “How
would that even be possible? His soul is complete right now.”
 
             Narcissa shook her head. “Not a horcrux. But with a soul mate pull
so strong, the magic in that soul piece would have been drawn to you, and I
doubt once it was with you that it would have left.”
 
              “I’m getting a headache. Am I his soul mate because of my
inherent magical signature, or am I his soul mate because I was available,
compatible magic that his soul piece happened to latch onto, and now, in the
past, his soul recognizes his own magical signature?” Hermione’s mind was a
mess of possibilities and how time travel and loops may have complicated them.
 
             Narcissa placed a hand over Hermione’s. “You are over-thinking
this, probably because you don’t want to believe that you are naturally his
match, but the Dark Lord was not the first to make a horcrux, nor the first to
have a piece of his soul go astray. Simply recognizing one’s own magic would
not make a soul mate mark.”
 
            “True,” Hermione admitted. “I don’t want to believe I am the soul
mate to the most evil wizard the world has ever seen.”
 
            “He isn’t evil yet, Hermione.” Narcissa looked desparate, and her
voice trembled despite the draught. “You must embrace this, embrace him. You
are the key to steering him from the dark.”
 
            “He’s already dark!” Hermione wanted to cry, but the potion kept
her eyes dry. “It is clear that he sees people as objects, that he cares only
for himself and his possessions, and that he wouldn’t hesitate an instant to
hurt others to get what he wants.”
 
             Narcissa laughed, but it was a humorless sound. “Yes, that is all
true. He might not have a conscience, but he does have a brilliant, logical
mind, and a soul that is intact. And that soul will never stop wanting you – he
will care for you.”
 
             “No, he -” Hermione began.
 
             “He will – he already does,” Narcissa insisted. “It may not look
like the type of affection you recognize, but, like all aspects of Tom Riddle,
it is unique to him. You keep trying to make this about him, Hermione, but it
is more about us, about the differences we can make in his life. We can’t make
those differences unless we are whole-heartedly devoted to this mission.”
 
              Hermione fell back on the bed, stared at the ceiling. In the
short time since they’d arrived, she felt like she and Narcissa kept having the
same conversation with only slightly different phrasing. Narcissa wanted her to
accept the situation; Hermione wanted to as well, but couldn’t. Narcissa
impressed upon her the importance of acceptance; Hermione felt guilty and vowed
to do better. Then, a few hours later, they had another round. But the soul
mate mark? This was something completely different.
 
              As a child, Hermione had attended the Church of England with her
parents on Sundays. The Grangers were not devoutly religious, but they were
spiritual, and had encouraged Hermione to ask questions about God and life and
death and faith. When she discovered magic, she had needed to re-evaluate some
of her beliefs, and the results were simple. She believed, and was backed up by
what she knew of Harry’s mother’s sacrifice, of actions she had seen during the
war, and of her own and Narcissa’s actions, that love was the most powerful
force in the universe. She also believed that anger and hatred were motivated
by fear. More than Voldemort had hated Dumbledore or Harry, he had feared
death.
 
             Hermione thought teaching Tom Riddle how to love was a near to
impossible task, but if their souls were meant to be together in some way,
maybe she could help him not to be afraid. Fear was always driven by
insecurity, by a lack of love, which Tom had in spades.   Narcissa, as usual,
was right. This mission was about her - if she couldn’t act out of love when
they were faced with their best chance of creating a livable future for the
wizarding world, then she had already given up.
 
             She sat back up, and took Narcissa’s hand. “Mother, prepare the
potion. I’ll take it. I’ll act my body’s age, and I’ll win Tom over.”
 
             Narcissa smiled at Hermione’s use of ‘mother’. “Excellent. I am
quite a dab hand at potions; I promise it will help.”
 
             “What are we going to tell Tom?” Hermione asked. “He isn’t going
to let the subject of the words go for long, and at school, he’s going to see
my writing eventually. He’s too clever not to put it together, and we need to
make sure he doesn’t equate this mark, me, as a weakness he needs to
eradicate.”
 
             “I’m not sure,” Narcissa said, tapping her perfectly manicured
plum fingernails against her matching lips. “But I think it will go better than
you believe. I saw the way he looked at you in the shop. He already thinks of
you as his.”
 
             “I know,” Hermione shivered. “It’s creepy.”
 
             “No, it’s a defense, Hermione,” Narcissa sighed. “Think of it. He
has had no one – no family, no person to care about him in the slightest way.
He’s only known indifference at best. Then we arrived, brought him here. We are
his first connection to something wonderful, something beyond his wildest
dreams. And the first words you said to him are now on his skin. As smart as he
is, he is still a boy, and if he doesn’t cling to you, in his own way, what
does he have left? The orphanage is gone – he’s adrift in a strange new world.”
 
             “A fair point,” Hermione conceded, then added, “Can one develop an
addiction to calming draught? Because I have a feeling I’m going to be needing
more in the coming days.”
 
             Narcissa laughed, and this time it was a true laugh. “Won’t we
both?”
***** Hogwarts: it's love at first sight *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione takes the potion, Tom sees Hogwarts, and Narcissa saves a
     life.
Chapter Notes
     So, the response is resounding. We need to stay with these crazy kids
     for a while. Thanks to everyone who wrote in - I will get back to
     everybody, though I have several papers to grade, so it may be a few
     days before another update. Love to you all.
         Hermione soon discovered that it was very difficult for her not to
like Tom Riddle when in his presence. When the three of them sat down for
dinner that evening, Narcissa calmly explained to Tom that he and Hermione were
magically linked. With a skill that left Hermione quite impressed, Narcissa
carefully and subtly emphasized the point that would most resonate with Tom –
that the mark was a rare and promising sign of great future power.
 
         Tom’s look of wary acceptance transformed to a smug smirk. “And will
Hermione have my mark someday?”
 
         To Hermione’s great annoyance, Narcissa bit back a grin and said, “She
already does. Your words have been on her for months. It was the appearance of
your words that started our search for you.”
 
        “Well,” Tom’s smug smile grew. “Then I think you were right to say that
great things can be expected of us, Lady Bonneau.” He turned, flashing that
beautiful smile at Hermione. She was grateful at that moment that she hadn’t
taken any potion yet, that she could look at him as a child, not a
contemporary. The amount of time she had left feeling that way was eroding
rapidly.
 
        “Please, Tom,” Narcissa caught his attention once more, and Hermione
took a deep breath. “We are related. My paternal great-great-grandfather and
your maternal great-grandfather were brothers. In the muggle world, this is a
tenuous connection, but the magical world is much smaller. Let’s simplify and
say cousins, with no numbers or ‘removed’. You may call me ‘Aunt Narcissa’ to
account for the age difference.”
 
       “Thank you, Aunt Narcissa,” Tom responded politely, but his eyes were on
Hermione.
 
       -oOo0oOo-
 
        Narcissa was up at dawn the next morning, preparing the youth potion
for Hermione. She was already feeling strongly for her, as if the girl were her
real daughter. In this time, she was as good as, Narcissa reasoned. Though she
was still suspicious of muggles, and frightened for their world to ever collide
with her own, she had long since given up on thoughts of blood purity. She had
performed enough tergeospells on her floors and walls after Dark Revels to know
there was no difference in how people bled. And pureblood families, with their
centuries of intermarriage, high rates of insanity and low rates of birth? Over
the last year, watching the Death Eaters roam Malfoy Manor, she had thought
more and more that muggle borns and half-blooded children might actually be the
solution to keeping wizarding alive in Great Britain.   Though her parents and
in-laws had spoken with venom about the lack of distinction between blood
statuses in the United States, there was no doubt their wizarding community was
more robust and thriving.
 
       When Hermione rose and dressed, Narcissa handed her a potion the color
of sunshine. It even smelled like sun – bright and clean. Hermione glanced at
the potion, then back to Narcissa, who wore black from head to toe. She briefly
wondered how Narcissa would look in a different shade, something softer,
perhaps. Then, she raised the potion and drank.
 
       It was a bit fizzy, and tickled her throat. By the time Narcissa
performed the three hair spells on her, Hermione was feeling the effects. It
seemed ridiculous, but her heart felt lighter, and she simply wasn’t as
worried. The knowledge of Voldemort, of future events, was still in her brain,
but it was further away, and she didn’t feel the desire to analyze it. What she
really wanted to do was curl up in a comfy chair and read one of the books she
had bought yesterday.
 
       They had breakfast with Tom, where Narcissa announced she would be
apparating them all to Hogsmeade. “Tom will be able to look around a wizarding
village, and we will walk to Hogwarts, to make sure you are both enrolled for
the school year.”
 
       “We must walk because no one can apparate into Hogwarts, is that
correct?” Tom asked. “That’s what I read in the book Hermione recommended."
        “Oh, you started,” Hermione was pleased, speaking more freely than she
would have without the potion. “Did you get to the section on the floating
staircases and vanishing doors?”
 
            “I finished it,” Tom said proudly. “I read rather quickly.”
            “Wonderful!” Hermione replied. “I’m so glad to have someone to
discuss my readings with.” For a moment, she forgot she was speaking to Tom
Riddle.
            But if he was disinterested or annoyed, he didn’t show it. “I look
forward to it.”
 
            -oOo0oOo-
 
            Tom had never been more pleased in his life. He had spent the night
learning about Hogwarts and its founders, and when he had asked Hermione and
Narcissa about speaking to snakes at breakfast, they had informed him that it
was a rare gift, one shared by the founder Slytherin. He had no doubt which
house he would be sorted into.
 
            Every hour unveiled something new, something wonderful, and all of
Tom’s suspicions that he was apart from and beyond others were being proven as
each new fact came to light. He was a Parselmouth, able to do spontaneous,
wandless magic, and his magic had marked Hermione first, before they had even
met. Their marks were yet another sign that he was no ordinary wizard, and that
Hermione was meant to be in his life, to help him rise to the glory that surely
awaited him. All the talk about soulmates was a bit silly – he had no need for
love. He preferred to think of the attraction in more scientific terms, like
the bonding of atoms in the chemistry books he had read. Their magic formed
something like a molecule, something that was stronger than the atom by itself.
That he would allow.
 
           The sensation of apparating alongside ‘Aunt’ Narcissa and Hermione
was both unpleasant and unlike anything he’d experienced before. Once they
arrived, Hermione took his hand again, and he felt instantly better, which
annoyed him. He didn’t want to be dependent on anything, on anyone to feel
better, but it was an indisputable fact that her touch, still through those
gloves, did just that. And, he reasoned to himself, if she made him stronger,
then it was only logical to keep her close.
 
          He held her hand for a few moments, until the worst of the sick,
dizzy feeling had passed, then dropped it, though he still walked close by her
side. Tom found that standing in close proximity to her was about half as nice
as touching her. She was particularly excited this morning, and happier, like
she had been for those few moments in the quill shop. He didn’t normally care
how other people felt, but he reasoned that she would be a better amplifier of
his magic if she were in a good mood. Also, she appeared more receptive to his
smiles and witty comments, which was as it should be.
 
            Aunt Narcissa briefly described the different shops as they walked,
but told them that they would go to Hogwart’s first, then have lunch and shop
on the return trip. Tom was glad of it – ever since reading the book last night
(for which he had stayed up until the sky had begun to turn red), he had been
filled with the desire to see the building in the flesh.   Apparently, Hermione
felt the same way, because he felt her magic fizz around her like bubbles from
the gin and tonics the rich ladies drank at the outdoor cafes on the high
street in the summers.  
 
            When they came around the corner, he was glad neither Bonneau lady
was looking in his direction. There was no possibility of keeping the shock and
awe from showing on his face. It was the biggest, grandest building he had ever
seen, and he had once walked past the gates of Buckingham Palace with the other
orphans. The idea that he would be able to go to school here, to receive an
education here, was almost too much to grasp.
 
            “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Hermione looked as if she would float
into the air. Her curls were a bit wilder than normal, and Tom thought this
must be what seeing a rare animal in its natural habitat was like. She simply
belonged here, and she knew it. He wanted that certainty for himself.
 
            Tom gave her a measured smile. “The building’s design is
impressive.”
 
            She laughed and lightly slapped his shoulder, “Tom, you know what I
meant. It’s okay to love it at first sight.”
 
            Before this moment, Tom was sure he would have badly hurt anyone
who dared such an action, but his shoulder was abuzz from her touch, and she
was smiling at him in a way no person ever had – with pure, unguarded joy. “I
won’t say it’s love,” he finally said. “But I would like to see more.”
 
            She laughed again, and Tom noted that while most people’s laughter
grated on his nerves, hers had a sweet sound that he didn’t mind in the
slightest. She was changing him, and he wasn’t sure if he liked that, but at
the moment, he seemed to be powerless to stop it.
  
-oOo0oOo-
 
           Hermione knew that the potion was affecting her, and she knew that
Tom was responding positively to her, but she couldn’t believe she had hit him
on the shoulder, as if he were Harry or Ron. Did this potion come with a death
wish?
 
           But then, after a blank expression that must have hid his shock, he
gave her a smile, which though small, was still dazzling. Luckily, before she
could make another assault on his person, they were distracted by their arrival
at the gates, where they were let in by a dour man who muttered and grouched
just like Filch had.
 
          Did caretakers come in any flavor except grumpy, she wondered, but
was honestly a bit comforted that something at this older version of Hogwarts
already felt like home. He lead them on the familiar path to the Headmaster’s
office, which Hermione could have found both sleeping and blindfolded, but she,
along with Narcissa, she noticed, took care to not appear to know the way.
 
           Hermione knew that Headmaster Armando Dippet was over 300 years old,
but his picture on the Chocolate Frog cards in the future was a younger image,
and she had to stop herself from staring at his mostly bald head and heavily
lined face as they entered. Tom stiffened beside her, and she knew he must be
thinking similar thoughts.  It didn't seem possible someone so ancient could
still be alive.
 
         “Lady Bonneau,” Dippet rose a bit unsteadily, and Hermione was
relieved when he sat back down. “I am pleased to meet you, though this time of
year is very busy. What can I do for you?”
 
          “I have two matters of business, Headmaster,” Narcissa began, and her
voice was more heavily accented than previously. “I am a Rosier by birth,
though I have lived most of my life in France. My husband, Lord Bonneau, was
killed fighting against Grindelwald’s forces near the prison he is building in
Nurmengard. I felt it no longer safe to remain in France with Grindelwald’s
power growing by the day. My daughter, Hermione, would have started Beauxbatons
this year, but I ask that she be accepted here.”
           Narcissa handed him a few of the papers from her bag, but he barely
glanced at them before nodding and returning them to her. “I am sorry for your
loss, Lady Bonneau. Grindelwald is a danger to us all. Most magical folk cannot
remember life before the Statute of Secrecy, but I lived it my early years. It
was a violent time, and I have no wish to spend my remaining years in the same
type of chaos. Of course we will take Hermione in.”
           He paused, as if collecting thoughts from the air around him. “You
had a second matter to discuss?”
 
           “Yes,” Narcissa said, “I needed to inform you that Tom -”
 
           But Narcissa was cut off by the door slamming open and the caretaker
running into the room, yelling.
 
           “He’s done it again, sir!” The caretaker’s face was red and his
words barely discernable between his gasps.
 
           Despite this, Dippet seemed to understand completely, and he rose
with a speed that surprised Hermione. “Pringle, this will be his 43rd
probation, if the bloody fool lives. He only arrived back for the term
yesterday. What has he done this time?”
 
           “He’s brought a bleedin’ dragon with him, sir!”
           
            “Is it loose?” Dippet’s eyebrows, which seemed to have all the hair
that was missing from his head, rose comically.
 
            “No,” Pringle gasped, holding his side. “But Silvanus’s burned
pretty bad, and I can’t find Madam Selwyn!”
 
            Narcissa was already standing, her wand out. “Sir, I am quite
skilled at healing magic. Please allow me to assist.”
 
            Dippet nodded quickly, and everyone ushered out, following Pringle
across the lawn to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. A charred lump that could
have been most of a man was sprawled on the grass.
 
            As Narcissa knelt beside him and began to murmur spells, Headmaster
Dippet headed into the forest path, with Pringle behind him, towards sounds of
loud snorts and roars that Hermione recognized from Harry’s first task during
the Triwizard Tournament.
 
            Tom turned back and forth, clearly unsure which direction merited
the most attention. Another roar, louder than any elephant, erupted from the
tree line and Tom grabbed Hermione’s arm without thinking. “Are there really
such things as dragons? That breathe fire?”
 
            Hermione nodded. “Yes, and they are as fierce and deadly as in
muggle legend.” She threaded her arm through his, and pulled him back. “Let
them handle it. We should see if Mother needs help.”
 
            Though Tom didn’t care one way or the other about the coal heap on
the ground, it was fascinating to watch the witch perform a spell of substance,
not simply levitating goods or magically performing every day tasks.   He
watched her closely, and this time, as she moved her wand in intricate patterns
and spoke in words he couldn’t quite understand, he could see her magic, feel
it.  
 
            Unlike Hermione’s energetic, barely contained magic, Narcissa’s was
tightly controlled, like a well-trained pet, and it didn’t cast nearly as wide
of a circle around her. He wondered how much of this was due to the use of a
wand channeling the magic, as opposed to the spontaneous, full-body magic he
and Hermione were capable of wandlessly.
 
           “Mother, do you need me to get any supplies?” Hermione spoke lowly,
but firmly, loud enough to be heard, but not enough to break Narcissa’s
concentration.
 
           “Fairy aloe balm,” Narcissa replied quickly. “There should be some
in the hospital wing cabinets. Break into them if you must. Go!”
 
            Hermione took off at a run, and Tom paused only for a second before
he ran after her. She was light and fast, and Tom didn’t catch up with her
until they had reached the doors to the school.
 
           “Which way to the hospital wing?” he panted slightly, as she pulled
open the door.  
 
           She froze. She couldn’t immediately go to the right place. The
timeline information had to be preserved, but she couldn’t waste time. “I don’t
know,” she bit her lip, took Tom’s hand in hers and cried, “Accio ghost!”
 
           Tom felt magic pour through their joined hands. The feeling was
incredible, a rising power that traveled out of him, out of her, and shot down
the corridor. To his amazement, almost instantly a ghost floated at them,
holding his very displeased head in place on his neck.
 
        “See here, children!” The mostly see-through man began, “I am not at
your beck and-”
 
        “Please, sir, no disrespect, but we need to find the hospital wing. A
professor is gravely injured and we must get medicine.” Hermione spoke in a
rush.
 
         “Follow me,” the ghost nodded, more with his hand than his head, and
Hermione ran after him, dragging Tom behind her, their hands still clasped
tightly.
 
         The hospital wing was on the first floor, not terribly far from the
entrance, but no one was there. “Do you know where to find the Matron?”
Hermione asked the ghost, already opening cabinets.
         The ghost sniffed.  "It is not my job to keep track of the living."
         Tom could not abide boredom, so he began to look as well, reading the
spidery script on the boxes, jars, and bottles. There was nothing he recognized
as a normal medicine, only strange words like bezoar, calming draught,
dreamless sleep, and so on.
         “I found it!” Hermione yelled, and she was off down the hall.
         He chased after her more out of a distaste at being left behind than
anything else, and arrived on the lawn to find a larger group assembled around
Narcissa. There was a tall, slender man with long brown hair and an even longer
beard, as well as another man with thick spectacles and blond hair that stood
straight
         He chased after her more out of a distaste at being left behind than
anything else, and arrived on the lawn to find a larger group assembled around
Narcissa. There was a tall, slender man with long brown hair and an even longer
beard, as well as another man with thick spectacles and blond hair that stood
straight up from his scalp like the growths from an onion bulb. Both men were
wearing long robes like the Headmaster.  
         The onion haired man looked at the jar in Hermione’s extended hand and
took it immediately. “Clever girl!” He kneeled beside Narcissa and began to
scoop out the slimy green gelatin and spread it on the man’s exposed, reddened
skin.
 
         Tom noted dispassionately that the man’s skin hardly had any charring
left, having turned an angry red on the right side and a waxy pink on the left.
Of course, the man was missing his right leg up to the knee, his right hand was
gone and the remaining skin was covered in a multitude of scars.
 
         There was silence for about ten minutes, and then Narcissa stood. “I
believe we can move him to the hospital wing now. He will need to be on bed
rest for at least a week.”
 
         The tall, bearded man pointed his wand at a fallen tree branch and it
lengthened and spread into the shape of a stretcher. He floated the unconscious
man onto it. “I believe, Headmaster, that Madam Selwyn was visiting St. Mungo’s
this morning to see about recruiting an assistant healer for the year.”
 
        “Yes, Albus, I remember now,” he glanced at Narcissa, and gave a
respectful bob of his bald head. “It is fortunate that Lady Bonneau was here to
assist us, and so capably, too.”
         Everyone began to walk, slowly making their way back to the castle
beside the floating stretcher.
        The bearded man looked at Lady Bonneau with an intelligent and close,
though friendly, gaze. “Indeed, Headmaster, I am certain Silvanus will be
grateful for her presence, as soon as he is conscious again.”
        He looked across to Narcissa and bowed his head.   “Professor Albus
Dumbledore,” he gestured the hand not holding the wand toward Hermione and Tom.
“Are these your children, Lady Bonneau?”
        Narcissa smiled, but Tom thought it wasn’t as kind of a smile that she
gave to others. “Hermione is my daughter. Tom is a cousin, but his parents have
passed, so he is my ward. I believe Tom is already on your book for this year,
and I have just arranged with Headmaster Dippet for Hermione to come here
rather than Beauxbatons.”
       “Yes, a bad situation on the continent, this business with Grindelwald,”
Dippet murmured.
       “Indeed,” Dumbledore’s face definitely tightened at the mention of the
name Grindelwald, and Tom wondered what that was about. He liked collecting
information about what made others uncomfortable, so he filed that observation
away for later use.
       The onion haired man smiled at Hermione and Tom. “I am Professor Beery.
I’ll be your Herbology teacher. After your quick thinking this morning, I’ve no
doubt you’ll both be star students.”
       They had reached the entrance, and a dark haired woman dressed like a
drawing of Florence Nightengale Tom had seen in a history book greeted them,
annoyance twisting her mouth into a frown.
      “Of course Silvanus would choose the morning I was gone to pick a fight
with a dragon! That man won’t have any limbs left by the time he retires!” She
brandished her wand, pointing it like a sword at the unconscious man. “I can
take it from here Albus.”
     She glanced down, taking in the man’s condition, and her head snapped back
up. “Who healed him? This is excellent work.”
     Headmaster Dippet nodded at Narcissa. “It was the lovely Lady Bonneau.
Perhaps she could go with you to the hospital wing to discuss the spells she
performed, to make sure all is well?”
      “I would be happy to let Madam Selwyn check my work,” Narcissa said
graciously. She turned to Hermione and Tom. “Children, can you wait here for a
few moments?”
      “They can come with me,” Professor Beery offered. “I will show them the
greenhouses they will be working in come a few months from now.”
      They split up, and Professor Dumbledore followed them to the greenhouses.
Hermione knew she had attracted his attention, and she did her best to stay
calm. Tom might be a child in this time, but Dumbledore was an adult, already
at great power, only a few years from winning the elder wand from Grindelwald.
      Tom saw Hermione tense when the taller professor with the odd name – what
self-respecting man would allow the word ‘dumb’ to be part of his name –
entered the greenhouses behind them.   That, combined with the effortless
nature of the man’s earlier magic was enough to earn Tom’s attention.
      “Miss Bonneau, and Mr.?” He paused.
 
      “Riddle,” Tom supplied with an easy, charming smile. Oh, he was
definitely going to be watching this man. “Tom Riddle.”
 
      “Muggle-born?” Dumbledore asked. Professor Beery coughed behind them.
 
       “No,” Tom answered, a tad more coolly. “Half-blooded, like my cousin.”
He nodded to Hermione, who was now standing so close to him that their
shoulders were almost touching. That pleased him for some reason.
 
      “It is no matter either way,” Dumbledore answered kindly and looked over
at his colleague, who was fussing with terracotta pots. “We care only about
magical merit here. Isn’t that so, Professor Beery?”
 
      Professor Beery glanced up, his eyes giant behind his glasses, blinking
like an owl. “Oh, of course, we welcome everyone, especially in Hufflepuff
house.”
 
     Dumbledore winked at Hermione. “I do believe he’s trying to sway your vote
toward his house before the sorting ceremony.”
 
     “Oh, that won’t matter,” Tom quickly added. “Hermione and I will both be
sorted into Slytherin.”
 
     Her former Headmaster raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, then I imagine
my house in a tight race for the house cup.”
 
     “Are you Ravenclaw, sir?” Hermione was not above a bit of misdirection.
Maybe she would be fine in Slytherin.
 
     “No, I’m the head of Gryffindor House. Professor Merrythought leads
Ravenclaw, and Professor Slughorn is the head of Slytherin.” Dumbledore
answered. He paused, then asked, “How did you two find the hospital wing so
quickly?”
 
     A shiver of Hermione’s magic washed over Tom, like water sloshed from a
glass too full. She was nervous, and he wondered if they would be in trouble
for using magic. There had been some mention of a restriction of underage magic
in his readings.
 
    “We summoned a ghost and asked for directions,” she said, truthfully
enough.
 
     “I see,” Dumbledore began.
 
      “How did you summon a ghost?” Beery had moved closer, apparently
forgetting he was holding a handful of potting soil. “You’re first years, and
you don’t have wands.”
 
     “Hermione and I channeled our joined magic through our hands and she said
the spell,” Tom jumped in.
 
      “Accio?” Dumbledore asked quietly.
 
       Tom nodded, “Yes, that was the spell, and then almost instantly, a ghost
who was nearly missing his head came to us and we followed him to the hospital
wing.” He refused to be ashamed of the fact that they had done magic. He and
Hermione were magic.
 
       Dumbledore stroked his beard for a moment. “That is quite impressive; it
is certainly beyond the ability of most first years,”
 
       “Come now, Albus,” Beery laughed. “Let’s be honest. That sounds beyond
the ability of most fifth years! Wandless magic at, what, 11? If these two are
any indication of what this crop of students will be like, I’ll be thrilled.
I’m tired of students who pass out when re-potting mandrakes simply because
they forget to pull down the earmuffs.”
 
       “I had read about wandless magic in Durante’s Practically Everything
About Practical Magic,” Hermione added, wanting to remove herself and Tom from
Dumbledore’s radar. “I knew in theory that we could channel one another, and it
was emergency – poor Professor?” she paused. No one had said his surname.
 
       Dumbledore smiled at her, and this time, his eyes twinkled. “Kettleburn.
He is our rather brash and often reckless Care of Magical Creatures instructor.
 It is fascinating that your abilities are so well-developed, and in tune with
one another, though that can happen in families. It was underage magic, but
there was no wand involved, and it took place at Hogwarts, where you are both
admitted, even though the school year has not quite begun.”
 
       “And I think, Miss Bonneau, if you have been reading Durante,”
Dumbledore shook his head, “that you may be headed for Ravenclaw, not
Slytherin.”
 
       Hermione blushed at the compliment. “I do love to read, sir,”
 
       “And I will inform Professor Kettleburn of that when he awakes, and let
him know that his gratitude may be expressed in the form of obscure 19th
century magical texts.”
 
       Hermione and Dumbledore both laughed. Tom’s face pulled toward a scowl,
but he stopped it. When Dumbledore left only a few moments later, Tom was
relieved. He heard Dumbledore murmuring, “Durante!” under his breath.  Tom
turned back to see the wide smile on Hermione's face, and he thought they
needed to have a chat about where and to whom she belonged.  
***** Blood Status Means Nothing to Tom Riddle? *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione and Tom talk about blood and Narcissa gets a job.
Chapter Notes
     So glad to be back! Spring Break is over, so updates will probably
     only be about once a week or so from now, but I've got lots of ideas
     and happy to be putting them to the page. Love to you all.
          “How about we put those clever minds to good use?” Professor Beery
came upon them before Tom could share his displeasure with Hermione. “I’ll need
to collect some more fairy aloe since we used most of it on Professor
Kettleburn. Again.”
 
            Tom swallowed his anger for the moment and listened carefully to
the professor. He didn’t like making mistakes, so he always paid attention to
instructions. The process was simple enough – cut the smaller inner leaves that
glowed like a firefly from the plants, then cut the leaves apart and scrape the
bright gelatin inside into a jar to be processed with other ingredients later.
Professor Beery handed them both knives and jars, and then moved away to
another task.
 
            It was satisfying to be given trust and responsibility when they
hadn’t even started classes, so Tom followed the instructions carefully, and he
noticed Hermione took great care in her work as well, scraping gently but
thoroughly on each leaf segment.   He liked that she was smart and skillful,
but he was still angry with her.
 
            “Are you going to be in Ravenclaw?” He asked quietly. “Or in
Dumbledore’s house? He seems to want you there.”
 
            “Any of the houses would be thrilled to have either of us, Tom,”
Hermione responded absently, still engrossed in her work.
 
            Tom scraped a bit more roughly at the leaf in his hand. “That isn’t
an answer.”
 
            She could practically see his anger, and thought carefully before
replying. “I don’t know where I’ll end up. The hat does the sorting – it
magically determines the best House match for each student. I have many of the
qualities associated with Ravenclaw, as do you.”
 
            “You are very smart,” Tom allowed. “But we are magically linked -
our magic is a match for one another, and there is no doubt I belong in
Slytherin, so that is where youbelong as well.”
 
            “Tom, our connection is at the soul level – it will never break. I
don’t need to be beside you every moment for it to ‘work’. It simply is.”
Hermione was getting upset.
 
             Yes, she was here to make Tom’s life different, to give him a
human connection, but she was not going to exist only as an adjunct to him, as
only his and not as her own person. “Also, our magical match is a complimentary
one – each of us supplying something the other does not have – that is what
makes it so strong. It stands to reason, then, that exploring and developing
the differences in our magic will only strengthen our bond, not weaken it.”
 
            Tom narrowed his eyes. Her argument made sense, and more power was
definitely a good thing. Her magic was crackling in her curls, creating an
angry halo. She was angry with him, and something else….was she afraid? Oddly,
the thought of her fear didn’t please him. Perhaps he needed to try a different
tactic.
 
            With a charming smile fully in place, Tom turned to her, setting
down his knife. “Is there some reason why you don’t want to be in Slytherin
with me? You know more about the houses than I do. Your mother said she was in
Slytherin. What is the matter?”
 
            Hermione nearly dropped the leaf she was holding. Was Tom showing
concern? Though she didn’t doubt for an instant that he had an ulterior motive,
his tone of voice and facial expressions were shockingly convincing. She
decided to be as honest as she could.
 
               “Everyone you have met so far, Tom, has either been tolerant or
ignorant of our blood status, but I have grown up with blood-based prejudice,
and thinking like that is what led to my father’s death,” Hermione was not
exactly lying, and she and Narcissa had come up with a detailed backstory that
would need to be told at some point.
 
              “Even though Grindelwald is more about magical ability than blood
status, the bottom line is that he believes magical people should rule over
muggles, that they are inherently better. And, here in England, many
pureblooded families believe they are better than half-blooded or muggleborns,
and should have more rights. Some believe muggleborns shouldn’t be allowed any
rights in the wizarding world at all.”
 
             Tom was silent, so Hermione continued. “My mother is pureblooded,
and she was raised to believe that way, but she broke from it to marry my
father, who was half-blooded. My grandmother was a muggle, and I have no desire
to see her, or any of the rest of my muggle relatives, subjugated simply
because they cannot perform magic. There are many brilliant muggles, many
amazing muggle inventions, and it is a part of my heritage that I won’t be
ashamed of.”
 
             She was on a roll now, gathering steam. Despite what Narcissa
said, Hermione did not want to be in that nest of vipers. “And, on the opposite
side, I don’t believe that muggleborn witches and wizards are any different
magically than purebloods. Look at us, Tom, we are both half-blooded, and I can
literally feel how strong our magic is, especially when we are together. How
can anyone say we are weaker or less than purebloods? Slytherin House is full
of this kind of pureblood prejudice. They will not welcome me or my ideas, Tom.
Why would I want to subject myself to that kind of environment, day and night,
for seven years of schooling?”
 
            Watching Hermione for the past few minutes had been thrilling, Tom
admitted to himself. This was the longest speech she’d ever made to him. Her
personality, which like her magic, fluctuated so wildly between lighthearted
cheer, determined resourcefulness, somber consideration, and passionate
defense, was almost overwhelming. She wore her heart on her sleeve, which was
simply baffling to Tom’s cautious nature. Though he wanted her to do as he
said, he did not care for the idea of anyone else telling her what to do, let
alone insulting her.
 
             “I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, Hermione.” He responded without
thinking, and was shocked at the words that came out.
 
             Hermione’s eyes were wide as saucers. “I know that,” she replied
instantly, looking just as surprised.
 
             They were quiet for several long seconds. Then he asked, a
ferocity in his voice that chilled her, “Do you imagine I would allow anyone to
disrespect either of us?”
 
             It was a tricky question to answer, Hermione thought. The part
that was linked to his magic was pleased he would stand up for her. But she
didn’t want to encourage his bullying. “Tom, you can’t change people’s beliefs
by intimidation – all that does is drive the belief into hiding. Wouldn’t you
rather prove them wrong simply through your intelligence, your power?
 
            Tom gave a small laugh. “I don’t think that will quite do the
trick, Hermione.”
 
            The magical world was still very new to him, but people were
people, Tom thought. Motivated by greed and fear and power. It was obvious that
the purebloods had been in power for quite a while and were determined to keep
that power. Tom had no problem with disrupting that system, and he knew for a
fact that intimidation worked just fine as a way to subdue enemies.
 
            He belonged in this world. The longer he was here, the stronger the
feeling became. And if anyone – pureblood or muggle, adult or child, saw him as
less, they were absolutely his enemies. However, Tom was smart enough to know
he needed to destroy it from within, and that, to keep Hermione happily
ignorant, he would also need to be discrete.
 
            Knowing that contact would comfort and distract her, Tom closed his
hand over hers. She had taken off the gloves to collect the fairy aloe, and the
pleasant buzz was indeed much stronger through their bare skin. He allowed
himself a moment to enjoy it as well, then focused on his words. “I would very
much like to have your company in Slytherin House, Hermione. If half-bloods are
so rare there, then the two of us, in one year, will make much faster progress
together than in separate houses.”
           
            “And,” his smile widened and he ran his thumb over the top of her
hand, copying the reassuring squeezing motion he had seen girls who were
considered friends share in school and at the orphanage. “I promise you will
not be threatened or bullied or treated any differently. I’m surprised you are
so concerned. Your mother is a pureblood. Your father was a wizard, even if his
mother was a muggle. I’m the one who is truly half-blooded, by their
definition, which I find highly suspect.” He paused, a thoughtful look on his
face, as though he were solving a puzzle.
 
            “Mathematically, it doesn’t work. In the magic books I’ve read so
far, it is claimed that wizards have been here since approximately the same
time as the rest of humanity, with very little influx of other wizarding
communities or new blood. Even if the families were very large, it seems there
would be too many close blood connections to sustain a healthy population.
These supposed ‘sacred’ pureblood families must be lying – they have to be
hiding half-blood connections or possibly even muggleborns in their pasts.”
 
            Hermione couldn’t believe Tom Riddle at any age was saying these
things out loud. She caught his thumb, holding his hand fast. “You are
brilliant, and you will be an amazingly powerful wizard. Anyone who thinks
differently is both prejudiced and a fool.”
 
            Tom didn’t need her reassurance, but he liked it.   He was finding
that he liked many, many things about Hermione Bonneau. But it simply wouldn’t
do to let her know this. He disengaged his hand and started back on the next
fairy aloe leaf. “Agreed. Slytherin House is facing a year of transformation.”
 
            There was no point in arguing, Hermione realized, her hand still
tingling from his recent touch. It did make more sense for her to be in
Slytherin, as much as she was dreading it.
 
            After a few minutes, Tom spoke again. “Why did Dumbledore make you
so nervous? Did you think we were going to get in trouble?”
 
            She shrugged, trying to act casually. “I wasn’t sure. The underage
magic rule is very strict, but it doesn’t usually go into full effect until
after one has a wand. Magic before then is a grey area, but we were helping to
save a man’s life, so I was mostly certain it would be okay. I just didn’t want
to start my school career by upsetting the Deputy Headmaster.”
 
            “That is understandable,” Tom cut the next leaf, watching her from
the side. “Is what we did so rare?”
 
            “Well,” Hermione admitted, “most children do exhibit wandless magic
now and then, but to perform an actual spell, and not simply make a toy move or
vegetables disappear from their plates, and to consciously use our magic
together – that is rather unusual.”
 
            Tom nodded, pleased, “I would like to read the text you mentioned –
the Durante?”
 
            “Of course,” Hermione smiled, then adding a teasing tone, “Are you
sure you might not be a Ravenclaw?”
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Electra Selwyn was full of emotions. She was angry at Silvanus for
doing something stupid, again. She was worried because, despite his careless
ways, she actually liked the man. She was guilty she hadn’t been there to help.
And she was frustrated because not a single person who she’d interviewed at St.
Mungo’s was half as talented as the witch in front of her, and she desperately
needed competenthelp for this school year, especially considering Silvanus had
a dragon somewhere in the Forbidden Forest.
 
            “Lady Bonneau,” she finished her diagnostic over Silvanus, “you
saved Professor Kettleburn’s life. I only wish I could have assistance like
yours for the coming year.”
 
            A thought formed in Narcissa’s mind, and she decided to go with it.
“Why couldn’t you?”
 
            “Couldn’t I what?” the matron asked, confused.
 
            “Have my help,” Narcissa replied. “I have no permanent home at the
moment, and I must admit that the loss of my husband so recently makes me
anxious to be separated from my daughter for so long. If you need an assistant
healer, I would be happy to take the position. I don’t have formal training,
but,”
 
            Electra cut in. “It doesn’t matter! You’ve more than proven
yourself, as far as I’m concerned. And I think Headmaster Dippet likes you.
He’s a fairly crusty, grumpy old man, but he called you ‘the lovely Lady
Bonneau,’ which is practically singing your praises. I suspect I won’t have to
work too hard to convince him.” She smiled, heading toward the door. “Come,
let’s speak to him now. I’ve placed an alert spell on Silvanus.”
 
            An hour later, Narcissa had, for the first time in her life, a job
that wasn’t being a wife or mother. She genuinely enjoyed healing magic, and
she would be able to stay at Hogwarts, close to Hermione. It was hard to be
alone in the past, and she knew they needed one another.
 
            She collected Hermione and Tom, and they walked back to Hogsmeade.
There was an owl waiting for them from the Rosiers at the little village inn.
She held her breath as she broke the seal. From conversations in childhood with
her grandfather, she knew the French side of the family was not disliked, per
se, but they were not close either.   Before she had left the future, when she
was still planning on going alone, Narcissa had researched the family members
and found that nearly all direct connections to the Rosier and Bonneau families
had either been killed or imprisoned in Nuremguard during this time, so there
was no one to contradict her story.
 
Dear Lady Bonneau,
 
                        My husband and I were pleased to receive your owl. It
has been far too long since we’ve connected with our French cousins. We are
sorry for the loss of your husband and the need for you to leave France with
your daughter. We are also intrigued by the boy you mentioned. Though we were
aware of our family’s connection with the House of Gaunt, we did not realize
there were any Gaunts living other than the old man Marvolo and his son Morfin,
who are both currently in Azkaban for assaulting muggles near their home. We
would be happy to assist you with finding an estate, and invite you, your
daughter, and the Gaunt boy to come to Rosier Manor for the rest of the summer.
Our son, Thaddeus, will be entering his second year at Hogwarts in the fall,
and our daughter, Marguerite, will be in her first year. I am sure the children
would enjoy the opportunity to become acquainted before the school year begins.
                        As you mentioned staying in Hogsmeade, I will open our
floo connection to the one in Madam Pudifoot’s – she is a former school friend
of mine – and you may come this evening at six pm.
 
Yours Cordially,
Orpha Rosier, nee Prewett
***** The Rosier Children Annoy Tom Riddle *****
Chapter Summary
     Tom and Hermione get to know their Rosier "cousins." Hopefully, no
     one will die.
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is a bridge...exciting things will be happening soon, I
     promise.
Tom was fighting the urge to stab Thaddeus Rosier in the neck with the silver
butter knife resting with the tea service on the table in front of him. He
imagined the feel of the sharp tip sinking into flesh, the gush of red when he
pulled the knife back out. It seemed impossible that he could be related, no
matter how distantly, to someone was so stupid that he didn’t know he was
stupid.
“And then there’s Professor Slughorn, the head of Slytherin House, and of
course he knows how important the Rosier family is, so I expect when I get to
fifth year, I’ll be invited to his get togethers – the Slugclub it’s called-”
Thaddeus smiled condescendingly at the three younger children. “Perhaps,
because of the Rosier connection, you might get in as well when the time comes.
Of course, I’m sure I’ll be a beater for our Quidditch team this year, and
Slughorn loves good players -”
“My brother is obsessed with that silly game,” Marguerite gave an unladylike
snort. “But he isn’t as good as he thinks, and Mother won’t let him play unless
until he brings up his charms scores – he almost got a “T” last year!”
“Shut your mouth, Marguerite!” Thaddeus scowled. “You don’t know anything. You
don’t even have a wand yet! And Charms is a completely useless class!”
Hermione watched the siblings fight, wondering if the adults would ever come
back. Like most upperclass families at this time, the Rosiers didn’t seem to
want to see or speak to their children unless it was mealtime. They had arrived
early, and Narcissa was immediately taken on a tour by Orpha, while she and Tom
were encouraged to get to know the Rosier children over tea.
It was abundantly clear that the younger Rosiers did not like one another, and
it was also clear that they were opposites. Thaddeus probably would have the
build for a beater, in another year or so. He was tall and burly, with broad
shoulders even at a few months shy of thirteen. In contrast, Marguerite was
small, looking more like eight than eleven. Marguerite seemed intelligent, but
she clearly loved taunting her less bright brother.
Hermione could also see that Tom was annoyed by Thaddeus’s boasts. He was
probably imagining some kind of gruesome physical punishment for the boy’s
sheer stupidity. Even though he’d somehow managed to keep his underage magic
discreet enough at Wool’s to avoid notice, Hermione knew that if he attacked
Thaddeus, even inadvertently, that the consequences would be disastrous.
Luckily, she had years of practice being the level-headed peacekeeper.
“Do you both have brooms?” she asked.
“I have a broom,” Thaddeus smirked. “Marguerite’s is practically a toy.”
Marguerite huffed. “I can still go faster than you do! I’d have a better chance
getting on a team as seeker than you as a beater. You cry like a baby whenever
you fall off.”
“Perhaps you could show us? Neither of us has ever had a broom,” Hermione said.
She glanced at Tom, who still looked dangerously annoyed.
“That’s not surprising, given your backgrounds,” Marguerite murmured.
“Marguerite!” Thaddeus looked shocked. Hermione was more shocked that the boy
had better manners than his sister, and she felt a rush of anger that reminded
her of the surge of emotion she’d experienced right before she’d punched Draco
Malfoy in the nose. God, had that been satisfying. She briefly wondered what
Marguerite Rosier would do if she smacked that pureblood smirk off her face.
“Our backgrounds?” Tom inquired, an eyebrow raised, which honestly, a boy of
eleven should not be able to do, Hermione thought.
Before Marguerite could answer, Hermione cut in. “We are all cousins here.
Let’s be civil. Yes, Marguerite, we are both half-bloods. It’s simply a fact;
there is nothing to be done to change it. Are you going to throw away the
chance to have company besides your brother this summer by insulting and
avoiding us, or shall we all have fun?”
Thaddeus smiled, and this time, it was genuine, not an attempt to impress or
cow her. “I vote for fun.”
“So do I,” Hermione smiled back, and turned to Tom. He gave an irritated shrug.
Hermione decided that was as close as she would get to a yes – Tom Riddle
didn’t strike her as someone who enjoyed many of the ‘normal’ pursuits of
childhood.
Marguerite nodded slowly, and Hermione knew she was weighing options,
responses, and outcomes. This girl definitely belonged in Slytherin House.
“Fine. I do get bored with Thaddeus so quickly.”
“Hey!” Thaddeus began, but Hermione and Tom were already following Marguerite
outside to the extensive gardens.
For the next hour, they took turns on the brooms, and Hermione was indeed
grateful that Marguerite’s broom didn’t rise more than six feet off the ground,
though it zipped along rather too quickly for Hermione’s taste. Tom, on the
other hand, took to Thaddeus’s broom with ease, and Hermione caught more than
one begrudging grin from the corner of her eye as he flew by.
Marguerite seemed to warm up to both of them, and she even offered to get out
her wizarding chess set after dinner and explain the rules to Tom. Privately,
Hermione thought that Marguerite was impressed with Tom’s ability to fly so
quickly and easily, and was realizing she had underestimated his magic.
Slytherins did love their displays of power. For his part, Tom acted politely,
with no more icy stares. Whether that meant he was mollified, or if he was
silently plotting revenge, Hermione was unsure.
“Do you play exploding snap?” Thaddeus asked her while the other two were
flying. “I’m not really one for chess,” his voice was a bit hesitant, as if
admitting that was shameful.
Hermione felt a little sorry for him, sure that if he had been actually been in
danger of earning a “T” that he probably had some kind of learning disability
or simply a low intellectual ability overall. Pureblood inbreeding did produce
some problems like that. His initial arrogance was most likely a defense
mechanism, a smokescreen of bravado. “Well, I’m not very good at it,” Hermione
admitted. “But I don’t care for wizarding chess either – it’s so violent.”
Thaddeus laughed. “Yeah, that’s why Margie loves it. She likes beating things
up, but she’s so small, she can’t do much yet,” his face darkened. “Once she
learns a few things at school, she’ll probably hex me every chance she gets.”
Hermione shivered. Even though Thaddeus was the boy who would grow up to be
Narcissa’s grandfather, she wondered if perhaps some of Bellatrix’s lovely
personality traits hadn’t come from her great aunt Marguerite. She certainly
looked like a younger version of Bellatrix. Instinctively, Hermione touched her
arm, which was still securely bandaged with enchanted healing wraps. She and
Narcissa hadn’t yet come up with a way to heal the words Bellatrix had carved
into her flesh.
“Are you cold?” Thaddeus asked, confused. “It’s quite warm, but if you are
chilled, we can go back to the library. There’s a fireplace, and always
blankets on the chairs.”
Such chivalry from a Slytherin, and one who knew she was not a pureblood, was a
welcome surprise. “No, I’m fine. I just had a brief cold chill,” she paused.
“I’m honestly a little afraid of being on flying brooms.”
Thaddeus’s expression went solemn. “If you end up in Slytherin House, don’t
tell people things like that. They will use your fears against you.”
“Who uses yours against you?” Hermione asked softly, wondering if he’d actually
answer her.
“Antonin Dolohov, mostly,” Thaddeus said. “He’s a year ahead of me. Sometimes
the fourth years Hubert Avery and Jack Mulciber. They’re on the Quidditch team,
and they like to harass me about how I’ll never be good enough to play.”
“I’m sure they aren’t the experts on Quidditch,” Hermione reassured him. The
House head is the person who picks the teams – Slughorn, right?”
“Yes,” Thaddeus glanced down at his shoes, suddenly interested in the laces.
“But I still have to get better grades, like Marguerite said.”
Hermione smiled. This was familiar territory. “I’m very good at school work. I
was homeschooled until this year, and I would be happy to help you, if I can.”
Thaddeus shook his head, “I don’t think that will happen. You don’t seem like a
girl who will end up in Slytherin House. You’re too nice.”
“Hermione will be in Slytherin, I have no doubt,” a cold voice said from behind
her. Hermione bit back a sigh. Not this insecurity again.
It was at this moment that a small house elf popped in front of them. It was
the first time Tom had seen one, and he couldn’t stop himself from starting
just a bit. He had heard the dragon, but this was different – the first magical
creature he’d seen. The fact that it could travel instantly between two points
meant it must have magic that was at least similar to humans. Though, with its
bald head, floppy ears, and Grecian-style toga, it was impossible to know from
sight alone whether it was male or female.
“Mistress Rosier is asking Yeza to be bringing the young Masters and Misses
into the house now. Dinner is being ready.” The little creature looked nervous,
though with eyes so large, Tom wondered if that were how it always appeared.
“Thank you, Yeza,” Hermione smiled at the creature, and Tom had to shake his
head. Even though Thaddeus was clearly as dumb as a box of rocks, his earlier
statement about Hermione being too nice was true. The girl was polite and kind,
even when people didn’t deserve it. Tom firmly believed in giving people what
they deserved. Hopefully, Hermione would learn this too.
 
-oOo0oOo-Seven Weeks Later-oOo0oOo-
“Pass the biscuits, please,” Tom spoke absently, two books, one for reading,
the other for reference, open in front of him.
Hermione, who had three books open, one for reading, one for runic
translations, and one for reference, handed him one of the jam-filled biscuits
he liked best without comment, though they both paused and shared a glance as
their fingers met and magic flowed between them.
She smiled at him in such a casually affectionate, matter-of-fact way that Tom
returned her smile before he realized what he had done. For others, he felt
mostly annoyance, occasionally tolerance, and, very rarely, respect, but
Hermione’s presence, and especially her touch, made him feel calm and focused.
She had a way of eliciting emotion from him that no one else could, and he
wasn’t comfortable putting that on display. In his experience, any shown
emotion was a weakness except anger. Anger was power, so long as he was able to
make those who angered him suffer. If that was beyond his abilities at the
time, then he hid that feeling as well, waiting until the moment to strike
presented itself.
He decided then and there to be more careful with his expressions. However,
when they were alone like this, the two of them surrounded by books, with too
much tea and far too many cakes and biscuits (if Hermione politely asked for a
small tea tray, the elves squeaked with teary eyes about the fact she said
please and then brought more of a selection than Tom had ever seen, even in the
display windows of bakeries), Tom thought it was alright to allow a small smile
or two. He needed to keep Hermione happy, after all, and at these times,
reading silently, occasionally stopping to discuss something they had found,
Tom felt at home. The orphanage was already fading into more of an unpleasant
dream than a memory, and after the arrival of their Hogwarts’s letters two
weeks ago, he had been determined to prepare himself for the coming school
year. Tom Riddle would not be caught off guard or put to a disadvantage.
They had spent every afternoon for the past seven weeks in the Rosier library,
during the time when Marguerite had her elf flute lessons, and Thaddeus took
his private Quidditch mentoring from a retired professional player. Apparently,
Maxwell’s desire to have a son follow in his beater footsteps outweighed
Orpha’s concern over grades. Tom was glad for this quiet time – he didn’t like
many of the games the Rosiers wanted to play because they were a waste of time.
Why in the world would he want to play chess when he could be reading a book
about magic? When he could be discussing theory with Hermione?
The more they studied together and talked, the more Tom realized just how
brilliant Hermione was. Of course, there was never a doubt that someone whom
fate determined was a match for him would be intelligent, but Tom was so used
to being disappointed by people’s abilities, Hermione was a revelation. She
could read as fast as he could, and he thought she might even have a better
memory than he did – she could repeat or quote huge chunks of text or page
numbers without looking. When they paused to discuss their readings, she spoke
thoughtfully and with insight. Honestly, other than the fact that she was so
nice, she was a perfect compliment to him.
The door opened to the study, but instead of Thaddeus bounding in, followed by
a sauntering Marguerite, Narcissa entered. She was dressed in a traveling
cloak, a charcoal grey with green trim. When she looked at them, surrounded by
tea and books, she laughed.
“You two are the most studious children I have ever met. Go and change, please.
Today, we are taking our trip to Diagon Alley for school supplies.”
Tom’s heart beat fast in his chest, but he kept his face neutral. Luckily,
Hermione asked the very question he wanted to. “And our wands?”
Narcissa’s smile widened knowingly. “Yes, we will be making a stop at
Ollivander’s.”
Hermione made a noise that Tom was not sure he was able to classify – it was
somewhere between a laugh and a squeak. Her excitement was so strong, he could
feel her magic pouring off her; it hit him like a wave and he felt his facial
muscles twitch. This girl was getting more dangerous by the second.
“I’ll go change,” he said shortly, and left quickly.
Narcissa looked at Hermione. “He left in a hurry.”
“I think he feels something when I have a strong emotion, and he doesn’t know
what to do, how to react.” Hermione closed the books on the table and neatly
stacked them.
“So many changes, even positive ones, so fast – he does need some adjustment
time.” Narcissa flicked her wand and returned the books to the shelves.
Hermione added quickly, “He’s excited, though, to get his wand. I can feel it.”
“I’m sure you can,” Narcissa patted her hand.
“How does this work? I’ve looked through this whole library,” Hermione gestured
to the room. “There are only vague references to soul mates, and nothing about
those with magical word marks.”
Narcissa gave her a rueful smile. “There wouldn’t be. This is a pureblood
library. As I told you, very few pureblooded families have access to soul mate
magic due to family alliances and matches made when children are very young.
Soul mates are meant to find one another, but that doesn’t happen when
daughters are shut away and kept from contact with anyone besides family and
the intended. In our seventh year, a friend of mine, Janice Mulciber, confessed
to me that she was sure a muggleborn Hufflepuff was her soul mate. They didn’t
have the marks, but she could feel their connection. Of course, she was already
engaged to one of those ghastly Goyle boys, and so she married him, and never
saw her Hufflepuff again after she graduated.”
“That’s horrible,” Hermione remembered Gregory Goyle and bile rose in her
throat at the thought of being engaged to any of his relatives.
“Yes, though I doubt she would have ever chased after the muggleborn boy – it
would have been too much of a leap of faith for her to take,” Narcissa shook
her head, remembering the leap she had made, and the uncertainty she now faced.
“My point was that you’ll have better luck in Diagon Alley or the Hogwarts
library, because pureblood families tend to ignore books on subjects they
consider beneath them.”
Hermione chewed on her lip. “I’m afraid there probably won’t be much anywhere.”
“You are likely right. From what I’ve been told, for most people who are lucky
enough to find their mates, the bond mostly ensures a happy union, stronger
wards on their homes and properties, and, if there are children, extra
protections for them.” She paused, adding quietly, “I suspect from the sheer
force and power of her final act of magic, that Lily and James Potter were soul
mates.”
A memory flashed through her mind, the photo of his parents that Harry had
shown her, and she knew Narcissa was right. There was something about them,
about the way they had smiled at one another, that was special, and Harry,
well, Harry’s life was a miracle. It made sense that soul mate magic had
protected the extension of itself in the form of Lily’s child. She made a
silent prayer to the universe that Harry was alive and well in the future, and
that she would be able to help create a future where he knew his parents, and
witnessed their love every day.
She felt Narcissa’s arm go around her shoulder, gently leading her to the door.
“We’re doing so well, dear.” Narcissa squeezed her. “Better than I expected,
honestly. When you go upstairs, will you tell Tom that he needs to pack his
trunk? After Diagon Alley, we’ll be heading directly to Hogwarts. I need to be
there a week early to help Madam Selwyn prepare the Hospital Wing, and you two
will stay with me in the staff lodgings until school starts next Monday.”
Hermione let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “That sounds
wonderful. Thaddeus is fine, but I’m worried that if Tom spends much more time
with Marguerite that she’ll end up having a nasty accident.”
Narcissa sniffed. “Well, the girl is perfectly horrid.”
She’s no worse than Draco in our first year, Hermione thought, but held her
tongue. It was somehow sweet that Narcissa was defending Tom. And that thought
made Hermione laugh silently. Wanting to defend Tom? How far she’d come in a
few months
***** Kittens and Snakes and Ribbons, Oh My! *****
Chapter Summary
     The first part of the adventure of a day in Diagon Alley. Everybody
     is feeling closer, but no one wants to admit it.
Chapter Notes
     I just loved writing this chapter - it came so quickly I had to
     share. Enjoy! Love to all my readers!
           
            Diagon Alley was much busier than usual, with many families
shopping for school supplies alongside the normal business traffic. Narcissa
was glad that Orpha planned on taking her children the following day, and that
she would only be going with Hermione and Tom. Orpha, being born into the
Prewett family, was a bit more tolerant than what Narcissa remembered of her
own grandmother, Thaddeus’s future wife, who had been born a Crouch. Still,
Orpha’s constant tuttings over the problems “poor Hermione and Tom will most
likely face being half-blooded,” along with the implication that Narcissa
should have married a pureblooded husband, were insufferable.
 
            A master of compartmentalization, Narcissa smiled and nodded,
accepting Orpha’s sympathy while contemplating how best to sabotage the woman’s
prized unicorn-shaped topiaries.   She reminded herself hourly that she would
be escaping to Hogwarts soon, with the two children she had claimed. And she
truly had claimed them, Hermione more so than Tom, but the charmingly devious
future Dark Lord was growing on her despite her knowledge of his potential
future.   Some times, late at night, alone in bed, Narcissa allowed herself to
think of Lucius, and, very rarely, Draco. Those indulgences didn’t last long
because they ended in bitter tears, and tears were a weakness she couldn’t
allow herself.
 
            When Narcissa thought of Lucius or Draco, she was quick to push
those thoughts away, as she knew Hermione pushed away any hint of her friends
or family. Hermione was her family now, and the girl made her proud everyday.
Without fail, she came to Narcissa’s room every morning and drank the potion
for making her behavior better match her physical age, even though Narcissa was
fully aware that Hermione worried about how unguarded the potion left her.
Early in the morning, and in the evening before bed, when the potion’s effects
had faded, Hermione would share her fears about how close she felt to Tom, how
easy it was to like him.
 
            “What if my feelings for him, as they grow, make me overlook my
morals? My belief in what is right?” Hermione had asked just last night.
 
           It had become a nightly habit for Narcissa to comb Hermione’s hair
after her evening bath, gently whispering spells to help tame the wild curls
and prevent them from turning to a frizzy mess while she slept.
 
            Working the comb gently through Hermione’s wet golden brown curls,
Narcissa had answered honestly, “People change, as do their morals and beliefs.
I am a different person than I was twenty years ago, and it is only reasonable
to expect that you will be influenced and changed by such a significant
connection as a soul mate.”
 
            “I only hope I can influence him more than he influences me,”
Hermione twisted her hands in her lap. “He’s so charismatic, even at such a
young age.”
 
            Narcissa carefully braided a thin strand of hair, then unbraided
it. “Maybe we just need to make you equally as charismatic.”
 
            “Ha! My default temperament is, as I’ve been repeatedly told, ‘a
bossy know-it-all’ – not the sort of girl who draws a crowd. My first year at
Hogwarts, it was a few months before I made any friends, and even then, I only
ever had a small social circle.”
 
            “Well, this is a new first year, and you have me,” Narcissa held
her shoulders in a comforting grip. “And you really don’t need to do much. Tom
already finds you fascinating, and that won’t change.”
 
            “I don’t simply want to be pulled along by the tsunami that is Tom
Riddle,” Hermione leaned against the woman she was considering a true mother
more and more every day.
 
            Narcissa shook her head. “You won’t, Hermione, you are too strong
for that. Trust yourself. You were holding your own against a fully-grown Dark
Lord who was actively hunting you. You can do this.”
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
 
            Now, having taking the potion, Hermione seemed more relaxed and
spontaneous, less worried about identifying every possible consequence of every
word or action.   It had been years since Narcissa had seen a purely joyful
child. Draco had been sweet when he was young, but never so unconsciously
happyas Hermione was capable of being. Hermione’s happiness was almost a
palpable energy, especially when they entered any place with books.
 
            Narcissa allowed herself to embrace her new reality. She was for
all intents and purposes, a widow in this time. She wasHermione’s mother, and
Tom’s guardian, and she was going to enjoy the yearly tradition of school
shopping, as well as do her best to make sure the children enjoyed it as well.
A quick trip to Gringott’s last week had confirmed that her first two
investments had paid off, and the forged paperwork she had provided to lay
claim to what remained of the Bonneau estate had gone through as well. No
Bonneaus in line for inheritance would survive the next few months in
Grindelwald’s embattled territory, so she didn’t feel bad for taking it in her
quest to prevent the rise of another, much more powerful Dark Lord. There was
money aplenty, and she intended on showering both children with the best of
everything.
 
            From the brief histories of themselves she and Hermione had shared
when they had first come back in time, Narcissa knew the girl had been raised
in comfort, with two parents who had earned above average incomes. Her family
had provided nice things for her, and frequent opportunities for travel and
entertainment that many others would not have been able to afford. Still,
Hermione had never lived in luxury, and Tom knew nothing of it.
 
            She apparated the children side-along to the main street of Diagon
Alley, and took them first to double-check their previous orders at Madame
Malkin’s. Since the shop already had everyone’s measurements, it was simple to
add a few more things to the list.
 
            Tom eyed a tuxedo-cut dress robe, and Narcissa discreetly murmured,
“You’ll get something like that in a few years, for the formal occasions at
Hogwarts, and I’m sure you will cut a dashing figure.”
 
           “That will be nice,” he smiled at her in reply, and Narcissa thought
that his grin was more genuine than normal. The boy had no trouble smiling at
most everyone if it got him what he wanted or projected the proper image, but
Narcissa, through the very discreet use of light legilimency, had been happy to
determine that he respected her and enjoyed her company, which was practically
a rave review as far as Tom Riddle was concerned.
 
            He turned and motioned toward Hermione, who was looking at a large,
colorful display of hair bands and ribbons. “I think you might need to buy the
whole lot to keep Hermione’s hair in check, Aunt Narcissa.”
 
             In a quieter voice that only Narcissa could hear, he added, “Her
curls look like a friendly version of Medusa’s snakes, don’t they?”
           
            Despite the daily morning andevening spells that Narcissa placed on
her daughter’s hair, it was only ever barely contained. And in moments like
this one, when the girl was excited and happy, her curls rioted. How telling
that Tom would see them as snakes.
 
            “Well, as you are the parselmouth, Tom,” Narcissa replied, failing
to keep the laughter out of her voice, “you might have to be the one to pick
out the proper ribbons.”
 
            Hermione heard their laughter, and gave them both a playful scowl
as they joined her. To Narcissa’s surprise, Tom actually reached out and tugged
gently on a stray curl and spoke to it in a hissing whisper.
 
            “What did you say?” Hermione asked, her eyes wide. She had only
ever heard Harry use parseltongue in times of danger or distress, and those had
been harsh, rasping sounds.   The light, playful hiss Tom had made was
something completely different.
 
            Tom smirked. “I told your hair to behave.” He hadn’t yet released
the curl, and he tugged it again, slightly harder, but still not enough to
hurt. He sighed and let go, watching the curl spring back. “Clearly, your hair
listens as well as you do.”
 
            “Hey!” Hermione batted at his hand, but Tom side-stepped and
pointed at the case.
 
            “She needs the thicker bands for everyday – in the silver, green,
black, and amber leathers, as well as some thinner ribbons for braids in those
same colors,” his tone was so commanding, he could have been stating
preparations for a battle.
 
            Hermione made a face as the shop clerk immediately began pulling
out the selections Tom had requested. “I can pick out my own hair accessories,
thank you!”
 
            “Darling, Tom has good taste,” Narcissa soothed. “Those are
actually very nice colors against your coloring. I would have recommended the
same.”
 
            “Fine, but I want the sapphire and the ruby as well, in the hair
bands,” Hermione insisted, feeling a bit childish, but wanting to make the
point that she would not allow Tom to make all her decisions. “And the white
ribbons with the blue diamonds,” she added, feeling like Tom knew exactly what
she was doing, and was amused.
 
            That smirk stayed on his face as they walked to the bookstore.
Narcissa was aware of how many stares they attracted. The wizarding world in
Britain was small enough that most families knew one another at least by sight,
if not by proper introduction, and gossip spread quicker than a doxy
infestation.   A young, attractive, wealthy widow with two children was enough
to cause a stir, but add to that the amazing fact that said widow and the
children had helped to save the life of a Hogwarts professor before the school
year even began? Everyone in Diagon Alley wanted to meet them.
 
            When Narcissa gave the names of the children in the bookshop,
people around her stared. She noticed that this made Hermione uncomfortable,
but seemed to feed Tom. With every place they visited, he became more assured,
and Narcissa was glad he would be starting the school year with a sense of
belonging.
 
            After arranging to have the books sent to her assigned quarters at
Hogwarts, she took the children to the magical pet store. Tom’s initial (and
very brief) facial expression was distaste, though it smoothed out when he saw
the owls. Hermione went over to the cats, and began playing with the kittens.
 
            “Would you like to help me pick the family owl?” Narcissa asked
Tom, who hadn’t moved from just inside the entrance.
 
            “The familyowl?” Tom echoed, looking slightly perplexed.
 
            Narcissa nodded. “You are a part of our family, Tom.” When he
didn’t answer, she added, “Permanently. We are only very distantly related by
blood, though that would be enough, but you and Hermione are also bound by
magic. If I haven’t made this explicitly clear, let me do so now: You will
always have a home with us, Tom. You will never go back to Wool’s. I have
arranged my will, in case of any accidents, and you and Hermione would live
with the Rosiers until reaching majority. You are provided for, Tom, and more
than that, you are wanted.”
 
            He was silent for several seconds, staring at the cages of owls.
Finally, he met her gaze with a solemn expression, and said, in a very grave
tone, “Thank you, Aunt Narcissa.”
 
            Narcissa was no fool, and Tom was a master manipulator, but she
felt that he was sincere, and as a child raised in an often violent home, she
could read emotion, or the lack of it, very well. Tom, as much as he was able,
was grateful, and he was certainly relieved that he would never go back to that
orphanage.
 
            They didn’t elaborate, instead turning the conversation to the
qualities of the owls for sale. Narcissa told him what she knew about the
various breeds, as far as distance and strength, and as she suspected, Tom was
drawn to the larger, more impressive birds.
 
            “I think this one,” Tom pointed at the largest owl in the store, a
grey bird with white marks like a bow tie on its neck, a wickedly curved beak,
nearly unblinking amber eyes, and talons that looked like they would cut
through the thickest bird-handling gloves.
 
            One of the store employees rushed forward, a small woman with eyes
almost as wide as the owls she sold. “Ah, strix nebulosa, the great grey owl,”
she opened the cage, and the bird flew out, stretching its wings to a span
wider than Narcissa had ever seen. The bird came directly to Tom, who had put
out his arm. Though the bird’s weight pressed down his forearm, Tom didn’t
flinch as the talons gripped him.
 
            “Oh, he likes you,” the woman cooed. “That’s nice. Some of the
larger breeds aren’t as friendly.”
 
            Narcissa was impressed, too. Many magical children were a bit
frightened their first time handling owls on their own, let alone a child
raised in the muggle world.   Tom looked impossibly regal, holding the owl like
a born prince. She sighed inwardly. He was a prince, the heir of Slytherin, so
much more than he currently knew.   It would be quite the life’s work to keep
him from falling headfirst into the seductive embrace of dark magic.
 
            “So, is he fit to bear the Bonneau and Riddle family post?”
Narcissa asked lightly.
 
            Tom nodded, and the owl, clearly well-trained, went back into the
cage at the shopkeeper’s motion. “He won’t have to stay caged long, will he?”
 
            The woman shook her head. “No, of course not. As soon as we get him
registered to your family, we can send him directly to the Hogwarts owlery if
you like.”
 
            “That would be perfect,” Narcissa replied. She gestured to the rest
of the store. “Tom, you may pick out your familiar, if you like.”
 
            “Most students choose a cat, toad, or owl, all of which are
approved Hogwarts pets,” the woman offered. “Though I understand there is some
flexibility for true familiars, as opposed to simple pets.”
 
            “How is the difference defined?” Tom questioned.
 
            The woman’s large eyes blinked a few times as she pondered her
answer. “True familiars form a magical bond with their owners, and will protect
owners with their lives. It is a difference that is more felt than seen, but it
is usually obvious from how well the animal responds to the witch or wizard.
The great grey will be an excellent family bird, but I wouldn’t call him a
familiar.”
 
            Tom nodded and walked toward the other cages. Narcissa gave the
woman her account information and filled out a few forms for registering the
bird as a mail carrier. From the corner of her eye, she watched Tom pass the
owls, then the toads, heading instinctively toward the rather small selection
of reptiles. He stopped in front of a bright green snake with white markings,
hanging in curls from a thick branch that crossed the cage.
 
            Her pulse quickened as he leaned his forehead against the glass and
the snake immediately unwound itself and raised up along the inside of the
glass, as if responding to a snake charmer’s flute. She reminded herself that
without the connotation of Voldemort himself as a parselmouth, Tom’s ability,
though rare and often connected to darker wizards, wouldn’t be alarming to most
people. Dumbledore was a great fool, she thought for not the first time, to
judge the child Tom so harshly. Parseltongue could clearly convey amusement and
affection because she had seen and heard it this morning in Tom’s teasing of
Hermione. All magical talents had the potential for light or dark, and all
variations inbetween. Encouraging Tom instead of shaming him was important,
Narcissa felt.
 
             “Does your son speak parseltongue?” The shopkeeper had followed
Narcissa’s gaze and her eyes were now so large, she resembled a house elf. “How
fascinating! It’s such an uncommon talent. He was so good with the owl, too!
Why, I’d bet he’d be a natural at gamekeeping!”
 
             Narcissa laughed at the image of Tom in such a career. “I’d highly
doubt that,” she murmured. “But, yes, my ward is a parselmouth, and I imagine
you can go ahead and add that snake to our account.”
 
            “Anything else, Lady Bonneau?” the shopkeeper asked.
 
            “My daughter still needs to choose something,” Narcissa replied.
“I’ll let you know.” She headed over to the section with the cats.
 
            Hermione was petting the kittens, though she was watching Tom.  
When Narcissa came to stand beside her, Hermione lifted a tiny cat that looked
like a cheetah with too-large ears. “It’s a serval,” she smiled. “A wild cat
from Africa that’s commonly domesticated.”
 
            “Trust the two of you to pick the most wild animals in the store,”
Narcissa responded dryly.
 
             “Is it really alright for Tom to have a snake?” Hermione bit her
lip.
 
              Narcissa shrugged gracefully. “It will be fine. If there were
more parselmouths, there would be snakes instead of toads. If anyone complains,
they can take it up with me.”
 
            One look into Narcissa’s hard brown stare made Hermione glad that
she and Narcissa were no longer enemies. She watched as the storekeeper opened
the case and lifted the snake out into Tom’s waiting hands. The snake slithered
up and around his arm, extending over his shoulders and resting its diamond-
shaped head against his chest, the almost neon green contrasting sharply with
Tom’s grey and black sweater.
           
            Hermione walked to Tom, holding her kitten. As she approached, his
snake perked up its head, tongue darting out at the kitten’s scent.   Tom
hissed something softly, the sounds much sharper than he had used with her in
the morning.
 
            She watched the snake watch the kitten, then looked at Tom. He
appeared both relaxed and amused, and she couldn’t help but smile. “I hope you
told your snake that my kitten is notdinner.”
 
            He smirked and titled his head down to the snake, hissing. The
snake nodded at him, hissing back in what seemed a friendly fashion, as far as
one could tell of a snake. “I just told him not to eat the kitty. He agrees,
though insists that I offer him something of similar size for his actual dinner
this evening.”
 
            Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Then what did you say before?”
           
            “Only that a friend is approaching, and not to be frightened,” Tom
said easily, though Hermione had the feeling he was lying.
 
            “Why would he be frightened?” she queried.
 
            Tom raised his eyebrows at her obvious suspicion. “Snakes have a
strong startle reflex. It is only courteous to warn whether approaching animals
or individuals are friend or foe.”
 
            Now, Herimone’s expression turned to fascination. She couldn’t
resist new knowledge. “So, when you talk to them, how does it translate in your
head? Surely, with an animal, it can’t be word for word?”
 
            “No, there really aren’t words in the same way that we think of
them – I can communicate simple thoughts, but mostly, it’s more of a speaking
of feeling,” Tom said, a bit hesitantly, as though he couldn’t believe he were
talking about this to another human.
 
            “If you had to translate directly, what would the words be?”
Hermione pressed, eager for understanding.
 
            Tom’s brow furrowed in concentration. “It doesn’t really translate.
I suppose the closest would be, ‘Not food, protected.’”
 
            “You would protect my kitty?” Hermione’s smile was so wide, her
bright white, perfectly straight teeth were on display.
 
            “I didn’t say that,” Tom grumbled, “it would be a wise practice to
keep the little fluff ball away from him when we are not present. Instinct is
instinct, after all.”
 
            Hermione had a sudden memory of the similar argument she had had
with Ron over Scabbers the rat and her half-kneazle.   She wished now that
Scabbers had been eaten, honestly. It wouldn’t do to be a hypocrite. “I’ll keep
her safe at night, if you promise not to let your snake go wandering.”
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
 
            Looking at how possessively Hermione clutched the baby cat, Tom
knew that letting his snake eat it would be a problem. “My snake will behave, I
assure you.”
 
            She seemed satisfied with his answer, at least for the moment. The
snake was curled under his chin, and Tom felt content for the first time. Was
this a common sort of happiness? Not feeling the need to do anything, simply
enjoying being?
 
            He had lied to Hermione about what he had said, because the truth
was too dangerous, too revealing. When she had approached with the kitten, his
snake had actually been more interested in Hermione than the feline.
 
            “Your magic mate?” the snake had asked.
 
            Tom knew enough of snake ‘words’ to understand that the word ‘mate’
wasn’t the equivalent of ‘wife’ or ‘girlfriend’ in human terms. It implied a
deeper connection of absolute trust, a willingness to sacrifice for the other,
and anything created by the pair. Tom had no doubt he and Hermione would create
great things, even if he had no interest in the messy physical side of human
relationships.
 
            “Yes, my magic mate,” Tom had answered, knowing that would protect
Hermione forever, and extend any protection the snake would offer him to
Hermione as well.
 
            When Hermione asked what he said, he came up with a plausible
response. It was one thing to admit to himself how important Hermione was. It
was something altogether different to admit that to her.   Giving another
person that level of power over him was unthinkable. He was glad when she got
distracted by the idea of parseltongue as a language, and the mechanics of
translating it.
 
            He racked his brain to give her some kind of approximation, and was
again pleased by how intelligent she was. They spent the next fifteen minutes
discussing parseltongue, while his snake patiently put up with the kitten’s
attempt to alternately bat at, lick, and nurse from him.
 
            Narcissa interrupted them long enough to provide small cages for
transporting the two animals, and though Tom would have preferred to keep the
snake draped over his shoulders, he whispered soothingly that he would be out
soon, as well as provided an excellent meal the approximate size of a kitten
(though explicitly not Hermione’s kitten).
 
            They walked down the cobbled streets toward yet another shop, and
Tom thought about what was left on their lists. Could it be time for the wands?
Narcissa stopped, and he read the sign above the mullioned window with
satisfaction: Ollivander’s.  At last.
***** It Isn't Easy Getting Chosen By a Wand *****
Chapter Summary
     Part two of Diagon Alley day - it's about time our two kids got some
     wands. But nothing is simple when Hermione carries the weight of
     future knowledge.
Chapter Notes
     Hello! I couldn't wait to get this up. I've taken liberties with what
     types of wood and cores Ollivander uses, but it suits my nefarious
     designs, so.... I hope everyone enjoys reading it as much as I enjoy
     writing it. Next chapter will finally put our beloved pair at
     Hogwarts! Love to all the readers. You are awesome.
 
Stepping into the airy store lined from floor to ceiling with many shelves
stacked with thousands of slender boxes, Tom was struck by two things. One,
magic was practically alive in this store, and, two, Hermione was suddenly
either very upset or nervous or both. Beside him, her magic had dampened and
wilted, as though doused with cold water.
 
He looked around for an obvious cause. An affront to Hermione was an affront to
himself at this point, but there was nothing he could detect. There were other
customers, trying out wands at the long counter that ran the width of the
store, with a man of about forty or so whose brown hair, already liberally
streaked with grey, puffed out around his head in a rather wild fashion. He had
muttonchops to match, and though his clothing was well-tailored and clean, he
gave the overall impression of the sort of mad scientist drawn on movie house
posters.
 
The man came from behind the counter as they entered. As he came closer, Tom
felt the man’s magic. Like Hermione, this man exuded magical excitement, though
his magic was sharper, and a touch darker. Tom knew instantly this man was very
personable, very clever, and very secretive. He recognized those qualities
easily in others.
 
He bowed to Narcissa. “Lady Bonneau, I am so pleased to have you in
Ollivander’s,” his hand gestured to the wide room. “I’ve recently replaced
Professor Kettleburn’s wand for the third time, and he told me of the great
service you and your children did him. I’m honored to help your children find
their wands.”
Narcissa nodded graciously, her posture and movements aristocratic without
effort. Tom liked her more every day. After her recent statements in the pet
shop, he was ready to let down his guard somewhat with her. He trusted she
meant what she had said, and the thought that she had gone to the trouble to
provide for him in her will was satisfying. She valued him as an addition to
her family, accepted him without reservation as the match for her daughter.
 
Tom, like all orphans, had imagined what having a family would be like, but
those thoughts had mostly been of curiosity, not a true desire to have a group
of people coddle and fuss over him. That idea was actually repugnant. What Tom
truly desired was to have the best of things, and he knew Narcissa was the best
of mother figures he could have. She was his now, too – a beautiful,
intelligent, and powerful woman to be the head of his family until he was old
enough to claim that spot for himself. His family – it was an odd thought, but
it had taken root in his mind, and he simply couldn’t stop himself from
accepting it as the new state of things. After all, didn’t he deserve a family
that was worthy of him?
 
“Mr. Ollivander, this is my daughter, Hermione, and my ward, Tom Riddle, who is
our cousin through his late mother, Meriope Gaunt.” Narcissa replied politely.
“They are both starting Hogwarts in the next week, and long to choose their
wands.”
 
“Ah, Lady Bonneau, but it is the wand that chooses the wizard or witch,” Mr.
Ollivander corrected gently.
 
Tom had not missed how the man’s eyes had widened when Narcissa identified him
as a Gaunt. He had learned more about his mother’s relatives while staying with
the Rosiers, and knew he was only one of three Gaunts remaining. The Rosiers
had many books of pureblood family genealogies, and he had been gratified to
learn just how old and prestigious the House of Gaunt had been, though it had
suffered in the last few centuries from the exact attitudes Hermione had told
him of – too much intermarriage with close relatives, children born with little
or no magical abilities, as well as outright madness. Hermione had helped him
find old copies of the wizarding newspaper the Rosiers had stored in their
library. Even though her face had been tense, as though she were afraid of his
reaction, she had handed him the stories of his uncle and grandfather’s
imprisonment for attacking a muggle and assaulting a Ministry of Magic
official, respectively.
 
His relatives’ appearance was repulsive – they were ragged and filthy, unkempt,
as well as simply ugly, with twisted features, matted hair, and sallow
complexions. Even had they been clean, well-dressed, and smiling, Tom doubted
the men would be a welcome sight to anyone. The family’s obviously limited
means, combined with their stupidly aggressive nature, made Tom glad he had
never met them. They weren’t worthy of being his family, of being connected
with him. It was probably a blessing his mother had married a muggle, or Tom
might have been more like his Uncle Morfin or Grandfather Marvolo, which was a
horrific thought.
 
When he had said as much to Hermione, her eyes had sparkled so brightly he
thought she might have been holding back tears, which would have been
ridiculous. She had touched his arm, removed the newspaper from his grip, and
said, “You are the only person who can define who you are, Tom.”
 
Her hand, small and white on his arm, and her voice, full of emotion on his
behalf, pleased him though he needed no reassurance. “I know that,” he had
answered, “I am not ashamed of anything, nor will anyone make me feel that way,
especially not inbred, insane pureblooded fanatics who are stupid enough to
land themselves in prison.”
 
Hermione had shaken her head. “Not all purebloods are like that,” she’d argued.
“My mother is not, and there are other families who are more tolerant and open.
The Gaunts are simply a very extreme example.”
 
“Those who wish to judge us will find themselves corrected,” Tom had answered,
finishing the conversation as he had thrown the page with the pictures of his
relatives in the fireplace.  
 
    They had not spoken of the Gaunts again, nor had he asked any questions
about his muggle father. Given what he had seen, he suspected his charm and
attractive features came from that side, but he had no need of a father now,
especially not when he was beginning a new life, in a magical world. A muggle
father (if the man were even alive) might protest, or expect him to live in the
mundane world. Leaving behind all the wonders he had seen was unthinkable, so
he crushed any random thoughts of the Riddle side of his heritage. The name was
agreeable enough, and he would keep it, but he had no desire to seek out any
additional information. That chapter of his life was done forever.
 
 
“Now,” Mr. Ollivander’s voice brought Tom out of his thoughts. The man had
extended his hand toward the children. “Who shall go first?
 
Once again, Tom felt a disturbing fluctuation in Hermione’s magic. When she was
standing so close to him, their shoulders almost touching, her magic was always
at edge of his awareness. Mostly, the sensation was calm and peaceful, though
occasionally, as it had been most of the day, excited and playful. Since coming
into the shop, it had contracted, drawn in on itself. Tom did not like the loss
– the retreat of her magic left him feeling empty, like on the mornings when
the oatmeal at Wool’s had been thinner than usual, barely lining his stomach.
He felt his anger flare. He wanted to know why this was happening, and he
wanted it fixed. Now.
 
Before he could turn to Hermione to question her, she had answered Mr.
Ollivander. “I will,” she said, her voice calm, even though Tom knew she was
far from calm inside.
 
He followed her closely. Was she frightened? If so, of what? It didn’t seem to
be the man, even despite his eccentric appearance. Glancing discreetly at
Narcissa, Tom noted that she was tense as well. He could sense her subtle magic
at a low level, and it was vibrating nervously. Had Hermione had a previous bad
experience with handling a wand? She had seemed happy earlier in the day, even
asking about the wand store.
 
Mr. Ollivander had gone back to his position behind the tall counter, and
Hermione stepped up on a small platform that put her at a better height. It was
wide enough for two, and Tom didn’t think twice about stepping up beside her,
keeping the distance between their bodies narrow. He was going to figure out
what was going on. Hermione should not be keeping anything from him. If she was
worried, she should tell him. And if she was scared, she should definitely tell
him. He could barely stand the withdrawal of her magic.
 
Narcissa had come to stand on her other side, as if offering support, and Tom
was further puzzled and angered. Hadn’t she said he was a part of this family?
Why weren’t they telling him everything? Even the salesman could see something
was amiss, because he raised his eyebrows at Tom and Narcissa.
 
“Lady Bonneau, Mr. Riddle,” he began, taking a long, narrow black box off the
shelf behind him. “You may want to give Miss Bonneau a bit of room. Searching
for the right wand can be a delicate process – mismatch of witch with wand can
let off quite impressive accidental magic. Only a few days ago, a young Weasley
set fire to my curtains,” he added dryly, gesturing to faint singe marks on the
wall around the curtain-less window frame.
 
Something in that statement made Hermione giggle and relax a bit, but Tom was
not sure what.   Narcissa went a few steps back, and Tom grudgingly moved a few
inches. He wasn’t leaving that platform, though.
 
Reading his clients like any good salesman, Ollivander shrugged and opened the
box. Inside, nesting in black velvet, was a light, faintly reddish brown
colored wand, a bit stubby, with a thick handle. Tom found it rather ugly, and
from the slight frown on Hermione’s face, he gathered she did, too.
 
“Just a starting place,” Ollivander murmured reassuringly. “This wand is pine,
with a kelpie hair core, an older wand, made by my father. It is a good wand
for giving me an idea of your magical strength.”
 
Hermione’s magic was pulsing wildly as she reached out and closed her hand
around the wand. She gave it a very gentle wave, and the box Ollivander had
been holding flew out of his hand and hit the high ceiling, almost hitting the
man in the head as it fell back down.
 
Ollivander smiled knowingly. “Yes, I thought you would be too powerful for that
by far,” he said, using his own wand to bring the box back up to the counter.
“You need a wood that is very strong – your magic channels forcefully.”
 
He walked up and down the shelves for a few moments, pulling boxes until he had
a pile of about six. Laying them on the counter neatly, he opened the top one.
This time, the wood was dark, almost black, on a red velvet lining. The wand
was much thinner, but still looked more substantial than the first.
 
Hermione’s magic flared out instantly, the box with the wand shooting away like
a bullet, so far that it was lost in the darkness of the shelves behind the
wandmaker. Tom had to keep from gasping for breath. He could feel Hermione’s
magic again, with ferocity. She was both angry and in pain. What was
happening?His magic rushed out, wrapping around her. He couldn’t control or
stop it – the magic itself wanted to comfort her.
 
“Not walnut,” Hermione barely managed to speak, her voice low and strained. Her
head leaned against his shoulder and Tom let it rest there, unconscious that he
was making a loud hissing sound until it had already escaped his lips.
 
“No one will hurt you,” he repeated in English. Hermione’s head remained on his
shoulder, her magic shivering.
 
Ollivander stared openly. Hermione had performed magic without touching the
wand at all, powerful magic at that, Tom was speaking Parseltongue, and their
combined magic was filling the air with a smell like a thunderstorm.
 
Narcissa’s calm voice sounded from behind them, getting softer as she came to
stand near Hermione again. “Mr. Ollivander, I am sure you are aware that I was
recently widowed. Lord Bonneau was murdered by one of Grindelwald’s followers,
and that man had a black walnut wand. I believe my daughter would appreciate it
if you didn’t show her any wands of that type.”
 
“Of course, Lady Bonneau,” Ollivander’s face brightened in understanding. “My
apologies, Miss Bonneau.”
 
“No, I’m sorry,” Hermione replied, her voice sounding more like its normal
tone. She straightened her head, but stayed pressed against Tom’s side. “That
was a rather overwrought reaction.”
 
“It was instinctual, my dear,” Narcissa rubbed Hermione’s back lightly.
“Getting one’s own wand is a momentous occasion. I know your father would have
wanted to be here. All is well. Simply be yourself, and the right wand will
come to you.”
 
“Excellent advice,” the wandmaker smiled, and opened a third box. “This is an
apple wood, nine and one-half inches, with a core of unicorn hair.”
 
Hermione lifted it cautiously, giving it a small twirl in her fingers. The box
it came in levitated evenly, and Tom was delighted as Hermione’s magic seemed
to stabilize, flooding back to mingle at its edges with his own magic. He was a
bit annoyed she hadn’t shared her concern over choosing a wand without her
father or the fear of a particular type of wand – did she think he wouldn’t
understand her fear or pain because he didn’t remember his parents? However,
Tom’s anger had mostly evaporated, soothed by the return of their magical
equilibrium and replaced by the pleasure of watching magic, as well as the
prospect of trying his own wand soon. He would simply need to have a talk with
her later about keeping secrets.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
Hermione had been terrified as soon as she had entered Ollivander’s, and she
knew that both Tom and Narcissa were aware of this as well. As much as she
wanted a wand again, she was afraid of what choosing a wand might reveal. Wands
sat in Ollivander’s store for decades sometimes after being made. They waited
for the right owner patiently. Having fought in many skirmishes, Hermione had
‘mastered’ several wands, and her own wand had been taken from her before they
left. Even if her wand existed in 1938, which was doubtful, would it still want
her? Would its magic somehow know she had failed to keep it? And what of
Harry’s wand? If it was here, having been made with the twin core of
Voldemort’s wand, which was certainly here, would the holly wand, choose her
because of the piece of Voldemort from the locket that was most likely attached
to her now? And if she failed to change future events as far as Harry was
concerned, would the lack of that wand kill him? All these possibilities were
giving her a headache and making her dread what should have been a wonderful
moment.
 
She could feel Tom’s growing annoyance, the angry tingle of his magic reaching
out for hers, and she tried to get her emotions under control. An upset Tom
Riddle would do nothing to help the situation. She took the first wand, which
was ridiculously weak, and was relieved when Ollivander seemed to understand
she needed something more substantial.
 
But then, to her absolute horror, he had brought her the very wand that had
tortured her. It had only taken a split-second for her to recognize the future
wand of Bellatrix Lestrange nestled, fittingly, in blood red velvet. Did the
wand recognize the lingering touch of Bellatrix’s magic in the wounds on her
arm? Pain and anger had flooded her. With no consciousness of what she was
doing, Hermione’s magic had swiftly and aggressively thrown the wand as far
away as possible.
 
Incredibly, Tom’s magic had surged toward her, enfolding her in a buzzing
cocoon, as if protecting her from harm. She doubted he was aware of what he was
doing, but it was a lovely gesture, and she put her head on his shoulder,
grateful for the support. She felt a bit sick and dizzy. Hermione was further
shocked when Tom spoke to her in Parseltongue, a soothing hiss which he
translated quickly. No one will hurt you, he’d said. She wanted to cry at the
irony that the woman who had so damaged her had been Tom’s future mistress and
most avid follower. That the future version of Tom had most certainly wanted to
hurt her – to kill her. She forced herself to take deep breaths, to focus on
the present, not the past that was actually the future.
 
While she was still attempting to recover, Narcissa, who also recognized her
sister’s wand, stepped in with an utterly believable lie, and, in that moment,
with Narcissa’s strong, cool hand rubbing gentle circles on her back, Hermione
knew she loved her. Narcissa loved her. Narcissa would protect her, and the
feeling was absolutely mutual.
 
Her calm had returned, she had performed adequate magic with the next wand, and
Tom had relaxed as well. Hermione sighed inwardly in relief. No matter what
happened, she and Narcissa would deal with it, and they would do just about
anything to keep Tom from becoming the monster he had been in future.
 
“I don’t think this is the one,” Hermione said politely, handing the apple wand
back.
 
“No,” Ollivander agreed. He shuffled the boxes and frowned. “I have a few wands
that I’ve only made very recently, from a shipment of rare cores I received.
I’ve just started using phoenix feathers as cores, as well as a few exotic
specimens from around the world. I made some test case wands with these
different cores. They are a bit temperamental, but they are powerful.”
 
His cool, intelligent gaze focused on Hermione, then Tom. “Forgive me for
asking, but are you children magically linked? Soul mates, perhaps?”
 
Narcissa cleared her throat in what sounded like reproof. “Mr. Ollivander, that
is a rather personal question, and I’m not sure,”
 
“Forgive me,” the man repeated, even though he continued. “It is simply that my
work requires me to be very sensitive to magical signatures and attachments,
and these two,” he pointed to Tom and Hermione, “are more magically in-tune
than twins.”
 
At Narcissa’s annoyed look, he hastily continued. “If they are magically linked
soul mates, they would be best served by complimentary wands – yin and yang, if
you will. Perhaps they should test the wands at the same time.”
 
“Yes,” Tom replied firmly. He clearly wanted to take charge, Hermione thought.
He’d been thrown off by her emotions and needed to be in control of
something.   She felt Narcissa nudging gently in her mind, planting words there
with careful legilmency. Be calm, darling. Tom’s wand will most likely be the
yew wand. You mustn’t react badly.
 
She nodded slightly to let Narcissa know she’d heard. “That’s fine,” Hermione
added out loud to Ollivander.
 
“Lady Bonneau?” Ollivander questioned, seeking her approval.
 
Narcissa caught the wandmaker in a firm gaze. “I am trusting your discretion,
Mr. Ollivander, to protect my family’s privacy. We both know how rare soul mate
pairings are, let alone ones this early in life and so strong, and my daughter
and ward do not need to be the subject of gossip or unwanted attention and
questions concerning their magical connection. That is a private matter.”
 
Ollivander nodded solemnly. “Of course, Lady Bonneau. I wouldn’t say anything.”
 
“Alright,” she waved a hand toward him in acquiescence. The man disappeared
into the shelves again.
 
Narcissa looked at the two children. They were standing so closely together,
she doubted she could have slipped a piece of parchment between them. When they
were in the same room, they gravitated toward one another like magnets. She
didn’t think they even realized how close they were. As Ollivander had
mentioned, they reminded one of twins, though two more different children it
would be impossible to find.
 
Hermione was almost certain Ollivander was fetching the yew wand. A phoenix
core was a newer type, and still uncommon in her time. But what were the other
cores? She longed for her vine wand, its reassuring weight in her hand. Would
she be able to perform magic as well without it?
 
“Here we are,” Ollivander was holding only two boxes. Both were rather long. He
placed one in front of each of the children. “Try these.”
 
Tom opened his box with no hesitation. Hermione closed her eyes briefly at the
sight of the long, pale wand, with the handle carved to jut out over the thumb
like a sharp thorn or bird beak. When she looked again, he was holding it, and
his face was so satisfied, so aglow, that Hermione felt bad. She was doing it
again, judging him for things he hadn’t done. Right now, he was where she had
been at the age of ten, thrilled at belonging to such a wonderful world,
delighted to be experiencing magic, to be making magic happen.
 
He deftly swished the wand and with no verbal command, Hermione’s box rose, the
lid lifted, and the wand inside floated to her hand. The wand wood was also
quite pale, though a few shades darker than Tom’s wand, with a hint of gold to
it. It was carved in a spiral fashion, gradually narrowing to a fine tip. It
was not particularly flexible, but Hermione could feel the strength of its
magic coursing up her arm, racing to join her own. It was her wand, she knew
without a doubt as soon as it touched her fingers.
 
She turned to Tom, and with a subtle wave of her new wand, vanished the wand
box altogether. Tom smiled at her more broadly than he ever had, twirling the
yew wand between the fingers of his other hand thoughtfully before making a
semi-circular motion that caused all the lights to flicker at a rapid pace,
moving across their faces as if they were under a mirror ball.
 
Hermione had never faced Voldemort directly. She had second-hand reports
aplenty, and she knew he was brilliant. Now, though, standing toe to toe with
Tom as he held a wand for the first time, feeling their magic, now amplified
and intensified by the use of wands, Hermione was speechless. She was also
euphoric. Their magic was buzzing and flowing and swirling, and she thought
they just might float away. It took her a second to realize that Tom was happy
– truly, properly, happy – maybe for the first time ever. She returned his
smile and added to it with laughter.
 
“My goodness,” Ollivander stared at them, close to speechlessness himself as
the lights finally stopped flashing.
 
“What are the particulars of the wands?” Hermione asked, forcing the wandmaker
to concentrate on something other than the amazingly precocious performance
he’d just witnessed.
 
“Oh, yes,” he smiled, though he still looked a bit dazzled. “Mr. Riddle’s is
yew wood – a powerful wand wood associated with both mystery and leadership,
victory and longevity. The core is a phoenix feather, which is a strong, fiery
magic that also has healing and regenerative properties.”
 
He saw Tom watching him, and added, “These are magical properties of the wood
and cores by themselves – these can intensify or change when made into a wand,
and the magic of the wand’s master influences the wand as well. Both wand and
master learn from and adapt to one another.”
 
“And Hermione’s wand?” Tom asked, his voice pleased and relaxed.
 
“Ah, Miss Bonneau’s wand is made of rowan wood, which also has properties of
power and mystery, as well as vision, balance, protection, and transformation.
The core is a hair from the tail of a sphinx, recently collected by a friend of
mine who traveled to Egypt,” Ollivander said. “It was very tricky to work with.
The sphinx magic should have an affinity for logical, ordered magic, but also
enormous potential for sheer power.”
 
He looked first at Tom, “Your wand is fire and action,” then to Hermione,
“Yours is air and logic. They will suit you both individually, but also
compliment you when you do magic together.”
 
“Thank you, Mr. Ollivander,” Narcissa took Hermione’s arm and motioned to Tom.
“Come, children, it has been a long day of shopping and we need to get
ourselves and your pets settled in at Hogwarts before it’s too late.”
 
“A pleasure to help you, Lady Bonneau,” the salesman responded. “Remember, Mr.
Riddle and Miss Bonneau, that you mustn’t use the wands outside of Hogwarts
grounds until you are of age.”
 
Hermione saw Tom’s mouth twist in displeasure, though it didn’t stay that way
long. She had a feeling that now Tom had experienced the power of magic
channeled through a wand that few restrictions would keep him from practicing
it.
***** Both Tom and Narcissa Get a Little Weak in the Knees *****
Chapter Summary
     Tom and Hermione explore Hogwarts the week before school starts.
     Hermione makes a confession. Narcissa has her mind blown.
Chapter Notes
     In additional research, I realized that I started the kids too young.
     The first year should start at age 11, turning 12 during the school
     year (or over the next summer). Hermione's bday is in September,
     which would make her 12 almost as soon as school starts, and Tom's is
     on New Year's Eve, which would make him a couple of months 'younger'
     than Hermione. I've changed the ages in this chapter to make them
     both currently 11, and I will go back and fix previous chapters when
     I have a spare moment.
     We meet Narcissa's lady love in this chapter, but nothing that earns
     that 'E' rating yet. This chapter is longer than usual, and I still
     haven't quite gotten to the beginning of the school year proper...but
     I'm soooo close, I swear. Love to all the readers!
     **A reader pointed out that blast-ended skrewts are actually a hybrid
     breed created by Hagrid, so they wouldn't have actually existed in
     1938** (I clearly have messed with that timeline, and I
     apologize....but not enough to change it :)
That evening, Tom sat with Hermione in the small parlor of Narcissa’s staff
rooms, practicing spells listed in their first year textbooks. They floated
small objects, produced lights at the ends of their wands, and repaired torn
pieces of parchment. Their familiars were out, the snake wrapped comfortably
around Tom, its tail touching Hermione’s side, where the kitten in her lap
gently batted at it.
 
After unpacking their things, Narcissa had told them to explore, and they had
headed immediately to the library. The current Hogwarts librarian, Miss
Brannan, was about five hundred times more personable than Ms. Pince, and she
had allowed the two early students to browse in the stacks for a few hours
before shooing them to dinner. After a bit of research, Tom and Hermione had
both chosen names for their animals. Since the cat’s natural habitat was from
central Africa, Hermione had settled on Khethiwe, which was Zulu for ‘the one
who is chosen.’ Tom unsurprisingly picked a name he thought was fearsome for
his emerald green boa – Damballa, the name of a Voodoo snake god who was
considered a primordial creator of all life.
 
The next few days passed quickly, even without much of a schedule. Narcissa
spent most of her time in the Hospital Wing, helping Madam Selwyn with
restocking the potions and preparing common antidotes and medicines for student
ailments. Sometimes, Tom and Hermione would assist Professor Beery in small
tasks in the greenhouses. Hermione was pleasantly surprised that Tom didn’t
mind the work. She wouldn’t have thought he would have a green thumb, but Tom
seemed to want to try everything, and go everywhere.
 
Hermione remembered the work it had been to keep Harry and Ron from roaming in
restricted areas, but Tom was actually worse. He was so confident, and
seemingly fearless, determined to be master of this new domain. In the
mornings, they explored, traipsing up and down floating staircases, finding all
the ghosts and poltergeists, even looking down the third floor corridor, which
had been strictly off-limits in her time, and which appeared to be a humid
hibernation area for some kind of pulsating seedpods that Hermione later
discovered after a study session in the library’s herbology section would
eventually erupt into extremely large carnivorous plants with flesh-eating
secretions.
 
In the afternoons, they would walk the grounds, skirting the edges of the
Forbidden Forest, wading up to their knees in the lake, and going over the
lawns. One day, they sat in the empty stands overlooking the Quidditch pitch,
and Hermione gave a brief, incredibly bad description of the game.   The first
day, it had taken every bit of Hermione’s considerable mental ability to
remember to act surprised at every ‘new’ sight. However, by the second day,
Tom’s enthusiasm had her experiencing the familiarity of Hogwarts with fresh
eyes. Honestly, he was so like her in some ways. He wanted to go to the
library, wanted to know the reasons for things. Tom would never call her a
bookworm or a know-it-all. She began to dare to hope that this school year
would be different than her first one in 1991, that she might indeed have more
friends and less ridicule.
 
Two days before the school year, they sat in a patch of daisies near the south
lawn, trying to turn the petals on the white flowers another color.   When
Hermione had suggested the exercise, she had expected Tom to scoff. Once again,
he had proved her wrong to judge. Tom seemed very interested, especially when
she informed him that the spell was advanced for a first year, but a type of
foundation for more complicated transfiguration. They worked side-by-side among
the flowers, first only managing to send the flowers flying across the field,
but then, gradually producing pale shades, and finally progressing to brilliant
jewel tones.  
 
With her excellent memory, it was not hard to recall how she had originally
learned performed this spell, the fits and starts she had experienced. She
duplicated those actions, though holding her magic back was not as simple as
remembering her previous actions. It was not in Hermione’s nature to
deliberately do something incorrectly or at less than her capabilities. When
she had first held her new wand, Hermione had felt better, like a real witch
again, but that evening, when she and Narcissa had discussed the need for her
to restrain and disguise the limits of her magical abilities, her frustration
had returned. It required more focus than normal to under-perform.
 
Tom floated a daisy that had been turned crimson to the growing pile in front
of them, and Hermione placed a canary yellow one on top of it. Suddenly,
something slimy, enormous, and on fire came charging directly at them, and she
threw up her wand, yelling, “Protego!”
 
What she could now see was a fully-grown blast-ended skrewt bounced off her
magical barrier, dazed, and began crawl-running in the opposite direction.   A
man with wild rust colored hair, the very pink skin of a recovering burn
victim, as well as a prosthetic hand and lower leg, rushed to them.
 
“Miss Bonneau and Mr. Riddle, I presume?” He spoke rapidly, not waiting for an
answer. “Excellent shield charm, Miss Bonneau, first-rate. I’d love to stay and
tell you kids how grateful I am, but that skrewt won’t catch itself! I need it
for Monday’s third-year class.”
 
He began to run, rather quickly for a man with a fake leg, but stopped after
only a few paces. He turned back to Hermione and Tom. “No need to mention this
to the Headmaster – he can’t put me on doubleprobation, after all.” He winked,
his bloodshot black eye missing its lashes, and took off again.
 
“That man is a hazard to himself and everyone else,” Tom said absently after a
few seconds of watching Professor Kettleburn attempt to herd the skrewt toward
the lake.
 
“What was that spell? Something about protection?” He was focused on her again,
intently. “It was very powerful.”
 
Hermione flushed unhappily, searching for a plausible excuse for her knowledge.
“My mother and father taught me a few things, to be used in emergencies only,
since things were getting so bad in France.”
 
Tom nodded. “I know that must have been,” he searched for the right word,
“frightening.”
 
She thought of the battle at the Ministry, the Astronomy Tower, and Bill and
Fleur’s wedding, of racing through the woods being chased by snatchers, of
lying on the floor of Malfoy Manor, screaming and bleeding. It was no act to
reply, “I spent most of my time terrified.”
 
“In London, there was constant talk of Hilter,” Tom said quietly. “Many people
think England will go to war soon with Germany and Italy. I thought the magical
world was outside of that, but it seems you have a similar figure terrorizing
Europe.”
 
“Grindelwald has some similarities to Hitler, I suppose,” she admitted. “But no
matter what war, muggle or magical, wages outside, we are safe at Hogwarts.”
 
“Do you truly think so?” Tom gave her a critical look. “That seems incredibly
optimistic, especially given your family’s circumstances, Hermione.”
 
“Mother and I came here precisely because it is so safe. And though Grindelwald
has many followers, they are still greatly outnumbered.”
 
Tom picked another daisy, pointed his wand at it, and it instantly turned a
deep green. “Will you teach me the protection spell?”
 
There was no emotion in his voice, no obvious concern, nor greed for knowledge,
but Hermione could feel a shift in his magic, a tension that she hadn’t felt
before, even when the skrewt was rushing toward them. Tom would never admit to
fear, and she wasn’t about to press the issue, but Hermione was positive that
was why he wanted to know, and she didn’t see how she could refuse him. It
wasn’t remotely dark magic, and not terribly advanced, especially for someone
like Tom.
 
“Yes, I’ll show you, though you’ll need to have something to block to know
whether or not your shield is effective, so I’ll have to throw a mild jinx your
way.” Hermione hid a grin. She was about to jinx Tom Riddle, and she couldn’t
lie – she was a bit thrilled.
 
Tom raised an eyebrow. “A mild jinx? I don’t suppose your parents taught you
that. Have you spent every waking hour since you could read learning spells for
future use?”
 
            Hermione did smile at that. “Stand and face me,” she instructed.
“I’m going to use a jelly-legs jinx – if it hits you, it will make your legs go
limp and you’ll fall down. I haven’t tried it out before, so if it works, it
will be fairly weak and fade quickly. When I cast, you will try to perform the
shield spell in time to stop my spell from connecting with you. This is
actually like a duel, but we aren’t being formal.”
 
            “A duel? We haven’t used those since the 1800s,” Tom shook his
head. “For having magic, wizards can be rather old-fashioned.”
 
            “True,” Hermione said. “It’s even customary to bow to your
opponent.”
 
            Tom immediately gave her an exaggerated bow, and she laughed. She
showed him the wand motion and repeated the proper pronunciation. Then, they
both cleared their expressions, staring silently at one another for a few
seconds before Hermione quickly struck, raising her wand and yelling the spell
simultaneously. He raised his wand and performed the spell perfectly, but a
fraction too late. His legs wobbled under him. Annoyed, he copied her spell,
sending the jinx back her way, but her shield was up instantly.
 
            “Give it a minute, and we’ll try again,” Hermione offered, knowing
he wouldn’t be satisfied until he could block her spells. She was moving at
less than half her average casting speed, and only a quarter of her force, but
she was still impressed. Tom had owned a wand for less than a week, and he was
performing spells accurately and forcefully and far beyond the normal
capabilities for his age.
 
            Tom was hit three more times before he successfully blocked her. It
was a good thing he got faster, she thought, because he was looking rather
angry by the final attempt. His protegowas solid and strong, and she was happy
to put an end to the dueling. Tom would be formidable very soon, she knew. He
wouldn’t stop until he could perform at a level he found acceptable.
 
            Hermione gathered the flowers, and watched Tom throw a jelly-legs
jinx at a daisy stalk, which immediately fell sideways.   “Feeling better?” she
asked.
 
            He didn’t quite scowl at her, but it was close. “I don’t like
feeling at a disadvantage,” he finally said, his voice low.
 
            She knew exactly how it important it was that Tom was admitting
this to her, and she thought carefully about her response. “You aren’t at a
disadvantage, Tom. How could you be? You are incredibly intelligent. The magic
you have is the strongest I’ve ever felt – and I don’t believe that’s because
we’re soul mates. In the past few weeks, you’ve mostly seen magic performed by
adults, and you can’t compare yourself to them. There’s a reason why school
lasts seven years – magic, for all the people seem to be born with it, is not
easy to focus or control.”
 
            “You know more than I do,” Tom accused. “How is that not a
disadvantage?”
 
            “Because knowledge alone won’t help you. Someone can know the words
and wand movements of a spell and still struggle with casting it,” Hermione
answered. “And I will share my knowledge with you, Tom.”
 
            He looked up at her, his blue eyes staring at her intently. “Will
you?”
 
            “Of course,” Hermione nodded, standing with the handful of colorful
flowers.
           
            Tom came closer, put his hand over hers, crushing a few of the
daisies. “You promise? Do you swear that you will never lie to me or keep
things from me?”
 
            Sensing abandonment issues several miles wide, as well as many
potential danger zones, Hermione nodded again. “Tom, we are soul mates. Our
magic is bound. What good would it serve me to try to be separate from you?”
 
            “You didn’t tell me you were scared about choosing a wand,” he
insisted, his hand warm on hers. “And I know there is more to the story about
the walnut wand.”
 
            Hermione’s heart raced, and she wondered if he could feel her pulse
through her fingers. Why did he have to be so clever? His brilliance forced her
to lie to him even more.
 
            “Was your father murdered in front of you? Your mother said he died
in a battle near Nurmengard. What is the truth? What are you keeping secret?”
Tom looked into her eyes, ready to catch any mis-step.
 
            She was being tested, Hermione knew, and much sooner than she had
accounted for. Her careful story with Narcissa had been thrown off by the
unexpected offer of Bellatrix’s wand and Hermione’s loaded reaction to it. If
Tom was this observant and suspicious at eleven, things would only become more
complicated. The real eleven year old version of Hermione might have panicked
at this moment, because, back then she truly had relied upon book knowledge,
but she wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t afraid to think on her feet and
adapt her plans to fit the situation.   The future of the magical world, maybe
the whole world, depended on her, and she wouldn’t let it down.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
 
            Tom’s anger was growing by the second. He was annoyed about the
jinx, frustrated it had taken him a while to match her speed, but that wasn’t
the true problem.   Hermione had a head start in magical studies, but he had
not a single doubt he would catch up quickly. What truly bothered him was what
she wasn’t saying. As her soul mate, Tom deserved to know her fears and
weaknesses; they might affect him, too. And, it was only fair. Hermione had
seen him in Wool’s, wearing disgusting hand-me-downs, alone and unwanted. She
should share what she was hiding.
 
            With his hand around her wrist, he could feel her magic and her
quick pulse. She was scared, nervous, but she looked directly into his eyes.
“Well?” he asked, impatient.
 
            “I’ll need my hand,” she replied, no tremor in her voice. He
released her and she set down the flowers and gave him her wand.
 
            He took it silently, feeling its magic, which was very different
from his own. Hermione unbuttoned the cuff of her shirt. What was she doing?
 
            “I’m going to show you something,” she said. “Something I have not
shown anyone except my mother.”
 
            From the placement, he wondered briefly if he would see her magical
words – his words, but then discarded the thought. She wouldn’t be upset over
his words, and she was very upset.
 
            “After my father died, but before we left France, there was an
attack on the village near our home. Mother and I were in town that day, making
preparations to leave, and when Grindelwald’s followers arrived, it was chaos,”
she was slowly rolling up her sleeve, revealing a wide bandage wrapped around
her forearm.
 
            “I was separated from my mother as people dueled in the streets,
and I went down an alley to try to find a place to hide. One of Grindelwald’s
followers saw me, and came after me. He had seen me with my mother right before
the attack, and he knew my father had been a half-blood, and had fought against
Grindelwald.   The man said I didn’t deserve magic, that I had dirty blood,
because of my father, and he did this.”
 
            She had unwound the bandage, and Tom looked down. The pale, soft
skin of her inner arm was almost completely covered by raised, angry cuts that
spelled out ‘mudblood’ in jagged, uneven letters.
 
            Tom had probably been angry at least three times a day for as long
as he could recall. His anger came easily, and it was warming feeling, a
comforting prelude to his plans for revenge on whomever had dared to cross him.
Seeing the word on Hermione’s arm was a different feeling entirely. He gripped
their wands tightly, both in one hand, to keep from roaring in anger. His magic
was rising in him, and he couldn’t stop it.
 
            There was a loud sound, like a cannon, and suddenly, they were
surrounded by a cloud of white. It took Tom a few seconds to realize that he’d
somehow blasted magic at the daisies, and the petals were falling around them
in a silent storm.
 
            “I’m not ashamed,” Hermione said defiantly, tears in her eyes. “But
the attack was very painful and frightening, and the memory of a wand like that
man’s made everything fresh for a few seconds in Ollivander’s.”
 
            “Who was he? Do you know his name? Is he still alive?” Tom asked,
his fingers reaching out and tracing the air above her wounds. Someone had
marked his soul mate. It didn’t matter how long it took; if that man were still
alive, Tom would find him. And if that man were dead, Tom would find a way to
bring him back to life so that he could kill him.
 
            Hermione shook her head, her hair wild around her face, white
petals caught in the curls. “No, we don’t know who he was, but none of
Grindelwald’s men died during the attack, so he probably is out there,
somewhere.”
 
            “Why hasn’t your mother healed it properly?” Tom’s gaze was drawn
to the cuts again, wanting to memorize every injury so that someone could
account for it later. “It looks so red; is it infected?”
 
            “No, it’s not infected in the muggle way, but the knife he used was
cursed. The wounds are full of dark magic, and they’ve resisted all the
attempts to heal them so far. Mother is working on a new salve.” She began to
fumble with the loose bandage.
 
            “Stop,” Tom ordered. He handed her the wands, and slowly pulled her
arm out straight. Carefully, he rewrapped the bandage. “Is that too tight?”
 
            Hermione shook her head, looking like she would cry.
 
            Tom rolled down her sleeve and buttoned the cuff. “Does it hurt?”
 
            “Always,” Hermione said simply, one tear finally escaping down her
cheek. She took a deep breath and straightened, wiping her face. “But I won’t
give any of those prejudiced bastards the satisfaction of knowing that.”
 
            He regarded her, unsure of what to say. He was so very angry still,
but also proud – proud of her strength.
 
            She held out his wand, and he took it. “I didn’t mean to make you
feel like you weren’t a worthy confidant,” she said. “It is just painful and it
makes me feel very vulnerable.”
 
            “You don’t need to feel that way,” Tom brushed a petal from her
hair. “I’ve told you twice already that I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
 
            She smiled at him, and he was relieved. Her magic was relaxing,
going back to a happier state. “It’s a two-way street, Tom. I won’t let anyone
hurt you, either, and I will always keep you from having any disadvantage.”
 
            “How will you do that?” He raised an eyebrow.
 
Her expression was playful now. “Haven’t I already been teaching you? I bet no
one else begins first year knowing what we do.”
 
Tom grabbed her free hand and squeezed it. “Let’s go to the library and
continue to make sure they will never catch up.”
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
           
 
            Narcissa was thoroughly enjoying herself. Other eyes might glaze
over at the prospect of making the same potions and ointments in batches of one
hundred or folding and magically sterilizing dozens of bandages and linens, but
Narcissa found the repetitive actions peaceful. Madam Selwyn apparently felt
the same way, because though they occasionally shared a story or discussed a
work-related topic, they mostly worked in a peaceful quiet.
 
            When Narcissa commented on the peaceful atmosphere, Electra
laughed. “Oh, it won’t be this way much longer. Mark my words, on our first
night, we’ll have at least five crying first years, a few second or third year
girls having their first menstruation, six or seven assorted headaches, ten to
fifteen stomach aches from eating too much at the welcoming feast, and a small
group of fifth through seventh years who want to ask about contraceptive
potions but who are too shy to say the actual words.”
 
            Laughing, Narcissa began to ladle the aforementioned calming
draught into several individual dose sized flasks. “That’s quite a list for a
first day.”
 
            “The first two weeks are the worst, then things quiet down until
Quidditch practices begin. Then, in December, Professor Merrythought begins the
dueling club, and things get horrible all over again.” Electra griped, a sour
expression on her face.
 
            “Did I hear my name?” A voice called from the door, and Narcissa
glanced up to see a woman walking into the small lab that was exclusively
devoted to the Hospital Wing.
 
            Professor Galatea Merrythought was dressed in muggle men’s clothing
from head to toe, and it suited her immensely. She was a tall woman, with a
boyish figure, wide shoulders, narrow hips, and no bust to speak of. Her top
half was covered in a tailored tweed suit jacket with matching waistcoat, crisp
white shirt, and a burgundy ascot at her throat, while her bottom half was clad
in form-fitting trousers that disappeared into brown leather boots polished to
a shiny gleam. She was tapping her wand against her side as if it were a riding
crop. Narcissa wondered idly if that were safe, but surely the DADA professor
would know.
 
            Electra’s facial expression did not improve at the sight of her
colleague. “Ah, Professor Merrythought, how good to see you.”
 
            The Head of Ravenclaw House simply grinned at her, despite the
implication that Electra was not at all pleased. “And you, Madam Selwyn, as
always.”
 
            “Can I assist you?” Electra pursed her lips. “Lady Bonneau and I
are very busy with preparations for Monday, so…” she trailed off.
 
            “Actually, I came to introduce myself to Lady Bonneau,” Galatea
stepped across the room and came to stand directly in front of Narcissa. She
held out her hand across the cooling cauldron of calming draught.
 
            Up close, Narcissa could see that Galatea Merrythought was about
ten or fifteen years older than she was, strong-featured, with large, wide-set
hazel eyes, a long nose, and a wide mouth that was a bit crooked when she
smiled. Her auburn hair was cropped closely at the nape of her neck, leaving
only short curls to cluster around her face. Her eyes and mouth had the
beginnings of laugh lines. She was not beautiful, but she was very alive, and
her vitality was attractive. Narcissa wanted to know this woman.
 
            She put down the ladle and flask and wiped her hands on her apron,
then extended her arm to shake the professor’s hand. Narcissa noticed a shift
in her magic, like a log falling in a fire and sending up a shower of sparks.  
Then, their hands were touching, and Narcissa nearly cried out. This woman’s
magic was flowing up her arm, caressing her own magic and that could only mean…
 
            Galatea recovered first. “I simply had to meet the woman our old
codger of a Headmaster refers to as a ‘lovely lady’. I didn’t realize you were
actually an aristocrat.”
 
            “Only by marriage,” Narcissa replied automatically, her pulse
pounding.
 
            The professor’s smile wilted. “Oh? You are married?”
 
            “Widowed,” she corrected.
 
            Galatea’s smile was there again, though more subtle this time.
“That’s g-….I mean, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
 
            Electra was watching the two with a confused expression on her
face. “Well, Professor, you’ve met her now, and we still have work to do,” she
gave a hard smile. “I’m sure you do, too.”
 
            Shrugging off her jacket, Galatea shook her head. “No, I haven’t a
thing to do. I suppose in the spirit of camaraderie, I’ll have to stay and help
you bottle medicines.”
 
            “Fine,” Electra managed to bite out, her annoyance clear as day.
“You can sterilize the flasks in the cabinet for Lady Bonneau. I need to go
speak to Professor Beery about the weeping cherry bark he promised me for the
headache tonic.” The matron was gone with a swish of her long, full skirts, her
heels clicking sharply against the stone floor.
 
            “Electra doesn’t like me,” Galatea sighed, opening the cabinet to
the left of Narcissa and using her wand to float the bottles out onto an open
counter space.
 
            “That much is obvious,” Narcissa replied, still trying to calm
herself. Perhaps she should take a sip from the ladle? “Why doesn’t she like
you?”
 
            “Oh, a dozen reasons,” Galatea replied cheerfully, as if discussing
a thoroughly pleasant topic. “She thinks I’m too rough with the students, she
thinks I’m too blunt, she thinks I encourage Silvanus to do stupid things, she
thinks I’m too wild, and, even though she won’t ever admit it out loud, she
thinks muggleborns shouldn’t be professors.”
 
            “Really?” Narcissa had wondered how soon discussions of blood
status would find her at Hogwarts. “Electra doesn’t seem-”
 
            “You’re pureblood, aren’t you?” Galatea interrupted, her brows
knitting.
 
            “Yes, though I don’t see,” Narcissa had never had to defend her
blood status, and Galatea’s tone had turned a bit less friendly.
 
            Galatea interrupted her again. “Oh, it has a lot to do with the
situation. You know what just happened as well as I do. I’m muggleborn, and I
know, so I’ve no doubt you’re aware.”
 
            Narcissa didn’t trust herself to speak, so she simply nodded.
 
            “So, we are soul mates, and I don’t know if we could be more
different,” Galatea sighed and waved her wand over the flasks. “I mean, you are
beautiful. Very, very, very beautiful, but how would this even work?”
 
            Narcissa flushed as she spooned out the potion. She wanted to turn
around and hold the other woman’s hand again, but Narcissa Black Malfoy was
nothing if not disciplined. “I’ve no idea. I never thought I would meet my soul
mate.”
 
            Galatea gave a harsh laugh. “No, the purebloods don’t give their
daughters much choice when it comes to marriage. How old were you when you were
married off?
 
            “I was eighteen,” she replied, “but I went willingly, I had a
loving marriage, and I wouldn’t trade my daughter for anything.” Draco’s face
flashed through her mind, but she pushed it away.
 
            Turning, she faced the older woman with her chin lifted proudly. “I
do not apologize for my blood status, nor do I expect you to.”
 
            “You are such a surprise,” Galatea murmured, stepping so close that
Narcissa could smell a hint of cedarwood and clove on the professor’s clothing.
 
            “So are you,” Narcissa answered honestly, barely breathing.
Everything was too close, too intense. She had too much to do to deal with a
soul mate. Hermione and Tom were her priorities. She would not be swept away by
some strange combination of magic and lust. Because there was definitely
attraction. Narcissa had never touched another woman romantically, but she
wanted to run her hands all over Galatea.
 
            Galatea chose that moment to prove her blunt and wild nature by
leaning down the four-inch difference in their heights and pressing her lips to
Narcissa’s. Galatea’s lips were warm and smooth and dry, and Narcissa sighed
into her mouth, her own lips opening slightly, their breath mingling. They
stayed that way for a long moment, sharing a rather chaste kiss, until Galatea
finally ran her tongue over Narcissa’s lower lip, and then they were kissing in
earnest, their arms wrapped around one another’s waist, their tongues, teeth,
and lips out of control.
 
            Narcissa couldn’t think. She hadn’t kissed anyone in her life
except Lucius. He had been a very good kisser, and a passionate lover. She
wouldn’t have imagined she could experience a better kiss, but Galatea was. The
kiss wasn’t simply passionate, it was engulfing, and that made it dangerous.
 
            With a deep breath and a gathering of will, Narcissa pushed away
and straightened her hair. She turned back to her task, pouring the potion with
a trembling hand.
 
            “Well,” Galatea’s mouth touching Narcissa’s ear as she spoke
softly, “Wasn’t that something? I think we’ll get along just fine after all.”
 
            Narcissa’s knees felt weak, but she locked them and didn’t respond.
 
 
            Galatea ran a finger down the back of Narcissa’s dress, tracing the
line of her spine. It felt like fire, like Galatea was touching her naked body
in a much more intimate place than her spine. “Can we have dinner in my
quarters? I would very much like to talk to you in a more private setting about
all of this.”
 
            Narcissa waved her wand and levitated the flasks, stepping toward
the cabinet on the other side of the room. She needed space. “Yes, we can have
dinner, but not tonight. My daughter and my ward are staying with me until the
school year officially begins, and I need to be with them.”
 
            “Fine,” Galatea’s tone was exaggeratedly gracious. “What about
Monday night?”
 
            “Electra said that the first night of the term is very busy here,”
Narcissa didn’t look at the other woman while she finished putting the bottles
away and returned to clean out the cauldron with a few strong spells to avoid
cross-contamination with any other medicines. “She’ll probably need me.”
 
            Galatea was close again, and with a swift, non-verbal spell, she
had cleaned the cauldron to a spotless state. Narcissa stared down at it, but
Galatea gently tipped up her chin. “I’m pretty sure we need each other – that’s
what the whole soul mate bond is about – strengthening and complimenting one
another. How about Tuesday?”
 
            “Tuesday will be fine, though if I have to work, you must
understand,” Narcissa finally answered, her jaw tingling from where Galatea’s
fingers had caressed the skin there.
 
            “Excellent! It’s a date,” she grinned, a wide, infectious, lopsided
smile that had Narcissa’s mouth twitching at the corners. Galatea leaned down
and dropped a brief kiss on the corner of Narcissa’s tiny smile. “That’s my
girl. I’d better head over to my office before we scandalize Electra by making
mad, passionate love in the Hospital Wing potion lab.”
 
            Narcissa had no reply to that, but she couldn’t stop herself from
sighing softly as Galatea grabbed her jacket, threw a wink at her over her
shoulder and left whistling a jaunty tune, her slim hips swaying slightly. Once
she was out of sight, Narcissa groaned and gently beat her head against the
closest medicine cabinet. How in the world was she going to deal with this?
Galatea Merrythought was a complication that she didn’t need, but that she
couldn’t deny she wanted
***** The Sorting Hat, aka Troublemaker *****
Chapter Summary
     A beautiful night, a boat ride, a candle-filled hall...what could go
     wrong? Ask the hat.
Chapter Notes
     I changed the ages in the previous chapters - if someone sees a stray
     one, let me know. I also found out that my creature of choice wasn't
     around in 1938, but I'm keeping that for now until I can come up with
     a better replacement.
     This chapter introduces some relatives of familiar characters, and
     though I believe that most ancestors are their own people with
     distinct personalities, I love Luna soooooo much that I had to make
     an ancestor with her qualities. She's just so fun to write!
     Our poor possessive Tom is in for a rude awakening...
     love to you all!
         
 
          Hogwarts by night was stunning, and even Tom Riddle could see its
beauty. Narcissa had brought them to the Hogwarts train station just as the
children were disembarking so that he and Hermione could take the traditional
first year boat ride across the lake.   Though Tom didn’t care about tradition,
Hermione had seemed excited, and now that he saw the outline of the castle,
with its thousands of glowing lights, silhouetted against the starry sky, Tom
appreciated the grandeur, and was pleased to be part of it.
 
            Thankfully, the incessant chattering at the train station had died
away on the lake, and when they disembarked and walked up to the school, the
other children were mostly silent, staring with wide eyes at the building
looming over them. Tom and Hermione had been standing side by side, but then
the prefects were greeted by Professor Dumbledore, and they began arranging the
students in alphabetical order by last name. She was now far ahead of him, only
three students back from the beginning of the line, while he was only five away
from the end.
 
            Marguerite Rosier was directly behind him, her mood better than Tom
had ever seen over the summer. “Hello, Tom,” she even gave an attempt at a
smile. “Are you ready to be sorted into the glorious House of Slytherin?”
 
            Though Tom did not like Marguerite, he was on his best behavior at
the moment. He had learned at muggle school that being charming to classmates
and teachers was a good policy, and as long as no one crossed him, that was how
he would proceed.
 
            “Yes,” he answered simply.
 
            “I’m sure I’ll be Slytherin as well,” a small but firm voice said
from behind Marguerite. A boy of roughly Tom’s size and build, stepped into
sight, and held out his hand. “I’m Jacob Selwyn.”
 
            Tom shook his hand, because that was the polite thing to do. “Tom
Riddle.”
 
            “Oh!” the boy smiled. “You’re the boy who helped my aunt over the
summer.”
 
            Tom nodded. It was no stretch to see the family resemblance between
Jacob and the matron of the hospital wing, even without the same last names.
They both had pale skin, dark hair and dark eyes, and pointed chins. Aware that
he didn’t want to get a reputation as a braggart (because Tom earned all his
praise), he added, “It really was my guardian, Lady Bonneau, who did most of
the helping. Hermione and I simply got some medicine and brought it back.”
 
            Jacob shook his head. “My aunt wrote to my father that the two of
you performed magic in the school, without wands.”
 
            Marguerite was interested now. “What kind of magic did you do?”
 
            “We used accio to summon a ghost for directions,” Tom replied in a
bored tone. After several weeks of reading about magic, and this last week of
practicing magic with Hermione, their small use of a simple spell back in June
didn’t seem terribly impressive to him.
            “Without a wand? Really?” Marguerite’s head tilted and her eyes
narrowed in suspicion. “That sounds -”
 
            But Tom was saved from having to show Marguerite just how much he
could do without a wand by movement in the line. He turned and followed the
students in front of him. They took the most direct route to the Great Hall,
and though Tom had seen it several times over the last week when he and the
Bonneau ladies ate informal meals with whichever staff members showed up, the
room looked much different now.
 
            The enchanted ceiling was free of any clouds, and studded with
twinkling stars. Giant candelabras floated over the tables, providing soft yet
adequate light. The four tables, so empty over the summer, were filled with
students and the air was filled with the hum of multiple conversations. The
students quieted as the first-years filed in to the center of the room, in the
space between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables. Looking to the end of the
room, Tom saw the staff table, where Narcissa was seated beside another woman
who put him in the mind of the photographs in the papers of that American
aviatrix who had vanished at sea trying to fly across the world.
 
            Narcissa smiled at him, and he returned her smile. The other woman
whispered something to her and Narcissa looked down. Who was that woman? She
seemed awfully familiar with his guardian. He refused to fidget, because that
was something children did, and he was above that, but he was starting to get
annoyed. He wanted to get the sorting sorted, have dinner with Hermione, and
see the Slytherin dormitories, which had been impossible to explore without a
password.
 
            Headmaster Dippet stood, wobbled slightly, then raised his wand to
his throat. His voice rang throughout the room. “Good evening Hogwarts students
and staff, and welcome to another year of study. We will begin the sorting
shortly, but first a few announcements. As an addition to our staff, Madam
Selwyn has taken a new assistant in the Hospital Wing, the Lady Bonneau, and
will be better equipped to handle the various and sundry student maladies.
Regarding safety concerns, due to last year’s end-of-term herbology prank by
the graduating Hufflepuff students, the third floor corridor is now off-limits,
and Professor Beery will be enlisting sixth and seventh year herbology honor
students to help come up with a solution for moving the seedpods. Mr. Pringle
has asked me to remind all students that fleeing from Professor Kettleburn’s
class, while understandable, is notan excuse to enter the Forbidden Forest, and
if students are found there for any reason, they will receive detention. We
have a rather large in-coming group of first years, so that will do for now.
Individual House Heads and prefects will provide any house-specific information
after dinner.”
 
            He nodded at Professor Dumbledore and collapsed into his chair. The
Transfiguration professor stood, brandishing his wand and neatly summoning a
wooden stool to the center of the room, followed by a ragged, black conical
hat. Tom stared. It was the opposite of what he had expected – it was shoddy
and patched, and looked like a parody of magic, not a powerful, enchanted
object.
 
            The hat moved on its own, something like a stretch, and began to
speak, telling the tale of Hogwarts and its founders. Tom stifled a yawn. He
had read all of this, with far less annoying drama and cutesy rhyme, in
Hogwarts: A History.   Finally, there was a pause, applause by the students,
and Professor Dumbledore called out, “Abbott, Tabitha.”
           
            The first student approached, a nervous girl who seemed to
disappear in her robes when she sat down. Dumbledore placed the hat on her
head, though it barely touched her before shouting, “Hufflepuff!”
 
            The table furthest to the left clapped and shouted their approval,
and the girl almost ran to their table, clearly not comfortable being the
center of attention, even for so short an amount of time.
 
            “Barnes, Richard,” Dumbledore consulted the list which floated
beside him, trailing down the floor and to the edge of the platform.
 
            A short boy stepped forward with a grim face. Tom rolled his eyes.
What were they all so scared of? The hat wasn’t going to eat them, though that
would perhaps be more amusing.
 
            The hat took a bit longer with Barnes, but still, the total time
was under ten seconds. “Gryffindor!”
 
            Dumbledore didn’t look at his list this time. He smiled at the next
student directly.   “Bonneau, Hermione.”
 
            Tom straightened, watching Hermione. She was at least thirty feet
away, but she was nervous, he knew. He reminded himself that Hermione was
different than he was, that she felt things, and given the reactions of the
rest of the students in line, being nervous seemed rather common.
 
            The hat fell almost down to her nose, obscuring the top part of her
face. It sat there, and was silent. Several seconds passed. Then, the seconds
became a full minute. Then another minute, and another.
 
            A nearby older student sitting at the Ravenclaw table pulled a
watch from her pocket, and quietly said, “I think she’s going to be a hatstall.
I wonder which houses are being deliberated.”
 
            The student beside her glanced at the watch face. “It has to be at
least five minutes to be a true hatstall.”
 
           “Well, she’s at four minutes now – I’ve never seen that.”
 
            Tom fumed, turning his gaze back to Hermione, who was biting her
lower lip quite aggressively, her teeth turning the skin around her mouth
white. He hoped that hat had enough sense to put Hermione where she belonged,
or he’d set the bloody thing on fire.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Have we met before? The hat asked as soon as it slid onto
Hermione’s head.
 
            She groaned and whispered, “Put me in Slytherin, please, and let’s
get this over with.”
 
            Oh, you are cunning, no doubt, the hat replied. And willing to lie
and manipulate to serve your purpose. Slytherin House will embrace those
qualities.
 
            Hermione wanted to protest, but it was the truth.
 
            But you are also clever, very clever. A lover of books and learning
for simply the joy of expanding your mind. You would live in the library if you
could, and write term papers for fun. That is Ravenclaw through and through.
 
            Well, at least it hadn’t suggested Gryffindor, she thought.
 
            Speaking of Gryffindor, the hat echoed cheerfully in her head, I
can’t see what you’ve done exactly, but I know it was brave. Brave beyond
compare – brave like Godric was.
 
           “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Hermione hissed. “I asked for Slytherin!”
 
            The hat ignored her, making a humming sound. There is magic in you
that is yours, but not yours. It is soul mate magic, and it is stronger than I
have felt in centuries. Do you bear words?
 
           Hermione nodded, the hat slipping a little further past her nose.
She wanted to yank it off; it was hot and stuffy, but the hat was a powerful
object, and if it knew something about her bond with Tom, she wanted to hear
it.
 
            A few seconds passed, and the hat spoke slowly, as if putting
together the pieces of a puzzle with its mind. You are such a case! You’ve made
a habit of meddling with time, and journeyed to the past to meet your soul
mate.
 
           “It wasn’t to meet him!” she whispered angrily. “That just
happened!”
 
            Fate doesn’t allow anything to ‘just happen’,the hat sounded like
it was smirking. Your actions will be critical to the future of the wizarding
world.
 
           Hermione huffed. “I know that.”
 
            You know so much, yet so little,the hat said in its usual cryptic
fashion. You want to hate and love your soul mate at the same time. You want to
save him and destroy him all in one breath. You are too strong to have your
personality subsumed to another’s. Best to give you some space to breathe, to
grow, to become the woman he won’t be able to live without.
 
           “Please,” Hermione begged, her voice a low prayer. “I need to be in
Slytherin.”
 
            Your nest doesn’t need two snakes, and a magical pairing like yours
must have balance. It would be a shame to come all this way to save the world,
then throw it all away to be a slave to a tyrant’s whims. You can’t save him by
becoming like him. Don’t be afraid to challenge him; your bond will hold, and
not only hold, but grow stronger.
 
           “Ravenclaw!” The hat yelled, triumph in its voice, and the Ravenclaw
table cheered loudly.
 
            Hermione brushed curls out of her face as the hat was lifted off.
Professor Dumbledore was smiling broadly at her, the familiar twinkle in his
eyes.
 
            “I did predict just this, Miss Bonneau,” he laughed, but caught
sight of her miserable expression and sobered. “It is for the best. Even soul
mates need some distance, especially when they’ve found one another so young.”
 
            She cast a glance back at the staff table, trying to send an
apologetic look to her mother, but Narcissa didn’t look angry, only thoughtful.
When she turned back and began to walk toward the Ravenclaw table, she tried to
avoid meeting Tom’s gaze, but the impulse was magnetic.
 
            His expression was blank, which she knew meant he was hiding
extreme anger. She thought about the hat’s words, and how she and Narcissa had
been treating Tom so carefully, trying to keep him pleased and non-lethal. The
hat was right. Saving him, keeping him from becoming a vicious, Pureblood
supremacist – that wouldn’t happen by letting him have everything he wanted.
She had told him a few days ago that their bond would never break, and now she
had to believe in her own words. Tom Riddle was furious with her, but she
wasn’t going to allow herself to care.
 
            She gave him a broad smile, which merited a look of surprise, then
of barely contained fury. Hermione turned, breaking the contact, and sat at the
place made for her at the Ravenclaw table.
 
            When she looked across the table, she almost gasped. A girl around
her age sat absently twirling her long, straight, white-blonde hair and staring
at Hermione with wide blue eyes that seemed to look right through her. She was
most definitely a grandmother or great-grandmother of Luna Lovegood.
 
            “Does that boy want to harm you?” she asked, her voice just as
dreamy and slow as Luna’s had been.
 
            In Hermione’s time, she had found Luna illogical and often
annoying, wondering frequently how the girl was sorted into Ravenclaw. Now,
though, Hermione found the mannerisms comforting and endearing, a little piece
of her time that she could embrace.
 
            “Oh, I’m sure he’s contemplating it,” Hermione answered evenly.
“But he won’t. What’s your name?”
 
            “Patience Foster,” she replied. “Bonneau is a French name. Did you
flee France? There’s terrible fighting there at present.”
 
            “Patience!” The girl of around fourteen who sat beside Hermione
admonished sharply. She had light brown hair pulled back in braids so severe
they raised the skin at her temples. Her glasses, which were curved like cat’s
eyes, were thick and sturdy, fastened with a beaded chain around her neck.
Honestly, she looked like a younger version of Madam Pince. “You are being
quite rude!”
 
            Patience looked blankly at the other girl. “Irma, I’m only asking
the questions everyone wants to know. That is a service. If Hermione doesn’t
wish to answer, she will say so.”
 
            She was Madam Pince! Hermione smoothed her robe, and tried to keep
her face from showing her shock. She wondered if the girl was as nasty now as
she would be as a librarian.
 
            “I don’t mind,” Hermione said quickly. “These are facts, and people
will learn them eventually. I have nothing to hide, but I would like to watch
the rest of the sorting.”
 
            “Yes, we need to see what your cousin is going to do to the sorting
hat,” Patience nodded sagely. “I predict violence.”
 
            Irma made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a cluck.
 
           “You have no idea,” Hermione sighed at Patience, turning to watch
the students behind her.
***** Tom Overestimates Himself and Everyone Else Underestimates Hermione *****
Chapter Summary
     OMG! Guys, idk! I drank two shots of gin and this came out! Shit hits
     the fan in the most spectacular way....I have no other way to
     summarize this chapter.
     (Oh, btw, I think in the last chapter that I described by Luna stand-
     in, Patience, as being older than Hermione, but I'm going to fix that
     because I want her to be the same age).
     Love to you all!
     ***Maybe WARNINGS for some violence to underage characters, though
     not explicitly described***
Chapter Notes
     I think the summary was the notes....sorry...two shots of gin is
     clearly my limit.
 
 
          Tom watched Hermione smile at him, then turn and sit at the table
full of cheering Ravenclaws. Her back was to him now, and her hair made a wide
halo around her head and shoulders, the curls crackling with magical energy.
The students around her were talking to her, congratulating her.
 
          As the line move forward, Tom felt her excitement and nervousness. He
was certain she could feel his anger, even though he knew his face was
perfectly calm. Before this soul mate magic, he had never had to worry about
anyone knowing something about him that he didn’t want them to know. Tom liked
to keep his things close, especially the things he valued most. Hermione was
the most valuable, and now she was going to be out of his reach for most of the
time for the next seven years.
 
          He had read several books on the school system to make sure he knew
how the school worked – the organization, the customs, the course of study. In
those books, there had been many references to the house system, and how deep
house loyalties ran in students, often for the rest of their lives.   Tom knew
that he would have some classes with her, and free time to study in the library
together, as well as the weekends, but he had grown accustomed to the last two
months of having her constantly at his side from the time he went down to
breakfast to the time he went to bed. That arrangement had pleased him, and he
was very upset that it had come to an end.
 
         When the line had moved enough that Tom was beside where Hermione was
sitting, he subtly shifted and leaned toward her. Before he could say or do
anything, she spun in her seat and faced him.
 
         “I did ask for Slytherin, Tom,” she whispered. “But the hat said I
belong here, and I won’t lie – I’m happy. I told you how I felt about the
pureblood prejudice there.”
 
          Tom stared at her with cold, angry eyes. Having possessions that
thought for themselves and talked back was a headache, he decided. The line
started to move forward, and Tom spoke, not realizing he had hissed in
parseltongue until he saw the confusion on Hermione’s face.
 
          He straightened and moved forward without translating, ignoring her
hurt expression, though he could feel disappointment tinged with sadness at the
edges of where her magic met his.   They had been within a few feet of one
another for most of the summer, and he wondered how well he would be able to
feel her magic when he was in the dungeon dormitories and she was in an airy
tower.
 
          “Tom!” Marguerite was speaking to him, her voice low but excited.
“Tom!”
 
          Annoyed, Tom turned a bit sideways in the line, but not enough to
draw attention to himself. “Yes?”
 
          Marguerite moved closer, and Tom’s angry magic flared, sending out a
small shock that hit Marguerite’s shoulder. Her hand flew up, rubbing at the
spot, but she made no sound. Pureblooded children did not often cry out when
reprimanded, and Marguerite knew a reprimand when she received one. Tom’s
obvious skill, combined with what she had just heard, was forcing her to re-
evaluate her opinions on Tom Riddle.
 
          She kept the space clear between them now, but asked quietly, “Are
you a Parselmouth?”
 
          Tom gave her a disdainful stare. “Obviously.”
 
           Jacob Selwyn nudged closer to Marguerite, staring openly at Tom over
her shoulder. “That’s a very rare talent!” he whispered. “You’ll be in
Slytherin for sure – Salazar himself was a Parselmouth!”
 
           “I know,” Tom replied, turning to keep pace with the line’s
movement. Though he would have preferred Hermione’s company and praise, the way
Marguerite had cowed before him, and the amazement in Jacob’s eyes was
improving his mood.   The sorting was proceeding at a very fast rate now, the
hat shouting pronouncements, the tables cheering. Having seen several other
students sorted, the children were approaching the stool more confidently, and
it was almost Tom’s turn.
 
            He watched the hat, and as it moved and spoke amid rips and
patches, his anger rose again. What right did a piece of talking fabric have to
separate him from his soul mate? He neededher. Tom stopped, frozen for a
second. Had he just thought that he needed her? That was impossible and
unacceptable. He didn’t need anyone.Maybe distance was not a bad idea, after
all, if he was growing weak and attached.
 
            “Riddle, Tom.” Dumbledore called, and Tom strode forward with no
hesitation. Dumbledore set the hat down, and though it stayed on the crown of
his head, Tom could hear the hat speak, inside his mind.
 
              Well, well, the other half of the pair! There’s no doubt where
you belong, is there?
 
             “Slytherin,” Tom said with satisfaction, then added accusingly,
“Why did you take her away from me?”
 
             Your little sphinx is part lion, part bird, and all independence.
If you want to possess the heart of a wild creature, you must set it free
occasionally. You don’t keep your snake in a cage, and you can’t cage her,
either. Heed my words, Tom Riddle, your soul mate will require a careful touch
if you don’t want to end up like Merlin and Morgana and Salazar and Godric.
 
             Before Tom could ask about those last words, the hat shouted
“Slytherin!” and a loud clapping and a few whistles came from the far right of
the room. Tom walked over, enjoying the applause (the first he’d had in his
life) and pondering the hat’s words. It was true he would never cage Damballa,
other than short times of transportation. Damballa needed freedom to wander and
hunt. The same went for Jeeves, the name he had bestowed on the family bird.
Last year he had read a battered Wodehouse novel he’d found in the school
library, and he rather liked the extremely competent, almost omniscient butler.
Jeeves was free to fly in the rookery, and placing such a grand bird in a cage
was not something Tom would do.
 
            He remembered his first impression of Hermione, of the hint of the
wild, deep woods about her magical core. Then, he thought of the times her
magic had flared: when they had needed to find the medicine; when she had been
faced with the walnut wand; and when they had been charged by Kettleburn’s
creature. Her defensive, protective magic was very strong, like an animal who
was afraid of being wounded. Tom felt a flash of rage as he thought of the
wounds she already had. He swallowed his anger for the moment. Let it not be
said that Tom Riddle couldn’t adapt to new knowledge. Hermione needed to be
approached like a wild creature? Fine.   Tom was excellent with taming and
controlling animals. He would slip a silken leash over her neck and keep it
long enough that she wouldn’t even notice before it was too late.
 
           The Slytherin table was full, but the students toward the closest
end had moved to make a place for all the first years to sit. There were
several students Tom recognized from the boat ride and the line, and Thaddeus
was also there. Tom sat beside him.
 
            “Excellent, Tom!” Thaddeus smiled. “I knew you’d end up here!”
 
            “Slytherin!” The hat called again, and Tom clapped with the rest of
his new house as Marguerite came over. There was barely ten seconds pause
before the hat shouted, “Slytherin!” for the third time in a row and Jacob
bounded toward them, looking extremely pleased with himself.
 
            Marguerite came to stand beside Tom and asked quietly, “May I sit?”
 
            Tom found he rather enjoyed her appropriate deference. He shrugged
as if he didn’t care and turned back to the table, where he caught the eye of a
larger boy who was looking at him.
 
            The boy, maybe a third or fourth year, with a solid build nodded at
him with an arrogant expression. “So, you’re Thad’s cousin? A half-blooded
Gaunt? I thought they were all in prison.”
 
            His wand was burning in his pocket, heating along his thigh, but
Tom knew pulling it out and hexing this Neanderthal would be a bad idea. At the
moment. “I don’t have anything to do with my Gaunt relatives,” Tom replied
coolly. “And my blood status has nothing to do with my abilities.”
 
            Immediately, silence fell around him. All the students within
earshot of Tom’s statement stared at him. He felt his magic rising, anger
causing it to crackle. Marguerite moved a few inches away, as did Thaddeus.
 
            The boy laughed at him. “See? Even your Rosier cousins know that’s
not true; they don’t even want to touch your dirty blood.”
 
            “Thad and I moved because his magic is going to strike, you idiot,”
Marguerite hissed like an angry snake. Tom was honestly surprised the girl
wasn’t a Parselmouth.
 
            Jacob nodded in wary agreement. “He’s a Parselmouth, and he can do
wandless magic.”
 
            With any angry glare at Jacob and Marguerite, the boy continued.
“Listen, I don’t need a lecture from snot-nosed first-years, and I’m not afraid
of anyone, especially a little half-blood whose Pureblood relatives are insane
old bastards rotting in Azkaban for getting caught giving muggles what they
deserve.”
 
            Tom’s eyes narrowed, and the boy began to quietly choke. The rest
of the table watched, silent, and Tom smiled broadly. He rather liked the way
Slytherin House seemed to deal with its problems without alerting any adults.
These were not the tattle-tales of Wool’s. The choking continued, and the boy’s
face turned an angry red.
 
            “Tom,” Marguerite said, her voice low, not a warning, but something
close to a polite suggestion.
 
            He released his magic, pulling it back to himself, and it embraced
him in a euphoric cloud. Few things pleased him more than punishing idiots who
had earned his wrath. The boy staggered to his feet and took a seat at the
other end of the table without a word.  
           
            “What is his name?” Tom asked.
 
            Another older boy, with dark Slavic features, turned his black eyes
toward Tom. “That was Jack Mulciber, and, as you saw, he isn’t smart enough to
recognize when strong magic is present. I’m Antonin Dolohov.”
 
            “And you are smart enough to recognize strong magic?” Tom stared
directly back at Antonin.
 
            “I am,” Dolohov nodded. “I’m also powerful enough to defend myself,
and I think I should warn you that most Slytherins believe that blood status
means something. If you want to attack everyone in your own house, you’ll find
yourself in a bad position. You might be strong, but you’re still only a first-
year, and you don’t know even a quarter of the spells the rest of us do.” His
tone was matter-of-fact, not accusatory.
 
            Tom’s blue eyes could have been carved from ice. “I don’t need
formal spells to do whatever level of damage needs to be done. My magic is
instinctual and it obeys me completely. I may be a first year, but imagine what
I’ll be doing one month from now. It would be very, very foolish for anyone, no
matter his year, to cross me,” he paused and spoke at length in Parseltongue,
his low hissing just loud enough to carry down the table. Nearly the entire
table stopped what they were doing and watched.
 
            A tall, handsome boy with pale blonde hair, light grey eyes, and
very white skin whom Tom had seen on the boat ride, was the first to have the
courage to ask, “What did you say?”
 
            Tom smiled at the level of caution and submission in the boy’s
voice. “I said that I am descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, in an
unbroken line, and it doesn’t matter if my father was a muggle, I will be the
most powerful wizard this house has seen since our founder. Anyone who cares to
test me will learn this first-hand. Ask Mulciber if my magic felt weak or
lesser when it was crushing his throat. Power will trump blood every time.”
 
            No one laughed this time, nor did anyone speak at all. The silence
stretched until there was sudden, loud applause from the rest of the room, and
food appeared in front of their faces, loading the table. The sorting had
ended, and the feast was begun. Subdued, the Slytherins began to fill their
plates, gradually relaxing and turning back to regular conversations.
 
            “Abraxas Malfoy,” the blond boy said as he took a roll from a
plate.
 
            Tom gave him a nod, inwardly wincing at the strange names these
wizarding families insisted on burdening their children with. “Tom Riddle.”
 
            The boy grinned easily, his face almost as handsome as Tom’s own.
“Yes, I’m sure all of Slytherin House knows you now.”
 
            Marguerite smirked beside him. “Jack Mulciber certainly knows it.”
 
            Thaddeus added cautiously, “Don’t hurt him too much, Tom. He’s a
really good beater. We need him for Quidditch season.”
 
            Deciding that his intimidation had gone well, Tom changed tactics.
His experiences at Wool’s had taught him that nothing kept enemies and
subordinates more off balance than the ability to switch moods instantaneously.
So, Tom laughed, treating Thaddeus’s statement like a joke.
 
            “Don’t worry, Thaddeus, Jack will fine so long as he watches his
mouth.”
 
            As expected, the other students looked at each other nervously,
unsure how to take Tom’s good mood. Finally, a girl with dark glossy hair,
intelligent brown eyes and honey colored skin said, “Vidhi Khatri. I am also
half-blood. I am glad to know that at least one person here won’t spit on me
for that.” Her words were crisp, spoken with a slight accent.
 
            Tom regarded her solemnly. She had a very serious demeanor, and he
could tell she had the potential for magical strength. “To me, magical power is
the true test of a witch or wizard, and I’d rather be surrounded with strength
than an out-dated belief system.”
 
            Abraxas, Marguerite, and Jacob fidgeted. Dolohov’s mouth was shut
firmly, as though he were struggling to keep from saying something he’d regret.
Tom decided to throw them a bone. He wanted to rule this house eventually,
after all, and he didn’t want to alienate everyone.
 
            “The Pureblood customs have done their work of protecting and
maintaining magical society thus far, for which I am grateful,” he said
smoothly, his most winning smile firmly in place. “We simply need to be
flexible enough to add to our power by allowing those with great potential to
have a place in this glorious house.”
 
            “Well, that sounds fine to me,” Thaddeus spoke between mouthfuls of
potato. “Slytherin needs more smart people so we can win this year’s House cup.
You can earn a lot of points in the classes.”
 
            “Not that you’d know,” Marguerite chided. “You probably only lose
points for forgetting your homework or opening your mouth.”
 
            Abraxas winced in sympathy for Thaddeus. “I’m glad my younger
sister isn’t here yet. She’d be saying the same things to me.”
 
            Dolohov finally spoke. “It is true that very little can be
accomplished without power,” he admitted, his face less tense.
 
            “Just so,” Tom agreed, and turned his attention to the delicious
banquet in front of him. It probably was good Hermione wasn’t here. She would
have been outraged. He smiled to himself. What Hermione didn’t know wouldn’t
hurt her.
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Hermione was thrilled with the conversation at the Ravenclaw table.
Everyone was discussing classes, professors, and books they had read over the
summer. When she mentioned Durante, two other Ravenclaws had immediately
started a discussion with her about the contents.
 
            Of course, everyone had listened to her answers to Patience while
trying to pretend they weren’t, but after she had given a brief explanation of
how she’d come to leave France, they seemed satisfied, and turned back to talk
of studies. Except Patience.
 
            “Tell me about the boy, your cousin,” she said, dipping a finger in
her potatoes instead of her fork. “He is very intense.”
 
            Hermione looked over to the Slytherin table where Tom was sitting.
She didn’t have a direct line of sight, but she could feel that Tom was angry.
This anger wasn’t the same as earlier, though. He was…using magic? Now? She
craned her neck. Patience moved to the side, creating a gap.
 
            “Someone’s angry over there,” she said in a sing-song voice.
 
            “What are you talking about?” Irma snapped. “Really, Patience,
sometimes I think your brain is stuffed with feathers.”
 
            Turning out Irma’s sharp tone, she tried to hear anything from the
Slytherin table, but it was quiet. Oddly quiet. Could he not be away from her
for twenty minutes without causing mayhem? His magic heightened, flushed with
pleasure, and then dissipated slowly. Whatever he had been doing, he was
pleased by it, but he had also stopped.
 
            She forced herself to pay attention to the dinner, but it was hard
to concentrate on food and small talk when she was concerned about Tom’s
behavior. She chatted lightly with a few other Ravenclaw first years, Josephine
Longbottom, and Felicity Fraiser, as well as answered on-going odd questions
from Patience about the Chinese zodiac, magical creatures who might or might
not live in the South Pole, and the possibility of whether, with a particularly
strong Bubble head charm, one might be able to find Atlantis. However, the meal
was over before she had eaten much of anything, and her stomach was in knots.
 
            Students were rising and forming lines to head to their
dormitories, and Hermione knew the potion was wearing off, because she didn’t
feel remotely like an eleven year old. She felt eighty, burdened with
responsibility that seemed close to breaking her back.
 
            “Darling?” Narcissa’s calming voice called to her, and she turned
to see her mother standing with Madam Selwyn and another tall woman with short
red hair and an easy, clearly genuine smile who had to be the head of
Hermione’s new house, Professor Merrythought. “Could you come here for a
moment?”
 
            Hermione left the line and approached the women. They made an
interesting visual composition – short to tall, with contrasting coloring and
clothing styles. Madam Selwyn was short, with a rounded figure, rosy cheeks,
shiny black hair, and dark eyes. Her clothes were almost an exact copy of what
Madam Pomfrey had worn – a floor-length, long-sleeved, high-necked slate blue
dress covered mostly by a heavily starched and brilliantly white apron. She
could have stepped into any muggle hospital in the 1800s, looking right in
place. Narcissa was also wearing a long dress, but hers was a darker, charcoal
grey, with only half-sleeves, a closer, more stylish cut and rounded neckline
that showed her collarbones. Her apron only started at the waist, and seemed
more part of the dress than a protective piece. A few inches taller than Madame
Selwyn, with her much paler complexion and hair, Narcissa looked like a fashion
designer’s vision of how a nurse should dress.
            Professor Merrythought was altogether different, and Hermione liked
her on sight. She was tall and rangy, dressed in the long, black professorial
robes, but they were open, falling like a coat around her rather than being her
actual outfit. The clothes she wore underneath reminded her of Professor
Lupin’s style, except well-cut and brand new. She made Hermione think of the
old movies she had used to love to watch with her father – this woman was
fiercely intelligent and independent, and not afraid to confront gender roles,
like a Katherine Hepburn or Marlene Dietrich.
 
            Merrythought immediately put out her hand. “Miss Bonneau! So glad
to have you in my house! Your mother sings your praises.”
 
            Hermione flushed. “I am happy to be a Ravenclaw, Professor
Merrythought.”
 
            “Yes, well, we weren’t sure for a bit,” Merrythought laughed. “Once
you hit six minutes, I was concerned Dippet was going to have a heart attack. I
believe that’s a new record. Did the old hat want to put you in the snakes’
nest like your mother?”
 
            Though her tone was playful, Hermione could tell Merrythought was
fishing for answers, wanting to know about any hint of potential deviousness in
her house.   “The hat considered every house except Hufflepuff,” Hermione
admitted. “The hardest choice was actually between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.”
 
            Narcissa shook her head at Hermione’s easy confession. “I should
have known you’d never be a Slytherin, dear. You’re too willing to share your
secrets.”
 
            Madam Selwyn gave Professor Merrythought a decidedly unfriendly
look. “The staff, even Heads of Houses, should guard against judging students
by their house affiliation.”
 
            Merrythought’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I don’t judge
anyone by house affiliation, Electra. I judge them by their words and actions.”
 
            “Darling,” Narcissa spoke, redirecting the conversation. “I called
you over to make both Madam Selwyn and Professor Merrythought aware of your
special need for a daily potion, and the potential side effects of the cursed
wound you are suffering from.”
 
            Hermione and Narcissa had become as close as true mother and
daughter this summer, sharing long talks at night, and by virtue of their
unique situation as time travelers who were interfering with the past, both
were acutely aware that there would be instances when one of them realized the
need for a change in plans, and the other would need to play along. “Of course,
Mother,” she replied evenly.
 
            The hall was silent now. All the other students and staff had gone,
and Narcissa carefully rolled up Hermione’s sleeve and unwrapped her bandage.
Both Madam Selwyn and Professor Merrythought gasped.
 
            Gently, Professor Merrythought touched the skin around the cuts,
taking out her wand and whispering several rapid spells that Hermione barely
caught. The air above her arm glowed red, with dark splotches of black.
 
            “The curse in this wounds is exceedingly dark,” the professor
murmured. She glanced up at Hermione with an expression both sympathetic and
outraged. “This must pain you greatly.”
 
            Hermione nodded. Madam Selwyn had also drawn her wand, and she
gripped Hermione’s arm with a cool soothing touch while performing her own
medical diagnostic spells. “What have you tried so far, Narcissa? This probably
won’t respond to much in the way of healing, but I’m sure we can figure out
some kind of pain relief.”
 
            Narcissa listed the common healing spells she had attempted, as
well as the lesser known ones. “The enchanted bandages are helping at the
moment, and they lessen the pain, as well as offer a protective barrier against
any contact, which intensifies the pain. I wanted both of you to be aware,
because the constant, low-level fight Hermione’s magic has with this dark curse
can cause her to be withdrawn and affect her mood, especially in the evenings
and mornings when she is tired. I have designed a potion that helps to elevate
her spirits throughout the day, so that she may have a more normal childhood
experience, but, of course, we would welcome any ideas you ladies might have
for a more long-term solution.”
 
            Madam Selwyn waved her wand, “Coeo.” The basic healing spell took
away a bit of the sting, and then she expertly rewrapped Hermione’s arm with
magic, the enchanted bandages strengthened by several additional spells. When
she had stepped back, Professor Merrythought circled her wand around Hermione’s
arm and tapped the bandages lightly, saying “semper tuens et servans.”
 
            “Always seeing and protecting?” Hermione asked, her Latin as good
as ever.
 
            Merrythought smiled at her quick translation. “Just a spell to
strengthen the protection offered by the bandages – you should be able to bump
your arm in your sleep or be jostled in the hall crowds without pain now.”
 
            “Thank you,” she said to both women. She glanced at the empty hall.
“Though, if that’s all, I should probably get to my dormitory.”
 
            Narcissa leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Good night,
darling.” Hermione hugged her in return, comforted by the now familiar smell of
expensive marzipan that surrounded Narcissa’s clothing and skin, wishing they
could discuss the sorting debacle, but knowing it would have to wait.
 
            “I’ll escort you, Miss Bonneau,” Professor Merrythought offered.
“Ravenclaw Tower is quite a ways from here, and the path is not a direct one.”
 
            Hermione nodded gratefully, though she was sure she could have
found her way. She didn’t mind company – it would keep her mind from wondering
what Tom was doing out of sight in the dungeons.
 
            Professor Merrythought pocketed her wand, gave a civil nod to Madam
Selwyn, and openly grinned at Narcissa. “Good night, ladies.”
 
            Watching Narcissa flush like a third year, Hermione wondered what
was happening. There was definitely a flirtatious vibe coming from the DADA
professor, and it looked like Narcissa was responding. Just when she thought
she had things figured out, the past threw another mystery her way.
 
            “Your mother is quite the lady,” Professor Merrythought said as
they walked, then laughed. “Literally.”
 
            “She is very special,” Hermione answered, then decided on
bluntness. “Are you interested in her romantically?”
 
            Professor Merrythought stopped walking and faced Hermione. Her
sharp hazel eyes regarded Hermione for several long seconds. “You sound like a
Gryffindor, but observe like a Ravenclaw. And if that hat debated Slytherin at
all, then you are triply dangerous. I doubt you miss a thing. I can’t wait to
have you in class.”
 
            “That isn’t an answer,” Hermione responded.
 
            “No, it isn’t,” Professor Merrythought resumed walking, at a more
brisk pace. “I don’t normally discuss anything remotely personal with students.
Since you are Narcissa’s daughter, and since you have had a very trying last
six months, I will say that I value your mother’s company, and leave it at
that.”
 
            Hermione shook her head. “I can’t leave it at that,” she spoke as
her seventeen year old self, ready and willing to defend Narcissa from any
possible hurt. “I don’t care the slightest that you are a woman, but my mother
has lost nearly everything in the last few months and I won’t allow anyone to
hurt her, even unintentionally.”
 
            “Good Lord!” Professor Merrythought stopped again. “I would deposit
you with those brash loudmouths of Dumbledore’s for sass if I weren’t so
entertained! So many of my Ravenclaws are quiet and introverted – you are going
to shake up the nest something fierce.”
 
             She was smiling a broad, crooked smile that was mirrored in her
bright eyes. Hermione desperately wanted to trust her – she was so likable. Her
face sobered for a moment. “I am muggleborn, Miss Bonneau, and a woman who
loves other women. I wouldn’t trade my life here for anything, but this magical
existence of mine has come at a cost –the same cost you bear on your arm. If
anyone would be hurt out of a relationship between Narcissa and myself, I think
we both know who it would be.”
             There was something in the professor’s eyes, a softness around her
mouth, whenever she said Narcissa’s name, and Hermione thought of Narcissa’s
flush. Narcissa didn’t flush. “Are you soul mates?” Hermione blurted out.
 
             Professor Merrythought threw her arms up in the air in
exasperation. “I have no words for you right now, Miss Bonneau.” She continued
to walk. “I foresee a year of headaches in store for Ravenclaw House.”
 
              Hermione hurried after her, a grin on her face. “But that’s
wonderful! Why aren’t you happier?”
 
              “I’m not discussing this with you, especially in the hallway,”
Professor Merrythought continued to practically run down the hall, her long
legs taking great strides Hermione had to rush to catch up with.
 
               “My mother needs a soul mate. She loved,” Hermione forced the
words out, ignoring a shudder at the thought of Lucius, “my father, but with
your help, I think she can heal and be truly happy.”
 
               “Not talking about this,” Professor Merrythought repeated. “And
I expect your silence on the matter.”
 
                Now it was Hermione’s turn to stop. “Of course!” she said,
mildly offended. “I would never discuss such a matter with others.”
 
               They were going up stairs now, and Professor Merrythought waited
on a landing for another staircase to float into place. “You are as much a
mystery as your mother. What are they putting in the water over there in
France?”
 
               “We only drink wine in France,” Hermione teased.
 
                The professor laughed, a deep, full laugh. “Ah, well if that is
the case, I’ll need to be checking your room for contraband every weekend.”
 
                The staircase aligned, and they continued on, the tension
between them evaporated. “You really will be a shock to the Ravenclaw system, I
expect,” Professor Merrythought said. “Intelligence combined with action is
sometimes too much for this house to handle. I know I was a bit misunderstood
as a student. Everyone wanted to throw me to the lions.”
 
                Hermione nodded. “Gryffindors are wonderful, but their study
skills are atrocious!”
 
                “Now that sounded like a true Ravenclaw!” Professor
Merrythought grinned, stopping in front of the entrance to the tower. “And just
in time.” She lifted the brass ring of the knocker that was shaped like and
eagle.
                 “There are two sisters,”the eagle spoke, “One gives birth to
the other, and she, in turn, gives birth to the first. Who are the two
sisters?”
 
                  “Day and Night,” Hermione answered promptly, then added, “Or
Life and Death, if one considers the life cycle, how decaying plants and
animals feed other plants and animals. Really, any endless cycle that is
commonly divided into two halves could be reasoned to answer the question.”
 
                  Professor Merrythought smiled. “Excellent! I’m glad to know
there’s at least one first-year who won’t be crying outside the tower all day.”
 
                 They entered the common room, where the six prefects were
leading a discussion of the rules. Hermione was immediately struck with how
quiet and orderly the Ravenclaws were, and understood what Professor
Merrythought had said. She hadn’t realized how much being a Gryffindor had
shaped her personality until she was in a setting without those qualities.
 
                  Everyone stopped talking as they entered. “Good evening, my
fellow Ravenclaws!” Professor Merrythought’s voice carried through the airy
tower. “Welcome to our new additions. This is Hermione Bonneau, and she needed
to discuss some Latin with me. Apologies for our lateness.”
 
                  At the mention of Latin, most of the students nodded, as if
consulting the House Head on a matter of Latin was a perfectly understandable
reason for being late. Hermione went over and sat on a long blue velvet sofa
beside Patience and Josephine. Professor Merrythought spoke for a few minutes,
encouraging students to come to her with any problems, and mentioning weekly
Friday evening house meetings that took place right before dinner. Hermione was
surprised again. Professor McGonagall had rarely come to the Gryffindor common
room, but it seemed that Merrythought was here frequently.
 
                 “I’ll be retiring now, but I’m never far, and Zephora,
Tamesine, Nicholas, John, and Alysander are all patient and understanding
prefects, and Rachel is our prefect and the Head Girl, so Ravenclaw tower has
many sources of wisdom for any questions or concerns. First years, I’ll be
seeing you bright and early tomorrow after breakfast for our first Defense
Against the Dark Arts class.” She smiled and left the tower.
 
                 The Head Girl stood. Rachel was a short girl with the compact
build of a gymnast and skin the color of coffee with only the barest hint of
milk. Her dark hair was braided in several rows flat against her scalp, but the
multiple strands joined at the nape of her neck and made a single braid that
trailed to her waist. “First year girls, follow me. I’ll show you to your
rooms.”
 
                 She led them to an arched doorway near the large statue of
Rowena Ravenclaw, then up a spiral stone staircase to a circular landing that
branched out into several large rooms. Rachel pulled a list out of her pocket.
“Bonneau, Foster, Fraiser, and Longbottom, this is your room. There is a
bathroom for the four of you to share adjoining your room.”
 
                 The four girls entered, and Hermione saw their trunks were at
the ends of the large, four-poster beds that were made of a dark wood and hung
with thick sapphire bed curtains, and covered with white and blue comforters.
Thick white rugs lay on the floor beside each bed, to give a warm place to step
onto in the morning. Each girl’s pajamas had been put across the bed, and
matching slippers and robes in dark blue had been placed there as well.
 
                 Hermione was exhausted, her arm throbbed, and she just wanted
to sleep. She gathered her things and went to the bathroom, quickly changing
into the nightdress, wiping her face and neck, and brushing her teeth. She
would get up early and take a long, hot shower, but for now, her new bed was
calling.
 
                 When she came back, all three of her roommates were standing
in the middle of the room, staring at her bed. Josephine and Felicity looked
about to scream, but Patience was smiling that dreamy, vacant grin.
 
                “I think your cousin sent you a message,” she said, pointing to
Hermione’s bed.
 
                 Hermione turned, and saw Damballa curled on her pillow.
Khethiwe was also there, sprawled over Damballa’s coils. She sighed. “I see.”
She went to the bed and gently ran a finger over the snake’s bright green
scales.
 
                 “That snake is terrifying,” Felicity shuddered.
 
                  “It’s a constrictor, not poisonous,” Hermione said, thinking
logic was the best tactic for a Ravenclaw crowd. “And it is my cousin’s
familiar. He wouldn’t hurt a human unless that human tried to hurt him or Tom.”
 
                  “Or you,” Patience added. “Damballa would protect you, too.”
 
                  “Probably,” Hermione nodded.
 
                  Josephine stepped a bit closer. “It is a very beautiful
color,” she was clearly trying to be nice. Hermione thought of Neville’s
sweetness with a pang of regret.
 
                 Damballa had stretched out, and now she could see that just
below his mouth, a small rolled piece of paper had been attached with a thin
string. Hermione thought the fact that Tom had sent his familiar to scare the
crap out of her roommates was a message in and of itself, but he certainly went
for the grand gestures.
 
                She unrolled the parchment. Patience was reading over her
shoulder, which Hermione should have found intrusive, but somehow found
adorable instead. The other two girls were obviously curious, but not willing
to get so close to Damballa.
                In the neat, aggressive script that matched the handwriting on
her stomach, was written, I said ‘you are still mine,’ but what I meant was
that nothing can separate us. I’ll see you at breakfast. Damballa will make
sure no one bothers you. Ever.
 
                Patience read the words out loud and petted Damballa without a
care, who allowed it graciously. “He’s a funny boy.”
 
               Josephine shook her head slowly. “I don’t know if I’d call a
possessive Parselmouth ‘funny’.”
 
              “It’s a little romantic,” Felicity argued, then glanced at
Damballa. “Is he staying the night, or are you sending him back?”
 
              “No romance!” Hermione frowned, getting out a quill and ripping a
small piece of parchment. Tom was clearly attempting to switch tactics and be
charming again. However, she was wise to him. She penned a quick reply. I agree
that different houses will not separate us, but I have my wits and a nearly
wild cat to protect me in a tower with three lovely roommates and absolutely no
threats. I will be fine, and will see you at breakfast. Good night.
 
              She rolled the parchment, attached it to Damballa’s string and
whispered softly to him. “Go back to Tom.” Even though it wasn’t Parseltongue,
the snake seemed to understand, because he slithered away at a faster speed
than Hermione would have thought possible.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Tom had settled into the surprisingly warm and rather luxurious
bedroom in the Slytherin dormitory with ease. The bed was soft and magically
warmed, as were the stone floors around the beds hung with emerald green
curtains. His room housed three other boys: Abraxas, Jacob, and Corvus Black.
All the other boys were purebloods, but they said or did nothing to indicate
they had any problem with his status as a half-blood.
             He had heard vague whispers in the common room from older students
about him, but he didn’t respond. The display at dinner had been enough for
now.
 
            He sent Damballa to Hermione, and wasn’t sure to laugh or scowl
when the snake returned before too long. Her note did make him laugh, because
he could hear the tone of her voice in her writing, and because the writing
itself, which matched the words on his arm, reminded him of their connection.  
 
            A prefect, William Bulstrode, came by a few moments later and
gruffly ordered the lights out, and Tom lay in his bed, clutching his wand,
thinking he would never fall asleep due to all the thoughts racing through his
mind.
 
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Tom woke to the sound of muffled laughter and his flesh on fire. He
sat up in the bed, only just managing to keep from screaming, and saw the
shadows of three figures in the doorway.
 
            “Learn your place, Riddle! You aren’t as powerful as you think!” A
voice which could have been any of the older boys whispered menacingly.
 
            There was more laughter, then another voice hissed, “You might have
bullied muggles, but now you’re up against real wizards now, you stupid little
git!”
 
            Tom said nothing. He couldn’t. His whole body was burning, and he
could hardly open his eyes to see if he was actually physically on fire, or if
this was simply a painful sensation. The voices retreated, though the pain
remained, Tom managed to recognize there were no real flames. If he tried to
speak, he knew he would scream, and the whole house would hear him, hear his
failure. Instead, he yelled in his mind, and he yelled for Hermione.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Hermione Bonneau might rule the day, but Hermione Granger ruled the
night. Nearly three years of constant, outright danger, and many months of
being an outlaw on the run had made her ready at a moment’s notice. When she
woke to the sound of Tom’s screams reverberating in her skull, Hermione was out
of her bed, wand in hand, and running down the stairs, out of Ravenclaw Tower
before any conscious thought had passed. Her soul mate was in danger, and she
would rescue him.
 
            Muscle memory carried her to the dungeons, and she screamed outside
of the entrance until a disheveled and sleepy perfect opened the stone wall.
She burst past him, ignoring his yells, and those Slytherins who had come to
stand in the common room. She glanced around wildly until she caught sight of
the glint of Damballa’s green scales down a dark hallway.
 
            A few small-time jinxes were thrown at her, but Hermione mindlessly
threw up a rebounding spell, and didn’t stop to see who got hit with what. She
flew down the corridor into Tom’s room, yelling for the lights, which
illuminated brightly, to the dismay of its occupants, and found Tom on his bed,
convulsing in pain.
 
            “Oh, Tom,” she whispered, all thoughts of Voldemort forgotten at
the sight of the eleven year old being tortured in front of her. He had
espoused her thoughts, no doubt, said something in defense of half-bloods, and
this was the price.
 
            She cast a strong protective boundary around his bed, sent a
patronus to Narcissa, then began to use every healing spell and counter-curse
she could remember. His teeth had bitten bloody marks into his lower lip, and
she would have thought cruciatus, but it was continuing without the caster
present, so that couldn’t be it.
 
            Knowing he was too proud to scream, she cast a muffliato, and
leaned over him. “Tom, Tom,” she stroked his face. “No one can hear you, I
promise. Tell me how it hurts. I want to help you. Please.”
 
            At her assurance, he finally let out a scream, terrible and long,
and Hermione began to cry tears of rage.   “It burns! Help me!”
 
            “I will,” she cried, as frantic as if she were in the pain herself,
casting any spell, healing spell, counter-spell, or charm that had to do with
cold or cooling. She even jinxed him with a freezing spell, and that seemed to
do more good than anything else. As it faded, she jinxed him again, holding his
hand and telling him that it would be all right, that Narcissa was on her way.
 
            Narcissa did arrive shortly thereafter, with Madam Selwyn,
Professor Slughorn, and Professor Merrythought in tow. Hermione didn’t realize
they had arrived until she saw frantic waving at the edge of the bed. No one
could speak through her muffliato or pass her boundary spell unless she lowered
them. She ended the spells, noticing the looks of shock in the staff members’
eyes, but not caring at the moment.
 
            “We have him, darling,” Narcissa murmured, as she and Madam Selwyn
approached the bed.
 
            “They cast some kind of burning curse on him,” Hermione cried, her
tears falling faster, as Tom had stopped crying out again. He wouldn’t give
them the satisfaction, she knew, and she also knew what that cost him.
 
            Professor Slughorn stood looking uncomfortable and useless, though
Professor Merrythought called out a few suggestions of counter-curses as she
tried to take Hermione by the shoulder to lead her out of the room. Hermione
shrugged out of her touch, and ran back to the common room.
 
            “Whoever did this, I will find you. Tom will find you,” she
magnified her voice with her wand, until the walls nearly shook. “And nothing
will keep you safe. The Pureblood Reign of Terror has ended. If you stand
against us, you will be sorry!”
 
            Professor Merrythought had come to her side, and was staring, her
face a war between shock, approval, and the need to do her job.   “Miss
Bonneau,” she began softly, but Hermione had spent six years in the company of
Ginny Weasley, and she cast a perfect and explosive reducto curse at the
Slytherin fireplace, watching with satisfaction as bricks and mortar and embers
went flying and the Slytherins ran for cover.
 
            A strong hand covered hers, lowering Hermione’s wand hand, and
gently taking the wand from her grip. “Go to back to bed!” Professor
Merrythought’s voice was so firm that not even Slytherins objected.   Most of
them had already scurried away.
 
            Professor Merrythought tipped up Hermione’s chin. “Well, you’ve
made a pretty mess coming to your soul mate’s defense. I hope I never have to
do something like that for your mother.”
 
            Hermione continued to cry, wanting to stop, but unable.
 
            “Can you help me clean this up?” Professor Merrythought asked
softly.
 
            Surprised, Hermione hiccupped. “Yes,” she admitted.
 
            “Then you will,” her professor answered. She handed Hermione back
the rowan wand and began to cast spells to repair the fireplace. Hermione
joined her, and it was only a few minutes before there was no evidence that the
fireplace had been reduced to rubble.
 
            “Would you like to check on him?” Professor Merrythought turned to
her.
           
            Hermione nodded dumbly.
 
            “Will you behave? This is going to be disaster as it is.” The DADA
professor pinched the bridge of her nose. “I hope you realize that you’ve as
good as declared war in this school? As a first year? On your first day?”
 
            “I don’t care!” Hermione insisted, holding up her arm. It didn’t
matter whether the wounds had occurred almost forty years in the future. The
ideas that feed the actions were the same, and they needed to be rooted out.
“I’m tired of the prejudice. I will fight it to my dying breath! No one will
tell me I’m less!”
 
            Professor Merrythought drew in a shaky breath. “On a personal
level, if things work out with your mother, and even if they don’t, I will say
right here and now, that I would be honored to call you my daughter.”
 
            Hermione gave a surprised laugh. It was not the response she had
expected, but then, Professor Merrythought was a muggleborn, and she understood
– understood in a way Narcissa never quite could.
 
            “However,” she continued, “as your professor and Head of House,”
she sighed. “I must tell you that this behavior is unacceptable,” when Hermione
tried to interrupt, Merrythought gave her a sharp look that stilled her words.
“Coming to another student’s aid is admirable, but you should have contacted
your mother and Madam Selwyn, andmyself instead of taking off on your own.”
 
            She paused, regarding Hermione critically. “You have performed
magic tonight that is beyond my wildest expectations for anystudent, let alone
a first year. Hell,” she admitted, “I would have had a hard time getting
through that barrier if you hadn’t lowered it. You are clearly a prodigy, and
Irefuse to allow you to act so much like a rash Gryffindor that you get
yourself expelled in your first twenty-four hours of school.”
 
            Hermione was silent, knowing Merrythought was speaking the truth.
There was little argument against it, now that her anger had faded somewhat.
 
            “Good,” Merrythought smiled weakly. “You’ll have to talk to
Dumbledore and Dippet, but I’ll be there, and you were acting protectively,”
she eyed the now-pristine fireplace, “except for that last bit, but we fixed
that. I’ll give you a week’s detention, and we’ll call it even.”
 
            “A week’s detention?” Hermione asked, aghast.  Somehow, the idea of
being in trouble still managed to shock her.
 
            Merrythought’s smile widened. “You diddestroy school property in a
rather spectacular fashion. I’d say that was pretty lenient.”
 
            “Did I at least hit any of the Slytherins?” Hermione grumbled.
 
            Merrythought tried to force her face into a stern expression, but
failed. “Oh, a few I expect. Let’s go check on Tom and then get you to bed.”
 
            They walked to doorway, where they were stopped by a younger,
slightly slimmer version of the Potions professor Hermione remembered from her
sixth year. “Miss Bonneau,” his eyes were gleaming at her, “that was some
rather amazing magic for a first year.”
           
            “Horace,” Merrythought sighed. “She nearly blew up the common room.
She needs no encouragement.”
 
            “Indeed?” Slughorn looked excitedly at Hermione. “Was it a
reducto?”
 
            “Tend to your students, Horace,” Merrythought snapped, and Slughorn
immediately shuffled away.
 
            Inside the dorm room, three young boys sat up in bed, wide-eyed.
Hermione easily recognized the closest boy as a Malfoy, while the second
heavily favored Madam Selwyn. The final boy was unknown, but she noted with
satisfaction that all of them looked terrified of her. Best to have made a
strong impression.
 
            “Hermione,” Narcissa looked up at her. “He’s better. We’ll move him
to the Hospital Wing in a few moments.”
 
            Madam Selwyn murmured a few more words over Tom then also
straightened. “He’s asleep for now. He’ll rest through the worst of the
effects.”
 
            “What was it?” Merrythought asked. “It reminded me of some kind of
flagrante curse.”
 
            The matron nodded. “I believe it was a weak version of that, and
Tom was lucky it was cast by someone without too much power or ability,
probably a third or fourth year at most.”
 
            Narcissa came around the bed and hugged Hermione tightly. “He’ll be
fine as soon as the curse fades. You saved him much pain, and maybe even some
permanent damage.”
 
            “Who did this?” Hermione had turned to the room, her anger rising
with her magic again.
 
            “Whoa!” Professor Merrythought grabbed her arm again, and now
Hermione was trapped on both sides, Narcissa clutching her on the other. “We
aren’t going down that road again. Dumbledore and I will do a thorough
investigation. We’ll find out who was the culprit, and, even if we can’t, I
will personally make sure Tom’s bed is warded appropriately.”
 
            Hermione twisted free, and in her anger, she barely thought as she
turned to Tom’s four-poster bed and covered it with every protective spell she
knew.
 
            “Oh, darling,” Narcissa was pulling her back, whispering in her
ear. “I’m so sorry. So little is known about the strength of a soul mate bond
like yours and Tom’s – I didn’t know you’d have so visceral a reaction, but you
must think.   You must breathe. You must come back to yourself. You can’t
continue to do this level of magic.”
 
            Slowly, Hermione’s arm stilled, and she stopped casting, letting
Narcissa hold her. Over her mother’s shoulder, she glanced at the three boys
who watched her, their mouths agape. She narrowed her eyes and they all
instantly looked away.
 
            She allowed herself to be handed from her mother back to Professor
Merrythought, who led her out of the dungeons and back to Ravenclaw Tower. At
the door, Merrythought silenced the knocker and opened the door quickly.
 
            “Get the rest you can. We’ll deal with the fallout in the morning,”
she sighed, running a hand through her short red curls. “Be aware, though, that
I am always on yourside, Hermione.”
 
            Hermione nodded, and walked slowly up to the silent tower room.
There was quiet breathing from the other occupants, and she cast a muffliato on
her own bed so that she could alternately cry and scream in peace.
 
            What had she done? Had she ruined everything? And why in the world
had she reacted so strongly? Now that she had some distance, she could see that
she how rashly she had acted, how much she had exposed and risked. The magic
done in front of the Slytherins had been mostly silent, and they probably
didn’t truly recognize the significance of her power, though they would be
certainly be shocked that she could perform non-verbal spells. But Selwyn,
Merrythought, and Slughorn surely did, those Slytherins would likely tell the
whole school the tale of the reducto explosion she’d caused.
 
Thinking of damage-control, Hemione thought that if she carefully coordinated
with Narcissa, they could probably chalk up what she’d done to a combination of
an extremely strong soul mate connection, precocious magical ability, and being
a child who had lived in an active warzone.
           
            But what she couldn’t defend to herself was how rage-filled she had
become. If she had been faced with the Slytherins who had cursed Tom, if she
had known for sure it was the culprits, she could barely imagine what she
wouldn’thave done to them in retaliation for Tom’s pain. She would have blasted
her way through all of the dungeons, dragged bodies from the rubble and
destroyed them. How was she affected in this way? Was it Voldemort’s soul
piece, somehow clinging to her and tainting her? Or was it an instinctive need
to protect the other half of her soul, no matter the cost? Hermione wasn’t sure
there was an answer that would satisfy, but since she knew that if Tom were in
danger, she would know, she allowed herself to fall into a fitful sleep.
***** Hermione Tells Tom What She Thinks *****
Chapter Summary
     Narcissa gets some comfort, Hermione tells Tom how she feels about
     his behavior, Tom continues to gain support, and Hermione gets called
     to the Headmaster's Office.
Chapter Notes
     Hope this explains things well...I wanted to make it clear that the
     adults are concerned, but not blaming Tom at the moment.
Narcissa was feeling numb. Months of careful planning, such strong initial
success, and now…now, it seemed all was falling apart around her. How foolish
she had been to think that she could rewrite history so easily, that bringing a
girl of seventeen, even one who had a strong moral center, to meet a soul mate
who had no morals would end in anything but disaster.
 
            She looked down at Tom, wiping a few beads of sweat from his small
brow. He was still a child, and now he was going to be caught in the middle of
war with himself and Hermione at the center. It might only be a school-aged
war, but it was already vicious, and after witnessing Hermione’s reaction last
night?
 
            Narcissa had heard tales from Draco, and minor snippets from Death
Eater talk about the skills of the Golden Trio. They had all written the
Weasley boy completely off, chalked Potter’s successes up to extremely good
luck, but the girl, they had agreed, was an actual threat. Narcissa had taken
that to mean that Hermione was a bright and clever witch for a seventeen year
old. What she had seen displayed in the Slytherin dormitory last night was not
the magic of seventeen year old. She was beginning to realize that Hermione not
only matched the Dark Lord in intelligence, but that she was on her way to
matching him in magical power.
 
So far, the pair had only been exposed to one another with significant age
discrepancies. The Dark Lord had been in his seventies, which was barely
middle-aged for a magical person, while Hermione had been a child, though still
a match for his wits. Now, Tom was eleven, and Hermione, though only six years
older in magical terms, was worlds older in experience, having nearly finished
school, and learned much more in practical, real-world magical experience.  
When Tom gained a few years, and was closer to Hermione’s level, Narcissa
wondered if there would be any force on the planet that could withstand their
combined wills.
 
In the meantime, even though his ability was raw and unfocused, Tom would wreck
havoc.   And Hermione, whether she agreed with him or not, would protect him,
that much was clear after this evening, and that was a terrifying thought
because there was not a single student at Hogwarts who could best her, and more
than one professor who would struggle to do so.
 
“Narcissa?” Electra had come to Tom’s bedside with a fresh bowl of mint and
aloe water. “I’ll take over for a bit. Tending to someone you care for is
especially draining. Get some rest, I will see to him and call you if anything
changes. I truly believe he will be fine now.”
 
“Thanks to Hermione’s quick thinking,” Narcissa stared down at the boy, not
moving.
 
Electra put down the bowl and took the rag from Narcissa’s hand. “Yes, your
daughter was…stunning, honestly. She is brilliant, though she doesn’t quite
have your talent for healing. Now, go to your quarters and sleep, or you won’t
be much help to anyone tomorrow.”
 
“Tomorrow,” Narcissa repeated. “Tomorrow is going to be,”
 
“Awful,” Electra supplied bluntly. “The Slytherins will be in chaos, the other
houses will hear about it, and all of that added to the normal beginning of the
year headache will make for an absolute kerfuffle beyond all comprehension.”
She raised Narcissa by her shoulders and pointed her to the door. “I know
Professor Merrythought thinks I hate muggleborns, but I don’t. I just don’t
like her. I think Slytherin House needs more half-blooded students, and even
muggleborns, eventually. But being the first outspoken half-blood in that house
is not going to be an easy road for Mr. Riddle. This probably won’t be the only
time he ends up in the hospital wing. It’s good he has your daughter to give
him friends outside of Slytherin.”
 
Narcissa nodded, but she was thinking more along the lines that they would be
seeing a lot more of Tom’s victims in the hospital wing than the boy himself.
The Dark Lord would not be caught unaware twice, no matter his age. She walked
down the hall to her quarters in a daze, having lost focus for the first time
since going back in time. Before, she had not known what would happen, but she
had deluded herself enough to feel like she was in control. That control was
gone, and she had no idea of what to do next.
“I thought you’d show up eventually,” Galatea was leaning casually against her
door, still in her robe and men’s pajamas. “How’s the boy?”
 
“He’ll be fine physically by morning,” Narcissa replied automatically. “How’s
my daughter?”
 
Galatea laughed. “After what I saw tonight, I could drop that girl into a nest
of Hungarian Horntails and feel sorry for the dragons.”
 
Narcissa made an annoyed huffing sound.
 
“She’s fine, physically, same as the boy,” Galatea soothed, moving from the
door to take both of Narcissa’s hands in her own. “You know, when we first met
and you said that you had been married, even though you were widowed, I was
jealous. I was jealous that someone else had been married to mysoul mate, and
had given her a child. But now, after having spent time with Hermione, I’m
glad. That girl is a genius, a prodigy, and she believes in equality and
humanity, and I can’t imagine a better future than a Hogwarts with her in it.
She’s going to take this place by storm.”
 
At the mention of ‘future,’ Narcissa groaned. “I need to get some sleep,
Galatea. This has been a trying evening.”
 
“Let me come in, Narcissa,” the other woman whispered in her ear. “Just let me
hold you. You know you’ll sleep better that way, whether or not you admit it.”
 
Too tired to argue, and not wanting to be alone with her thoughts, Narcissa
opened the door with a quick spell and allowed Galatea to follow her. She
didn’t pause, but headed straight to her bed, and Galatea was as good as her
word. The taller woman slid into bed behind her, pulled her close, and breathed
softly into her hair until Narcissa finally slept.
           
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
 
            Tom woke slowly to unfamiliar surroundings. He had a vague memory
of pain, then of Hermione over him, her hair and face wild, like the etching of
an avenging angel he’d seen in an old family Bible his third grade teacher had
always had on her desk, and allowed him to read.
 
Once he’d fully come to, his memories returned, he identified the room as the
Hospital Wing, and he was on his feet, jumping out of the bed before Madam
Selwyn could protest. As he ran down the hallway, he looked out the windows.
The sky was still mostly dark, though light was breaking on the horizon.
Nothing would stop him from attending his first day of classes, just as nothing
would stop him from punishing whoever had been behind the events of last night.
 
“Crystallized Pineapple,” he spoke to the dungeon wall, which promptly slid
open. No one was in the common room, and Tom went quickly to his room, quietly
got clean clothes from his trunk, grabbed his school bag with writing supplies
and textbooks, and ran back out.
 
He went down the hall until he found a regular bathroom and washed his face and
hair in the sink. He had not seen his wand, but he was not worried. Tom was
sure, with no room for doubt, that Hermione had picked it up to keep it safe,
just as he was sure Damballa had gone back to her.
 
As much as he had been angry with her yesterday, that was how much she had
redeemed herself, and more. Though he wouldn’t like to say so out loud,
Hermione had been right in everything she had said about Slytherin House, and
when he had needed her, when he had failed himself,she hadn’t failed. She had
rescued him.   Due to the pain he’d felt, which was still lingering as a vague,
uncomfortable warmth, he didn’t know exactly what she’d done, but there had
been a flurry of spells, cast faster than he could follow. She had protected
their space, he knew, and cast some kind of noise cancelling spell, allowing
him to let out the scream that he’d been holding. She had somehow lessened the
pain, and then made his skin blessedly cool. Tom had read all of the first year
textbooks, front to back, and none of what she’d done was there.
 
Narcissa and Madam Selwyn had taken over then, and Hermione was gone, but then,
only seconds later, he had heard her voice, emanating from everywhere in that
dungeon. His heart almost stopped when she swore vengeance. Even though he knew
he was magic, this world was still half a dream to him, and despite accepting
the idea of soul mates intellectually, it wasn’t until that moment, when
Hermione was screaming her rage on his behalf, that he knew in his heart that
she was truly his match.
 
After checking to make sure he was perfectly presentable, not a hair out of
place, the marks on his lips thankfully healed, he entered the Great Hall and
sat silently at the end of the Slytherin table.   He watched the sun rise, and
listened as the castle began to wake. He needed to come up with a plan, but in
the meantime, he needed to show the school that he was strong, that last night
was nothing to him.
 
The first person to come in was Hermione, as he had hoped. She was in her
uniform, her clothing neat and pressed. Her hair was pushed back from her face
by the wide black leather band he’d picked out in Diagon Alley, though her
curls were not what he’d call restrained.
 
“Tom,” she said, her voice full of affection, relief, and exasperation. “I’ve
just come from the Hospital Wing, where I had hoped to find you. Of course, I
suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you on your feet well before you should
be.”
 
He stood, walking to meet her in the middle of the hall, his arms spread as if
he owned the room. “I won’t be off them again.”
 
“It might not be that easy,” she took his wand out of her pocket and handed it
to him. “We’ve stepped into a nest of vipers itching to bite us.”
 
“Easy is boring, and it’s my birthright to control snakes” he replied, taking
the wand and sighing in pleasure as he felt his magic reconnect with it. He
tucked it into his sleeve and took her hand.
 
She looked at him in surprise. He didn’t usually initiate contact. He returned
her gaze, and smiled broadly. “Hermione, I want to thank you for last night.”
 
“I,” she stuttered, perhaps more shocked than she ever been in her life. When
he turned on the charm, she felt nearly defenseless. “I… of course, Tom. I told
you I would protect you, too. I meant it. What actually happened?”
 
Tom squeezed her hand, enjoying the fact that her touch was lessening the
lingering discomfort of the burning curse. He knew she wouldn’t like some of
what he was going to tell her, but he was certain she wouldn’t reject him
either. Last night had shown him just how strong their bond was.
 
“A fourth year insulted me at the welcoming feast,” Tom was sure to lead with
the evidence that he hadn’t been the one to start the problem. “Jack Mulciber.
He called my Gaunt relatives insane and stupid, but I didn’t really care.”
 
Hermione knew something big was coming. Tom’s jaw muscle was twitching. “What
else did he say, that you did care about?”
  
            “He said I was weak, that I had dirty blood,” Tom replied, the
words coming out in a furious hiss.
 
            She knew exactly how those words stung, especially the first time
one actually understood the hatred and prejudice behind them. “Tom, you know
that’s not true,” she soothed, then asked. “What did you do to him?”
 
            “What makes you think I did something to him?” Tom’s face was all
innocence.
 
            Hands on her hips, Hermione gave him the same expression she had
used countless times on Ron and Harry. Though Tom did not duck his head to hide
a sheepish expression, he did answer her.
 
“I choked him with my mind,” he admitted, then added in a defensive tone, “He
was an idiot, spitting prejudiced poison, and I wasn’t going to listen to it.
He needed to be taught a lesson!”
 
A thousand different alarms were going off in Hermione’s mind. This was the
heart of the problem of Tom Riddle. She and Narcissa might have swayed him to
the other end of the blood-status belief spectrum, to the side that believed in
equality and personal merit, but that didn’t mean his motives had suddenly
become pure. He still acted out of anger as well as a need to amass power and
control others, and had no problem using violence and intimidation to get his
way. He wasn’t concerned for the plight of half-bloods and muggleborns so much
as he was determined to be recognized as the best at everything as the half-
blood he was, with followers in tow to praise him.
 
How could she combat his core personality? She was no psychiatrist, but
Voldemort’s actions in the future had been symptoms of many psychological
problems – megalomania, sociopathy, and narcissism, to name a few. Some of this
was created or worsened by how he had whittled away at the piece of his soul
left in his body, and Narcissa had told her that there had been a marked
increase in both cruelty and irrational behavior when he had refashioned his
body after the final task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
 
She had difficult material to work with, and he was too smart to manipulate.
The hat had told her not to be afraid to test their bond, to challenge him, and
that seemed like her only option at the moment.
 
“I know you have always been alone, but part of that is because you choose to
hold yourself apart from others, to see yourself above them,” Hermione began.
“Simply because we have great magical potential doesn’t mean we are better, or
that our opinions or lives mean more than others, and if you believe that, then
you are embracing the same tenants of Pureblood prejudice, only with groups
moved into different roles.”
 
“We are better, Hermione,” Tom looked more amused than angry, as if he were
trying to explain a simple concept to a small child. “How can you claim that
your life isn’t a million times more valuable than an inbred pig like Jack
Mulciber’s?”
 
“I don’t have to like everyone to believe that all life is sacred,” Hermione
countered. “I won’t pretend that I won’t fight to protect you, myself, and
others, but I would never even consider choking someone just because he
insulted me!”
 
Tom drew himself up. He was a few inches taller than she was, and with the
extension of his angry magic, he seemed even larger. “Mulciber didn’t simply
insult me! He tried to invalidate my existence in Slytherin House, in the
magical world altogether. I know all about the pecking order of humanity,
magical or not. People like Mulciber see us as their subordinates at best, and
their slaves at worst, Hermione.”
 
Though his magic was swirling around them in anger, he ran his hand up her arm
with an extraordinarily gentle touch, barely touching the sleeve over her
bandage.
 
“People like Mulciber will cut and curse us to pieces if we don’t take decisive
control,” he made a repetitive motion with his index finger on her shirt as he
spoke, and Hermione realized with surprise that he was tracing a rune of
healing and protection over her wound. It was one of the runes she had shown
him several weeks ago, and her heart thudded at the thought he wanted to
protect her.
 
His hand stilled and he looked into her eyes. “If anyone else daresto spill a
drop of your blood, or harm you in any way, I will kill them.”
 
“Tom,” her eyes were wet, tears of frustration welling up. “You can’t kill
people. It is wrong. We can reform this society, bring equality for every blood
status. We can be free without resorting to violence.”
“We can be more than simply free, Hermione,” a broad smile both charming and
arrogant covered his face. “Together, we could rule this world, and bend it to
our will.”
 
She closed her eyes. He’d said it. Rule the world. At eleven. “Tom, I don’t
want to rule the world,”
 
“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want the magical world to accept and
follow your beliefs?”
 
“Changing public opinion and enacting fair laws and protections for all blood
statuses and all magical creatures isn’t the same as ruling over the magical
world.” Hermione snapped. “I don’t want to sit on a bloody throne!”
 
“I sat in the galley at a Parliament session once,” Tom said. “My teacher
brought the brightest students there, to ‘see our government at work,’ but I
saw nothing except meaningless arguments. There was no action, no work done at
all. From what I’ve read about the Ministry of Magic, it seems no better. Do
you want to wait until we’re old and grey before changes are made? Or do you
want to make our lives, and those of others you value, better now?”
 
Hermione recognized his point, but refused to concede. “Social change takes
time precisely because it isn’t a war; it isn’t violence! And if you paid any
attention in your history classes, you will know that war doesn’t solve
anything! It may deal with immediate problems, but look what is happening in
Europe right now! How do you think Hitler has won the hearts of the German
people? Because they were crushed in the first World War, and they were
impoverished and angry, and now they want revenge! How is creating a situation
like that here with the Purebloods going to give us a better society?”
 
“I find it amazing that you want to pretend power doesn’t matter when I know
you used a massive display of power last night to protect me. Why is power used
defensively fine, but power used offensively in order to pre-empt the need for
defense bad?”
 
“Because good people don’t go around attacking others!” Hermione yelled.
 
Tom smirked, “I never claimed to be good, Hermione, and as my soul mate, you
must have more than a little bad inside yourself.” He pulled at one of her
curls, his eyes unfocused for a moment, lost in memory. “You looked like the
Angel of Death over my bed last night.”
 
She thought of her rage last night, and suspected that was an accurate
description. “But,” she insisted stubbornly, “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
 
“No,” Tom laughed. “You declared war, and war has violence. If you think for
one instant that the Slytherins who attacked me and their allies won’t seek to
answer the challenge you issued last night, then you are more naïve than I
thought.”
 
Hermione groaned. He was right about that. He was right about a lot of things.
“That’s true. They will be coming for us. The Headmaster will be asking
questions, but the halls will likely be a gauntlet.”
 
She thought of the coming interviews with the staff and knew she needed to warn
him. “I know you are used to doing whatever you want without many consequences,
Tom, but you can’t be expelled from Hogwarts. I need you here with me, and if
you openly attack other students, you will be sent away. And if you try to
fight all your battles alone in the dungeons, you will get hurt. If the
professors find out that you choked Mulciber, you will be in serious trouble.
If it comes up, you need to say you didn’t intend it. Since you didn’t use a
wand, that is believable enough; anger can trigger involuntary magic,
especially in untrained wizards and witches. Lie as little as possible.
Professor Dumbledore will recognize any lies, trust me.”
 
“And what do you plan to say about youractions?” Tom asked seriously. “I was
not fully aware of what was happening last night, but I could feel your magic,
and it was out of control. It was everywhere, like its own living force, and I
am positive you did things that you should not be able to do at our age and
skill level.”
 
Hermione had spent the morning pondering this, and she had briefly talked with
Narcissa in the Hospital Wing about a plan of action. “I’m not sure,
completely,” she said slowly. “Our bond is very special, and very rare, so that
was certainly a factor in my magic out-doing itself to protect you. I also have
extremely strong and specific memory abilities. I can watch an adult perform a
spell and repeat pronunciations and wand movements perfectly, often on the
first try.   Much of what I did last night was unconscious, and I can’t claim
to understand how I did it all.”
 
She looked up at him, remembering his beautiful features contorted in pain.
“But I’m glad I did, and I’d do it again.”
 
Tom seemed mostly pleased with this response. “We will triumph, Hermione, and
then you won’t have to worry about me ever again.”
 
“Tom,” Hermione answered honestly, “I’ll always worry about you because you are
your own greatest enemy. Until you can understand that other people have
inherent value, not simply as tools or possessions, then you will always be
angry and at odds with others, no matter how many ‘problems’ we solve.”
 
He frowned at her. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point. For now, we
need to decide what we are doing in the immediate future. Students will be
arriving for breakfast any minute.”
 
She sighed, knowing she wasn’t going to change a lifetime of behavior in one
conversation. “Fine. Only two or three Slytherins were involved in the attack,
right?”
 
Tom nodded. “I believe it was Mulciber and two others, probably in his same
year. The shapes were mostly the same size.”
 
“And some of the other first years were interested in what you said?”
Hermione’s nose crinkled as if she smelled something bad. “Marguerite seemed to
hang on your every word.”
 
“Are you jealous of Marguerite, Hermione?” he laughed.
 
“No!” she snapped, and continued speaking while he kept laughing. “Your
roommates seemed concerned for you.”
 
Tom shrugged. “They were polite enough. I think they were impressed by my
magic, and they were terrified of you, so power will win them over more than
words.”
 
“Slytherins,” Hermione muttered. “The good news is that many of the students in
the other houses are half-bloods, and only a generation or two away from muggle
relatives, if that far. Add the muggleborns and the sympathetic pureblood
families like the Longbottoms, Shacklebolts, Weasleys, and Abbotts to that, and
there are plenty of students who will support and defend the stand we’ve made
in classes and hallways.”
 
He looked pleasantly surprised. “That is good news.”
 
“Tom, that isn’t carte blanche to do what you want,” she warned. “Many of those
students will support you as far as defense, but will not agree with attacking
Purebloods or taking revenge.”
 
His expression soured. “So, they all have morals, like you.”
 
“That isn’t a bad thing, Tom!” She could hear noise above them, in the halls.
“Do you remember the protego?”
 
Tom nodded, and she quickly listed three other defensive charms, grabbing his
wand hand and leading him through the motions, her palm over his knuckles, her
magic pleasantly mingling with his. It was difficult to pull away from how
‘right’ it felt to touch his hand, to move his wand with hers, as if they were
one magical source, with one conduit. “You can use any of those to block spells
cast at you, and you won’t get in trouble for them.”
 
“So, I should allow them to attack me with no consequence?” Tom’s mouth made a
grim line. “That isn’t the Slytherin way, and they will never respect me if I
simply defend with no attack.”
 
Students were in the hallway now, and Hermione gave in a bit, realism setting
in. “Fine!” She whispered. “Just don’t do anything that will cause lasting or
visible damage, and do not use your wand. Spells from your wand can be traced.
IF a small amount of revenge will keep you safe, then use it wisely.”
 
He smiled now, a beautiful smile that would have charmed any other girl to her
toes. With a flourish, he lifted her hand and bowed over it. “Of course, my
Lady.”
 
She gave him a disapproving glare, but inside, she was thinking she was never
going to be free of Tom Riddle if he continued to look at her like that.
 
“Riddle!” Abraxas Malfoy was striding toward them. He stopped several feet
short, glancing warily at Hermione.
 
“Hermione, this is Abraxas Malfoy,” Tom’s voice was all polite civility.
“Abraxas, this is my cousin, Miss Hermione Bonneau.”
 
“A pleasure, Miss Bonneau,” Abraxas bowed his head, though he seemed afraid to
get too close to either of them. “You are quite the marvel at spells.”
 
Hermione shook her head modestly. “I am simply extremely fond of my cousin, and
will do anything to keep him safe.” She let the edge of a threat enter her
voice, which caused Tom to grin and Abraxas to go whiter than he already was.
 
“Yes, that was clear,” Malfoy assured her. “I was actually coming to find Tom,
to see if he was alright after…” his voice trailed off, unsure if reminding Tom
of the curse was wise. “Jacob and Corvus on their way too, and I saw Vidhi and
Marguerite in the common room. We all support you, Tom,” he glanced at
Hermione. “And your cousin, too, of course.”
 
Her ego was thrilled to have a Malfoy shaking in front of her, and even though
she knew it was petty, Hermione gave him a hard stare, and responded, “Good.”
 
Tom looked positively enchanted with Hermione’s not-so-veiled-threats. “Yes, I
hope that everyone understands that Hermione and I have a bond that transcends
house affiliation, and any insult to her is an insult to me.”
 
“And vice versa,” Hermione said, even though she had already proven that beyond
the need for words.
 
Abraxas nodded, and Hermione caught sight of the Rosier children entering with
three other Slytherins, Tom’s two other roommates, and a girl barely larger
than Marguerite with dark hair and a grim look on her face. In contrast to
everyone else’s serious expressions, Thad gave her a small smile and wave, and,
for once, Marguerite didn’t sneer or make any snide comments.
 
“We know Mulciber was one,” she said quietly to Tom once the entire group had
come to stand in a semi-circle around him, leaving a wide space between them.
“And Thaddeus and Sebastian told me this morning Calvin Nott was out of their
room last night. Calvin’s only a second year, and more stupid than my brother.
If you scare him, I’m sure he’ll tell us who the third boy was.”
 
A tall, thin boy who was clearly having an awkward transition to his teen years
came up to them and nodded silently. Marguerite performed the role of social
secretary, to Hermione’s annoyance.
 
“Tom, this is Sebastian Lestrange, he’s a second year who rooms with my brother
and Calvin Nott,” she stated.
 
Hermione’s magic flared up briefly, the air took on a metallic charge, and
Sebastian, who had come to stand beside her, moved away quickly. Apparently,
tales of her performance in the dungeon last night had carried to all of the
Slytherins. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that this boy had no
connection to Bellatrix, who had only been a Lestrange by marriage, and that
she couldn’t hate him solely due to his last name.
 
Tom glanced at her sharply, but said nothing when she quickly shook her head
and calmed her magic. He turned to Sebastian. “We didn’t get a chance to meet
last night,” he extended his hand.
 
Everyone watched, wary, but Sebastian took Tom’s hand without hesitation. “I’m
proud to be a pureblood, and I will marry to keep my line pure and carry on my
family tradition, but Mulciber and Nott don’t have a single brain cell between
them. I would rather ally myself with power.”
 
With a gracious and diplomatic smile that everyone except Hermione probably
believed was sincere, Tom answered, “I don’t want to destroy any traditions – I
simply want to expand them. Some of these traditions were started in the middle
ages, and they need to be updated for the modern world in order to keep the
magical world strong.”
 
All of the Slytherins were nodding, as if hypnotized by Tom’s words and
Hermione was amazed. Maybe he didhave a birthright to control snakes, both
literally and figuratively.    
 
“Hermione?” Patience had come over to the group, her pale eyes, fly-away
platinum blonde hair, and vacant expression giving her an ethereal air. She
looked directly at Tom and smiled broadly, as if they were old friends.
“Damballa is very happily resting in my bottom drawer. I left it open so he can
slither out.”
 
“Thank you, Patience, Tom and I appreciate that you looked after him this
morning, don’t we, Tom?” Hermione prompted.
 
Tom nodded, giving Patience a critical stare that would have had any one of the
Slytherins running for cover. “Of course.”
 
Patience looped an arm through Hermione’s. “Come, they want to plot. Snakes
need dark spaces to relax sometimes. We should get breakfast. I’m sure they’ll
be full of surprises in our DADA class.”
 
Knowing she couldn’t control Tom, and hoping he would heed her warning,
Hermione said a polite goodbye and turned to leave with Patience. Tom caught
her other elbow, his magic buzzing on her skin. Her own magic rose to greet
his, and the mix hung in the air, thick with power. All seven Slytherins took
another step back. Patience remained on Hermione’s other arm, smiling at them
approvingly.
 
“Be careful,” he said, and because it was Tom, the words came out like an
order, but she could feel the affection behind it in his touch.
 
“I will,” she promised, and left with Patience, praying that he would use that
brilliant mind of his to avoid getting caught doing whatever he was about to
plan.
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
Things were quiet at the Ravenclaw table. Hermione answered all the questions
she was asked calmly and as logically as she could, and her housemates were
quickly satisfied with the fact that she had a strong bond with her cousin, she
was exceptionally clever and a quick learner, and she had been exposed to more
practical battle magic than an average student because she had lived in area
heavily attacked by Grindelwald’s forces. Being very intelligent themselves,
they knew it was possible for young witches and wizards to be very talented,
and not being Slytherins, they were much more inclined to take her at her word,
because she hadn’t given them any reason notto trust her.
 
 
After breakfast, when they received their schedules, she and Patience headed to
Professor Merrythought’s classroom, waiting briefly at the entrance of the
great hall for Tom and the other first-year Slytherins to join them. Hermione
wanted to keep Tom in her line of sight, to prevent any trouble she could.  
They made an odd group, she thought. Patience had linked arms with her again,
and they walked beside Tom, with the rest of the Slytherins around them like a
security detail. Fate had a funny sense of humor, she thought bitterly.
 
As expected, news of last night had spread through the whole student body, but
the details were, as usual, embellished or completely wrong. Hermione heard a
group of second-year Gryffindors arguing over whether or not she had apparated
into the dungeons, and two first-year Hufflepuffs asked her if she had really
used fiendfyre to destroy the Slytherin common room.
 
“Your legend proceeds you,” Tom said dryly as the Hufflepuffs scurried away,
disappointed that Hermione had denied the use of fiendfyre.
 
“We should compose a ballad,” Patience hummed a sample heroic-sounding tune.
“We could call it, ‘The Tale of the Lady of Light and Her Dark Prince.’”
 
Hermione nearly choked on the laughter she held back at the thunderous
expression on Tom’s face. “That’s ok, Patience, I doubt music could do me
justice,” she teased.
 
Patience nodded gravely. “True, perhaps I should make a painting? Or an
enchanted tapestry? I’d need quite a lot of thread.”
 
“A sense of self-preservation would serve you better,” Abraxas muttered off to
Hermione’s side.
 
They all fell silent as they turned the corner and joined the larger group of
Ravenclaw and Slytherin students filing into Professor Merrythought’s
classroom.
 
“Hermione?” Tom held out a chair at one of the long tables that sat four
students.
 
It was usual for students of different houses to sit with one another in
classes unless professors specifically mixed the students for projects.
However, no one said a word as Patience and Hermione sat down with Tom and
Abraxas.
 
Professor Merrythought was already in the room, at the front of the class, and
Hermione relaxed a bit. She loved learning, and it didn’t matter if she’d taken
this class long ago. Her DADA teachers had been disastrous for the most part,
so she thought she could learn quite a lot from a competent professor.
 
She took out her books and note-taking supplies, and smiled as Tom did, too. He
had the brown eagle feather quill, its golden edges shimmering in the light. As
the class began, Hermione was once again reminded of Professor Lupin. Professor
Merrythought had a split schedule for classes; for every two class periods of
traditional instruction, there would be one class period of practical spell
work, and all exams would have a spell casting component.   She also sponsored
a dueling club that began in December, and though first-years weren’t eligible
to duel, they were welcome to come and watch the older students practice.
 
After DADA class, they headed to Charms with Hufflepuff House and then
Herbology with Slytherin again. Hermione wrote copious notes in all her
classes, as usual, and managed to hold herself back to answering only every
other question, which worked out well, since Tom answered most of the others in
DADA and Herbology. Between the two of them, they might have earned enough
points for their respective houses to slightly offset the points that would be
deducted once they were called in to speak to the Headmaster.
 
As the day wore on, Hermione came to dread the inevitable meeting more and
more. Why hadn’t they been called first thing? She was in the library, working
on the first homework assignment for Charms with Josephine, Felicity, and
Patience, feeling like she must be in the calm eye of the storm when a
Hufflepuff prefect came to the table.
 
“Hermione Bonneau? Headmaster Dippet would like you to come to his office.”
 
She nodded and gathered her things, actually relieved to be finally taking care
of this problem. Whatever the punishment, she would face it, and she and
Narcissa would help Tom figure out a better way to handle the older Slytherins.
 
 
   -oOo0oOo-
 
When Hermione entered the Headmaster’s office, she thought she had an inkling
of how Harry had felt facing the Wizengamot in his fifth year. The Headmaster
was seated behind his large desk, and Professors Dumbledore, Merrythought, and
Slughorn were in chairs to either side, creating a sort of high court, with a
single, hard wooden chair in front.
 
“Miss Bonneau,” Headmaster Dippet called, and gestured to the chair. “Please
sit.”
 
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, perching on the edge of the seat. She pulled her
magic into herself as tightly as she could, to keep everything about herself in
control. She also raised her mental shields, but tried to make them appear as
natural barriers rather than consciously constructed ones.
 
“Last night was an eventful first day for several students,” Dippet murmured.
“And not the type of beginning that bodes well for the rest of the school year.
There are always minor scuffles between houses, but such an attack within a
house, and then a response from outside, well, it is more than a little
concerning.”
 
The ancient headmaster seemed out of breath from that pronouncement, and looked
to Dumbledore, who continued for him.
 
“There are many altercations in Hogwarts throughout the year, intended and
otherwise. As staff, we know that these arguments and even some of the minor
damage inflicted are necessary for the growth and development of maturity in
young magical persons. It is only by testing limits that students can learn how
serious magic is, how great an honor and responsibility it is to have magical
abilities.” Dumbledore’s voice was kind, as was his expression. Hermione
relaxed just a bit.
 
Dumbledore went on, “However, when students cross the line into seriously
harming others, the school administration has a duty to investigate, correct,
and, if necessary, punish those who are mis-using magic in dark or malicious
ways.”
 
Dippet nodded, his bushy eyebrows raised high on his bald head. “Absolutely
correct, Albus!”
 
No one had asked her a question yet, so Hermione remained silent. Dumbledore
smiled at her, and she wasn’t sure if it was quite genuine. She wanted to
believe in him, but he had concealed so much from Harry, and allowed so much
harm to come to him in service of the greater good, that it seemed foolish to
trust him completely.
 
“Miss Bonneau,” Dumbledore began. “We have interviewed everyone in Slytherin
House who was awake before or during the incidents of last night. I have
consulted with Madam Selwyn and your mother, as well as Professors Merrythought
and Slughorn. Other than damage from a reductocurse fired in the Slytherin
common room, which hurt no one, and which you subsequently repaired under the
instruction of your Head of House, you did nothing wrong last night. Indeed,
you came to the aid of a fellow student, and alerted staff members while you
attempted to counteract a very dark and painful curse.”
 
Professor Merrythought added, “I’ve already explained to our Headmaster and
Deputy Headmaster that I told you the appropriate response to learning of Tom’s
suffering would have been to inform the staff immediately instead of trying to
attend to him yourself.”
 
Hermione nodded, still unsure of where this interview was headed.    
 
“Miss Bonneau, I suspected from the first day that I met you and your cousin
that the two of you were magically linked in an extraordinarily powerful and
unique way. Your mother has informed us, privately, that you and Mr. Riddle are
soul mates, and not only that, but soul mates who are magically marked with
each other’s words,” Dumbledore shook his head in amazement. “A bond like that
will shape your life and magic profoundly, but we know very little of how the
particulars will play out. Clearly, you can sense when he is in danger, and I
am sure the reverse is true.”
 
“It will a fascinating seven years,” Professor Slughorn noted, his eyes alight
with anticipation. “I simply can’t wait.”
 
The other professors all turned to the Potions professor, who quickly looked
away. “Of course, we want to avoid problems in the future,” he muttered.
 
“Hermione will be serving detention with me for the next week for the damage in
Slytherin house,” Professor Merrythought said, giving Hermione an encouraging
crooked smile.
 
Dippet nodded approvingly, “That will do for the infraction, since she did help
repair the damage,” he glanced at Hermione, his ancient eyes seeing her more
clearly than she had given him credit for. “Which brings us to the other
concern, your level of magical ability.”
 
Slughorn sat forward, all but rubbing his hands together.
 
Professor Merrythought rolled her eyes, and said sharply, “I think we can all
agree that Miss Bonneau is a magical prodigy, at defensive abilities, if
nothing else. It is not a crime for a student to be a genius.”
 
“Of course not,” Dippet humphed, then turned to Hermione. “Your mother assures
us that you have always had strong magic, exhibiting unconscious magic even as
an infant, changing the color and shape of your toys, moving items into your
reach with levitation. It is also true that the restrictions on underage magic
are more lenient in France, and your mother freely admits that she and your
late father taught you spells of healing and protection to be used in life or
death circumstances due to the fighting near your home.”
 
Dumbledore stood and approached her. “There are many instances throughout
history of witches and wizards performing extraordinary magic while they or
their loved ones were in danger. The pull to defend a soul mate would be
irresistible, I am sure.”
 
He stroked his beard with a thoughtful look. “We would like to perform a few
basic tests of your magical skills, simply so we can be aware of whether last
night’s events were mostly unconscious, or if we need to consider moving you up
a few years of study. What do you say?”
 
Because Hermione didn’t put legilimency past Dumbledore, she looked at Dippet
instead as she replied. “I am happy to take any test.”
 
“See?” Professor Merrythought grinned. “Definitely belongs in Ravenclaw.”
 
For the next half-hour, the three professors and the Headmaster took turns
asking her questions and having her attempt to perform various spells. Not
wanting to be separated from Tom further, but also not wanting to draw
suspicion, she allowed herself to perform several protective spells at almost
her full capabilities, but kept everything else to the level she had displayed
in 1991 in her first year of Hogwarts. The professors seemed impressed with her
defensive skills and general knowledge, but relieved that she wasn’t doing
beyond NEWT level magic in other areas.
 
Dumbledore turned to Dippet after they had asked her to produce a Patronus.
Hermione knew that Narcissa had revealed this skill, as the way she had learned
about Tom’s condition, so she reluctantly cast the spell, her otter not nearly
as bright or active as it normally was.
 
“Armando, I believe we could easily move her to third or fourth year classes,
but she would suffer socially, and certainly be distressed due to further
distance from her soul mate,” he declared.
 
Professor Merrythought nodded in agreement. “She is very talented, but she is
still a child, and one who recently lost her father. Moving her out of her age
group would be a disruption, and likely isolate her.”
 
“And it would deprive us of the opportunity to have her in our classrooms for
the full seven years of schooling,” Slughorn added, as if this were the primary
concern.
 
With an indulgent smile, Dumbledore replied, “That is also true.”
 
Dippet cleared his throat for a full ten seconds, and Hermione was about to ask
if he was choking, when he finally spoke. “Miss Bonneau, I believe we are all
satisfied. You will report to Professor Merrythought to discuss detention next
week. Do you have any questions?”
 
Hermione desperately wanted to know if Tom had already been seen, and if they
had found the Slytherins who had hurt him. She wasn’t sure if asking was wise,
but her inner Gryffindor came out. “Did you find the students who cast the
burning curse on Tom?”
 
“We did,” Headmaster Dippet’s eyes were dark, and Hermione thought he must have
been very formidable at the height of his powers. “Due to the severity of the
curse, and the cowardly nature of attacking a fellow student in his sleep, all
three boys have been expelled from the school until after the Christmas break.
Their parents have been notified, and they will need to arrange for private
tutors to keep the boys current in their studies. The boys will have an
opportunity to return in the new year, but will be on a strict probation.”
 
Hermione blinked in shock. Dippet was impressing her. In her own time, she had
honestly thought students at Hogwarts got away with far too much, even when
those students happened to be Harry or Ron or herself. Dippet clearly ruled
Hogwarts with a much firmer hand, something she would keep in the forefront of
her mind, especially when she was trying to make sure Tom behaved in the halls.
 
“It is more generous than I would allow,” Professor Merrythought said quietly.
“I saw Mr. Riddle’s condition, and if those boys had been more competent, they
could have killed him.”
 
Dumbledore answered Hermione’s other question with his next statement. “Yes,
but Mr. Riddle also needs to learn to control his temper. His inadvertent magic
at the dinner table could have killed Mr. Mulciber just as easily.”
 
“Yes, but it was inadvertent,” Slughorn cut in. “The boy is a raw source of
power, like his soul mate, and we must foster such prodigious talent!”
 
Hermione kept her expression still, but she was greatly relieved to know that
Tom had taken her advice, and that he had managed to convince the professors
that his choking of Mulciber had been beyond his control. Even Dumbledore
seemed to believe it, which was important. Dumbledore’s suspicion of and
animosity toward Tom in the original timeline was not something she wanted to
recreate.
 
“Did Tom get in trouble for the accidental magic?” she kept her voice
concerned, but not accusatory.
 
Professor Dumbledore shook his head. “No, but we did have a long discussion
with him about the importance of keeping his emotions in check, and the warning
signs of when his magic may be on the verge of acting out of his control. Many
first-years have trouble with accidental magic, but those students who are
often angry have the most difficulty. Mr. Riddle would do well to find a few
hobbies that help him to decompress.”
 
“Does he fly well?” Professor Slughorn asked excitedly. “I’m always on the
watch for a new member for our Quidditch team.”
 
Hermione couldn’t hold back a smile at the thought of Tom playing Quidditch.
The first time he got hit with a bludger, he’d level the whole pitch. “I don’t
think Tom is the Quidditch type.”
 
“Pity,” Slughorn said in a dejected tone.
 
Headmaster Dippet cleared his throat again, for even longer this time. “That
concludes our discuss, I believe. Miss Bonneau, you are free to go. We will see
you in a half-hour at dinner.”
 
“Thank you, sir,” Hermione replied, nodding at all the adults and leaving the
room in a much happier mood than she had entered it.
***** Happy Birthday, Hermione! *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione has a birthday, Tom gets her a present, Narcissa gives some
     advice and receives some in return.
Chapter Notes
     Narcissa struggles a bit with her attraction to another woman. I
     wouldn't call it internalized homophobia exactly, but perhaps
     hesitation born out of a lifetime of personal repression. There
     really aren't any gay characters or even side mentions of anything
     other than heterosexual lifestyles in HP, though I love that J.K.
     Rowling made Dumbledore gay ex post facto. Given how small the
     wizarding community is, and the pureblooded (and even half-blooded)
     desire to procreate and continue the magical community, and since it
     is 1938, I thought the world would be only partially or grudgingly
     accepting, so that's how I portrayed it.
 
            Tom was a man on a mission, striding down the hall with purposeful
steps. He was alone, for the first time in nearly three weeks. After the
admittedly rough start to the school year, Tom had found equilibrium between
caution, planning, and action. The two fourth years, Jack Mulciber and Hubert
Avery, as well as the second year, Calvin Nott, were gone, sent away in shame,
and Professor Merrythought had spent a good hour placing protective spells over
his room and his bed, though he had heard her mutter that it was mostly
redundant after Hermione’s previous warding. Still, he slept lightly, and
always rose earlier and went to bed later than the other students. He wouldn’t
be caught off-guard twice.
 
            Before the three boys had left, Tom had managed to place some
terribly itching nettle powder stolen from the greenhouses all through their
packed trunks. It was juvenile, but his options were limited at the moment, and
the thought of their skin stinging with no hope of relief for at least a few
hours took the edge off his anger for a short while.
 
            No one else had said anything to Tom about his blood status, and
Tom hadn’t spoken of it, either. Classwork had become his new focus, and he
applied himself with a ferocity he usually reserved for punishing those who had
insulted him. From Herbology to Transfiguration to even Care of Magical
Creatures, Tom outperformed every student except Hermione. Every professor was
pleased with his magical and intellectual abilities, and he was cementing his
place as the rising star of Slytherin, of the whole school, with Hermione at
his side. He was biding his time, focusing on growing his skills, along with
the list of spells he could perform. When he wasn’t in class or doing homework,
he was in the library, reading every book that seemed remotely useful.
 
            He knew that many Slytherins weren’t happy with him, especially the
older siblings of some of the first years, and the boys who were sent away.
However, they were keeping their distance and their tempers for now. Sagitta
Black, the sixth year sister of Corvus, eyed him maliciously in the halls and
warned her brother loudly in the common room about being careful choosing his
‘associations’. She was already engaged to the seventh year prefect, William
Bulstrode, and he seemed to share her opinions, even if he wasn’t as vocal
about them. Morgan Nott, another sixth year, and the older sister of Calvin,
was often in the pair’s company, along with Ulfred Avery and Blake Goyle, who
were both seventh years, and she looked like she was barely restraining herself
from scratching his eyes out every time she passed him.
 
            Abraxas, Jacob, and Corvus, along with Marguerite and Sebastian,
seemed willing to ignore the older Slytherins if aligning themselves with Tom
would gain them power. As the youngest students, they grasped at anything that
would raise their status. Thaddeus simply followed them out of habit, while
Vidhi, as the other half-blood, was attracted to Tom’s ideas out of principle.
Dolohov remained neutral, taking no side. His position was the most popular
one, and most of the second through fifth years seemed content to act like
nothing had happened at all.
 
            Tom played along, not hiding his beliefs, but not shouting them
out, either – there would be plenty of time for that later. In the halls, he
found that Hermione was right about the support he had. Many students of other
houses, especially first and second years who were half-blooded or muggleborn,
greeted or nodded at him every time he passed them. It was a bit odd, honestly.
Tom was quite used to praise from adults, but kind regard and respect (not born
of fear) from his own age group was foreign to him. He found it not altogether
unpleasant.
 
            A routine was growing, along with a lull in the apparent animosity
of the pureblooded students, but Tom didn’t believe for an instant that this
was a ceasefire. It was strategic withdrawal on both sides, waiting and
watching for the perfect opportunity to strike again. Right now, though, he had
his mind on another matter.
 
            Yesterday, in the library, as Hermione and her Ravenclaw
girlfriends were leaving for dinner, he’d heard Patience say something about
Hermione’s birthday this weekend. He had not had any idea when her birthday
was, but if it was soon, he needed to talk to Narcissa immediately. Keeping
Hermione happy was important, and a strong leader made gestures of generosity.
 
            He entered the Hospital Wing and found Narcissa wrapping the hand
of a third year who was sniffling. “When Professor Kettleburn offers to let you
pet any of his creatures, decline in the future,” she murmured.
 
            The student nodded in furious agreement and shuffled away. Narcissa
smiled softly, then sight caught of Tom. “Tom! Are you alright?”
 
            “I’m fine, Aunt Narcissa,” he reassured. “I came to ask you about
Hermione’s birthday.”
 
            “She turns twelve on Saturday,” Narcissa hid her surprise that Tom
was interested. As a muggle orphan, birthdays probably hadn’t been different
than any other day for him.
 
            Tom nodded. “And may I order her a present?”
 
            Narcissa just managed to keep the shock off of her face. “Of course
you may.”
 
            Tom looked away, his face blank. “I have no money.”
 
            It was a fine line to keep from hurting his pride, Narcissa knew.
“You are a minor. Hermione has no money of her own, either. But you both are my
family and legal heirs, so my money is your money. You may order whatever gift
you please from any magical shop catalogue and charge it to the Bonneau family
account. And when I am next in Gringotts, I will arrange a small allowance for
both you and Hermione.”
 
            “Thank you, Aunt Narcissa,” he turned his face back to hers, and
rewarded her with a charming smile.
 
            Taking advantage of his good mood, Narcissa broached a more
sensitive subject. “How are things in Slytherin House?”
 
            Tom replied non-committedly, “No one is bothering me, if that’s
what you are asking.”
 
            “Don’t forget that I was a Slytherin, Tom, with many Slytherin
relatives. I know all about their tactics, and I also know that this fight is
far from over,” Narcissa sighed. “You’ve been alone for most of your life, but
you have me now, too, not just Hermione. Remember, I do have years of hard-won
knowledge that might just help you.”
 
            He considered her anew, his cool blue eyes shrewd. “What would you
do? If you were me? A half-blood speaking out in the midst of a House clinging
to outdated traditions that will eventually drag it down into madness and loss
of magic?”
 
            It almost took Narcissa’s breath away to hear how astutely he’d
diagnosed the problem, and how completely he’d rejected the pureblood belief
system in this brave new timeline she and Hermione had created. Maybe things
would work out, after all. They simply needed to guide Tom where he already
wanted to go, with minor adjustments. “I would proceed slowly, with great
caution, and make every statement deliberate. They must see you are not backing
down, and that alone will eventually anger them into making a mistake.”
 
            Tom’s eyes darkened with surprise and admiration at her blunt
speech. “And then?”
 
            “Then, you put them in their place,” she gave an elegant shrug.
Hermione would be annoyed, but Narcissa wasa Slytherin, had been raised in a
house of Slytherins, had married and given birth to Slytherins, and she
understood Tom’s motivations better than Hermione’s Gryffindor heart and
Ravenclaw brain ever could.
 
            “They won’t stop attacking you until you prove to them that you
have the power to keep them in that place. But you must be smart about this –
you cannot simply punish them. You must win them over, or you will always be
fighting. This is a war, not a skirmish.”
 
             The child who might not become the Dark Lord looked at her with
something close to affection in his eyes. “What do you think I will need to do
to win the war?”
 
             “Have patience, foremost, Tom,” Narcissa answered honestly. “This
will be the work of several years, not weeks or months. Gather friends outside
of Slytherin, and treat them well, not as lackeys. Loyalty born of fear only
lasts so long before it turns to hatred. As the other Slytherins see you
growing in power and well-supported, their willingness to stand against you
will falter.”
 
            “You could be our youngest Minister of Magic ever. You are a
brilliant young man with amazing talent. But if you allow your anger to get the
better of you and hurt others for speaking their minds, then you won’t gather
the wide base of support you will need to rise to the top of our society.”
 
            “How much power does the Minister of Magic actually have?” Tom’s
expression was thoughtful. He’d told Hermione didn’t want to go into politics,
but he was willing to reconsider.
 
            “That depends on the Minister,” Narcissa said. “Someone who is
intelligent and cunning might have nearly unlimited power to make change.”
 
             Tom Riddle was a beautiful child, and he could smile in a way that
made Narcissa’s heart ache for her own son. “I see. Thank you for your time and
advice, Aunt Narcissa.”
 
             “I am happy to advise you on any matter, Tom. I will always be
here for you.” On an insane impulse, she leaned over and kissed his forehead,
as if he had been Draco. Tears began to well in her eyes, and she blinked
rapidly to keep them at bay.
 
             Tom raised his head sharply, though he looked more confused than
angry. Had he ever been kissed, Narcissa wondered. Had Meriope Gaunt been able
to place her lips to his cheek before she died? Had any muggle woman lifted him
in her arms as an infant or toddler? After a few seconds consideration, he
gently took her hand, bowed over it, then left without another word.
 
-oOo0oOo-
            Hermione woke to excited chattering. As she sat up and opened her
eyes, she saw Khethiwe tangling herself into ribbons dangling from a small
stack of presents at the end of her bed.
            “Finally!” Felicity came over and sat near the presents. “We’ve
been dying for you to wake up so we could watch you open your gifts!”
            Josephine and Patience had come over, too, and all three girls were
crowded onto her bed now.
            “Can’t I get a shower first?” Hermione asked, thinking that she was
actually somewhere between eighteen and nineteen this morning due to the extra
months from the Time Turner, and that all she really wanted was a strong cup of
coffee
            All three roommates shook their heads. Josephine lifted a small
wooden box and handed it to Hermione.
            “I know we’ve only been friends a short time, but I hope you like
it,” the girl smiled, her sweet expression guileless. Hermione appreciated the
no-strings-attached affection from her roommates greatly. They wanted nothing
from her; they simply enjoyed her company. It was like being in Gryffindor
Tower again, except with more intellectual discussions and less exploding
Weasley brother products.
            “I’m sure I will,” Hermione opened the box and saw a large, round
pewter pin, with a raven engraved into the metal. “It’s beautiful, Josephine!”
            Josephine’s smiled widened. “It’s a pin for securing your winter
cloak. I know it will be a little while before you need to use it, but the
winds blow so strongly here, I’m sure our cloaks will be flying in our faces
during Care of Magical Creatures.”
            “I agree,” Hermione was touched by the lovely and thoughtful gift.
“Thank you,” she leaned over and hugged her.
            “Now mine,” Felicity was practically bouncing on the bed. She
pointed to an oddly-shaped package in plain brown paper, tied with twine. “My
mum sent it from Edinburgh.”
            The bag was heavy as Hermione lifted it, with an uneven weight
distribution. A few quick tugs to the string revealed two smaller paper bags,
each one white with blue stripes, and another, tall and thin paper wrapped
object. The first bag was filled with the light brown, Scottish fudge she knew
was called ‘tablet.’ The second had several pieces of ‘Edinburgh Rock’ a
roughly circular soft candy that came in various pastel shades. The third gift
was a bottle of a bright orange drink labeled ‘Iron Brew.’ Though the gifts
were small, Hermione was well aware that sugary treats were expensive in a
country rapidly heading to war, and the sugar itself was hard to come by.
            “Felicity,” Hermione hugged her as well. “Thank you, so much. I
love Scottish sweets.”
            “Really?” Felicity asked. “I wasn’t sure, since you spent so much
time in France. Isn’t everything chocolate and cream there?”
            “I’m only half-French,” Hermione laughed. “And I can’t wait to try
this drink – does it really have iron in it?”
            Felicity grinned. “They say so, but it tastes more like ginger beer
and orange cream to me. Course, everyone in my family says it tastes different
to them, so it’s a bit of mystery, really.”
            “Well, let’s try it now!” She opened the bottle with her wand, and
the four of them passed it around, commenting on the taste, and sharing the
tablet and rock candy.
            “The aftertaste does remind me of the time I had to carry my house
key in my mouth while I was gathering flowers last summer,” Patience said,
putting a large gift wrapped in bright blue, shiny paper in Hermione’s lap.
            As much as she had come to adore Patience, Hermione was half-afraid
to open the present. There was absolutely no way to know what it would be. Best
to get it done, she thought, and pulled off the paper and opened the box. She
immediately laughed so hard she almost fell off the bed.
            In the box was a large leather book that looked at least one
hundred years old. The red cover of the book was embossed in gold letters that
read, Weaving Tradition: Creating One’s Own Magical Tapestries. Beside the book
were several skeins of yarn in the traditional reds, blues, greens, and creams
of tapestries.
            “Oh, Patience!” she said when she caught her breath. “Where did you
get this book?”
            “It was my grandmother’s. She said I could have it,” Patience
answered. “She heartily approves of young women engaging in traditional
hobbies.”
            Hermione laughed again at the thought of Patience being traditional
in any way. “You do realize that if we make this, Tom will probably set it on
fire?”
            Josephine and Felicity had both heard the story of ‘The Lady of
Light and Her Dark Prince,’ from Patience, who half-sang, half-chanted the
ballad she was continuously composing, laughed even harder.
            “It’s a good thing you’re an ace at protection spells, then,”
Felicity said.
            Josephine added, her eyes crinkled with good humor, “I’d be happy
to have my mother send us a book on protecting magical artwork from damage.”
            “We haven’t even made it yet,” Hermione thought of her attempts at
magical knitting in her fourth year. “It probably won’t even be recognizable as
a picture.”
            The girls entered the Great Hall an hour later still in an
excellent mood. Breakfast on the weekends was leisurely, and many students were
still asleep, so the hall was only about a quarter full. When they entered and
sat at the Ravenclaw table, Narcissa rose from the staff table and came over.
            Reaching a hand to smooth the curls that were much more unruly
without her daily intervention, Narcissa kissed the crown of Hermione’s head.
“Happy Birthday, darling.”
            “Thank you, Mother,” Hermione replied, turning to face her.
            “Since it’s the weekend, I was thinking you could come to my
quarters for a birthday tea later this afternoon.”
            Hermione nodded, eager to have a private conversation with
Narcissa. “That sounds lovely.”
            “Excellent,” Narcissa rose again and nodded at the other girls.
“Have a good morning free with your friends.”
            “Your mother is so elegant,” Felicity sighed once Narcissa was
gone.
            Josephine nodded as she spooned oatmeal into a bowl. “She looks
like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. I’ve never seen a healer dress so
well.”
            “You must take after your father,” Patience said, reaching across
Hermione to take a piece of bacon off a platter.
            Hermione had long since giving up taking anything Patience said as
insulting – the girl’s brainwaves clearly operated at a different wavelength
than most. “I do,” she answered simply.
            A large, dark owl flew into the room and landed on the table
between Patience and Hermione. Felicity and Josephine both pulled back in
surprise.
            “This is Jeeves,” Hermione explained, giving him a bit of bacon and
taking the package he held. “Our family owl.”
            “He’s the biggest owl I’ve ever seen!” Felicity hesitantly reached
out to pet his tail feathers.
            “What did he bring?” Josephine asked.
            Hermione wondered that as well. She thought Narcissa would give her
any gift at the tea, and she didn’t think Tom even knew it was her birthday,
not that she supposed birthdays were very important to him, at least other
people’s.
            The package was light and rectangular, wrapped in iridescent silver
paper with thick, curly green ribbons. There was a card tucked firmly under the
ribbons, and Hermione opened it first.
            In memory of our first magic together. I know we can do more, and I
thought you’d be interested in these. Happy Birthday, Hermione.
                       
                                                                        Tom
           Inside were two slender leather bound books, even older than the
weaving book Patience had given her. They had no markings on the outside, but
the title pages told her they were original copies of Durante’s treatises on
wandless magic from 1723 and 1730. That Tom had known about her birthday, and
had gone to the trouble to find a gift that was not only suited to her, but
also had emotional meaning left Hermione speechless.
            He had been remarkably restrained in the past few weeks, and a
model student when in any public space. From what she heard when the Slytherins
talked in the library, the situation in the dormitory was a bit more tense, but
not outright hostile.
            She looked over to the Slytherin table, and saw him watching her,
so she rose and went over to him. Most of the older Slytherins were absent, but
Tom’s usual group surrounded him, Marguerite glued to one side and Abraxas on
the other. The Malfoy boy quickly made a space for her and she sat sideways,
facing Tom, who looked very pleased with himself.
            “Thank you for the books, Tom,” Hermione held the books, stroking
the covers.
            “They seemed the perfect gift for a girl who already knows so
much,” his smile was crafty, and Hermione wondered what he was up to. “I
believe wandless magic is untraceable?”
            Of course he wanted to learn about and practice magic with her that
would enable him to attack others without a trace.   “Yes, but it is a very
difficult type of magic, and not something that can usually be done without a
firm foundation of wand magic.”
            He leaned close and whispered softly, “I have faith in our ability
to do that which is not commonly done.”
            She had that faith too; more than that, she had the knowledge that
he was absolutely capable of extraordinary magic. “We can, I know, but we must
also pace ourselves – great power without knowledge is almost worthless.”
            Tom frowned as he considered her words. “Perhaps, but we can gain
the knowledge concurrently. What the school will not teach us, Hermione, we
must teach ourselves.”
            Hermione recognized her own thoughts, especially from her fifth
year, and nodded, hoping that she could guide him slowly. “Thank you again.”
She squeezed his hand, noticing how surprised the rest of the table was that
she touched him freely, or even at all.
            “Tomorrow in the library, then?” he grinned, not attempting to
disguise his pleasure at her agreement. He loved it when she did what he
wanted, she knew.
            “Yes,” she replied, giving him his ‘win’ for the moment. If he
wanted to meet in the library, he wouldn’t be expecting to actually practice
much magic, only to discuss theory.
            She excused herself, and went back to her Ravenclaw friends. After
they finished breakfast, they went back to the Tower and spent a relaxing
morning of listening to music, painting each other’s nails, playing gin rummy
with the muggle cards Felicity had brought, and attempting to make sense of the
magical tapestry book, which was rather vague in its directions.   Patience
insisted on trying some of the basic weaving spells using a few of Hermione’s
thin hair ribbons, and though Hermione was initially afraid her hair would be
damaged beyond repair, the result was truly lovely, leaving Hermione’s brown
locks in two thick braids, the hair interwoven with the white ribbons with the
blue diamonds.
            By the afternoon, she was in an excellent mood, even though she had
skipped her potion this morning because of the weekend and the late breakfast,
and she honestly thought it was a very nice birthday, despite the occasional
pangs of longing for her friends and family from her own time.
            She went down and through several halls to get to Narcissa’s
quarters, whistling softly as she walked. The library was on the way, and as
she passed it, she ran into Tom, who was coming out, alone.
            “Do you want to take a walk around the lake?” he asked. “I need
some light and air, I think.”
            “No wonder. I really don’t understand putting dormitories in a
dungeon,” Hermione frowned. “But I can’t, I promised Mother I’d meet her for
tea.”
            Tom was disappointed, but he didn’t scowl, which Hermione took as
progress. As she turned, he reached out and touched her braided hair. “Who did
this?”
            “Patience,” she replied. “Do you like it?”
            “It looks almost exactly how I had imagined it would,” he nodded
approvingly. “This will be good for dueling club and all the classes where
you’ll need your hair back for practical lessons, though the green ribbons
would look better against the color of your hair.”
            She laughed. “I’m not a Slytherin, Tom. Wearing green in Hogwarts
is different than wearing it out and about. House colors are taken very
seriously. Why do you think Patience chose the white and blue ribbons out of
the rainbow of colors I had?”
            Tom’s tone was almost petulant when he spoke his reply. “Green
isn’t just a Slytherin color. It’s always been my favorite color, and I like to
see it on-” he stopped himself.
            On his things,Hermione finished in her mind. “Well, my favorite
color is red, but I don’t need everything I own to be red.”
            “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “You had better get to your
tea.”
            She shook her head, surprised that he had given up so easily, and
when she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror in the entry of
Narcissa’s quarters, she knew why. That little sneak had used the
transfiguration spell she’d taught him, and he’d done it with his wand out of
sight, and nonverbally. She was slightly mollified that not all the ribbons
were green; there were also some of deep crimson woven in, the two dark
complimentary colors standing out in what she had to admit was a better
contrast to her honey colored hair than the blue and white.
            Narcissa appeared behind her and lightly touched the ribbons. “From
your expression, I take it Tom had something to do with these?”
            “He changed the colors,” Hermione sighed, and followed her mother
into the sitting area, where there was a tea service and several delicate and
delicious looking sandwiches, cakes, and biscuits. “His power at this age is
simply astounding.”
            “But he’s coming along,” Narcissa murmured. “He approached me about
a gift for your birthday, and he was very agreeable. It’s becoming easier for
him to talk to others in a more normal, less autocratic way.”
            “Yes,” Hermione agreed, thinking of interactions she’d seen between
Tom and other students.   “He still thinks he’s better than everyone else,
though.”
            Narcissa lifted the teapot and began to pour. The smell of Lady
Grey tea rose in the air. She handed a gold-rimmed china cup and saucer to
Hermione. “Darling, he isspecial, and by many common definitions, better than
most. He’s too smart not to realize he is unique, different, even in this
magical world.”
            Hermione bit the inside of her cheek in exasperation. “Yes! He’s a
bloody genius! He has intuitive magical abilities that are insanely advanced
for his age, but being better at magic, or having stronger magic doesn’t make
him a more worthy person. People are equal. Everyone’s life matters.”
            Calmly, Narcissa sipped her tea. “I agree. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t
be here. However, it is naïve to think that Tom will not rise above others,
that he will not seek out a position of power, and it is important to carefully
encourage his leadership abilities.”
            “Encourage him how?” Hermione narrowed her eyes. She knew Narcissa
was much more willing to cross the line into darker magic if it suited her
purposes.
            “Tom will eventually have to prove his power to the older
Slytherins, and to the younger ones who have put their faith in him,” Narcissa
answered. “If you can help him do so with a minimum of violence and without
getting into trouble with the Headmaster or any teacher, he will learn that
outright deadly attacks are not necessary to achieve his goals.”
            Hermione picked up a cucumber sandwich and took a vicious bite. She
chewed for a moment, then asked, “Does he even have a goal besides a vague,
insane desire to rule the world?”
            “When we spoke the other day, he seemed to warm to the idea of one
day being Minister of Magic,” Narcissa leaned forward and patted Hermione’s
knee reassuringly. “As much as we would like to plan the next seven years, we
have only a fraction of control in how they will turn out. Life is unexpected,
and Tom is a force not easily manipulated. The best we can do is offer him
support and guidance.”
            “He wants to study wandless magic,” Hermione looked down into her
almost empty cup, thinking how nice it would be if divination and reading tea
leaves actually worked. Then she might know what the right thing to do was.
            “Already?” Narcissa raised her eyebrow. “He is one surprise after
another. I expected him to be very talented, but his level is beyond my wildest
expectations.”
            “Should I do it? If he can do wandless magic, then his magic can’t
be traced, and he’s less likely to get into trouble, but it opens up the
potential for a great abuse of power.”
            “If he wants to learn, he’ll learn with or without you, and isn’t
it wiser to keep apprised of how he’s progressing?” Narcissa asked.
            Hermione absently ran a hand down the back of her braids, feeling
the silky fabric of the ribbons. “I suppose. He told me that he isn’t good. He
actually said that to me. I’m concerned about how dark he will eventually
become, the lines he will cross, and whether or not I’ll be dragged across
those same lines.”
            “You won’t be dragged anywhere,” Narcissa smiled. “You are much
stronger than you give yourself credit for, and you wouldn’t hesitate to speak
your mind on an issue that was important to you. As for Tom, well dear, we knew
that we’d never make him good, as you put it. You need to come to terms with
that. He is your soul mate, and you are meant to be together, so I have no
doubt that you can find a compromise in yourself. You simply must decide what
that compromise entails.”
            Hermione needed to change the subject. Too much thought of Tom’s
future gave her headaches. “Speaking of soul mates,” she grinned. “What of
Professor Merrythought?”
            Narcissa flushed, darker than Hermione had ever seen. “I do not
know. It is very confusing. To also find my soul mate in the past, to have that
soul mate be a woman, it is…all a bit much.”
            Hermione was glad she had skipped her potion this morning, and that
she was in her adult brain for this conversation. “My father’s sister is a
lesbian, and I was raised to see her relationship with her partner as no
different than the one my parents had, but I’ve noticed the magical world
doesn’t seem to have much to say about differences in sexuality or gender
assignments. I never saw any couples in Diagon Alley who weren’t heterosexual –
how is that even handled in the magical world?”
            “It isn’t, really,” Narcissa admitted. “Because having magical
children is so important to the pureblooded families, sexuality simply doesn’t
matter. Duty to one’s family comes first. Many pureblood spouses separate in
everything except name after they’ve produced children. And I know several
half-blooded matches who have similar arrangements.”
            “So, there is a lot of pressure to be in heterosexual
relationships, not because homosexuality is seen as bad, but mostly for the
purposes of having children?” Hermione frowned.
            “Yes,” Narcissa nodded.
            “It seems ridiculous that witches and wizards don’t just use some
type of magical artificial insemination or a gestational surrogate. Muggles
have sorted this out quite well,” she said.
            Narcissa smiled. “There are gay witches and wizards who marry and
live together, they just aren’t a very large population. The number of married
witches and wizards who engage in homosexual liaisons are much higher.”
            “But that’s so sad!” Hermione argued. “Why do they put duty before
their own happiness?”
            “We did,” Narcissa shrugged. “We came back in time and left our
lives forever out of a sense of duty to make a better future.”
            “Point taken,” Hermione said, her voice grim. “But to the world,
you’re a widow, with a child. Surely you are free to do as you please.”
            Another rosy flush covered Narcissa’s cheeks. “Yes, I am free in
that sense, but Galatea is a complication. A very serious one. I know I feel
our bond strongly, and I’m concerned it would grow to the point that she might
figure out our secret.”
            “That’s jumping far ahead,” Hermione cautioned. “I think you
deserve happiness, Narcissa, and I think you can have it with her if you let
yourself.”
            Narcissa, her cheeks still flushed, said nothing, only sipped her
tea in silence, but Hermione had the feeling would be seeing Professor
Merrythought very soon.  
***** Galatea Gets Narcissa Naked (but not like that) *****
Chapter Summary
     We learn a bit about Galatea's background, and how she feels about
     the very reserved Narcissa. Poor Narcissa has trouble processing all
     her feelings.
Chapter Notes
     So, there's no Hermione or Tom in this chapter - I got sidetracked by
     Galatea and Narcissa - I'm falling in love with those two. I based
     Merrythought's age on the knowledge that she would need to have a
     certain level of schooling and apprenticeship to become a professor,
     and for the years she is supposed to have taught at Hogwarts. If
     Narcissa is around 42 or so at this time, I'm making Merrythought
     about ten years older, though she's probably closer to twenty years
     older if I were being strict with cannon. Also, I took some liberties
     with Galatea's specialities because it sounded good to me.
     Also, I know it's been a while, but it's almost the end of the
     semester, so I've had a bunch of grading to deal with. Hope this was
     worth the wait, and don't worry, I'll get back to our main pair soon.
     Love to all.
              Galatea Merrythought was a joyful person, but that didn't mean
she'd had an easy life. She had been born the seventh child to a poverty-
stricken family in Manchester in 1886, and when she had received her Hogwarts
letter, accompanied by a tall, florid faced-man dressed in seventeenth-century
garb in the late summer of 1897, she had already been working for ten months as
spinner in one of the many local cotton mills.   Upon opening the door to a man
in clothing more suited to an Elizabethan gentleman than to those worn in a
tenement slum house, her father had promptly boxed Professor Johnston’s ears,
yelling that he’d find a place “in Bedlam for the damned nutter” if he didn’t
stay away from his daughter. Galatea, whose born name was Jane Galatea Barker,
after her mother’s one and only romantic remembrance of Greek mythology, had
gone after the strange man who was now sporting a bloody nose, splashing mud
over her only clean dress as she had screamed for him to stop.
            Thankfully, Professor Fesiah Johnston had encountered much worse in
his thirty years of contacting muggleborn children and their families. He had
given the young Jane a wide smile, clear and specific directions to Diagon
Alley and the Hogwarts station, and having witnessed her family’s poverty, he
had also given her a small purse of muggle money for her journey. In a very
compassionate manner, especially for a man who was sinking nearly knee-deep
into the muck of a factory town street, the professor had warned her that she
had a hard choice to make, and that her choice would likely cause deep
divisions in her family.   Professor Johnston had stayed with her in a shadowy
corner, whispering spells that had kept them miraculously cool and dry until
her father had departed for his own factory shift, then had gone back with Jane
to speak to her mother, who was a bit more reasonable.
            The division of her family had not been an exaggeration.
Understanding that explaining magic simply wasn’t an option, Professor Johnston
had instead informed Ingrid Barker that her youngest daughter had been noticed
as exceptionally clever at the mill, and that wealthy benefactors wished to pay
for her education. Though Mrs. Barker was inherently suspicious of a grown man
in strange clothes who clearly had money, showing interest in her youngest
daughter, she had noticed that Jane was different than the other children, that
she was sharper, hungrier for knowledge, and definitely less likely to be
satisfied with the narrow world around her. After getting assurances in writing
(which she could barely read) that they wouldn’t have to pay anything, Mrs.
Baker gave the odd man her promise that they would put Jane on a train bound
for London at the end of August.
            Due to the constraints of their first meeting, Jane hadn’t
completely understood all of what her Hogwarts letter meant until she had stood
outside of the entrance to Diagon Alley, happy to see Professor Johnston
waiting for her. By the end of the day, Jane had finally understood the reason
why so many of her wishes came true, like the time she’d prayed for the fire
not to go out in the dead of winter, and it had blazed so strongly, it had
nearly burnt down the apartment. She’d also heard enough of chatter around her
to know that Jane would not do as a name in the magical world. Professor
Johnston had laughed at this proclamation, but had agreed to call her by her
middle name.
            It was twenty years later before she had changed her last name as
well, though it was not to separate herself from her muggle parents, who were
long dead, their lives shortened by years of factory work and the squalid
conditions of crowded tenement housing. She had been offered the name by her
mentor, an ancient woman with whom she had completed her advanced degree and
double certification as a Master of Defense Against the Dark Arts and Counter-
Enchantments. Tabitha Merrythought had no children, was the last of her line,
and after ten years of an apprenticeship that had been more like a mother-
daughter relationship than anything else, Galatea had taken the surname
Merrythought as a tribute to their connection, and Tabitha had officially named
Galatea as her heir, leaving her a small estate in Surrey and a tidy sum in
Gringotts.
               Given how much she had drifted away from her remaining muggle
family (one sister and a handful of nieces and nephews), Galatea had mostly
given up on maintaining those connections beyond sending birthday and holiday
cards and setting up money for the children’s schooling. Her sister was sixty
now, an old woman with grandchildren who had aged in the normal muggle way,
while at 52, Galatea wasn’t even middle-aged by magical aging standards. Beside
the obvious barrier of dramatically different life experiences, and the aging
issue, Galatea also knew without being told that her romantic attachments to
other women were not something her muggle family approved of, adding another
layer to her estrangement.
              Galatea loved teaching, she liked most all of her coworkers, and
she adored the bustling halls of Hogwarts. When Armando had offered her the
position of Head of Ravenclaw House after Professor Johnston had retired, she
had been more than thrilled, more than honored. She had felt vindicated. Her
hard work and natural talent had been the only considerations – not her
sexuality, not her status as a muggleborn. Over the years, though, she had
longed for companionship, and had formed crush after crush on married witches
who had occasionally returned her affection, but never wanted to be seen with
her in public.
              Those affairs had left her heart and ego bruised, and she had
given up on romance, had made her peace with being alone. It gave her more time
to work on her constant and various projects, she reasoned. Galatea was a born
inventor, and often shopped in muggle stores for things to charm and enchant,
trying to create magical objects out of the mundane. Sometimes these
experiments went well, and she had even patented a few: a tea kettle that
whistled the tune, “I’m a little teapot,” instead of shrieking, and a hall
bench that sprouted arms and removed users hats, boots, and coats when they
said, “Service, please.” Other times, they were unqualified disasters, and she
still bore the faint scars from when a china cabinet she had been trying to
enchant to set the table had exploded and cut her face and hands to ribbons.
              She also had a keen interest in disenchanting dark objects. Her
run-in with a cursed Slytherin scarf that had tried to strangle her in her
second year had set her on the path of specializing in Defense Against the Dark
Arts, and in Counter or Disenchantments.   She had worked closely with
Dumbledore for the past five years, going from room to room in Hogwarts,
attempting to locate and neutralize the dark magical objects and curses that
both students and staff had left behind over the centuries.    
             The castle was a living thing with not all areas available at all
times, secret passages and stairways that never quite lined up, and even after
half a decade, they hadn’t come close to eliminating one-tenth of what was
likely in the place. This task, though it was impractical and probably actually
impossible, gave Galatea something to focus on when she wasn’t teaching,
especially on the school holidays. Dealing with unknown curses and dark magical
objects required concentration, and Galatea didn’t think about her lack of a
love life when she was hard at work.
             Then, she’d returned to Hogwarts after a trip to South America
over the summer, studying with a witch descended from the Mayans, and learning
about the magical properties of several jungle plants. She’d even brought
samples for both Professor Beery and Slughorn, to their delight. Madame Selwyn
had never liked her, but she had brought the nurse a jar of ointment for
soothing dragon pox scars as a gesture of goodwill. However, as soon as she had
walked into the Hospital Wing, she’d forgotten all about the reason she had
come.
              The new healer was the most beautiful woman Galatea had ever
seen. She had expected the woman to be pretty – the fact that crusty old Dippet
had called her lovely meant something – but Lady Narcissa Bonneau was
practically a goddess. Standing over a cauldron, which was usually a recipe for
frizzy, greasy hair and oily skin, the woman was perfectly composed, her light
blonde hair twisted intricately on both sides of her face, and gathered in a
tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her skin was pale but luminous, her eyes
large and dark, her features finely shaped and perfectly symmetrical. She was
slender, but still womanly in her curves, and when she looked up and smiled,
Galatea’s hibernating heart had awoken, ravenous.
             And that had been before they’d touched. When their skin had met,
a euphoric feeling had flooded Galatea’s entire being. She had always been an
optimistic, cheerful person, easy to laugh and be pleased. It was not unusual
for Galatea to feel good, to be happy. But Narcissa’s presence made her
baseline happiness seem like nothing; she felt ecstatic and filled with
possibilities.
            She’d wasted no time with coyness, and though her brain cautioned
her that this must be a mistake, that this beautiful, polished, pureblooded
aristocrat couldn’t possibly be the soul mate of a muggleborn who had been come
from nothing, her heart leapt. It had been insane to kiss the Narcissa only a
few minutes after meeting her, but the pull was strong, and the kiss itself had
been the best of Galatea’s life.
            Narcissa had been very reserved since then, smiling and flushing,
but never giving anything away. Galatea had never been good at hiding anything,
actively attempting to solve any mystery she came across, and never backing
down from a challenge. Narcissa was both. How much of her behavior was
upbringing and how much was having recently lost her husband in a war zone,
Galatea hadn’t deduced yet. She wanted to be respectful, to offer Narcissa
companionship without any type of romantic pressure, but it was hard to be
patient with the constant tugging of the soul mate bond. Having found her
magical match, she wanted to be with her, to touch and hold her.
            Since the night at the beginning of term, though, Narcissa had made
herself scarce. She often missed meals, staying in the Hospital Wing with any
patients and eating from a tray, and had not yet had the promised dinner in
Galatea’s quarters. Narcissa seemed to avoid being caught alone, especially
after the morning when she’d woken in Galatea’s arms after the horrible
business in Slytherin House.
            The light streaming in through the high windows had been hazy, and
Galatea had opened her eyes slowly, taking in the feeling of a soft body
pressed against her own, the faint smell of sweet, expensive flowers, and the
tickle of a warm exhalation on her exposed collar bone. Narcissa had turned in
the night, and her head rested on Galatea’s shoulder, her sleepy breathing and
nuzzling movements unintentionally erotic. Not wanting to break the calm, but
knowing that she needed to return discreetly to her own room before long,
Galatea had shifted as slowly and subtly as she could, but Narcissa had
instantly sat up and apologized.
            “I’m sorry,” her eyes had been downcast, her body already turning
away to stand. “I – we – I need to get back to the Hospital Wing to check on
Tom.”
            Galatea had also stood, and grabbed her robe from the end of the
bed. As a lesbian in a society that saw same-sex relationships as itches to be
scratched or quaint curiosities, Galatea had found herself politely but firmly
dismissed the morning after more than once. Though they hadn’t done anything
sexual, Narcissa’s reaction hinted strongly at shame, and Galatea simply didn’t
have it in her to fight a whole lifetime of pureblood conditioning this early
in the morning.
            “I understand,” she’d said, and left without another word.
-oOo0oOo-
            Now, a month later, Galatea was ready to fight. This avoidance was
ridiculous. Some people spent their whole lives looking for soul mates, so how
could she throw away such a gift? How could Narcissa? She checked the staff
schedules, and waited patiently for Narcissa to get finished in the Hospital
Wing, and caught her as she walked out.
            Seeing her, Narcissa’s face took on an expression that was at once
happy and exasperated. “Galatea,” she said, a slight reproof in her voice.
            “I know you didn’t eat dinner,” Galatea answered. “I asked the
elves – no one brought you a tray, but two very sweet house elves are bringing
a near feast to my quarters, and if you don’t come with me and help eat it,
they’ll be heart-broken.”
            Narcissa sighed in resignation. “I am hungry,” she admitted,
rubbing a hand on the back of her neck. “But I’d like to have a bath.”
            Galatea grinned, her smile wickedly tilted. “I have a quite lovely
bathtub. I charmed it to sink into the floor. It’s practically a small lake.”
            Flushing, Narcissa pursed her lips together. “The bath can wait,
I’m sure.”
            They walked quietly to Galatea’s rooms, which as the Head of
Ravenclaw House, were much larger, grander, and airier than Narcissa’s
quarters. As promised, the main sitting room, which was lined with books from
floor to ceiling, except for the break for the white marble fireplace, had a
small table with places set for two and a wide variety of foods piled on it.
            Galatea pulled out Narcissa’s chair, then poured her a glass of
wine. Narcissa raised an eyebrow. “Feeling lucky?” she murmured
            Laughing, Galatea poured her own glass and sat down. “Always. My
life has been an exceptionally lucky one. Finding you is proof of that.”
            Narcissa’s face was still. “My life has been the opposite. Nothing
in it has been charmed except for my hair and clothing.”
            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Galatea said. “But we can make a new
life, together, if you will allow this to happen.” She looked at the other
woman, who was so clearly struggling with her feelings. “What is holding you
back?”
            “I’m not sure,” Narcissa grabbed her glass and took a very
unladylike gulp of her wine. “My life has been very…planned. And in the last
year, everything changed. I suppose I am just trying to adjust to the newness
of being in a different country, of being a widow, a single mother, of having a
job, of finding a soul mate I hadn’t been looking for.”
            Galatea nodded. “That is a lot. And I don’t want to hurry you or
make you feel pressured – I only want to spend time with you, to get to know
you. Fate apparently thinks we’re insanely compatible, so I think we’d enjoy
the process.”
            “I know I would,” Narcissa spoke into her glass, and took another
sip. “That’s part of the problem,”
            “Because I’m a woman?” Galatea asked, not sure if she wanted to
know the answer.
            “Well, that part is certainly new,” Narcissa admitted, then hastily
added, “but not unwelcome. I don’t mind that you are a woman, I just…I had a
husband, one whom I had been married to since I was eighteen, only a few months
ago. He might not have been my soul mate, but I loved him, just as I am sure
you have been in love before.”
            “Of course,” Galatea picked at the mashed potatoes with her fork,
not looking at Narcissa. “I suppose I’ve been overly eager. It is one of my
many faults.”
            Narcissa reached across the table and placed her hand over
Galatea’s. “I find you utterly charming, Galatea, but I’m not an easy woman to
love. I was not raised with love, nor even affection. Talking about how I feel
is difficult for me. And, if I am honest, I am terrified of being with you, of
embracing the joy of having a soul mate, because with the luck I’ve had, I’ll
have you only long enough to be heartbroken when I lose you.”
            Galatea stood, pulling Narcissa up to face her. “I have enough luck
for both of us, Narcissa. Just be here, with me, now, and let the rest go. I’m
not going anywhere.”
            Giving into the desire to be closer to her soul mate, Narcissa went
into the taller woman’s arms, resting her ear against Galatea’s nearly flat
chest, hearing the reassuring beat of her heart, feeling the gentle flow of
their magic mixing together. She tried not to think at all, only breathe and
feel, and found it easier than she would have guessed.
            How long they stood, swaying in front of the fireplace, Narcissa
didn’t know. She had been so scared. What would it mean to have a soul mate?
Narcissa’s whole life, for as long as her memories could stretch, had been
built around two things: duty to her family and hiding her thoughts and
feelings. She might have replaced duty to her family with the loftier goal of
duty to the entire magical world, but she hadn’t given up on hiding herself
away. Would Galatea be able to know the true Narcissa? Was there even a true
Narcissa to know? She was just starting to learn who she was, with her healing
work, and adult friendships not based on being Pureblooded or married to a
Death Eater. It was so much at once.
            There was no denying, though, that being in Galatea’s company was
soothing and invigorating at the same time. And being in her arms? Heaven. It
was like an instant calming draught, a peaceful sensation that everything was
fine, and would continue to be fine. Was this what safety felt like? Narcissa
didn’t think she’d ever felt safe in her life until this moment.
            Galatea pulled away slowly after a while, and walked through an
adjoining doorway. Narcissa heard the sound of water and debated running.
            “You need to relax, and I think a soak in my lake is just the
thing,” Galatea came back in, and lead Narcissa into the bathroom. The tub did
sink into the floor, and was filled with steamy water scented with the clean
smell of lavender. It looked wonderfully inviting, and Narcissa’s muscles were
sore. Galatea waved her wand and thick white bubbles covered the surface. “I’ll
let you undress in private.”
            Narcissa waited until the door was closed and shrugged out of her
clothing, folding it neatly on the cabinet that held the towels. The water was
bliss, just hot enough to start to unwind her tension, and it was a few minutes
before there was a knock at the door.
            “Come in,” Narcissa called, feeling absurdly light-hearted, almost
as bubbly as the water surrounding her.
            Galatea entered, carrying their two glasses and the bottle of wine.
She sat cross-legged on the tile that made the rim of the bathing area and
handed Narcissa her glass. Her grin tilted again, and she spoke reverently,
“You are the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”
            Narcissa had been raised knowing that she was attractive. Both
Andromeda and Bellatrix had also been lovely, and the three sisters were
considered to be the perfect Pureblood matches, with more than one family
offering for each sister. Of course, Andromeda had run away to marry a muggle
and been blasted off the family tapestries, but before that, the girls had been
taught to value, enhance, and protect their looks as their most important asset
(after their chastity, of course). Lucius had often told her that she was
beautiful when they were courting and newly married, but the words had little
meaning. Saying she was beautiful meant she was acceptable, that she looked the
way a wife should look.
            When Galatea said those same words, though, with wonder in her
eyes, as if Narcissa were a gorgeous sunset or the view from a mountain
overlooking miles of forest and valleys of flowers, Narcissa felt beautiful.
           “Thank you,” she managed to finally say, feeling overwhelmed. Part
of her wanted to pull Galatea into the water with her, to feel her hands again,
and to feel them in new places.
            “Can I take down your hair?” Galatea asked quietly, and Narcissa
nodded, a little thrill of anticipation running down her spine.
            Galatea moved to sit directly behind her, and spoke soft spells of
undoing, slowly uncoiling the bun and twists, then carding her fingers gently
through the mass of Narcissa’s thick blonde hair.
            “Where did you learn those spells?” Narcissa groaned in pleasure as
Galatea began to massage her scalp with strong fingers. “Your hair is too short
for them.”
            With a laugh, Galatea leaned down and whispered in Narcissa’s ear,
“I make it my business to know all the spells it takes to reduce a woman to a
state of déshabillé.”
           Narcissa shivered, and Galatea lifted her hair to one side, draping
it over her shoulder and placing slow, barely there kisses to the line of her
bared neck.
           “How many women have been in this bath?” she teased, trying to
distract herself from the warmth spreading through her body that had nothing to
do with the water.
          “Just us,” Galatea answered between kisses, her lips now on the curve
of Narcissa’s shoulder.
          Narcissa meant to keep quiet, but instead, she said, her voice tinged
with lust even to her own ears, “You aren’t in the bath.”
          Galatea’s long, broad hands tightened briefly on Narcissa’s skin. “I
could remedy that situation rather easily, and I would love to do just that,
but I promised to give you time to process all the changes in your life. I’d be
a poor soul mate if I pressed my advantage when you are drowsy, tipsy, and
naked.”
         With a gentle touch and a few swishes of her wand, Galatea had
Narcissa out of the tub, wrapped in thick, soft towels. She led the younger
woman to a chair in front of the fire, which was quickly blazing, then left,
coming back holding a long white cotton nightgown with tiny emerald flowers
embroidered along the square neckline.
        “I transfigured a pair of my night clothes,” she smiled, her hazel eyes
shining as they reflected the firelight, a very faint line of freckles visible
across the bridge of her nose.
       Narcissa stood, and managed to get the nightgown over her head before
she dropped the towels. She was amazed that she felt so at ease and unguarded
around this woman, whom she still barely knew, yet trusted effortlessly. “Thank
you.”
       “Let’s go to sleep,” Galatea put an arm around her shoulders. “You look
exhausted.”
        The bed was wide, but Narcissa made no pretense of staying on the far
side. As soon as Galatea slipped between the sheets, Narcissa rolled over to
her, laying her head against the other woman’s chest and falling into a quick
and deep sleep.
***** Hermione and Tom Don't See Eye To Eye, But They Still Fight Back to Back
*****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione tries to prep the group for a defensive-only showdown with
     the older Slytherins. Tom is not amused. They have words, fight, then
     have words again.
Chapter Notes
     An extra long chapter for you all, because I love you. And it's chock
     full of Tom and Hermione!
       
 
             Hermione had a headache. Honestly, every part of her ached. For
the past three months, Tom had been pushing the limits of her mind, her
emotions, and her magic. His homework, like Hermione’s own, was always done
well and well in advance, leaving him with large chunks of free time, which he
insisted on spending either in the library for study or an abandoned classroom
on the fifth floor for practice.   His cadre of Slytherins were usually
present, and over the weeks, he’d managed to attract a few others from outside
his own house, a couple first-year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs who were
muggleborns. Hermione was always accompanied by Patience and often by Josephine
and Felicity, too.
            On the surface, they functioned as a large study group. After a
long discussion with Tom about how it was important to surround oneself with
intelligent and talented people, andthat doing schoolwork would help prevent
them from looking like some sort of gang, Hermione had convinced him to help
her make sure that all the people in group had their homework completed before
spending time on other projects. For the most part, this was easy. Thad had the
most difficulty, and Hermione spent a good deal of time checking his work and
explaining concepts to him. He was still earning more “Poors” than
“Acceptables,” but at least he wasn’t getting “Dreadfuls.”
            Once all homework was done, they would head to the fifth floor and
practice all the current spells and charms from their classes, then work on
spells from the first year textbooks. Everyone in their group, even Thad (who
hadn’t really remembered much from his first year), was now doing end of the
year spells before the Christmas break had even arrived. Sebastian Lestrange,
as a second year, was helpful in tutoring the first years, and despite her
initial reaction to him, and his outspoken belief that blood purity did matter,
just not as much as power, Hermione got along with him. He was perfectly
polite, without a single sneer or snide comment, and he treated the few
muggleborns in the group the same as everyone else.
            The study group lasted a few hours in the evenings after dinner,
and on the afternoons on the weekends. By then, most of them were ready to do
something that normal children did, and left to relax in their common rooms
with their friends.
The core group that remained, usually just Patience and Tom’s fellow first-year
Slytherins, ended up watching Tom and Hermione argue over the interpretation of
obscure magical texts, as well as attempt nonverbal and wandless magic. Most of
their disagreements were on fundamental theoretics: what was magic? What made
magic? Was it energy? What allowed a ‘magical’ person to tap into this hidden
power? If some people were inherently magical, why did an overwhelming
percentage of those people need help via wands and words to make their natural
magic manifest in the world? How much did motivation and intention affect one’s
magic? Could magic actually be light or dark, or only the people wielding it?
            These were questions Hermione had often wrestled with in her own
mind, and though they were certainly difficult and abstract, she had always
thought that the wizarding world seemed very content to accept the benefits and
dangers of magic without much investigation into where it came from and what
sustained its existence in the world. Tom was very hungry for knowledge, and he
devoured books almost as quickly as Hermione did. They read theory, created
their own theories, and experimented.
            Despite their intelligence and strong connection, and the times she
and Tom had instinctively used magic to connect to and protect one another,
they soon found that purposely trying to use nonverbal spells was tricky for
most of the group, and unpredictable in its results. Wandless magic was so
difficult, it was almost impossible unless the casters were very angry or
frightened. The amount of concentration required was physically draining, and
Hermione went to bed exhausted every night.
            However, Tom was nothing if not stubborn, and Hermione was not
going to allow him to outpace her. She might be the only thing that eventually
kept him in check, and she had committed herself to being able to do anything
he could. It was an insane experience, to have a group of friends who really
wanted to learn and explore magic.   It was like being in Dumbledore’s Army
again, only at a younger age. The others in their circle didn’t put forth as
much practical effort as she and Tom, but they watched and listened, as if
attending a series of lectures, and there was no doubt that they were gaining
confidence and ability at a much faster rate than the average first-year
students.  
            Through their daily time together, distinct personalities emerged.
Tom, of course, was the charismatic leader. Jacob and Vidhi were both quiet and
studious, but also the two most likely to ask questions about theory. Abraxas
was all charm, opening doors for the girls with broad smiles. He was the
largest first year boy, and he always stood behind Tom, and a bit to the side,
the very definition of a right-hand man. Though his eyes tended to glaze over
when deeper theory was discussed, he was quick with defensive spells and never
needed help with his homework. Corvus was the funny one, always joking and when
he laughed, something about the curve of his smile and the tilt of his head
reminded Hermione of Sirius in his light-hearted moments. Patience usually sat
near Corvus, and was the most likely to laugh at his jokes, though often at the
wrong places. She didn’t seem to pay attention to anything that was happening
around her, but then she would offer a comment that was deeply insightful, and
Patience was the only person beside Tom and Hermione who could consistently
perform nonverbal magic.   Marguerite was stealthy and mostly silent, and
though the girls were not exactly friendly, there was no doubt Marguerite
noticed everything that happened in her house, and that she managed to keep
tabs on budding plots. Hermione thought more than once that the tiny brunette
would’ve made an excellent spy/assassin in the future.   Marguerite also seemed
to understand that Tom had little impulse control when it came to disrespect,
and that he only listened to Hermione, which meant that Marguerite went to
Hermione with any news about what the older Slytherins were or were not doing.
            The halls were quiet and peaceful, and no one in Slytherin had said
a single thing about Tom’s half-blood status in weeks, according to
Marguerite’s nightly reports at their study group. And tonight, Marguerite had
said the same thing she’d been saying – that no one was saying anything, and
that was a terrible sign. Hermione had made sure everyone practiced protective
and rebounding spells, as well as temporarily incapacitating but not truly
harmful jinxes. As the group broke up to head back to their dormitories, Tom
helped Hermione pack all their books away.
            “You’re worried something is going to happen soon,” Tom said, his
tone matter of fact.
            “Yes, I am,” Hermione admitted, whispering a protective spell over
the delicate Durante texts before placing them in her bag.
            Tom shook his head. “And you still think shields and jelly-legs
jinxes are going to solve the problem?”
            Hermione frowned. “I think those actions will prevent you and the
others from being expelled, Tom. We can’t go around cursing and choking
people.”
            “We’re getting better with wandless magic everyday, Hermione,” he
put down the book he was holding and took her bag from her hands. “Soon, we’ll
be able to do whatever we want.”
            They were facing each other now, only about a foot apart, and
neither of them was holding a wand. Tom looked at the rest of the books on the
table and levitated them into her bag. She sighed and closed the bag’s flap and
sent the bag across the room, to rest by the door.
            “Look at us!” Tom smiled. “We can do more nonverbal and wandless
magic than most adults!”
            “I want to go further with magic than anyone else ever has,” Tom
grabbed both of her hands, and she could feel their magic – both her own magic
and their combined magic was always so much stronger when they were touching.
“We can’t do that if we don’t firmly establish our dominance in this school.”
            “Yes, we can,” she tried to pull her hands free, but he tightened
his grip. “If we’re so superior, like you believe, then why isn’t defense
enough? They won’t be able to hurt us – isn’t that what matters?”
            Tom laughed. “No, what matters is respect.”
            “There’s a big difference between respect and fear, Tom,” she gave
another jerk and he let go. The loss of their combined magic left her feeling a
bit lightheaded. She looked away from him and voiced a question she wasn’t sure
she wanted the answer to. “Do you like the way it feels when you make other
people afraid? When you hurt them? Does it make you feel good?”
            He had her hands again, and the flood of their magic back through
her body made her close her eyes. His head lowered to hers, their foreheads
touching. It was incredibly intimate, though not at all romantic. It was
deeper, and Hermione wondered briefly if this level of connection was something
that only soul mates could feel, no matter their ages. Vidhi had lent Hermione
a few magical texts from her Indian grandmother about chakra magic, and as
their third-eye points aligned, the force of his life energy almost knocked her
over. His will, and his determination to see his will done, was immutable.
Thoughts flew through her mind. Was he the irresistible force? Was she strong
enough to be the immovable object? How could this possibly end well?
            “Yes, it feels wonderful when others fear me,” he whispered, his
breath cool against her face and smelling of peppermint. “I crave it. It makes
me believe anything is possible, that the whole world will kneel at my feet.”
            Her eyes flew open and she wrenched backwards. “I will never kneel,
Tom.”
            His expression looked as close to hurt as Hermione had ever seen
it. “I wouldn’t ask you to! You’re -”
            “Special?” she spat, her anger rising.  “No, no I’m not. I’m just a
girl, a person trying to live a happy life and make positive changes in society
without hurting others. You don’t have to subjugate the world to be happy!”
            “Maybe not,” he snapped, heading toward the door. “But I want to. I
wantto control others, and I willhave the power to do so, eventually. Since our
happiness is so clearly linked, I think it would be best for your happiness to
help me obtain what I want with the minimum amount of pain for all the stupid,
unimportant people you seem to hold in such esteem.”
            He slammed the door with magic, and she gathered her books and made
it back to Ravenclaw Tower just before the curfew began.
            Rachel Shacklebolt, the Head Girl, was sitting in a chair near the
entrance, books and parchment spread out over a small table in front of her.
She looked up as Hermione entered.
            “You just made it,” Rachel said, glancing at the clock on the wall.
“Your shadow Patience was back twenty-five minutes ago.”
            Hermione sighed. “I had to-”
            Rachel held up her hand. “I’m not yelling at you. You are here, and
in time. You don’t owe me an explanation. From all the accounts I’ve heard, you
are certainly intelligent enough to properly manage your time.”
            Hermione nodded and walked toward the staircase leading to her
room. Rachel’s voice stopped her.
            “Hermione?” Rachel stood and crossed to where Hermione was,
lowering her voice. “It’s very admirable, how you are fostering inter-House
connections with your Slytherin cousins. Ravenclaws and Slytherins and even a
few Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs studying together and practicing magic together
as first-years is almost unheard of, but I think it’s great.”
            “I think so, too,” Hermione said, relieved to know the Head Girl
was on her side.
            Rachel gently caught her arm and pulled her still closer. “I want
you to know, though, that you should not underestimate the older Slytherins.
Just because they haven’t done anything doesn’t mean they aren’t planning
something. Those boys who got suspended have older siblings, and those boys
themselves will be back after the holiday break. I’m all for studying and
practicing spellwork, but being out in the halls late is a recipe for disaster.
If they catch you alone, they will hurt you. It won’t be bad enough to get them
suspended, but it will be enough to make you miserable. Trust me, I’ve been on
the wrong side of Slytherin hex more than once in my seven years here.
            Hermione thought of all the hexes she’d suffered as well, and
unconsciously rubbed her lips, reminded of the time Draco had made her teeth
grow.
              “That friend of Tom’s, Corvus?” Rachel continued. “His older
sister Sagitta is probably the most vicious person in this school. Last year
she thought I was flirting with her stupid fiancée just because I had to do
evening patrols with him as a prefect, and she cast a spell on my braids that
made them twist like screws into my scalp. Even though it only took Madame
Selwyn and Professor Merrythought an hour to loosen them, the pain in my
muscles stayed for several days. I could barely think for the splitting
headache I had.   Sagitta hates Tom and you– she thinks you are contaminating
her brother’s mind. She talks about it during our Herbology classes all the
time. I want you to be aware and be careful.”
             “Thank you, Rachel,” Hermione said with all sincerity, and she
began planning in the back of her mind. She would be prepared to handle Sirius
and Narcissa’s great aunt. No other member of the Black family was going to get
a chance to harm her.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            The faux peace lasted a few more weeks, not erupting until the day
before the holiday break was scheduled to begin. To discourage students from
skiving and general laziness, several of the professors had scheduled tests for
the day, and Professor Beery was one of them. There was a practical exam on the
proper harvesting techniques for several plants, and Hermione and her roommates
had been joined in the hall by Tom and his first year Slytherins on their way
to the greenhouses. They easily fell into step with one another, and even
though she had been annoyed with Tom, she still felt better when they traveled
the halls in a group.
 
They rounded a corner and were suddenly faced with a group of much older
Slytherins, all sixth and seventh years. There were five of them, and the two
in front held hands. The couple appeared well-matched in temperaments, looking
at everything around them with disdain. The boy was the prefect who’d opened
the dungeons their first night, William Bulstrode, and the girl on his arm was
Sagitta Black. The others were Calvin’s older sister, Morgan Nott, Hubert
Avery’s older brother, Ulfred, and Blake Goyle. All of them had smug
expressions on their faces.
 
              Sagitta had very pale skin, a pinched face, and dull brown hair.
She glared at them all, then spoke to her brother. “Corvus,” her voice was
incredibly shrill, unpleasantly reminding Hermione of the portrait of Sirius’s
mother in Grimmauld Place. “Mother and Father wanted me to remind you that we
don’t allow mongrels in our home, so you’d better not be planning on having any
of your dirty-blooded pets over during the break.”
 
            “Don’t worry about me,” Corvus replied quickly, then glanced behind
her. “I would think Morgan and Ulfred would be the ones concerned about their
younger brothers, not you. How long has it been since a student was suspended
from Hogwarts? Your families must be so proud.”
 
            Morgan leaned forward, her red face nearly matching her hair color.
“My brother will be back next month, and if any of you bother him, you’ll
regret it. Our father works for the ministry in the Department of Magical Law
Enforcement, and he could have you thrown into Azkaban before you could blink.”
 
           “I don’t think that’s possible, even if one were directly apparated
to the prison,” Patience noted dreamily, though Hermione noted that her wand
was gripped tightly in her hand.
 
            “Are you brain-damaged?” Morgan sneered at her. “How did you end up
in Ravenclaw?”
 
            “Well,” Sagitta smirked, “the Sorting Hat is clearly losing its
powers. Sorting half-bloods into Slytherin? That was clearly a mistake.”
 
              Hermione glanced around. None of the first years could do much of
anything yet as far as attack, so she really only needed to worry about Tom.
And the five older Slytherins.  
 
             “The only real mistake would be failing to recognize the need for
change,” Tom responded icily. “Luckily, I’ve learned to distinguish between
pureblooded students with talent and loyalty,” he gestured magnanimously at the
young Slytherins who had come to stand in a cluster around him, “And those who
exhibit the unfortunate signs of centuries of incestuous inbreeding.”
 
             Several things happened at once then. Sagitta shrieked and swished
her wand hand, her mouth open, but Hermione nonverbally cast expelliarmus,
neatly catching Sagitta’s wand, pausing only briefly before throwing it over
the side of the nearby stairwell. William was yelling something at Tom, who
advanced toward him, not taking out his wand or speaking. William, in contrast,
fell to his knees, making a pained face and clutching his stomach.
 
            Ulfred Avery sent several hexes in quick succession toward Hermione
and Patience, but Patience had already conjured a shield that extended to both
Hermione and herself, and Hermione cast a silencing spell on him. Marguerite
followed that with some kind of hair-growth hex and Avery’s eyelashes were soon
completely obscuring his vision.
 
            Morgan was behind Avery, using him as a shield, and she hit Abraxas
with a stinging hex, his white skin instantly breaking out into red welts.
Abraxas didn’t cry out, though. He bit his lip and sent a jelly-legs jinx at
Avery, who went down, leaving Morgan exposed. Vidhi threw a spell at her from
the side, and Morgan hunched forward, as if she were going to vomit, but then
began making a growling sound, followed by an outright barking noise.
 
            With a satisfied smirk, Vidhi announced loudly, “I think I’ve found
the real mongrel. Morgan thinks she’s a dog!”
 
            Tom turned away from whatever he was still doing to William,
delight on his face at Vidhi’s obvious talent for humiliating the enemy.  
“Well spotted, Vidhi!”
 
              The Goyle boy seemed about as clever as his future relatives, and
the spells he threw, though dark, were not particularly powerful. Jacob and
Felicity were both hit, but still continued to fire back, and Josephine yelled,
“sominus” and Blake fell over sideways and promptly began to snore.
 
                Sagitta, now angry but disarmed, ran at her brother, yelling,
“You stupid little blood traitor! Our parents will disown you for this, I’ll
make sure of it!” and began to rain blows on his head, landing punches to his
face and neck.
 
                Corvus was a bit small for his age, and scrawny, and though he
had his wand, he seemed too shocked and desperate to avoid his sister’s fists
to remember to do magic.
                The other pureblooded children stood silent as well.
Apparently, siblings coming to blows was not very common in magical households.
Hermione ran over and kicked Sagitta hard in the shins, not wanting to use
magic on someone she’d disarmed.
 
               Turning, Sagitta shrieked, “Stay out of this, you little bitch!
You’re no better than a mudblood, and if you dare touch me again, I’ll-”
 
               But what Sagitta would have said was lost, because in that
moment, Hermione only saw Bellatrix, and she wordlessly and wandlessly sent the
older girl flying across the corridor, her head smacking against the stone wall
with a dull thud, then falling to the floor.
 
                  Everyone had been watching, even Tom, and whatever spell he
had cast on William had ended. William rose slowly, on shaky legs, walking
toward his fiancée. Hermione turned back to face the others.
 
                The scene was a disaster. Morgan was still barking, tears of
rage streaming down her face at her inability to stop. Avery was trying to walk
away, but was tripping over the facial hair that was down to the floor and
completely obscuring his vision. Goyle was on the floor snoring. William was
pale and drawn, and Sagitta was unconscious. On their side, Abraxas was covered
in welts, Jacob’s nose was three times its normal size, Felicity had a horn
sprouting from the side of her head, and Corvus had a bloody nose and a black
eye.
 
              Hermione couldn’t believe what she had done, and she was
terrified that she’d really hurt Sagitta, even as she felt a thrill of
satisfaction that her friends had done well against the group of much older
students.
 
              Tom stepped over to where William knelt beside Sagitta.
 
              “What?” William snapped at him.
 
            “If you attempt to hurt me or any of my friends again, no amount of
family connections or money will keep you safe from me,” Tom spoke quietly.
“You may have thought yourself better than others, but your magic is weakand
pathetic. I am strong, as are those who align themselves with me, and we will
not tolerate your disrespect.”
 
             William made a horrible jeering laugh. “You and your little
girlfriend are going to end up in Azkaban for assaulting my fiancée.”
 
              Tom raised an eyebrow. “Really? I don’t think so. Hermione used
wandless magic, and there’s no trace of it.”
 
             “But there are witnesses!” William snarled.
 
             “No, there aren’t,” Tom gave him a nasty smile. “Morgan, Goyle,
and Avery saw nothing, and you – well, Obliviate.” 
 
             Hermione watched, stunned. Tom had clearly been working on his
own, looking up things he knew she wouldn’t approve of.
 
            “Let’s get the sequence of events clear,” Tom was speaking to the
group now. “We were attacked. We defended ourselves, exactly as it happened,
except that when Sagitta was hitting Corvus, he ducked and she was thrown off
balance, falling and hitting her head.”
 
              Every one of the Slytherins and Ravenclaws present nodded
solemnly. Tom looked at Josephine, who was unharmed, and a generally cheerful
and well-liked student. “Josephine, will you fetch Lady Bonneau?”
 
              “Yes, of course,” Josephine went back down the hall at a run.
 
              William was now staring blankly at Sagitta, and Hermione knelt
beside the girl, feeling the back of her head and murmuring healing spells.
There was no blood or swelling, and Hermione had been received enough vicious
knocks during magical fights that she knew her spells for healing head injuries
were effective if applied immediately after injury. Sure enough, Sagitta was
moaning and opening her eyes before Narcissa had arrived.
 
             With her sharp gaze, Narcissa took in the situation, assessing it
quickly. She checked over Sagitta and announced she would probably be fine, but
would need a headache potion before going back to class. She stopped the hair
growth on Avery and ceased Morgan’s barking. After looking at Goyle, she left
him on the floor. “He’ll wake up in about ten minutes, no worse for the wear.”
 
             She healed Corvus’s bloody nose, and relieved the pain of his
bruised eye, but told him the mark would stay for a few days. With a soft
expression that Hermione knew was because she was reminded of Draco, Narcissa
smiled warmly at Abraxas and cast a few cooling charms on his skin and told him
to ask Professor Beery for a little aloe to rub on his welts. “They’ll fade in
a few hours. Just don’t itch them.”
 
            Abraxas nodded, and stood aside for Jacob. “My, your nose is quite
spectacular today,” Narcissa murmured. She looked at Felicity’s horn and
sighed. “You two will need to come with me, along with Mr. Avery and Miss
Black.”
            Narcissa took Avery’s arm because he still couldn’t see well. She
glanced at Tom and Hermione. “I’ll see both of you this evening, after dinner,
to discuss our holiday plans.”
            “Of course, Aunt Narcissa,” Tom smiled widely. Narcissa looked
somewhere between pleased and exasperated. “The rest of us will just get to
class.”
            “Yes, do that. I’ll send Felicity and Jacob with an excuse once
they’re set to rights.” Narcissa left, shepherding the injured students down
the hall.
            The remaining students hurried to the greenhouses, where they were
ten minutes late. They relayed the story of the hall altercation to Professor
Beery, mostly to explain the absence of Jacob and Felicity, and he shook his
head. “All this blood status business is pure nonsense! Get to work now, or you
won’t finish your exams in time.”
            Hermione worked with Patience, Tom, and Abraxas, as usual, and of
course they had no difficulty finishing their work with time to spare. Once
their answers and sample cuttings were submitted, Tom moved his stool over and
leaned close to Hermione.
            “I’ve been thinking of a word to adequately describe you, my dear
soul mate,” his voice was barely a whisper, no chance that even Patience or
Abraxas would hear it. “And I believe the correct term is hypocrite.”
            When she didn’t respond, he continued, his breath tickling her ear.
“Don’t think we won’t talk about this.”
            Luckily, Jacob and Felicity returned, and Professor Beery allowed
Hermione to help them catch up with their work. She had no doubt she was in for
an uncomfortable discussion with Tom, but right now, she just didn’t want to
think about anything. The hall fight had brought with it so many memories of
her previous Hogwarts experience. After so long of being in constant danger,
Hermione knew she had over-reacted, that none of the older Slytherins had been
using spells that were permanently damaging. Her response to Sagitta had been a
release of pent-up anger at all the pureblooded prejudice she’d been subjected
to for the last seven years of her life, and to the torture she’d suffered at
the hands of Sagitta’s future relative.
            Through the rest of the day, Hermione kept her distance from Tom
and concentrated on her work, though she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d
said. When she returned to Ravenclaw Tower before dinner, she took a long
shower, and tried to gather her thoughts. She wanted to face Tom and Narcissa
with a clear mind.
            Was she a hypocrite? She railed at Tom for wanting to use violence,
then she was the one out of all of them who had used the most force, force that
could have been deadly. Yes, she had acted out of instinct, but wasn’t Tom
driven by instinct as well? Was he evil because he wanted control? To be
honest, she was a bit of a control freak herself. She planned and researched
every option of every possibility, and had a tendency toward melt-down when her
plans went awry. Narcissa had warned her again and again that Tom did not share
her morality. She cried, her tears running down her face with the shower
streams. How could he be her soul mate? If she was supposed to somehow temper
his homicidal tendencies, she was doing a piss-poor job. She’d made him
stronger at a younger age, and was failing at being a role model for morality.
            She dressed for the holiday feast in a mechanical fashion, still
lost in her thoughts. Tomorrow morning, most of the students would leave for
home, and Sagitta’s words to Corvus kept running through her mind. What would
the Blacks do to Corvus when they found out he was aligning himself with a
half-blood who denied and defied the importance of blood status? What about the
Rosiers and Abraxas, when their parents caught wind of what was happening?
Pureblooded families were closely tied, and they all seemed to know one
another’s business. Vidhi and Jacob would be fine, but their families were the
exception in Slytherin House students.
            “A penny for your thoughts?” Hermione was pulled out of her worst-
case scenario spiral by Felicity’s soft Scottish accent.
            “Oh, they’re worth a few pounds, at least by weight alone,” she
laughed weakly.
            Felicity nodded and rubbed the side of her head that had sported a
horn only a few hours earlier. “It was a very strange afternoon.”
            Josephine walked over, clipping her hair back from her face with
barrettes. “That is an understatement. I’ve never been in a fight! It was
scary, but…”
            “Thrilling?” Patience had drifted out of the bathroom, her hair
still wet.
            Nodding excitedly, Josephine sat on Hermione’s bed, which was the
closest to the bathroom door. Felicity came over as well, and they absently
helped one another as they talked, combing and braiding hair, straightening
buttons and ties and sharing jars of hand lotion and tiny pots of scented lip
balm.
            “I was so surprised we did so well!” Felicity exclaimed. “I mean,
we’re first years, and they were in sixth and seventh! We held our own.”
            Hermione worried her lip, looking down at the sapphire blue
bedspread. “I was a bit out of control. I could have,”
            “You weren’t,” Josephine said flatly. Her tone was not at all like
her normal bubbly self and Hermione glanced up to see that the sweet girl’s
eyes were hard with justified anger. “She’s horrible. That whole family is
horrible. The Blacks are third or fourth cousins of mine, and our family sees
them at weddings and big parties, and they are just awful. Sagitta has an older
brother, who was married last spring. The poor bride cried through the whole
wedding and she was dead two months later. The Blacks said she got dragon pox,
but she probably killed herself to get away from him. They use dark magic on
their children to punish them, and it twists them forever. I honestly don’t
know how Corvus has remained so normal and nice.”
            Patience caught Hermione’s hand and squeezed it. “It was a very
good thing that you disarmed Sagitta before anyone else, and that you knocked
her out.
            Felicity shook her head. “I don’t know why you feel guilty! You
healed her, almost immediately. You clearly didn’t mean to knock her back as
hard as you did, but you were protecting yourself, and Corvus. His sister was
beating the snot out of him.”
            “So,” Hermione began slowly. “You don’t think it’s, well, wrong,
that Tom obliviated William?”
            All three of her roommates looked at her in disbelief. They shook
their heads, nearly in unison.
            “No, it wasn’t wrong,” Josephine said. “It was smart. Even if it
was accident, you would have been the one in trouble, and Tom knew that. He
kept you safe. I think it was very nice how we all protected one another. I
feel like I have a school family.”
            “Exactly,” Felicity joined in. “I was very scared to come here,
being muggleborn, and though everyone in our house has been nice, there are
older students and even some teachers who don’t seem to accept me. To know that
we have friends who are willing to fight people who would bully us is
important.”
            Hermioine remembered her own difficulties as a muggleborn and gave
Felicity a reassuring hug. “Of course we will always fight for you.”
            As she spoke, she realized the truth of her words. She was
motivated to fight against pureblood prejudice, and she would protect herself,
her friends, and Tom. Tom’s beliefs were extreme, but maybe she had placed
herself too far on the opposite end of the spectrum. She couldn’t always fight
dark spells with simple shields, and things would only get more intense. Her
Ravenclaw sisters, who were all good people, didn’t see any problem with their
actions today, so maybe she needed to just relax a little. Tom wasn’t going to
turn into the Dark Lord over night, and if she tried to keep a stranglehold on
his magic, maybe she would do more harm than good.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            After the feast, Hermione and Tom walked together to Narcissa’s
quarters. They walked in silence for a bit, then Hermione finally spoke.
            “You were right, somewhat, about my actions,” Hermione said. “I do
say one thing and do another, but it isn’t intentional. I have high ideals, and
I want to be a good person, but sometimes, I fall short.”
            Tom sighed. “You do not fall short, Hermione. Your magic knows what
it wants, and it is glorious. I know you want to believe that everyone is
equal, but that just isn’t true, Hermione. All of the world, nature, is
variance.”
            “Outwardly, yes, but inside, in the heart and soul,” Hermione
argued, “we are the same. We are equal.”
            “You think Sagitta Black has a heart? She beat her brother for no
reason other than he dared to disagree with her beliefs. If you hadn’t disarmed
her, she would have tried to hurt all of us.”
            Hermione frowned. “I think she had a hard childhood, that she was
treated very cruelly at a very young age, and that makes her an angry, unstable
person.”
            “And because of her sad childhood, which by the way, Corvus shared,
we should allow her to attack us and feel bad for defending ourselves? For
attacking her back adequately enough that she’ll think twice about bothering us
again?”
            “No,” Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation. “I didn’t say
that, I just-”
            “You just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Tom laughed, a jagged,
cynical sound, especially coming from an eleven year old. “But that’s
impossible. We won’t change centuries of prejudice with sweet talk.”
            Thinking of various human rights movements, Hermione recalled the
pictures of beatings and brutality that those seeking to change the status quo
had faced. And how remaining non-violent, even though it was difficult and at
times heart-breaking, had been the best policy in the long run for all of those
movements.
“Well, you won’t win them over with fear, either, Tom. Making people kneel
before you will only drive fear and anger deeper, and make supposed ‘followers’
more likely to stab you in the back. Why do you think most monarchies are only
figureheads these days? We have to find a middle ground. I’ll give a little if
you will.”
            Tom looked amused now. “Give a little? What do you suggest?”
            Hermione thought for a moment. “If you give up on the idea of
people kneeling before you, and if you will promise only to attack those who
are trying to harm us, I will promise to continue helping you with wandless
magic, and to help you achieve your goals, so long as they fall short of world
domination.”
            He raised an eyebrow, interested. “What about financial
domination?”
            “As long as any workers in businesses you may own are treated
fairly, fine,” Hermione replied.
            “And what if I want to go into politics and change laws that
benefit only Purebloods and restrict the rights of others?” Tom queried.
            Hermione nodded. “As long as your political policies do not go so
far that they start to leave Purebloods without rights, then I agree to help.”
            Tom snorted. “So, you agree to help me as long as you agree to help
me? Hermione, for someone who wants to meet me half-way, you aren’t giving much
ground.”
            She groaned in frustration. “You have no idea what you are talking
about! I am more than meeting you! Just because I don’t want to go on a
sadistic reign of terror and leave all of the people who disagree with me
crying in pain at my feet -”
            “No,” Tom broke in, grinning. “You want them unconscious at your
feet, their wands tossed far away, with no hope of mercy unless you yourself
choose to give it. I watched you this afternoon. You were the Angel of Death
again, holding Sagitta Black’s life in your hands.”
            “What?” she asked horrified. Was that how he had interpreted her
actions?
            “If I offered to only fight with defensive spells, to do everything
you asked any time we were attacked for the rest of the year, how long do you
think it would be before you broke your own rules, Hermione?” Tom laughed, his
handsome face even more handsome in the expression of genuine amusement. “Your
brain might have high, civilized ideals, but your magic is untamed, and it
fights like a wild creature.”
            Hermione didn’t answer that statement, because they had arrived at
Narcissa’s quarters, and she was glad. Tom was insightful, and she needed to
process what he’d said before she answered.
-oOo0oOo-   
            Tom was still grinning as he opened the door, though his face fell
a bit when he saw Professor Merrythought sitting beside Narcissa on the couch
by the fire. Their hands were not quite touching, but he could see the flow of
their magic around them, swirling together. He had suspected something was
going on between the two women, which honestly, was a little surprising – two
women? Was that something that happened in the magical world? But the entwined
magic he could see at their edges told him they must be soul mates, too.
            He didn’t really care other than to be sure that Professor
Merrythought did not disrupt the family balance he had come to enjoy and expect
with the Bonneau ladies. Professor Merrythought was the Head of Ravenclaw, and
a powerful witch, so he was content for the moment to withhold judgment.
           Hermione was quiet, and Tom knew she was thinking about what he had
said. She thought too much, at times. His soul mate’s overactive conscience was
further proof to him that having one was a burden. If she would just allow her
magic to flow instinctively, she would be unstoppable. One day, he would
convince her of that. She wanted the world to be fair, which was an insane,
childish idea. He wondered how she reconciled that desire with her brilliant
mind. It would be easy to lie to her, to simply keep his dabblings into topics
and behaviors she didn’t approve of hidden, but he didn’t want to lie to her.
That was a new experience for him, the urge to share his thoughts.
              He’d shared them with her a week ago, when she’d asked if he
liked making others fear him. To anyone else, he would have denied it, come up
with a charming lie. But to her, to his soul mate, he’d spoken the truth. She’d
reacted with indignant defiance, and he had been confused. He didn’t want her
to kneel. They were a pair, a matched set, and she was the only person on his
plane. She didn’t believe that yet, but she would. She might not understand
herself completely, or want to accept her darker side, but there was no doubt
she had one.
             Narcissa greeted them and they politely said hello to Professor
Merrythought as well.
            “Professor Merrythought has invited us to spend the holidays at her
estate in Surrey. It will be quieter than the Rosier house, and I thought you
two might like the chance to have a peaceful break, given the tension we’ve had
here, and the events of this afternoon,” Narcissa said.
             Hermione questioningly looked at Professor Merrythought who
replied, “Yes, all the staff knows about the little hallway skirmish, though
the details are thin because no one is saying anything. Since everyone is fine
and no truly dark spells were used, I believe a blind eye will be turned, but I
would not expect that to continue into the new year. Headmaster Dippet may be
ancient, but he is savvy, and he will not allow the halls to turn into battle
zones.”
             “I’m worried about Corvus,” Hermione blurted out. “Sagitta said
she was going to have their parents disown him, and that is something the
Blacks are known for doing.”
            Tom had been thinking about that threat as well, and wondering
about how the time at home might affect several members of his group.
            “We can’t do anything about that in advance,” Narcissa said evenly.
“But if he comes to us, we can certainly help him.”
            Hermione seemed pleased with that response, but Tom continued to
think about the problem of the holiday break all through the rest of the
conversation, and even when he walked back to the dormitory.
            The Slytherin common room was full, students lounging and talking
and making plans to visit one another during the break. When Tom entered,
silence fell. He noticed Marguerite and Abraxas and the others sitting in a
corner, talking intently. He ignored the stares and walked over to them.
            “Hello, everyone,” he smiled, his charm fully in place.
            “Hello, Tom,” Thad said, before Marguerite nudged him in the ribs.
“What? He said ‘hello.’”
            The rest of the first years were silent, waiting for Tom to speak.
He decided praise was the best opening. “All of you did an excellent job this
afternoon. I have heard from Professor Merrythought that no further questions
will be asked about the incident, and, of course, I trust your personal
discretion.”
            They nodded and Tom quickly cast the muffliato spell Hermione had
taught him once they had started the group work. “That said, things are not
over, and many of you have to spend time at home for the next few weeks where
you may be raked over the coals about your connection with me and the things
I’ve said about blood status.”
            Abraxas and Marguerite both looked pained and Corvus looked
terrified, but defiant. “Let me ease your minds,” Tom turned up the charm,
working to make them feel invested in what he was saying.
            “I will never ask you to be anything except the Slytherins you are.
If you need to recant, lie, or beat siblings into submission to get through the
holiday break, then do so. We will pick up where we left off in the new year,
but do not feel the need to defend me to your parents. I suspect many of them
will believe there is no defense for me. And that is fine. The time will come
when the whole wizarding world will see how powerful we’ve become. But we have
to get through the next six years first.”
            He could see from the relief on the others’ faces that he had said
the right thing. Despite the disconcerting fact that Hermione was able to see
through his motives, no one else could. They saw what he wanted them to see.
            “Are you coming to Rosier Manor?” Marguerite asked, her eyes
worried though her voice betrayed nothing.
            “No, Hermione and Lady Bonneau and I have other plans for the
holidays, though we may see you at some point over the break,” he answered non-
committedly.
             After that, the conversation lapsed into everyone’s plans and what
they hoped to get for Christmas, and Tom listened because he believed it was
important to keep track of what his followers desired, but he was wondering
what in the world a Christmas outside of Wool’s Orphanage would be like.
***** Tom's First Christmas *****
Chapter Summary
     Holidays with the ladies and Tom. There are philosophical
     discussions, hunts for gifts, and some horcrux cameos. I have no
     excuse for the sappy sentiment. Tom and Hermione just want to give
     each other the best! I love these crazy kids.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry about the long delay. I've been dealing with final exams and I
     have a stack of papers to grade as I speak, but I just enjoy writing
     this story so much that I can't keep away too long. So...a reader
     pointed out that it really wasn't possible for Narcissa to self-
     identify as a Slytherin, and I laughed out loud because it's such a
     glaring mistake and I totally dropped the ball on that bit of
     continuity. I will fix it at some point, but for now, let's just
     pretend all mentions of being Slytherin were only in Narcissa's head
     or to Hermione.
     After this chapter, expect a fast-forward to year five (1942-1943
     school year).
     love to you all
 
          
             The Merrythought estate was definitely on a more humble scale than
the Rosier residence – more the home of a country squire as opposed to a lord,
but it was well-made and well-cared for, with four constantly smiling house
elves who wore sparkling white togas with blue trim and fawned over the guests
to the point that Tom began to contemplate violence.
            Hermione, of course, sensed this, and as he came down the stairs on
the second morning of the break, he watched from around the corner as she spoke
to all four elves in a kind, firm voice.
            “Tom,” she began.
            “Oh, the young master!” The oldest one squeaked. Tom thought it was
the oldest, at least, and probably a male, from the amount of hair that
sprouted from its ears, but he couldn’t be sure. “Such a handsome one! So
charming!”
            Well, Tom, thought, at least the elf had good taste.
            “Yes, he is very handsome,” Hermione agreed, and Tom smiled in the
shadowed stairwell, strangely happy to have her compliment, though that was
ridiculous, because he knew he was handsome. It was simply a fact.
            “He is telling Olive not to be picking up his clothes!” A less-
wrinkled, more feminine-looking one nearly wailed. “I needs to! I needs to make
the guest room nice!”
            “I know,” Hermione soothed softly. When she wasn’t yelling at him,
she had a very lovely, calming voice, he thought. “But Tom was not raised in
the magical world.”
            “Like our Mistress!” The third one, who was completely androgynous,
as far as Tom could tell, said. “We serve our new Mistress just as well! Our
new Mistress Merrythought is so kind! She was trying to sets us free at first,
but when we was so upsets, she is letting us stay!”
            Hermione’s expression was pained. Tom bit back a laugh. From what
he knew of Hermione, and the little he’d experienced of house elves at the
Rosiers, Hogwarts, and now here, he knew it must be killing her to have
servants who were basically willing slaves. There was no way she’d be able to
wrap her mind around that.
            “Professor Merrythought is an excellent person, I know. And I’m
sure she only wants you to all be very happy,” Hermione bit out grudgingly.
“But back to the subject of Tom, well, I think it would be best if you only
came to him if he specifically calls for you. He simply isn’t used to the level
of attention you so kindly provide.”
            “But what abouts the clothes?” the one named Olive wrung her hands.
            Hermione patted her stick-thin arm with a delicate touch. “Well,
just pick up his clothes when he isn’t in his room, and make sure not to bother
his books or paperwork. I suspect he’d be more touchy about those things than
his clothes.”
            She suspected right, Tom thought darkly. He didn’t like anyone to
touch his books. The elves agreed and popped away, and Tom waited a moment,
then walked down the rest of the stairs.
            “Oh, Tom,” Hermione smiled broadly, and he noticed how much more
relaxed she was when they weren’t at school, when it was just the two of them.
“I was thinking of going sledding down the large hill at the back of the
property. What do you say?”
            “I’ve never been sledding,” he responded slowly, not sure if he
wanted to or not.
             “Well, it’s great fun,” she replied, taking his hand, and as he
knew that she knew, it was difficult to refuse her when they were touching.
“Come with me. The sun is shining, the snow is perfect, and you’ll love it.”
              He acquiesced, and soon found himself bundled in a scarf, hat,
and gloves, trudging up a steep hill dragging a battered sled. Professor
Merrythought’s home had many plain, muggle objects, and that strangely made Tom
feel more comfortable there. Not every thing was a mystery, though he quickly
learned that many of the muggle objects had been enchanted and did unexpected
things, like the towel rack in his bathroom which had tried to dry him off when
he got out of the shower. There was regular pen and paper in the library
though, and Tom reveled in the convenience of being able to write notes without
unfurling parchment or dripping ink.
               When he reached the top of the hill, he was a bit out of breath,
and he saw Hermione was as well, though she was smiling nonetheless. “Ready?”
she grinned, and threw herself belly down on the sled and took off.
                He quickly followed, though seated properly, and used the guide
ropes to try to catch up with her. It was close, but she came out ahead, and
then it was a true competition, and neither of them could be pulled away. They
went up and down the hill countless times, getting thoroughly soaked from
crashing and landing in the snow, and standing covered in said snow while
disputing loudly who had won each and every race.
               Tom had no idea how much time passed, but the sun was almost
gone from the sky when Professor Merrythought came out, waving her wand and
vanishing the sleds.
                “I think that solves that argument,” she said with her crooked
grin. “We’ll call it a draw.” Then, she swished her wand again and dried both
of their soaked hats, scarves and coats. “I can see your competitive nature
extends beyond the classroom. Popsy made hot chocolate. Come inside and warm
up.”
                Hermione laughed and took his hand, and Tom went quietly,
mostly because he was still mentally tallying his racing wins. It was nice to
be inside the warm house, and the hot chocolate was excellent, as was the
dinner that followed.
                 After dinner, they all sat in the library and Tom watched from
under his eyelashes at the women around him. Professor Merrythought was sitting
at a desk in the back of the room, studying the pieces of a dismantled clock in
front of her.   Narcissa was on the sofa, reading a muggle book on healing
herbs that Professor Merrythought had handed her as they had entered the room,
looking up every so often to ask a question or make a comment. Hermione was
stretched out on her stomach in front of the fire, as she had been on the sled,
looking at a catalogue for a magical bookstore, occasionally circling a title.
Tom was in a chair by the fire, his feet near Hermione’s head. Damballa was
draped across his shoulders, and, to his annoyance, Khethiwe was in his lap,
purring and kneading her claws into his legs while he tried to read a book on
magical laws.
                 He wasn’t really paying much attention to the book, though not
because of the stupid cat. The scene before him was so normal, so peaceful, and
even though Tom didn’t need a family, this was certainly pleasant. He liked
being around intelligent people in comfortable settings, and this definitely
qualified.
                “Tom, Hermione,” Professor Merrythought called. “I think you’ll
find this interesting.”
                 They both stood and came over to desk. As they got closer, Tom
felt something tug at his magic, like a magnet.
                 “Is this clock cursed?” Hermione breathed, keeping her hands
firmly at her sides, not touching the desk. At her words, Tom copied her
posture.
                 Professor Merrythought nodded. “Yes, it was a clock I found in
Hogwarts, and as far as Professor Dumbledore and I can tell, it’s a few hundred
years old, and when it strikes the hour, anyone who hears the chimes will fall
asleep then and there.”
                 “Why?” Tom asked.
                 “Why does anyone curse any object?” she shrugged. “Probably to
keep a rival from getting somewhere on time, one Quidditch team sending it to
another House to make them miss practice or a game, though it could have simply
been to cause general mayhem. A lot of low-level curses like these are simply
pranks that are a bit too powerful.”
                   Tom leaned forward carefully, looking at the springs, cogs,
and hands on the desk. The magic emanating from them felt different from that
which came from the enchanted objects he had become accustomed to. It had a
slower, lower energy, more like a coiled snake waiting to strike than the happy
bustle of floating cups or teapots, and Tom found its vibration familiar, akin
to his own natural magic.
                    “Are you a curse breaker, too?” Hermione had moved a bit
closer to him, and he could feel her magic extending outward in a protective
fashion across both of them. He held back a grin at her instinctive defense.
She thought she was so in control, his soul mate, but under her civilized
exterior, her magic was wild and ferocious, and prepared to retaliate against
any perceived threat before she was even fully aware of it.
                     Professor Merrythought lifted the clock face, which was
detached from the rest. “I can break many curses, but I don’t specialize in
them. I studied more general disenchantments and counter-spell work. Most
cursed objects were magical to begin with, so identifying the underlying magic
can sometimes undo the curse without the need for further work.”
                    Tom was fascinated now. “How do you undo a curse?”
                    “Very carefully,” Professor Merrythought laughed, then
walked them through the preventative steps she had already performed. “Now,
this bit is very theoretical, but you two are brilliant, so I’m confident
you’ll follow. Do you think magic is a living energy?”
                   “Yes,” Tom and Hermione answered at the same time.
                   “I agree,” the professor said. “And so do many theorists,
though it hasn’t been proven,”
                  “Well, magic is never proven like a scientific theory,”
Hermione said, her tone annoyed. “I don’t see why not – it makes sense to have
a rigorous method for testing theories.”
                   Tom nodded, thinking that many of the advanced texts on
magic he’d read didn’t really discuss whyor howmagic worked.
                  “So true, Hermione,” Professor Merrythought seemed to share
their frustration, and he thought once again that muggleborns, or half-bloods
stood the best chance of making exciting magical discoveries, simply because
they didn’t take magical knowledge for granted. “Now, if we accept that magic
is a living energy, then can we go a step further and say that magic is
intelligent?”
                  Hermione pondered the question, her lips pursed. Tom thought
of the way his magic flowed through him when he was angry or upset, often
knowing what he wanted or needed to do before he did.
                  Tom spoke slowly, reasoning as he did. “I believe so, but to
know for sure, don’t we need to know where magic comes from?”
                  “Right,” Hermione picked up on his thought, “if it comes from
somewhere inside the witch or wizard, then it is only as intelligent as the
person fueling or wielding it. But if it comes from some outside source, then,
yes…I think it does have some type of intelligence, though not necessarily a
human definition of intelligence – something greater?”
                 Her last statement was more of a question, and Tom scoffed
lightly. “Greater? Like magic is from God?”
                 Hermione shook her head, clearly knowing Tom well enough not
to take offense. “No, not God, exactly. Maybe love and hate? Life and death?
All the energy that dissipates when matter is transformed? Is magic what
happens in the space of transformation, since matter and energy can neither be
created nor destroyed?”
                 “I think you are on the right track,” Professor Merrythought
mused, lightly moving her wand, and floating the clock face and hands into the
air. “Let’s say that magic is intelligent, that it comes from some source
outside of us, whatever we want to call it. If it is intelligent, how can we
use it?”
                “It must submit to us,” Tom readily supplied. “We have to
control it.”
                 Professor Merrythought raised an eyebrow. “A telling choice of
words, Tom. You can control magic to a certain point, but brute force of will
isn’t always the solution.”
                “What about tricking it?” Hermione was staring at the clock
hands, hanging like tiny daggers in the air. “Simply because it is intelligent
doesn’t mean it has infinite intelligence – we could be smarter and fool it.”
                 Tom smirked at Hermione’s rather Slytherin response.
                “Both right,” the professor said, and spoke a few words that
caused the various parts of the clock to glow different colors. Most of the
pieces were a pale yellow, like weak sunlight, but the face plate, the hands,
and a chiming mechanism were a blood red color.
                “These pieces,” she pointed to the red ones, “are infused with
a curse. Under the curse is the original enchantment, which is now lying
dormant. We must make the curse believe it has done its job. Once a curse has
‘sprung’ if you will, it has used up most of its energy and is weakened. It
must be renewed before striking again. In this instance, the clock strikes on
the hour. After it thinks it has chimed, that is when I can most easily destroy
the curse by transforming it into a different kind of magic.”
                  She manipulated the chiming device with magic, and whispered
a silencio over the parts. “Just in case,” she grinned, then as the mechanical
pieces began to vibrate, she cast several quick spells over it.
                 Tom watched, fascinated, as the red pieces glowed more
brightly for a few seconds, then faded and become the same pale yellow as the
other parts of the clock.
                 “How?” Hermione breathed, her gaze focused on clock as well.
Tom could almost see her brain furiously working through theories.
                 “Well, just as you said, one can’t really create or destroy
magic. It is, I firmly believe, subject to the laws of energy and matter as
laid out by muggle scientists and philosophers. However, there must be ways to
transform magic between the various distinct classifications of how it is
expressed.” Merrythought offered the clock face to Tom, and he held it in his
hand, feeling only a gentle quiet magic emanating from it now.
                  Hermione chewed on her lower lip. “So, all magic, is at its
core, an act of transfiguration.”
                 “At an even more basic level, it is an act of communication,”
Narcissa had come to stand behind Tom. She smelled like expensive flowers, the
type that only bloomed in carefully tended greenhouses. “The magic that is a
part of you, that you channel naturally, works with the free-floating magic
that is everywhere.”
                 After a long discussion on the nature of magic, which was more
interesting than any of his classes so far, they all retired to bed. Tom lay
awake on the soft mattress, thinking of how marvelous it would be if he could
pull in the free-floating magic, make it part of his permanent magical
signature. He longed to try his hand at cursing something, then try to undo the
curse, just to see how it worked. Of course, there was the stupid rule about
not doing magic outside of Hogwarts, which made Tom’s skin physically itch with
the need to release magic. How could he have magic, know it, and not use it?
                 Over the next few days, no matter what she said about
following the rules, it was obvious Hermione felt the same way. She was
constantly trying to distract him with activities, probably because she was
well aware that he was dying to do magic. Narcissa seemed to know this, too,
because she arranged for several day trips, taking them to Diagon Alley for
shopping two days in a row, then sending them with Professor Merrythought to
muggle London so that she could shop alone.
                 He enjoyed the day in London, marveling at what a difference
it made to have money. Professor Merrythought had no trouble navigating
downtown London, and she took him and Hermione to the National Gallery,
Harrod’s, and several bookstores, stopping for a lavish afternoon tea that
probably cost more than what was allotted for an individual orphan’s keep for
several months.
                 Narcissa had given Tom and Hermione wizarding and muggle money
during the trip to Diagon Alley and Tom spent quite a while carefully selecting
gifts in both locations. Having money of any kind was highly addictive, and Tom
vowed to himself that he would never go without it again. With the help of the
house elves, who were much more tolerable when they weren’t hovering over him,
he got a list of Professor Merrythought’s books, and managed to find a few
titles he thought would interest her. For Narcissa, he ordered a magical herb
collection set, which came with several pairs of scissors made of bronze,
silver, and bone, and were enchanted to glow in different colors when it was
time to harvest particular plants. Because she had been very keen on the muggle
book Merrythought had given her, Tom also bought Narcissa a botany text from
one of the bookstores in London.
                 Hermione’s gift plagued him. Of course books were always an
appropriate item, but she went through them so quickly. She would love a book,
but she’d be on to another one within a week or two. And, he had gotten her
books for her birthday. He bought her a few volumes on magical theory and one
on muggle chemistry, but he needed to get her something else as well, something
different. The stores he visited were full of possibilities, but none of them
were quite right.
                  It wasn’t until he’d wandered off from the others in Diagon
Alley that he’d found that something. A twisted, dark lane had veered off into
the shadows, giving a markedly different atmosphere than the well-lit and
cheery stores on the main road. A smudgy sign that was barely legible seemed to
read “Knockturn” something. Tom strode down the road, and stopped in front of a
mullioned window display. Borgin and Burkes was the name above the door, and
Tom entered without a second thought. He could feel old magic here, magic that
wasn’t particularly nice, and it called to him.
                 Not everything in the store was infused with dark magic, but
Tom was sure that a hefty majority of the items would be banned from Hogwarts.
Despite this, Tom was intrigued. What happened to the magic stored in these
items before it was triggered? It was lying in wait, and he pondered whether or
not he could steal it, transfer that magic to himself without activating curses
or other unpleasant side effects.   A place like this was practically a
repository of magic, there for the taking, if one were clever enough to do so.
                 “Can I help you?” A cadaver thin man had appeared at Tom’s
elbow, seemingly out of nowhere. He appraised Tom’s expensive outer robes,
shoes, and Tom’s handsome features. Tom saw the exact moment when the man
decided it wouldn’t do to simply hurry him out of the store like the average
unaccompanied minor.
                 “I’m looking for a unique gift,” Tom said evenly, the weight
of his intelligence and the heavy purse in his pocket behind his words.
                 The man’s smile was more of a gash in his face than anything
one would wish to see. It didn’t phase Tom at all. “For a friend or….”
                Enemy was the unspoken word that hung in the air. Of course
this was a place where one would shop for an enemy.   Tom smiled, and it was
charming, even to the cadaver man. “A very, very close friend. My cousin. She
is my age, but very mature.”
               “Women of all ages do love jewelry,” the man suggested
offhandedly, pointing to a few glass cabinets that were softly lit on the
inside with light reflected off of various stones and gems.
                Tom wasn’t sure that was true, but he glanced at the case.
Jewelry was a traditional gift, and it bespoke of power and money. Most of the
pieces were boring – pretty enough, but not unique enough for his soul mate.
There was one item, though, a delicate necklace made of tiny links of silver
and green and blue stones carved into the shape of scarabs, that caught his
attention.
                 The man followed his gaze and frowned. “That piece doesn’t
really belong there – it’s Egyptian, designed a thousand years ago to put on
someone considered property – someone the owner didn’t want to be touched. The
scarabs represent eternity and life’s mystery, but the hex on it is rather
strong. If a person not the giver touches the wearer, that person’s hands burn
and swell.”
                 Tom rather liked the idea of anyone who touched Hermione
getting burned, but then he thought of Patience, of how she nearly always had
an arm linked through Hermione’s. He often thought of Patience like another
Khethiwe, an annoying pet of Hermione’s that he had to tolerate. It wouldn’t do
to hurt her. Still, the necklace exuded power, and he wanted it, to experiment
on when he returned to Hogwarts.
                 “I’ll take it, but I still need something else,” Tom said.
Moving away from the glass case, he went up and down the crowded rows of
shelving. As he walked, he heard a faint whispering. It was in parseltongue,
and it was saying “yours, Heir of Slytherin.” The cadaver man was following
him, and Tom schooled his face to be neutral, though his magic was buzzing.
Toward the back of a dead-end aisle, he encountered another glass case. This
case was only sparsely filled, but on the middle shelf, nestled in a bed of
wrinkled black velvet, was an octagonal golden locket, with glittering emeralds
creating a shape that was both the sinuous curve of the letter “s” and a snake
across its front.
                 He knew the locket was his by right, but he also knew the
cadaver man was crafty, though he did not appear to be able to hear the
locket's hissing. Tom did not allow his eyes to fall on the locket for long.
Instead, he looked at the item beside it, a cloisonné pin shaped like a fleur
de lis.
                 Tom pointed at the pin. “My cousin was born in France. She
might fancy that pin.”
                 The cadaver man’s jaw muscle twitched in what was probably
amusement. “You seem to have a talent for selecting cursed objects, young man.
That pin will make the wearer forget any events that have happened in the last
year.”  
                 With a sigh that Tom injected just the right amount of
annoyance into, he pointed at the locket beside it. “What about the locket – is
it cursed, too?”
                 “No,” the man bit out the words, clearly insulted. “It is
simply an old locket, probably owned by a member of Slytherin house. Is your
cousin in Slytherin?”
                 “Yes,” Tom lied. He gave another glance at the locket, but
kept his tone and expression casual. “I’ll take it, too.”
                 Reaching past Tom, the man plucked out the locket. “Is that
all, then?”
                 Tom looked around the store for a full minute more, then
nodded. “For now,” he replied easily. He followed the man to the front counter
and had just completed the transaction, paying what he was sure was too much,
but feeling generous enough not to argue, when the door opened and Narcissa
walked in.
                “Tom,” she said, her face a mirror of his own perfectly even
expression. Her cheeks were a bit reddened from the cold weather, but she still
looked regal. “We were not sure where you had gone.”
                It was simply a statement of fact, no reproach, but Tom felt
vaguely uncomfortable at the idea that Hermione and Narcissa may have been
worried. “I’m sorry,” he said easily, having learned long ago that the
important thing about apologies was their statement aloud, not whether one
actually meant them. “I was getting a few last minute gifts for Hermione.”
                Narcissa raised one delicate eyebrow that said, here? “Well, if
your shopping is completed, we should be getting back to the others.”
                “Madam,” the cadaver man injected quietly, all subservience. “I
do feel I should inform you that nothing purchased here is returnable, and we
are not liable for an improperly handled merchandise.”
                Tom smiled broadly at the withering, haughty glare that
transformed Narcissa’s beautiful face to that of an angry Queen.
                “My ward is perfectly capable of handling magical objects, and
our family could purchase this entire store without blinking, so there is no
need to worry your likely faulty objects will be brought back. You would do
well to remember your place, sir.”
                “My apologies, Madam,” he murmured, his skull-like head bowed.
                 Tom offered Narcissa his arm, and they left, Narcissa’s skirts
swishing and Tom’s boots clicking. They had only walked a few yards before his
guardian spoke to him in her normal, soft tone.
                 “Knockturn Alley is not a place where underage wizards or
witches generally go unaccompanied, though Borgin and Burkes is probably the
least objectionable of its stores. What did you purchase?”
                 Ever since their discussion in the Hospital Wing, Tom had not
felt the need to lie to Narcissa. She supported him, recognized his talent, and
didn’t seem phased by anything he did. Perhaps it was because she was the
mother of a very complicated, talented child herself, and because Tom was that
child’s soul mate. Regardless, he answered her without hesitation.
                “A cursed Egyptian necklace for practice at undoing the curse,”
Tom said, then added, “When I get back to Hogwarts.”
                “Breaking curses is a difficult, tricky business,” Narcissa
replied. “You will need to proceed slowly and cautiously, and never alone. Make
sure Hermione is there with you, in case you need to get help, if something
goes wrong.”
                “The curse isn’t that powerful – it causes burning and pain in
the hands if a person not the owner touches it, but it isn’t deadly,” Tom used
his reassuring voice.
                “Don’t trust everything a salesman says,” Narcissa warned. “Is
the item wrapped?”
                “Yes,” Tom nodded.
               “Then promise me not to touch it with your bare hands until I’ve
run a few diagnostics on it, please,” Narcissa tightened her hold on his arm as
they went over a patch of slick cobblestones.
                 Narcissa’s request was perfectly reasonable, Tom thought, and
she hadn’t forbade him from working with the necklace, only asked that she look
it over as a precaution. “Fine,” Tom allowed, even though he didn’t like to be
hindered in any way.
                “What was the other item, the gift for Hermione?” Narcissa
asked curiously.
                 Tom smiled widely, his face handsome even when smug. “It is a
surprise, but I promise it is safe.”
                 “How do you know that it is safe?” Narcissa continued, and Tom
was annoyed, though he knew she was only motivated by concern for Hermione.
                 “It spoke to me, in parseltongue,” Tom said with finality in
his tone. “And I can feel its energy. It’s meant to be mine.”
                 As soon as he said the words, he realized his error – that he
had identified the item as his, but had also told Narcissa that he was giving
to Hermione, which was as good as saying out loud that he considered Hermione
his as well. However, Narcissa made no comment on this, and Tom once again
appreciated the older woman’s excellent sense of discretion.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
                 On Christmas morning, Hermione woke early, went downstairs and
found Narcissa at the breakfast table. She was sipping tea and had the small
vial of sunshine yellow potion already prepared for Hermione to take.
                 “You’re up early,” Hermione smiled as she drank the potion.
                 “I thought it would be nice to have a few moments alone,”
Narcissa poured Hermione a cup of tea as well.
                 Hermione nodded eagerly. Professor Merrythought’s estate was a
peaceful, happy place to visit, but they hadn’t had much time to converse
alone. “What happened with Tom yesterday? Was he down Knockturn Alley?”
                “Yes, and he bought a cursed Egyptian necklace from Borgin and
Burkes,” Narcissa sighed. “He wants to try to break the curse on it, he says.”
                Hermione shook her head. “He might consider that an interesting
project, but he wants more than that. I’m sure he’s going to try to figure out
a way to absorb the unused power from the curse.”
                Narcissa smiled. “Well, I wish him luck. He certainly isn’t the
first to think of that, to have these types of theories, but no one has done
such a thing. Tom is one of the most brilliant wizards I’ve met, but there are
limits to everyone.”
                 “I hope so,” Hermione slowly sipped at her tea, trying to
avoid burning her tongue. The tea here was always a bit too hot. She reached
for the cream to cool it down some. “But I have the feeling that what Tom puts
his mind to, he’ll accomplish eventually.”
                  “I simply can’t imagine how it would work – trying to amass
more magical power in one’s body…people aren’t hollow –they can’t simply be
‘filled’ up with additional magic. The magic that goes into enchanting objects
is different,” Narcissa absently traced her finger on the flower design on the
tablecloth as she thought aloud.
                 Hermione took another drink of tea, relieved that the cream
had made it a drinkable temperature. “But Tom is aiming to transform the
magical energy, to make it compatible with the magic inside himself.”
                “Still, it would require his body to host more magic than it
was accustomed to,” Narcissa pointed out. “He would most likely burn himself
out – overload his physical self.”
                “Since when has Tom cared about his physical body?” Hermione
snapped, then caught the reproving look from Narcissa and bit her lip. This Tom
hadn’t done anything to his body, had sliced away pieces of his soul, she
reminded herself. It was her job to help make sure that he didn’t.
                 Narcissa tucked a lock of her hair, which was loose for once,
behind her ear. “Let us speak of more pleasant things. It is Tom’s first
Christmas. What did you get him?”
                 Hermione couldn’t help the grin that formed on her face.
Despite her gripping a few moments ago, she had been enjoying her time with Tom
on break. He had been amazingly tolerant and good-natured, though Hermione
suspected much of that was because he wanted to be distracted from his
inability to do any magic. They’d had a lovely trip to London, and his
continued, easy acceptance of muggle travel, art, food, and the great crush of
holiday crowds while at the museum and shopping had warmed her heart. He simply
hadn’t blinked. He had enjoyed going to the muggle bookstores, and had even
dragged Hermione to see his favorite painting in the National Gallery, one of
the Goddess Diana walking through a green wood, her bow in her hand, quiver
slung across her back, all manner of woodland creatures following her. It
seemed an odd choice for his favorite, but she’d loved it immediately, too.
                 He had been very tolerant of the house elves, once they had
given him a bit of space, and he didn’t treat them rudely or with disdain. She
didn’t think he thought of them as equals, but she had time to work on him.
                The four of them had gone shopping in Diagon Alley a few
separate times, and Hermione had also looked at numerous wizard store
catalogues, trying to find the perfect gift for Tom. He was not easy to shop
for. Of course he was interested in all kinds of books on magic, but Narcissa
had given him the best of everything as far as clothing and school supplies,
and had also given him permission to order additional things he needed or
wanted, so he had his small but growing library of books, and plenty of nice
parchment, inks, and quills. She had a suspicion that Narcissa had gotten him a
broom for Christmas, so that was out, too. The problem was though Tom wanted
the whole world, he didn’t want many actual things in it. He longed for gifts
Hermione couldn’t give: knowledge and power.
               Even though she put no stock in divination, she knew from Harry
and the future Dumbledore that Voldemort had been interested in it, so she
ordered a set of texts with the most sensible explanations of the various
branches of divination for Tom, even though they wouldn’t start those classes
until third year, or in Hermione’s case, not at all. In Harrod’s, she purchased
him a lovely set of jade cufflinks and a tie tack made from an excavated Trojan
coin, remembering what her father used to say about all men needing a good set
of cufflinks and at least one tie pin.
               The final gift, she’d found in a crowded shop in Diagon Alley,
more of a flea market than a proper store. It sold a bit of everything, from
small housewares to knick knacks to a tiny selection of premade potions for
minor problems like headaches or acne. Shoved on one of the many sagging
shelves was a glassy black rock the size of her fist, with a hole through the
middle about four to five centimeters in diameter. Hermione knew it was an
adder stone, and she could feel the magic coming off of it. Without access to
her magic at the moment, it was impossible to know how old the stone was, but
there was definitely magic infused in it, and she knew that the Druids who had
lived in the British isles had prized adder stones and used them for many
spells of protection and persuasion. The magic had a lovely feel to it – strong
and protective, and Hermione thought it was just the type of old, magical
object Tom would appreciate, and it was also just the type of positive, light
magic that Tom needed more of around his person. Luckily for her, the
shopkeeper didn’t seem to notice those same things, looking at Hermione in
surprise when she said she wanted to buy it. She thought that Tom could put the
object on his bedside table for an extra level of protection, which was never a
bad thing in that snakes’ nest of a dungeon at Hogwarts.
             She listed her gifts to Narcissa who nodded approvingly. The
stairs creaked and both women went silent. Tom entered, looking perfectly put
together despite the early morning hour and the fact he was wearing striped
pajamas. Hermione tried not to stare, but Tom Riddle in pajamas was not a sight
she’d ever thought to see.
            “The elves keep popping outside my room, whispering to one another
about whether or not I am awake yet,” Tom’s mouth was twisted into a sour
expression. “I decided it was time to get up.”
             He sat beside Hermione and she poured him some tea. “They’re just
excited for Christmas.”
            “Yes, it’s been ages since they’ve had children in the house at the
holidays,” Professor Merrythought came in, her smile crooked and her men’s
pajamas paisley.  
            After everyone had managed to drink a cup of tea, Narcissa stood,
and Hermione was surprised by how excited she looked to usher everyone into the
library, where the stockings and gifts were. Her adoptive mother was grinning
ear to ear, making piles of the presents and handing the stockings to Hermione
and Tom.
            When Narcissa handed Tom the oversized sock, he was silent for a
few minutes before looking inside. This was his first Christmas, in so many
ways, she thought. For a few seconds, Hermione thought of what it must have
been like to be an orphan at Christmas, and her heart swelled with empathy for
him. As always when she was in the same room with him, she wanted to be close
to him. She had sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire, so she
gently pulled on his pant leg, and he sat down beside her. She scooted close,
their bodies touching from shoulders to bent knees, and she felt him slowly
relax as he looked in the stocking.
            Narcissa had outdone herself, and there were sweets of every kind,
enough to give her dentist parents a massive coronary. Tom unwrapped a
chocolate frog right away, but it escaped, sending both Khethiwe and Damballa
hunting after it. Hermione unwrapped one of her own and handed it to him, and
he ate it with a wide smile. She cautioned him against the every flavor beans,
but he was stubborn, and she was pretty sure he ate a boogey flavored one, even
if he wouldn’t admit it.
            There were boxes of clothing and additional lovely school supplies
of the highest qualities.  Tom did get a sleek broom, which he examined with
great interest, but not the unabashed love Harry or Ron would have shown. 
Hermione’s breath caught when she saw that Professor Merrythought had given
them both beautifully handcrafted leather diaries with thick, creamy blank
pages, black leather for Tom and sapphire blue for Hermione. She also gave them
both golden and silver fountain pens enchanted to never leak or run out of ink.
He hasn’t made a horcrux, Hermione chanted in her mind. This diary will not
become a horcrux.
            Her thoughts must have been loud, though, because Narcissa gave her
a tight smile and very subtly handed her cup of tea that smelled suspiciously
of calming draught. A few minutes later, she was relaxed again, and thrilled at
how much Tom had loved his presents. They had exchanged gifts of books, and of
course those were wonderful, but she was able to feel Tom’s excitement over the
adder stone, and his pride at the cufflinks and tie pin.
            “This is for you, too, Hermione,” he handed her a small square box.
            It was very light, and Hermione thought it must be a hairpin or a
piece of jewelry to be in such a small box.   As she unwrapped the box, Tom’s
magic surrounded her. He was very tense, and she realized that whatever was in
this box, it was very, very important to Tom that she like it. What could mean
so much to him? Besides his wand, she couldn’t think of any object that he
cared that much about.
           She pulled off the lid and managed just in time to keep herself from
hurling the box into the fire. In the green fabric lining of the box was
Salazar Slytherin’s locket. Hermione had so many horrible memories of that
damned thing, the whispers it made, the cold dread she felt when placing it
around her neck, the way it filled her with anger, how it turned her and her
two best friends against one another. It was evil.
            “I think it was in my family at some point,” Tom was saying,
lifting the locket from the box and undoing the clasp. “I think it may have
belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself; it spoke parseltongue to me in the
store; it told me that it belonged to me.”
            Hermione kept very still as Tom leaned forward and put his hands
with the ends of the locket chain around her neck, fastening the clasp at the
back of her neck and letting the locket fall to the middle of her chest on its
long chain. It’s not a horcrux. Tom has obtained this without killing anyone.
Tom is proud of it. He finally has something that is a piece of his family’s
history. I can’t reject this. Besides, if I have the locket, he can’t make a
horcrux out of it, can he?
           “Tom,” she wetted her lips and tried again. “Tom, I…this is probably
a family heirloom…you don’t have to give this to me.”
          “Hermione, you are my family, and I want you to have it,” he leaned
back, looking at her thoughtfully, then nodding his head in a pleased way. “The
golden amber color matches the flecks in your eyes.”
            She swallowed. There was no way out of this. Narcissa was in the
corner, pouring another cup of tea. Hermione was pretty sure she was going to
need it. “Thank you, Tom, I can’t tell you what this means to me.”
            He gave her a beautiful smile, looking so much like a normal boy
that Hermione was almost fooled for an instant. “Say you’ll wear it all the
time.”
            “I’ll wear it,” she promised, thinking gloomily of how often she
had already worn the necklace. “But you know at Hogwarts, it will have to be
under my sweater. I can’t wear a Slytherin locket in Ravenclaw Tower.”
           “That’s true,” Professor Merrythought laughed. “Can I see it?”
            Hermione went over and allowed Professor Merrythought to exam the
locket. The professor was fascinated, and Narcissa and Tom came over as well as
she ran diagnostics for age and spells and finally, after questioning Tom about
the parseltongue, agreed with him that the locket was very, very old. They
pulled out a few history textbooks and found illustrations of Slytherin, and he
was often depicted wearing a locket quite similar in appearance to the one now
around Hermione’s neck.
          “There’s certainly power coming off of it,” Merrythought gazed at it.
           Hermione could feel the magic as well, but, to her unparalleled
relief, it was nothing like the horcrux. Instead, it reminded her of the
ancient, deeply layered magic of the sword of Gryffindor when she had held it
in the Forest of Dean. Even though it was Slytherin’s, the energy did not come
across as inherently dark, simply complex and powerful. She forced her thoughts
about future memories of the locket as a horcrux aside and looked at Tom who
stood beside her, the pure pleasure in his smile, which was uncalculated,
unguarded.
            He had given her something he treasured, something he wanted, a
powerful magical object that was intimately tied to the family he’d never
known, tied to the prestige of his House. It was the only gift he could truly
give, the only thing he had to give. Hermione focused on that, because that was
good – that was as close to love and kindness as Tom was capable of. Filled
with emotion, she turned and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly,
the locket pressed into their diaphragms between their bodies.
             At the contact, their shared magic swirled and swelled around
them. It felt like home, and Hermione couldn’t fight it with her logical mind,
she could only close her eyes and rest her head against Tom’s shoulder. His
arms had come to close around her waist, and it was, against all odds, against
all she knew, comforting. She was hugging Tom, and she didn’t want to stop.
            “We need to get some real food in our stomachs after all that
chocolate,” Narcissa’s voice sounded nearby, and Hermione finally opened her
eyes and pulled away.
             Tom said nothing, but his eyes watched her like she was another
gift.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Six days later, Hermione had grown used to the locket and even
enjoyed the low hum of magic she could feel radiating like a second heart beat
in her chest area. Today was Tom’s birthday, and she’d gotten up early to make
him a cake. The house elves helped her and between the five of them, what had
started as plans for a simple chocolate cake with buttercream frosting had
turned into a three-layered confection decorated with tiny green marzipan
snakes and twelve silver candles.
            Narcissa had quietly issued invitations to a birthday get together
at Fortiscue’s in Diagon Alley. After ensuring that several students could be
there, she and Hermione had told Tom that they wanted to take him to Diagon
Alley for a birthday lunch, and they apparated together with Professor
Merrythought. When they walked toward the ice cream parlor, Tom laughed.
            “Ice cream? It’s snowing,” Tom shivered for effect, an easy grin
turning up the corner of his mouth.
            Hermione returned his smile. “They put hot fudge on top of the
sundaes – that’s warm.”
            He stared at the locket, the bright winter sun catching the
emeralds, making them sparkle. “I’m glad you didn’t put the locket under your
robe.”
            Of course Tom wanted the locket on her, visible in all its
Slytherin magnificence to anyone who gazed at her. It marked her as his, an
extension of him, and there was a part of her that knew in her modern, muggle
existence, that would have been unhealthy. But they were magical soul mates who
had transcended time and space and Tom had never had anything or anyone to call
his own, but now he had her. And whether he admitted or not, the gift was not
so much about claiming her as it was offering everything he had to her, which
was the opposite of possessive and selfish.
            When they entered the shop, Tom stopped just inside the door, and
though his smile widened no further, Hermione could feel from his magic that he
was happily surprised. Abraxas, Marguerite, Thad, Vidhi, and Jacob were all
there, as well as Patience, Felicity, and Josephine, and the table they had
claimed was filled with gifts.
            It was a normal birthday party for a twelve-year-old boy. They
laughed and joked and everyone noticed the locket, though only Patience
mentioned it.
            “Even though you aren’t the Heir of Slytherin, you look good in his
jewelry,” Patience twirled a toothpick with cherries impaled on it and bit one
on the end.
            Marguerite choked on her milkshake. “You think that’s Slytherin’s
locket?”
            The others stared at Hermione’s chest, and she was intensely glad
of the fact that they were all currently eleven or twelve.
            “It is,” Tom said simply. “It spoke to me in parseltongue.”
            At those words, everyone stared harder. Tom leaned close to
Hermione and spoke in parseltongue. The low hissing curled around them all, and
they watched as a group as the locket made a soft clicking sound and opened.
For a terrible instant, Hermione imagined a black cloud of evil billowing out
of the locket, but it was empty, though the inside was covered with tiny runes,
dozens of them intricately carved into the glassy golden surface.
            The runes were beautiful, but the locket did nothing more until Tom
spoke again and it closed. They all looked duly impressed, mostly because of
the use of parseltongue, rather than a locket that opened and closed magically.
            Hermione had been afraid that without magic to tie them together
that their group wouldn’t function as well, but the afternoon was like a study
session with no studying. Narcissa brought out the cake that the house elves
had delivered and the Ravenclaws teased the Slytherins over eating snake cake.
It was a scene she could have had with Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville,
with only minor modifications, and that was a surreal realization. Part of her
ached for her future-past friends, but she knew she was doing the right thing,
the only thing she could do, to make their lives better, even if she wouldn’t
be able to be in those lives.
            She had wanted to get Tom a meaningful gift, but had already used
up all her ideas at Christmas. His birthday on New Year’s Eve allowed her no
time to think up something new. She’d bought a few additional books, and an
excellent potions ingredient set that included several rare elements, but
wanted something more personal.
            When the party was over, Tom and Hermione sat in Professor
Merrythought’s library, looking over the gifts. They were mostly books, though
Patience had given him a hat covered in snake scales. Hermione laughingly put
the hat on, two strands of scaly yarn trailing down on either side of her face
to create ‘tails’.
            “Tom,” she sat beside him on the couch. She put her hand on his and
he laid down the book Marguerite had gotten him on the history of hexes.
            “Hermione,” he smirked, looking at her in the silly hat. He tugged
on one of the tails and the hat easily slid off, falling to the cushioned seat.
            “I don’t have a wonderful gift to give you, nothing that matches
the locket,” Hermione said softly.
            Tom’s eyes widened slightly. “You give me your company every day,”
he replied smoothly.
            “I would give you that any way,” she waved a hand dismissively. “My
additional gift is my promise to help you with the necklace, to help you learn
how to undo curses,”
            “You’d do that anyway too,” Tom teased. “A puzzle left unsolved
would drive you mad.”
            She found it hard to concentrate when he teased her, because he was
so adept at playing the role of charming boy that sometimes she wasn’t sure
what was real. An angry Tom was easier to accept in many ways. But Tom wasn’t
angry now, he was happy, his magic moving playfully at the edges of her own. In
these brief moments, she believed anything was possible, that she could save
the world from the monster he had the potential to become. Instinctively, she
knew that the best chance would come from fostering and strengthening their
connection, of being the conscience he didn’t have.
            Hermione twisted so that she was sideways on the couch, fully
facing him. She stared directly into his eyes, grasped both of his hands, and
said, “Tom Marvolo Riddle, I pledge to help you explore the limits of magical
abilities. I will help you to become the best wizard and person you can be.”
            Tom raised an eyebrow, “If you will be attempting to turn me into
what you deem a good person, then you have only disappointment ahead.”
            “No,” she replied immediately. “I’ll settle for as good as you can
be, and I’ll make up the difference.”
            Even white teeth, just a bit sharp, appeared as he laughed. “Well,
that seems like a deal completely in my favor. I’ll take it.”
            Hermione smiled, wondering if she’d just saved the world or
bargained it away to the devil himself.
***** The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth... *****
Chapter Summary
     It's four years later. Hermione and Tom have a relationship that
     isn't a relationship. Maybe that isn't what they actually want.
     Jealousy is all over the place, and tempers flare.
Chapter Notes
     Oh, wow. Not sure where to begin. Almost 18,000 words in two days...a
     lot of shit happens.
     Warning #1: SEX! This chapter earns the "E" in a big, big way.
     Warning #2: Underage Sex! (because if you don't think improperly
     supervised kids at Hogwarts weren't banging....well they sure are
     here.)
     Warning #3: Teenagers being horny and having little impulse control -
     there is making out/sex between more than one pairing, and maybe not
     the pairing you'd like to see.
     Warning #4: Tom IS a sociopath, and they are promiscuous pleasure
     seekers by nature. I did say at the beginning that this wouldn't be a
     romantic, good Tom. Hermione has to make some tough choices, but
     she's going in with her eyes open.
     Warning #5: The sex will definitely be toward the power exchange, D/
     s spectrum, which I think is fitting for Tom's character. You are
     warned, and I love you all!
Chapter 19
-oOo0oOo- four year later, fall of 1942-oOo0oOo-
            “Isn’t Tom Riddle the most gorgeous boy you’ve ever seen?”
            “His eyes are so blue, and his smile!”
            Hermione did not look up from her OWL study materials at these
comments. Over the past two years of school, she had become immune to the near
constant refrain of Tom Riddle worship that filled the halls, classrooms, and
dormitories, and had even penetrated the sacred walls of the library. Somewhere
between their third and fourth years, Tom had grown five inches and this past
summer, leading into their fifth year, he’d added another two inches to be
nearly six feet tall while still three months shy of turning sixteen. He’d also
become even more good looking, though that should have be impossible.
Everyone at Hogwarts who found men attractive noticed. The third and fourth
year girls were the worst offenders, like the tittering Hufflepuffs who were
currently waxing poetic on Tom’s physical features. As a prefect, Hermione
could have issued a detention for their loudness in the quiet area of the
library, but if she started giving detentions or deducting points for every
time someone went ga-ga over Tom, she’d reduce all the houses to negative
numbers and empty the halls of students.
            “Oh, here he comes! He’s coming this way!” The voices were shrill
whispers now, the girls working themselves into a frenzy.
            She had felt his magic a full minute earlier, but had continued
with her notes. Even though she’d already successfully defeated the OWL exams
in the future, she was nervous all over again, her mind inventing a million
reasons why she might fail despite her talent.   Also, obsessing on the test
kept her mind occupied. And occupied was a good thing, because her mind was
full of bitter musings and dangerous secrets.
            “Hermione,” his voice had fully deepened over the summer, and it
was melodious. Still, she didn’t look up.
            “Fine,” he said, and her notes vanished. Her head snapped up
instantly.
            “Tom!” she yelled in a whisper. “Bring those back!”
            “You know how bad I am at retrieval,” his voice was all lazy
insolence as he dropped into the chair beside her, long, graceful limbs
sprawling artfully. Hermione heard the girls in the library make a collective
sigh.
            Hermione gave him an angry glare. “You’re only bad when you want to
be.”
            He smiled, and another sigh sounded from the room. “I’m only bad
when you ignore me. I’d have thought a clever girl like you would have figured
that out by now.”
            “I’m trying to study,” she snapped. “I don’t have time for your
games.”
            “Hermione,” Tom’s cajoling tone walked like fingers up her spine,
and she used every bit of self-control to keep from shivering. She hated how
her body responded to his presence, to that new, deeper voice of his. “Those
tests aren’t for months, and you know don’t need to study for them. School
started three weeks ago, and I’ve barely seen you.”
His voice dropped even lower, and there was a hint of anger in it now. “Why are
you avoiding me?”
            She stood, because he was too close. Her whole being was on fire,
and she wasn’t ready to deal with this. “I’m not avoiding you, Tom.”
            A lovely, perfectly shaped dark eyebrow arched. “You’ve put off the
study group, and you are sitting on the other side of the room in our shared
classes,” those blue eyes matched the color of a stormy sea as he stood, too,
his body in her space, his height towering over her. “Are you wearing the
locket?”
            He didn’t wait for an answer. He whispered a modification of accio,
and the locket gently floated out of the neck of her sweater. The stormy look
passed, replaced with a smug smirk. “Of course you are.”
            “Tom, I told you I would wear it,” she stuffed the locket back down
her shirt. She had kept her promise, and hadn’t gone a single day without it
since he’d given it to her nearly four years ago.
            “Promise me you’ll be at the study group tonight after dinner,” he
reached out and tugged at one of her curls, which were standing wildly around
her head from her anger, she knew.  
            She nodded; she couldn’t keep up the pattern of the last three
weeks. “Of course,” she kept her voice neutral. “This is a challenging year
academically. I’ve simply been trying to settle in.”
            Tom eyed her suspiciously. “Well, we’ll have plenty of time to
discuss this later. I’ll see you after dinner.”
            As soon as Tom left, after another pull at her curls, she gathered
her things, realizing with relief that her notebook had reappeared amid her
papers. She practically ran to Ravenclaw tower, and locked herself in the
shared bathroom.   Tugging off her clothes, she stepped into the hottest shower
her skin could stand.
            Three weeks ago, on the train ride to Hogwarts, several things had
happened and she didn’t want to think about any of them. She and Tom had come
to King’s Cross from Galatea’s, Professor Merrythought now that school has
started again,she reminded herself, where they had spent their summer break.
Narcissa had purchased a lovely cottage in Hogsmeade at the end of their first
year, but the Bonneau Riddle clan was not often there. Hermione knew Narcissa
wanted a symbol of her independence, a place to call her own, and that was
important. She also knew that Narcissa was very much in love with her soul
mate, and that Galatea lobbied hard for the whole family to move in with her at
the Merrythought estate. The compromise was a few token days staying in
Hogsmeade during every vacation, but most time not in school was spent in
Surrey. Hermione and Tom had their own permanent rooms, though Narcissa had
long since given up the pretense of a separate bedroom there.
            Narcissa had apparated them to the King’s Cross station so they
could reconnect with their school friends before the term officially started,
though their luggage was already at the school, and they’d been running through
the halls of Hogwarts for two weeks prior when Narcissa and Professor
Merrythought had moved back into their Hogwarts quarters to prepare for the new
school year.  
            Tom had gone looking for Abraxas, and Hermione had quickly been
found by Patience, who had grown rather willowy over the summer. Though no one
in this time would understand the reference, Patience looked like a 1960s
flower child with her loose white blonde hair crowned with a daisy chain, her
dazed expression, and her colorful yellow sundress made from enough material
for a small tent. Golden fabric was everywhere and when Patience sat down
beside Hermione, the extra material settled over her lap like a blanket. They
had chosen a small compartment, really only space for their roommates, and once
Josephine and Felicity were there, the girls closed the door and shared stories
of their summer.
            Set to turn sixteen in only a few weeks, Hermione was the oldest of
the group, but all of them had fall birthdays, and would be sixteen before
Christmas. Josephine’s family was already discussing her marriage options in a
serious way, and that topic dominated the conversation. As a pureblood,
Josephine was expected to marry soon after completing Hogwarts, and pureblood
engagements were lengthy. Even though the Longbottoms were a kind family, they
still believed in duty, and continuing their magical bloodline.
            “They want me to be married by eighteen!” Josephine cried, her
pretty dark eyes filled with tears. “I want a family, I do, but I’m not even
sixteen until November! My grandma came over with a list of ten names last week
and told me to whittle it down to three likely candidates who could ‘court
me’.”
            Felicity patted Josephine’s back and sighed. “I can’t even imagine
that. My parents don’t want me to even think about boys until I’m twenty. Those
were their exact words. I think they still hope I’m going to quit this ‘weird’
magical life, train to be a nurse, and come home to Edinburgh, that I’ll marry
a nice boy from our neighborhood eventually.”
            “Is Jacob on the list?” Patience asked, her eyes gazing out the
window, unfocused on anything in particular.
            Hermione watched as Josephine’s cheeks rapidly blushed. “I’d say
that’s a yes,” she grinned. “Jacob is getting to be very handsome.”
            The shortest boy among the group for the first three years of
school, Jacob Selwyn had finally grown toward the end of last year, and his
cute, boyish face had matured greatly. He had very long lashes, was incredibly
studious for a Slytherin, quiet and a little shy, but always polite. Hermione
didn’t know about the other names on the list, but as far as picking a
pureblooded husband who wouldn’t be insane or cruel, Jacob had to be at the top
of the list.
            “No one is as handsome as Tom, though,” Patience turned her eyes
back toward the other girls.
            Her words were said in a very matter-of-fact tone, like the sky is
blue. Josephine stopped crying and laughed. “And no one knows that better than
Tom does.”
            “Do you think he gets tired of seeing that face in the mirror?”
Felicity mused. “Is he even human? Sometimes, last year, when he did magic,
especially in dueling club, I swore he was glowing.”
            Hermione was decidedly uncomfortable with discussing Tom’s
appearance. “It’s the way he’s always looked, there’s nothing different,” she
shrugged in what she hoped was a casual way.
            “Hermione, how can you be so blind?” Felicity laughed. “You have a
Greek god for your cousin – you spend all the holidays and summers with him.
How are you not in love with him like the rest of the school?”
            “I’m pretty sure love is not what the attraction is,” Hermione
responded tartly.
            Patience nodded solemnly. “Hermione’s right. You wouldn’t believe
what I heard a group of seventh year Gryffindor girls say they wanted to do to
him last year.”
            “Well,” Josephine tugged on Patience’s sleeve. “Now you have to
tell us. And don’t spare the dirty details!”
            If Hermione had thought for the first two years of school in the
past that the students seemed more innocent when it came to romance and
attraction, that notion had been sent to fiery grave of exploded hormones in
the last two years. Third year had been full of secret crushes and tears in
pillows for both Josephine and Felicity, as well as others around the school,
Hermione knew. She and Patience seemed the only ones not affected, thank
heavens.
            Last year, there had been much more active demonstration of
affection – invitations to the tea shop in Hogsmeade, hands held in the
hallways, even a few kisses for the more adventurous. And of course, there were
the illicit meetings with unsuitable partners in empty classrooms or dark
hallways that were spoken of in hushed tones. No, the students of the 1940s
might be more discrete, but they were no less ruled by their sex drives. There
were some differences, she noted. The boys were almost always the instigators
of an actual relationship in this time, though girls hinted and flirted with
their intended targets. The relationships between fifth years and older were
taken much more seriously in this time as well – when a pair was labeled a true
‘couple,’ and not just a brief flirtation or a single date to a particular
event, a future commitment of engagement was heavily implied. This was
especially true for the pureblooded students, but many half-blooded students in
sixth and seventh years had already been discussing marriage.
            The Hermione who had grown up in the 1990s found this ridiculous.
What about college? What about apprenticeships to gain the title of mastery
over a particular field of magic? Some of the girls, Ravenclaws and Gryffindors
in particular, were planning on further studies, and had mostly removed
themselves from the dating arena by publicly stating as much. It seemed, sadly,
that there were only two categories available at the moment: a girl who was
looking for her future husband at Hogwarts and who would be settling down and
having a family shortly after graduating, or a girl who only wanted a career,
and had pushed boys to the side completely. Hermione seemed to all outside eyes
to be in the second group, as she made it clear to anyone who asked that she
would be going on to advanced studies after her NEWTs, and Tom Riddle always
smiled approvingly when he heard her say this.
            Despite the beginning of romance swirling around them at Hogwarts,
Tom and Hermione’s relationship had remained the same as it had since their
first year. They were incredibly close, but they were not a couple. Even though
sixteen and seventeen year old girls who were practically women had been
throwing themselves at Tom since he had turned fourteen, he simply didn’t seem
interested. He was his normal, charming self, opening doors, giving empty
compliments, and smiling at each girl like she was the only one in the world,
but those actions had no impact on him, only the lovesick females of Hogwarts.
He was perfectly aware of his affect on others, and used it to his advantage,
but remained untouched by any such feelings himself.
            Over the holiday and summer breaks, they spent long hours reading
in Galatea’s library, walking the property while discussing magical theories,
and following the news from both the muggle and wizarding wars currently on-
going. With Tom, the pursuit of magic, of honing his abilities, was everything.
He could go all night without sleeping or pass up meals to keep on a particular
train of thought.
When thinking, and especially when doing magic, Tom preferred Hermione to be
physically close to him, in the same room, and often seated directly beside
him. Their connection had grown from all their time together, and now, Hermione
could feel in her magic when he left the house or when he was coming down the
hall toward the room she was in. This was when he was feeling neutral, of
course. When he was feeling strongly – either happy or angry, it didn’t matter
how far away he was, she felt it, too. That reminded her of Harry’s connection
with Voldemort, which made her uncomfortable, but also reminded her of her duty
to the world.
            In many ways, their relationship had solidified into more of a
brother-sister connection than anything else. During their first two years at
school, they had touched frequently – holding hands to make spells stronger,
sitting so closely their body warmth mingled through their clothing. But
somewhere over the summer before their third year, shortly before her
fourteenth birthday, Hermione had stopped reaching for him, and he also drew
back. Their magical connection was strong enough that they didn’t need to
physically touch to draw energy from one another, and that buffer of magic took
the place of physical touching.  
            It was over the fourth year Christmas break that Hermione had gone
to Narcissa and asked for additional training in occlumency. Tom had been
starting to work on legilimency, and it was only a matter of time before he
tried it on her, she knew. She made it clear that she didn’t want him to use it
on her, but speaking her boundaries meant very little when Tom viewed her like
an extra limb filled with magic he could use to strengthen and sharpen himself.
Her mind would be a playground for him to practice, and he’d do it so quietly
and carefully, she wouldn’t know until it was too late. Narcissa had agreed and
the two of them had begun evening ‘teas’ that were less about mother-daughter
bonding than about protection. Hermione was confident that she had proper
shields up for now, though she doubted they would last unless she continued her
training. To resist a person who would eventually become one of the strongest
legilimens ever known, she would need to become a master occlumens.
            It didn’t help that Tom often knew how she felt, even if he didn’t
know her exact thoughts. She had been hard at work since last spring at burying
her emotions as well. If she didn’t let her emotions boil over, she could keep
them hidden. This summer had been difficult. She was fifteen all over again,
and she was a mess. The reason she’d stopped reaching for Tom was becoming
harder and harder to hide. All the little tiffs of anger and frustration and
longing she had felt over Ron were nothing compared to how Tom made her feel.
When Tom sat close by, her heart thudded. When he smiled at her, it practically
stopped. He was her soul mate, and her body knew that. It also knew that he was
the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen. Her mind ignored her body.
Hermione had already compromised so much. She was terrified if she touched him,
or he touched her, with romantic intention, that she’d be lost, just another
one of the silly girls mindless to everything except pleasing him.
            Tom was the golden boy of the school. The study group he and
Hermione had created was hailed as a shining example of inter-house cooperation
and their members were producing astonishing magic. When the three boys who had
cursed Tom during their first year had returned after Christmas break, they had
stayed clear. There had been a few additional scuffles with Sagitta Black and
her cronies, but the hexes had all been more petty than harmful. In their third
year, after Sagitta had graduated, there was really no one to stand in his way
of being the defacto leader of Slytherin House. Even Dolohov, who had remained
neutral, had come around, and now, as he was entering his seventh year, he was
already talking about making connections in the political world that would
benefit Tom in a few years.
            Abraxas Malfoy was working on that front, too, through his father.
Even with the family motto of “Always Pure,” Gawain Malfoy seemed to agree with
Abraxas’s decision to align himself with Tom. He was descended from the House
of Gaunt, after all, and the ward to a pureblooded woman with excellent
connections, even if he did have some radical ideas about muggleborns. During
part of the summer each year since their third year, Tom had been invited to
Malfoy Manor. The two boys were a wonderfully complimentary pair – Tom’s dark
good looks and Abraxas’s pale handsomeness, Tom’s slender grace and Abraxas’s
more muscular build, carved from his place as Keeper on the Slytherin Quidditch
team. When they walked the halls of Hogwarts together, they left three-quarters
of the school enthralled. Tom was the more reserved, circumspect one, while
Abraxas was often ‘do first, think later.’ The elder Malfoy appreciated the
rise in Abraxas’s grades and magical skill that had resulted from his
friendship with Tom, and from the few times Hermione had been around Gawain,
she had the impression that he wanted to turn the duo into his own political
machine. It was amusing to her that Gawain thought he could manipulate Tom, but
Hermione had no doubt Tom had skillfully led him to that conclusion.
            On the surface, Tom was near to perfect, and most of Hogwarts saw
him that way. Hermione knew this version of Tom had to be a world of
improvement over the Tom he would have been otherwise, but though he treated
people better and inspired loyalty due to his charm and how much he helped
others to be better at their own magic, he was still a master manipulator, and
ravenous for power. He adored the dueling club, and Hermione could feel the
flare of satisfaction whenever he saw fear in the eyes of others, and even if
it was only a fleeting, oh, bloody hell, I’m about to get hit with a powerful
jinx, it was still a sadistic form of happiness that worried her.
            She had managed to keep Tom away from practicing seriously dark
magic, though they had read about everything, and had even frankly discussed
the pros and cons of horcruxes at the end of last year, though, thankfully, Tom
had seemed to approach the topic as a simple discussion of the limitations of
being truly immortal, not an actual plan of achieving said immortality. She had
jokingly suggested they become vampires if all they wanted to do was to live
forever, and he honestly seemed to give more thought to that idea than
horcruxes.
            Frighteningly, he had been more interested in the imperiuscurse
than anything else last year. Of course it appealed to his dominating nature to
have people do his bidding, but she thought she had impressed upon him how
serious the consequences of such an action would be, and he’d dropped the
topic, or had least pretended to. When she was in Ravenclaw tower for the
night, she often wondered what Tom was doing in the dungeons, and how far he
was going in a dark direction when she wasn’t there to rein him in.    
          Tom could make convincing arguments for power and darker spells, and
Hermione always felt her arguments about rightness and morality fell short,
going in one ear and out the other with Tom. He humored her and slightly teased
her by taking dark spells and modifying them to be weaker or even light,
opposite versions. Once, at the end of last year, he’d turned a stinging hex
into a tickling jinx and made her fall to the floor laughing in front of the
whole study group. She’d been so angry, she’d sent the original stinging jinx
back, and he’d laughed triumphantly through the pain of red welts covering his
skin, pleased at her angry response. He knew just how to push her to make her
act out of a dark place, and she hated that. It was like he could reach inside
her and pull out malice, and that was terrifying.
            She rose from the seat, dis-entangling herself from Patience’s
dress. “I’m going to find the trolley. Does anyone want anything?”
            They all shook their heads, and Hermione went into the corridor.
The train had pulled out over an hour ago, so most students had settled into
compartments with friends, and the hall area was empty. There was no sign of
the trolley. She walked toward the next car, and her magic shifted subtly.
            Tom was probably near, in one of the other compartments that lined
this car. She peered into the closest one, though she was at an oblique angle
and couldn’t be seen herself.
            There were only two people in the compartment, Tom and Marguerite.
As usual, Marguerite had put herself as close to Tom as she could, nearly
plastered to his side. In their first few years, Marguerite had given Tom
distance, but she’d inched closer as time passed and she wasn’t reprimanded. It
was no secret that Marguerite was in love with him, nor that Tom knew this.
            “Slughorn will put us all in his club this year, don’t you think?”
Marguerite was saying, her hands threading through her long, dark curls as if
combing them with her fingers. Her fingers casually brushed Tom’s arm as she
did so.
            Tom was focused, looking down at a book, but he made no move to
pull away from Marguerite. “Most likely,” he replied in a bored tone.
            Marguerite sighed, obviously a manufactured sound. “Well,
definitely you and your girlfriend, at least.”
            Now he looked up. His head turned to Marguerite, and Hermione
couldn’t see his expression, though she clearly heard his words, “Hermione is
not my girlfriend.”
            Hermione walked away quickly, keeping her magic pulled in as
tightly as possible, her blood chilled in a similar fashion to another train
ride, one that had featured dementors roaming the halls. She kept going until
she found a loo, then ducked inside, warded the tiny space against sound and
cried for ten minutes straight. Her tears were angry ones. She was furious, and
tears were the only outlet she had right now because she couldn’t blast Tom and
Marguerite into nothingness like she wanted to.
            Why had fate screwed her so royally? Why did she end up longing for
a soul mate who would never return normal human affection? Tom loved the power
she had, the magical boost her presence gave him, the prestige she connected
him to through her assumed identity, but he didn’t love her. He used her like
another part of his brain, his magic, but he didn’t look at her like a person,
like an independent being who needed real love and affection. She knew he
didn’t look at Marguerite that way, either, but he enjoyed her slavish
attention, the way the ancestress of his future favorite henchwoman fawned over
him and obeyed him without question.
Hermione’s rather fertile imagination began to spin all kinds of possibilities.
They probably did dark spells together in that bloody dungeon, laughing at how
naïve she was to think Tom wouldn’t do whatever the hell he wanted behind her
back. With a sinking feeling, she realized that Tom would probably sleep with
Marguerite if it afforded him any advantage. If he hadn’t already.
            She took a deep breath, ending the spiral of her thoughts. Even if
her body was fifteen, her mind was older and she was better than this. Hermione
did a few simple charms to erase the signs of her crying from her face, and
went back out into the hall.
            As she stepped out, she saw Abraxas coming her way. He bounded up
to her, all muscles and smooth smile and knowing eyes and pale blonde hair, and
the fifteen-year-old hormones inside Hermione had to appreciate his appeal.  
He had been a terrible flirt since their third year, though he never directed
those type of attentions toward Hermione. No one did. Even if no students knew
about Tom and Hermione’s status as soul mates, they all either believed she was
Tom’s girlfriend (which she clearly wasn’t, per his own words) or his beloved
cousin (as if he could love anyone), which put her off-limits to everyone. Not
a single student had expressed anything except friendly interest in her.
            “Hermione!” he said easily, familiarity born of years of close
study and magic performed together. “Jacob and I have been scouring the train
at opposite ends for the treat trolley. Marguerite asked for a bloody pumpkin
juice, and we were trying to be nice, but I’m getting tired of looking. Have
you seen it?”
            It was slightly comforting that Abraxas and Jacob had also been in
the compartment at some point, but wildly annoying that Marguerite had sent
them away to practice her wiles on Tom. There was also the crushing statement
that Tom had definitively labeled Hermione as “not his girlfriend,” repeating
itself in a loop in her head.
            “No,” Hermione shook her head, still struggling to be calm. She
felt immature and stupid to care about whether or not Tom thought of her in
that way. Maybe they were an example of rare platonic soul mates. Maybe
Hermione just wasn’t his type. Voldemort was so twisted, he and Bellatrix had
probably crucioed each other in the place of a real human connection. And if
Bellatrix had been his type, well, Marguerite was a much saner, if no less
cruel, version. If Tom was her only option for a relationship in this time, and
he didn’t want her that way, then she was doomed to be without a romantic
interest, probably for the rest of her life. And that was a horrible feeling.
            “Are you alright?” Abraxas was closer now, peering critically at
her face. “You look sad.”
             Abraxas was generally a loud and boisterous presence, bragging
loudly, flirting outrageously, but that was part of his sneaky Slytherin
nature, Hermione thought. The noise of his demeanor kept most people from
realizing how perceptive and intelligent he was beneath that exterior.
             He had come even closer, and Hermione could smell chocolate and
the polish that the Quidditch players rubbed on their brooms that reminded her
of an evergreen forest. She felt fragile, like her skin was a web of cracks
barely held together. If he pushed, she would break apart into all the
insecurities that had eaten her to a near hollow state of being.
            She didn’t understand that she was silently crying until his warm,
slightly rough hand was cupping her cheek and wiping away a stream of tears.  
His face was very near, but tilted to her ear.
            “I’d kiss you now, but he’d kill me. Or you would,” he whispered
with a grin, his breath smelling of dark chocolate and oranges.
             A laugh came out automatically, but it wasn’t a very pleasant
sound. “He would only kill you for show, not because he cared.”
            Abraxas hadn’t moved back, and when he spoke again, his lips
brushed the outer curve of her ear. “But you wouldn’t?”
            A shudder ran through her and she didn’t try to disguise it. She
was mad, and that made her especially susceptible to bad decisions. When she
was angry, her logical mind had a tendency to shut down, and emotion ruled in
its place, a wild thing driven by baser instincts. This was too serious,
though. She had to keep herself together.  
           The movement of her shiver had twisted her head to the side, and
Abraxas’s lips trailed down the line of her neck, not so much kissing as
breathing softly, barely touching, but making her whole body come alive in a
flood of feel-good chemicals. Her back went against the door to the loo, and
she fumbled at the knob, opening it and pulling him inside.
           Abraxas had a husky laugh, and it wrapped around her pelvic region
in a wonderfully pleasant way. He whispered spells of locking and sound
protection, then he bent his head and kissed her mouth.
           It had been six years since Hermione Granger, now Bonneau, had been
kissed. The last one had felt like a horrible impression of an octopus trying
to eat her face – an octopus named Cormac McLaggen. In her bed at night, when
the potion wore off, she wished she had better memories of kisses to draw upon
for her fantasies, especially two years ago, when those fantasies had started
to feature a tall, dark-haired boy with a devastating smile that rarely reached
his blue eyes.
           She knew she was falling in love with Tom, and she was fighting it.
Her loyalty, her devoted friendship, her intellectual abilities, her magical
power – those were things she could and did give him. But her heart? That felt
like the last remaining piece of Hermione Granger, the secret spot that she
could still call her own. And she was glad she had held on to it for dear life,
because it was clear Tom didn’t want her heart. Well, he probably did want it,
because he liked to own things and people completely, but he had no plans on
giving her his heart in return, so Hermione would keep it hidden, safe.
           And Abraxas Malfoy, of all people, was going to help distract her,
it seemed. He was an excellent kisser, his lips wide and smooth and soft,
exerting just the right amount of pressure and tongue, one hand wound into her
hair at the base of her neck, the other gently splayed at the base of her
spine. She returned the kiss, mirroring his movements to make up for her lack
of experience, letting the pleasurable sensations distract her. He was a
gorgeous boy, and on nights when she had been angry with Tom, he had been the
replacement fantasy material, though she had no idea before now that he wanted
her.
           After several minutes, he pulled back, looking down at her with grey
eyes stripped of his earlier, light-hearted flirtation. “Hermione,” he began,
his breath coming in pants, his hand still tangled in her hair. “I can’t
believe we just did that. I mean, I’ve wanted to do that for ages, but…”
            “He will kill you,” she sighed sadly. “I like you too much to want
you to die.”
            Abraxas’s expression was suddenly violent, an emotion she hadn’t
seen on him before, though he wore it well. “I would follow Tom to the ends of
the earth. He is going to change everything one day, and I want to be beside
him when he does. Just being near his magic, his brain, is addictive. He is the
Heir of Slytherin, and I’m happy to be his loyal knight in most every way, but
he takes you for granted, flaunts Marguerite in your face,”
            She closed her eyes. “Tell me the truth, Abraxas, please. Is he
sleeping with her?”
            He rested his head on her shoulder, still holding her close, the
strands of his pale, straight hair tickling her cheek. “Yes.”
            And just like that, Hermione knew she hadn’t kept her heart safe,
because it was breaking right now, and it was more painful than Bellatrix’s
torture. “How long?”
           “The end of last year,” his voice was hardly audible, as if volume
could affect the amount of injury she felt. “I don’t think it was very many
times,” he hastily added.
           “Does he even like her?” Hermione’s voice cracked.
           Abraxas kissed her cheek, catching her tears in his mouth. The
gesture was oddly kind and comforting, and Hermione allowed herself to cry
harder, allowed him to hold her in this intensely private and vulnerable
moment.
          “I don’t know,” Abraxas said finally. “He’s…Tom. The only person he
actually cares about is you, Hermione. But sex feels good, and it gives him
power over Marguerite, and all her connections.”
           “Yes, he’s a fucking chess master, isn’t he?” Hermione wanted to
hurt him, and that thought scared her.
            Abraxas nodded seriously. “He absolutely is, and we can’t forget
that. Marguerite is a pawn, a rook at best. You’re the Queen. You’re the one he
won’t let anything or anyone touch.”
            She grinned sadly, looking down at the arms holding her. “You’re
touching me.”
            His smile matched hers. “I clearly have no regard for my future
existence,” a tiny part of his normal, easy to laugh self had returned. “Look,
I’m his roommate. I see more than I should, and I keep my mouth shut, except
now, with you. Marguerite threw herself at him, waited half-naked in his bed.
She wants him, and what Marguerite wants, she gets.”
            “She can’t marry him,” Hermione knew her voice was petulant, but
she didn’t care. “He’s not pureblooded.”
            Abraxas laughed. “Oh, she won’t marry him, but she’ll marry a
stupid pureblood with lots of money and no talent, and she’ll put all those
resources behind Tom. She’ll do what pureblooded wives do best – give their
husbands a few children, then do whatever she wants. Tom is only sleeping with
her to control her.”
           “And that makes it better?” Hermione’s hair was curling, her angry
magic rising and she pulled at it, tried to keep it in check.
           “No,” Abraxas shrugged, “but it makes it something Tom would do.
Hermione, I don’t understand why you are so upset. You know how he is.”
           “I’m upset because,” she searched for words.
           “Because he isn’t using you?” Abraxas’s grey eyes were sharp,
pinning her down. “Would it make you feel good if he had kissed you, had sex
with you, without feeling anything? Whatever he does feel, it is for you, and
it is as good and pure a feeling as Tom is capable of. Marguerite is acting
like a fucking whore, and that’s how Tom treats her. She knows she will never
have one-millionth of the affection he gives to you, and she hates you for it.”
           Everything Abraxas said was true. She knew Tom had no conscience –
or at least, so little that it couldn’t effectively function. Sociopaths used
people as they saw fit, and they tended to be promiscuous, and pleasure-
seekers. Of course a fifteen year old with little to no morals would have sex
with a half-naked girl in his bed. But some part of Tom had to have known it
would hurt her, upset her, because he hadn’t let anyone tell her.
           “Well, fuck him,” Hermione said, her anger rising to a near-volcanic
state. “I’m a person, not an ideal, untouchable statue of a girl on a shelf. I
can’t live the rest of my life without affection.”
            Abraxas looked both terrified and amused at her outburst. “What are
you going to do, Hermione?”
            “You’re sixteen now, aren’t you?” she thought his birthday was
right before school started, about a month before her own.
             He nodded, looking wary.
            “Do you have a fiancée yet?” her fierce gaze dared him to lie.
            “Not yet, I swear,” he put up his hands. “My parents are talking to
other families, but they don’t have a list yet. I think they thought I’d pick
someone at school and save them the trouble.” He gently rubbed her hand.
“Unfortunately, I’ve been preoccupied with thoughts of a beautiful, brilliant
half-blooded girl who isn’t an option for several reasons.”    
             A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Not so
preoccupied that you haven’t gained a thorough reputation as the best kisser at
Hogwarts.”
            “Have I now?” he grinned, taking her hands and putting them around
his waist, then doing the same with his at her waist. “Care to weigh in on the
matter?”
             They kissed for a long time, gentle, slow kisses that were
arousing in a non-threatening way. She could have fallen asleep against him; he
felt safe and solid. How long had it been since she’d felt safe around Tom? As
soon as she started to be attracted to him, she had run for cover.
             “This can’t end in anything except tragedy, Abraxas,” she sighed
against his mouth.
             “I’m well aware of that,” he kissed her as he spoke. “But I’ve
been half in love with you the night you stormed into our room and saved Tom,
and I fell the rest of the way last year in potions when you squeezed my hand
after I helped Felicity save that disaster of a sleeping draught she was trying
to make.”
             “What?” she was shocked. Until those last words, it had been a
silly action, a flirtation they could walk away from, keep as a guilty secret.
             He pulled her more tightly against his entire body, his actions
more rough than anything previous, and she felt how hard he was – how hard all
of him was. “I want you, but I don’t want to use you, Hermione. I love you.”
             She cried, much harder than before. This was the first time a boy
had told her he loved her. It wasn’t Ron, the boy she had dreamed of in her
previous, future life, and it wasn’t Tom, her fucking soul mate. It was Draco
Malfoy’s grandfather, and she thought her head might just explode.
            “It’s okay,” he continued, his voice the only part of him that was
soft. “I know you love him.”
             “Abraxas,” she wiped at her tears, and kissed him. “You are so
much more than I had realized. I can’t use you, either.”
             He was smiling again, the sexy smile that was legend at Hogwart’s,
second only to Tom’s. “Oh, but you can. I hereby give you permission to use me
any way you want, Hermione.”
             And, again, anger shorted out Hermione’s higher brain. Tom had
fucked Marguerite – more than once, and he would do it again, now that school
had started. If he could use sex as a weapon, then she damn well could use it
for comfort. She wasn’t going to save herself for the hope that Tom would wake
up one day and care for her in the way she wanted him to. What a fucking fool
she’d been, practically drawing hearts with their names in them, thinking, as
soul mates, that she and Tom would go off into the sunset together. This second
adolescence with its flood of hormones had betrayed her, and the euphoria of
the soul mate connection had struck the killing blow. Hermione Granger had
fallen in love with Tom Riddle and he couldn’t care less. Well, she was taking
it back; her love was her own, her body was her own, soul mate bond be damned.
              She leaned in to kiss him and there was a quiet knock on the
door. They both jumped, panicked. The spells Abraxas had put up cancelled noise
going out, not coming in. Hermione’s heart raced and she hurried to check her
hair and face in the mirror. Would Tom be there? No, she didn’t feel his magic.
There was something familiar, though, something soft and comforting, like a
favorite blanket. Patience.
                 “Hermione? I think you have five minutes to be gone from
there,” Patience’s voice was more focused than usual, and definitely more
insistent.
                 Abraxas looked like he might vomit. Hermione rubbed his arm.
“We’re safe. It’s Patience. I trust her with my life. I’m going with her, now.
Wait five minutes, then go back to the others.”
                  Despite his obvious fear, he grabbed her and kissed her, hard
and deep. “I don’t regret it. I never will. I love you.”
                  She kissed him back, part of her glad they’d been stopped
before doing something that would have probably gotten them both killed. “You
love power, Abraxas. I’m just the wrapping.”
                  “That’s not true. What do we do now?” he asked, pulling her
close again and lifting her to be able to lean his head against her.
                 “I have no idea,” she said honestly. “It’s more than a bit
terrifying. Don’t you remember what happened to Arthur, Guinevere, and
Lancelot?”
                 His head was against her chest, a warm weight against her
heart. “Arthur didn’t love Guinevere, not more than Britain, not more than
power, not the way Lancelot loved her,” he protested.
                  Hermione took a deep breath, tried to swim through a sea of
hormones, hurt feelings, and arousal back to her logical mind. “Abraxas, you
are going to be married in a few years, and it won’t be to me. I could easily
fall in love with you, but I won’t. I can’t do that to either of us.”
                 “Tell me this won’t be the last time, please,” his grey eyes
pleaded even more than the tone of his voice, and his arms held her tight.
                 It felt so good. So good to be loved, to be wanted, to be
given unconditional affection – affection given even at the risk of so much
danger. “I can’t promise that, Abraxas, but I can tell you that I still want
you.”
                She was out the door before he could answer, sliding the door
open just enough to get out and closing it behind her. Patience was there,
alone, bright yellow as a sunrise.
               “You smell like mortal danger,” she grumbled, and Hermione
started, because Patience never grumbled.
                Patience took her hand, Hermione followed meekly, whispered
every cleansing spell she knew on herself as she walked, just in case. They
were in the compartment, seated with Josephine and Felicity for only a few
minutes before the compartment door opened and Tom slipped inside.
                “Ladies,” He addressed the whole group, but his sharp blue eyes
raked over her, and she erected the walls Narcissa had shown her, protecting
her mind and keeping her emotions chained down. The truly good part of her
thought she should feel guilty. The part of her that sought justice said she’d
only done what Tom had done to her months ago, though a few kisses could hardly
be compared to full-out sex. The part of her that sought vengeance itched to
curse his lying ass off the train, quickly followed by Marguerite.
               “Tom,” Hermione was shocked at how normal her voice sounded,
like she hadn’t just been kissed for several minutes by Abraxas Malfoy, and
told that he loved her. She looked at his lovely mouth and wondered if Tom went
down on Marguerite. She didn’t think he’d be that self-less of a lover.
Marguerite probably had to do all the work. Well, she could fucking have him,
Hermione told herself fiercely.
               “Hermione, we have to go to the prefect’s meeting in a few
minutes. Will you walk with me?”
               “Sure,” she nodded and rose, not daring to check that she was
completely put together. Patience handed her the prefect badge and her school
robes. “Thanks, Patience.”
                Patience’s expression was back to its normal, dazed self.
“That’s what friends are for, Hermione, to help us when we forget ourselves.”
                Tom ignored Patience, as usual, but Hermione wondered, not for
the first time, if Patience had a bit of the second sight. She leaned over and
dropped a kiss on Patience’s forehead.
                 “Can we go?” Tom scowled. Hermione allowed herself to laugh on
the inside. If he was annoyed at a friendly kiss on the temple, then he’d
probably spontaneously combust over the earlier events of the day.
                They walked back to the last train car quietly.
                “What made you so happy a little while ago?” he asked, his
voice light, but forced.
                Shit, Hermione thought. Please tell me he didn’t feel my
arousal. “Patience invited me to stay with her family this summer. I’m excited
to see her grandma’s place. It’s in the Orkney Islands.”
                Tom held the door to the next compartment open for her. “You
won’t be at home this summer?” he sounded angry, but not because he thought
she’d lied.
                “You go to Abraxas’s every summer,” she shrugged, her heart
racing just a bit at the mention of the boy who was now her partner in the
crime of high treason against Tom Riddle.
                 He didn’t answer, and they spent the rest of the walk in
silence.
 
                In fact, she thought as she showered, that was pretty much how
the first few weeks of school had gone. She was avoiding him. She was avoiding
Marguerite, and the other Slytherins because she knew they all knew, except
Thad, because he didn’t know anything not directly related to Quidditch. A
whole group of people she had considered her friends had kept a secret from
her, and even though most of them had probably thought not telling her was a
kindness, and she was mad at the whole snakey lot of them. Well, not Abraxas.
                She scrubbed harder at her skin as she thought of that pale
Malfoy hair, those grey Malfoy eyes, his rough hands, and soft lips. She was
beginning to think Abraxas had put a tracking spell on her, because he had
found her several times in these last three weeks, and always when she was
alone, walking back from the library or heading to the greenhouse to check on a
set of plants she was growing for extra credit that she didn’t need but wanted
anyway.
                He would pull her into empty classrooms, and they would kiss
each other senseless, though he never pushed her for more. It was clear that
the soul mate bond did not in any way preclude attraction to others. Abraxas
was beautiful, and his arms were strong and his lips soft, and he always tasted
like chocolate. Sometimes, she ended up crying, and he just held her and
stroked her hair. He was incredibly sweet, and she wondered each time how much
longer she could do this without hurting him one way or another.
               And, now? Tom was calling her out on her odd behavior, insisting
on her presence at the study group, and this was going to be simply horrible.
She got out of the shower and metaphorically dressed for battle. Her hair was
pulled back into a tight braid, her mental shields were up, her emotions were
tamped down, and her wand was in her hand. On a whim, she pulled the locket out
of her sweater, letting it rest on its long chain on her diaphragm, a
connection to Tom that Marguerite would never have. It was petty, but she
didn’t give a fuck.
               The study group had long since claimed a large, unused classroom
on the fifth floor as their base. Over the years, they had cleared out old
desks and brought in more comfortable furniture, and even a few thick rugs to
fall back on when practicing dueling. When Hermione walked in, everyone else
was already there. The small groups of students, some looking over homework,
others practicing transfiguration and charms, still others dueling, reminded
her of the best part of school – the camaraderie. Too bad that was gone for her
in a large way.
               Several people glanced up when she walked in, and as she crossed
over to where Tom was sitting on a couch, the low table in front of it covered
by books and the ever-present Marguerite at his side, she saw Marguerite narrow
her eyes at the locket.
              Hermione made no attempt to hide her grin. She wasn’t going to
fight Marguerite for Tom. Why would she fight for someone who didn’t want her,
not in that way? But she wasn’t above pissing Marguerite off.
              “Hermione,” Tom’s voice was pleased, as it always was when she
did as he told her to, when she was near to him. He wanted his magical battery,
with its shiny trophy locket, right next to him so everyone could admire it,
but not dare to touch it. “Sit down. Abraxas, move over and make a spot for
Hermione.”
               Abraxas, who had not looked up when she came in, now obligingly
made room for Hermione, and she sat, without a word, between Tom and Abraxas.
She could feel heat coming from Abraxas, magic coming from Tom, and hatred
coming from Marguerite, who sat on Tom’s other side.
               “We’ve almost found the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, I
think,” Tom said, pride in his voice. “I’ve narrowed it down to three likely
locations.”
                Hermione froze, swallowed, and answered evenly, “I didn’t know
we were looking for it. I thought that was a myth.”
               “Well,” Tom said breezily, “the part about it being a home to a
beast who will cleanse the school of muggleborns has to be pureblood
propaganda, but it is the chamber of secrets – plural – so, I think it is
there, that it was Salazar Slytherin’s private potions lab and maybe library,
and it is something that, as the Heir of Slytherin, I am entitled to find.”
               “I’m not sure I’d dismiss the claim about the beast so easily,”
Hermione held back a shiver at the horrific memory of being petrified. She
thought of Myrtle, the whiny, annoying girl who wasn’t improved by being alive,
but whom she had promised herself she would keep alive this year. And Hagrid,
sweet, bumbling, and gigantic even in his third year, whom she could not let be
framed and expelled.
              “Really, Hermione,” Marguerite snapped, her eyes on the locket
once more. “What type of ‘monster’ do you think could live undetected, unfed,
in the school for about one thousand years?”
              “I don’t know, Marguerite,” Hermione snapped back, though Abraxas
had discreetly poked her in the side in warning as she leaned forward. “What
about a basilisk that could move through the pipes and eat all manner of
rodents and also go into the lake as it pleased? What better magical monster
for Slytherin House than an enormous, fucking, slimy snake?”
             She hadn’t counted on feeling so angry when she was face to face
with Marguerite, with Tom beside Marguerite, so angry she would say things she
never, ever should have. Both girls had leaned forward, on either side of Tom,
and he watched them with knitted brows.
            “A basilisk? That would be…quite genius, really.” Tom turned toward
Hermione, smiling in wonder. “Well, we’ll just need to kill it when we open the
chamber and our problems will be solved. See, Hermione? Everything’s better
when you come to the study group. No one else thought of that.” He turned to
Marguerite. “Make a note to study ways to kill basilisks.”
             Marguerite nearly stabbed through her parchment with her quill as
she wrote. Hermione cast a nonverbal slipping spell, and the quill dug sharply
into Marguerite’s leg. Blood welled up through her stocking. The cut was long
and deep enough to require treatment, and the horrible part of Hermione’s brain
wished she could cut the girl all over.  
             “You’d better go get that healed,” Hermione said tonelessly.
             Tom gave Hermione a pointed look as Marguerite left in a huff,
holding her hand to her leg to stop the bleeding. “You could have healed that
instantly.”
             “I didn’t want to,” Hermione replied, and she leaned back into the
couch and opened the book she’d brought with her.
 
-oOo0oOo-
            As Hermione smiled at him, a bit of evil in that grin as Marguerite
fled, bleeding, Tom knew that she knew. And she was angry. He reached out with
his magic, and felt what he had for the last several months – hardly anything.
Her emotions, her magic, were walled up, barely touchable, and that made him
angry, too.
            Since shortly before their third year, Hermione had been pulling
away from him, subtly at first, then, since the end of last year, about the
time he’d come into his room to find Marguerite in his bed wearing nothing
except one of his button down shirts, rather dramatically. He should have
realized before now what had happened, but he’d been researching the Chamber of
Secrets, and was so close to finding it, that he’d been distracted.
            When he’d first seen Marguerite on his green sheets, her dark,
almost black curls, and pale white skin spread out in invitation, he’d been
inclined to throw her out. Though his roommates and the other boys seemed to
have sex on the mind more than magical studies, Tom hadn’t been particularly
tempted. He’d masturbated in the shower; it felt good, but it was more of a
biological urge that could be controlled, like putting off a meal, than some
great desire that he would allow to consume his time and energy. He was happy
that Hermione seemed to be of the same mind, not giggling and tittering like
all the other girls in their classes. She gave no hint of being interested in
anything romantic or sexual. She didn’t flirt or give significant glances, and
she certainly didn’t throw herself at anyone the way Marguerite (and several
other, older girls) had done with him.
            It wasn’t until that night that he’d made the connection between
sex and power, and, well, then he’d been a goner. Sex with Marguerite had been
like what he imagined using the imperius curse would be like. She did what he
asked, when he asked it, and it felt fantastic. He hadn’t come inside her,
ever, because there was no way he would let her have his child. Instead, he’d
pulled out and spilled over the sheets, then instantly vanished the mess. He
hadn’t let her stay afterwards, even though she wheedled for it, and he’d only
had sex with her a few other times since then. Marguerite mainly got him off
with her hand or her mouth, and he didn’t care in the slightest if she had an
orgasm herself. She was the one who kept coming back, so it wasn’t as if she
could complain.
            The sexual knowledge itself was another benefit, because knowledge
was always power, and now he could slide subtle innuendoes into his charm, into
the smiles he bestowed, and he got what he wanted even more often because of
it. Except with Hermione. She was something else entirely, not a girl or a
potential conquest; she was his soul mate, elevated above the physical. This
summer, he’d looked at her differently, had caught himself wondering how sex
would feel with their connection, how their magic might flow around them if he
took her in the field of wildflowers outside the Merrythought estate. Of the
wonderful, powerful sexual magic they would be able to perform together.
            But he hadn’t. She was beautiful and wild, but she also seemed
innocent, and Tom had never had anything that was pure in the way she was. He
didn’t want to touch her that way. She was already his. He didn’t need to prove
it. He would never say out loud that he was scared, that he was worried that if
he joined with her in that way that she’d be able to rule him, control him, and
that simply wasn’t acceptable.    
            He didn’t think she knew. Truly. He was a very perceptive person,
but she’d been her normal self, except for the gradual retreat of her magic.
More than one girl in Hogwarts had changed her entire behavior overnight, and
he had chalked it up to a woman’s hormonal issue, thinking it would sort itself
out eventually, and he’d have his Hermione back, her usual cheery, brilliant
self. He didn’t think she also had fallen victim to those nasty hormones that
every one else seemed to be struck senseless by.
            But she’d just deliberately cut Marguerite, then sent her away. She
knew he’d had sex with Marguerite, and Hermione had punished her. Now, the only
thing that remained was for her to try to punish him. He could feel that she
wanted to. Part of him longed for it, to have her fly at him, her magic wild,
so he could subdue her and show her once and for all that he was the one who
was dominant. Then, they could cease their tiresome arguments about what was
the right and moral thing to do, and just do what he wanted, with her in her
proper place at his side, her mouth shut and her magic at his disposal.
            The room emptied quickly. The magic crackling in the air was not
something most students could handle. It was heavy and charged, and Hermione’s
hair was escaping from her braid at an alarming rate. Tom stood from the couch
and discovered he was aroused. Hermione was beautiful, and her magic was
thrilling, and he realized he did want her in that way. And now, for the first
time, it was clear shewanted him in that way, or she wouldn’t be jealous of
Marguerite, who any moron could see was nothing to him.
            Abraxas was still on the couch, and Tom narrowed his eyes as he saw
how close together they sat, how comfortable they looked beside one another. It
was an off-handed, unconscious comfort, the way Hermione’s wand hand was
twitching on the cushion, and how Abraxas was leaning toward her, his own hand,
also curled around its wand, brushing her knuckles.   Any one else, except
maybe Patience, who was potentially brain-damaged, would have moved away from
Hermione when she was that angry, when her aggressive magic was coming off of
her in waves.
            Oh. Oh, Tom realized, and then his anger was beyond words. Hermione
was his, but Abraxas was his, too. Abraxas was the closest thing he had to a
friend, the person he turned to nearly as much as Hermione. In the summers,
when they raced brooms and plotted political futures and took day trips to
exotic locales with Abraxas’s father, Tom thought that might be what having a
brother would be like. Abraxas was much, much smarter than most people
realized, and he was an important ally, a loyal and obedient knight to Tom’s
cause. Or he had been. The two people he had trusted had been betraying him
behind his back, lying to his face. He imagined their bodies, one all white
blonde hair and muscles and grey eyes and that fucking bastard smile, and the
other all golden brown curls and slender grace and amber eyes and his. No one
touched what was his.
            Something shifted, and it took him a few seconds to understand that
Hermione had let her magic loose, had finally stopped holding it in. It came to
greet his, though the greeting was more of a slap in the face. Now, as clear as
anything, he felt her desire, her anger, her sense of…betrayal?
            He had cast something, but he didn’t even know what it was, only
that he’d hurled it at Abraxas, but it didn’t connect, because Hermione had put
up a protective barrier. Before they could leave, or someone else could come
in, he magically barred the door and muffled the room.
            “Did you fuck him, Hermione?” His voice carried, echoing in the
empty room. “My best friend?”
            “Tom,” her voice was low, but carried just as well. “People who
live glass houses shouldn’t cast stones.”
            He cast several stone projectiles her way, and she vanished them in
mid-air. “I take it that’s a yes.”
            “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about Marguerite, that I
wouldn’t care?” She threw a flurry of jinxes his way, each one successively
darker.
            Tom was impressed despite himself. She’d been holding back. Well,
so had he. Instead of aiming at her, he threw curses at Abraxas, who had been
silent, but now did a remarkable job of defending himself, though he didn’t
cast a single attack spell.
            “Tell me, Abraxas, did you know that Hermione isn’t just mine
because I want her?” Tom moved closer, his handsome face wearing a deceptively
benevolent expression. “She is minebecause fate gave her to me. She is my soul
mate.”
            “What?” Abraxas looked shocked, and glanced at Hermione, who said
nothing. All her energy was focused on Tom, on anticipating his actions and
deflecting them.
            Suddenly, Tom was struck with the idea that Abraxas might have seen
Hermione’s words, hiswords that were on a place on her body he hadn’t seen, and
he now desperately longed to view. “Did you see -”
            “No,” Hermione shook her head fervently, cutting him off. “But I’ll
bet Marguerite saw mine. You’re so righteous, so bloody chauvinistic, you
fucking bastard! You let her touch what was mine!” Her magic came out and it
knocked him onto his back, his body hitting against the thick, dusty carpet.
            “Go, Abraxas! I’ll deal with this.”
            “No, Hermione, I,”
            But Tom didn’t know what happened after that, except that Hermione
had somehow gotten Abraxas out of the room, and re-barred the doors, and now it
was just the two of them. The fall backwards had only mildly stunned him; he
was more impacted by Hermione’s anger, the rage that seemed to match his own
over Marguerite. Did she think of him the way he thought of her? That didn’t
work. He was no one’s. She was his, but he was no one’s.
            He stood, and looked at her, his eyes full of incomprehension. “Do
you think I am yours?”
            She was absolutely still, her magic pulled back in again, a
contained, beautiful statue carved of ice. “No. And I am not yours.”
            Tom’s magic flared around them, and he walked quickly toward her.
“You are mine. You have always been mine.”
           A sharp blast threw him across the room. He used his wand to halt
the speed, and stood several feet away, panting in anger.
            “It’s one or the other, Tom. Either we are each others or no
one’s,” Hermione frowned.
            “You don’t get to decide that!” He roared.
            “Yes, I do! I am a human being! I am not your magical totem or
slave! And if you were capable of basic human emotion, you would understand
that!” She dodged the freezing curse he sent her way as she yelled.
            He considered her words, then sneered. “I’m clearly more evolved,
Hermione, since I understand that emotions are useless. Where have yours gotten
you? Here, where I am forced to teach you a lesson in how to behave.”
            “Good luck!” She laughed bitterly. “If you’re interested in a woman
who acts like a dog on a leash, go find that little bitch Marguerite!”
             Red jets of light flew toward him, and though he moved quickly,
the edge of the hex caught his arm, slicing through his sleeve into his skin.
His expression stilled, his face frozen in a deadly, charming smile. “You’ve
drawn first blood, my dear soul mate. Or was that Abraxas? How much of yourself
did you give him?”
             “Tom, at this point, it doesn’t matter, because you’ll never be
touching me, ever again.”
             In an instant, he was beside her, grabbing her arm. The touch was
electric. They were both so angry – enraged, really, but it didn’t matter. They
deflated somewhat, and Tom could feel, feel how hurt she was. How she achedover
what he had done.   “You will always be mine, Hermione.” She shivered, and he
sighed in something like relief.
             Inspired, he ran his hand up her arm, and he felt her response
again, the one she didn’t want to give, but came anyway. He pulled her close
and she didn’t protest. “You will, won’t you?” he whispered. “Be mine?”
             She shook her head, her eyes willfully closed. He smiled, and put
his newly acquired skills to use. His hands went around her waist, and he knew
his suspicions from the summer had only been the palest of hints at the truth.
Touching Hermione in this ways was not pleasurable. It was a revelation, heaven
spread across his flesh.
             Her eyes were still closed when he lowered his lips to her mouth,
and even though she bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, he kept kissing her
and she kissed him back, angry and sexy and what the hell had he been doing
with Marguerite? Hermione’s lips were silk and her teeth were like daggers, and
the combination was intoxicating. He put his hands on either side of her face,
holding her cheeks and deepening the kiss.
             “Just because you’re sexy and a good kisser doesn’t mean you win,”
she pulled away, but only to speak against his lips, her chest heaving against
his own.
             “No,” Tom agreed, and he kissed her, much more softly this time.
“I’ll win because you want me to, because Abraxas can’t make your skin sing
like I can.”
             “Marguerite can’t.” Hermione began.
             He put a finger to her lips. “Hush. Marguerite can’t
anything.Marguerite is nothing.”
             She looked down, tears in her eyes. “If she’s nothing, how could
you give her what was mine?”
             Touching her body, with their magic loose around them, her
feelings were absolutely clear. She was furious, she was aroused, but further
down, she was devastated. She was in pain, and he had done that. He knew
instantly that continuing to try to convince her of the truth that Marguerite
meant absolutely nothing to him was not the route to take. Hermione didn’t want
to hear that. She wanted to be comforted, to be…loved? He held back his own
anger at the memory of the look on Abraxas’s face when he’d revealed their soul
mate status. Abraxas was in love with Hermione, and that was why she’d done
whatever she’d done with him.
            Tom filed that information away, pushed his anger to the side. He’d
make Abraxas pay later. Hermione was the priority now. She needed to be re-tied
to him, their connection cemented, her wounded feelings soothed.
            “I didn’t give her anything,” he said gently, all calm reassurance.
            She reared back, but he held her. “You fucked her! How is that not
-”
            “Yes, I had sex with her,” Tom admitted, keeping a tight grip on
Hermione’s arms, not letting her go. If she really wanted to, she could use
magic. But she wasn’t, which he took as a good sign. It was time to sacrifice a
chess piece. “But I won’t, not again, not if you ask me not to.”
            “I shouldn’t have to!” Hermione began.
            “Should I have had to tell you not to let Abraxas touch you, to let
anyone touch you?” He struggled and failed to keep the anger out of his voice.
            “We’re soul mates!” she protested. “You know what that means!”
            Tom arched an eyebrow. “What I know is that you haven’t touched me
in years, haven’t shared your full magic with me, have given me no indication
that you wanted any kind of relationship like that!”
           “Wow! So, I’d need to be naked in your bed for you to understand my
feelings? Some soul mate connection!” Hermione scoffed, though he could see
that those words had hit their mark.
           “I think our connection, now that it is flowing again, is rather
amazing,” Tom’s voice was back to deeply seductive. “Don’t you?”
           She was wavering, he felt it. He let go of her and went for the
action he knew would win her over. He unbuttoned his cuffs, carefully taking
out the jade cufflinks she’d gotten him that he always wore, and pushed up his
sleeves, revealing pale skin and her words on his forearm. “I barely removed
anything, Hermione. Marguerite never touched your words.”
           Hermione hadn’t seen those marks in four years, he knew. Tom was
always dressed smartly, wearing long-sleeved dress shirts even in the summer
months. At night, the few times she’d seen him in pajamas, he wore long sleep
shirt and pants sets. He never pulled up his sleeves, never looked anything but
an elegant young man, perfectly put together.
           As he’d hoped, her small, thin fingers reached out and hovered over
his exposed words. Her magic was concentrated, electric, and when she finally
lowered her fingers to his flesh and traced the words that had ushered him into
the magical world, into his destiny, he couldn’t stop a low, shuddering sigh
from escaping his throat. Hermione’s fingers were magic, just like her words
said, We are Magic.
           At his admission, she’d relaxed, though only a bit. He clearly had
more work to do. “Hermione, I’ve never wanted anyone except you.”
           Her beautiful brown eyes, with those fanciful amber flecks, stared
at him accusingly. “I heard you on the train. In the compartment with
Marguerite, heard you tell her that I was not your girlfriend.”
           He laughed, loudly, unconcerned. “You aren’t my girlfriend,
Hermione! You are my soul mate – you are above all that. Your place doesn’t
have a label, or a question.”
           She looked oddly pleased, but continued in an angry voice. “Did you
ever think that I might want what everyone else does? That I need attention,
affection, touch?”
          “And I suppose Abraxas was happy to supply those things?” Tom’s anger
had returned, full-force, before he could stop it. “He’ll be lucky to live
through the night!”
           “Don’t you dare touch him!” Hermione yelled, her hair crackling with
building magic.
          “He touched you! And you let him!” He yelled back.
          “Marguerite touched you first! And you let her!” She screamed, and
several windows burst, glass flying out onto the lawn in a great whoosh.
           He took a deep breath, forced himself to calm down. He turned away
and repaired the windows. The release of that magic was somewhat calming, but
when he turned back around, Hermione was crying.
           The only other time he’d seen her cry was when he’d rewound the
bandage around her scars. Guilt and regret were not feelings Tom Riddle had any
experience with, but he was feeling something. Something that was extremely
unpleasant.
           “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and, for the first time, he truly meant
those words.
           “Please don’t hurt Abraxas,” she responded, then at his angry glare,
“He is a loyal friend – to both of us. He didn’t do anything except comfort
me.”
           “How, exactly?” Tom needed the details, even though he didn’t want
to hear them, to imagine them.
           She pulled herself up straight, and he could see that she wasn’t
ashamed. His soul mate felt justified in what she had done, which made him even
angrier. “We kissed. That was all.”
           “How many times?” Tom wasn’t done with this interrogation.
           “I didn’t count,” she huffed. “Probably…ten times, I guess.” Her own
anger began to build again. “How many times did you have sex with Marguerite?”
           “We had sex three times, she gave me oral sex seven times, and used
her hand another dozen or so times,” he answered honestly, no emotion at all.
           “Oh, my god!” Hermione shrieked. “And you’re trying to make me feel
like shit over a few kisses? That were mostly in tears over how upset I was
about you and Marguerite? You are a fucking asshole, Tom Riddle!”
           “Wait!” he lifted his hands in a stopping gesture. “We’ve already
established that neither of us had given the other an indication of interest,
so how can you blame me?”
            “I had hoped you loved me,” the words were so low, he almost didn’t
hear them. His chest contracted painfully.
            Almost as soon as she had spoken, she was running for the door, as
if her words scared her so much she had to flee before they could catch up with
her. He lifted his wand and sent the closest tables hurtling in front of the
exit, blocking it in a neat, if somewhat precarious-looking, stack.
            “Let me out,” she hissed, her head turned away. He could hear tears
in her voice.
            “No,” he replied, coming up behind her. Her narrow shoulders were
shaking. Tom pulled her wand out of her hand, then bent, putting both of their
wands on the floor.
            Hermione’s laugh was such a cold, hollow version of the one he
knew, of the one he craved hearing, that a shiver went through him. “I don’t
need a wand to make you regret keeping me here, Tom.”
            At that, he quickly spun her around, putting his arms around her
waist again. “If you stay, you won’t regret a thing, Hermione.”
            She didn’t answer because he was kissing her again, and it was even
better than the first time. He lifted his hands and tangled his fingers in that
glorious mane of hers, feeling the silky curls and the magic in them flowing up
his arm. They were locked together for several minutes, and his hands found
other places as well, explored the length of her spine, the curve of her hips,
the subtle rise of her perfectly rounded ass. She was made for him, and he even
though he had told himself he didn’t want this from her, he knew now that he’d
been lying to himself – that this was nothing without her.
           She pulled back from him, panting. “I can’t just be your new toy
Tom. I can’t be another Marguerite.”
           “What? You are nothing like Marguerite! I don’t ever want her again,
not after touching you,” his arms, much longer than hers, pulled her back
against his chest, though she managed to look up at him in righteous anger.
           “Until it serves your purposes. I’m not blind, Tom. I may have been
lost in hormones, but I still have a brain. You use her. You want to have her
connections, the power and money she might supply in the future, and sex is the
easiest way to guarantee your access to it!” Hermione’s cheeks were flushed,
her mouth was swollen, and Tom could hardly focus on her words.  
            Tom smiled, and it was beautiful and horrible all at once. “You
have it exactly. I use her. Why does that bother you so much? I think I have
much more cause for anger. You care about Abraxas, and he’s probably in love
with you, so that is much worse.”
            Hermione was gone again, slipped from his arms and crossing the
room to their wands. “You are insane, Tom! No, wait. I’m the insane one, for
thinking that I could be in a relationship with a person who has no sense of
morality, of fidelity, of kindness. You won’t ever see why I’m hurt, why what
you are doing to Marguerite is wrong. And that means that I can’t ever be with
you in that way. You’ll just break my heart, Tom. And you won’t feel a
goddamned thing.”
            “You think I feel nothing; you always say that, but it isn’t true,”
Tom protested. “I might not feel the way you do, but I’m upset. I’m upset that
you didn’t trust me enough to tell me you wanted to be with me that way. I’m
upset that you let Abraxas touch you! I’m upset that you are telling me now,
once again, how I think and how I feel. And judging me! Always judging me! You
preach about accepting people as they are, but you won’t accept me as I am.”
             “So, being your lover would mean allowing you to run off whenever
it was convenient to have sex with a political connection, but I would have to
be pure, to save myself only for you? How like a man to think that is an
acceptable arrangement!” Hermione snapped back.
             “How many people do you want to fuck, Hermione?” Tom asked, his
voice dangerous.
             “I don’t want to fuck anyone. I’d like to make love, to be held,”
she answered. “I doubt you could understand that.”
             Quickly, without a word, he lifted her. He was much taller, and
stronger than most people realized. His build was elongated muscle, slender,
but he kept himself fit. Hermione was not difficult to pick up. He carried her
to the couch, depositing her on the cushion, and kneeling on the floor in front
of her.
             Her eye color looked much darker now, thanks to her widened
pupils. Tom smiled in a way he knew would curl her toes. “I might not
understand other people’s feelings, or even feelings in general, but you are my
soul mate. I know exactly how you feel when you let me. And I know that under
your anger, you want me.”
             “Of course I want you, Tom. That’s why I’m so angry,” Hermione’s
expression softened.
             “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you pull away?” Tom pressed, his
hands tracing circles over her knees, his touch burning through her thin
stockings.
              Magic vibrated in a high, nervous way around them, through her
into his fingers. “Why are you afraid of me, Hermione?”
              Her eyes were closed again, her head back against the couch, her
hands fisted. “When our connection is open…it just kept getting stronger, and
then I wanted….and it’s just too much.”
              Clever as always, he read between the lines. “You think if we
have a romantic, sexual relationship that we’ll be even more connected. And
that scares you.” He didn’t admit, wouldn’t admit that he had worried over the
same thing.
              His hands tightened on her knees, and he leaned forward until his
lips were against hers. He kissed her lightly, pulled at her lower lip with his
teeth, keeping the pressure just below a bite. “It’s good, then, we’re both
very talented and brave people,” he laughed.
              “Yes,” she whispered, emboldened by their shared magic, by how
right it felt, but also scared. There was no going back from this moment.
              “I know you’re still a virgin,” he whispered back, a smug
smile on his handsome face as he lowered his head to kiss her knee through her
thin stocking. His lips were hot, and she shuddered. “Abraxas isn’t that
stupid, though I was apparently foolish to not properly mark what is mine.”
              With a quick motion that shocked him, she came forward, made her
face level with his own. “Make a wand vow that you won’t hurt Abraxas,” she
held up her wand.
              “Hermione,” he began, annoyed again, then stopped. The magic
seeping into his fingers from her knees was intoxicating. He wanted to feel her
magic all over, wanted that intense pleasure he’d gotten when she’d touched the
soul mate mark, and wanted to find his words on hers. “Why is it that you seem
to attract pale blondes with no concern for their lives?”
              “I don’t know. Why is it that you seem to attract tiny, vicious,
lying brunettes that would as soon kill me as look at me?” She scowled.
               Now it was Tom’s turn to scowl. “Marguerite would never hurt
you. She knows I would kill her.”
               Those lovely brown eyes filled with tears again, and Hermione
bit her lip, hard, before replying, “Oh, Tom, don’t you see that Marguerite has
already hurt me? And I can’t ever return the blow.”
               There it was again, a jagged sensation in his chest, sharp and
tight. “You cut her leg open,” he argued. “Then you cut my arm open.   So far,
you’re the only one who has hurt anyone.”
               Hermione had the grace to flush, embarrassed. “I won’t do
anything else, just promise not to hurt Abraxas.”
               “Define hurt,” Tom smirked, thinking of several possibilities.
               “The fact that I am in love with you already hurts Abraxas every
minute,” she snapped.
                The tightness was replaced by a glowing feeling, a rising
euphoria. “You loveme?”
                She sighed heavily. “I don’t wantto, but I do.”
                He was quiet for a few moments, the only sound their breathing,
and the slight catch of her stockings under his fingers as he continued to
stroke her knees. “I’m not sure about love, Hermione, but I value you, value
you more than anything else. And I don’t care if Abraxas loves you, because
that means he’ll protect you, serve you, as my soul mate.”
               “If it’s a pride thing, Tom,” her voice was hesitant, obviously
trying to keep the tenuous peace they’d reached. “No one knows. No one but the
three of us. And Patience.”
                Tom huffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course Patience bloody
knows.”
               “She’s my best friend, my roommate,” Hermione answered.
               “And Abraxas was mine,” Tom’s tone was scathing. “You are both
mine, not each other’s.”
               She looked at him sharply, and he wondered what she was
thinking. He felt her confusion, though that was clearing, and her residual
anger, though that was fading as well. Her arousal was there, too, but her
brain had taken control, because he could practically feel her thinking, though
her actual thoughts were out of his reach. He’d tried some low level
legilimency on her over the past year, but with no success, unlike the easy
entrance he’d made into several other minds.   He wondered if she were a
natural occlumens.
               “Are you attracted to Abraxas, too?” she asked after a moment’s
contemplation, a sly smirk playing around her lips, as if she knew something he
didn’t.
                He didn’t pull away, didn’t protest. Instead, he considered the
question, thought about the possibilities. Tom didn’t keep secrets from himself
– there was nothing he was ashamed to think about. He knew he liked collecting
things, and since coming to Hogwarts, he had added people to his collection,
and they were some of his most prized possessions. Hermione, of course, was the
jewel in his crown, the most precious, but Abraxas had been in the second
place. He was intelligent, he was powerful, he was handsome, he had excellent
political connections, his family had more money than probably any other in the
country, and he had, until tonight’s events, seemed unquestionably loyal. All
of these things enhanced Tom’s status.
                Marguerite had these things, too, though not as much as
Abraxas, and she was a distant third in his mind’s rankings. This idea of being
able to completely own allof his favorite things, to own their bodies as well
as their magic and actions, well, that was an intriguing thought. Hermione
seemed much less upset about the thought of Abraxas than Marguerite…and
Marguerite was expendable, he’d already decided that. If Tom allowed some kind
of connection between Hermione and Abraxas, and also with himself, would that
satisfy Hermione’s need for ‘a more human connection’ as she’d put it?
               “Why?” Tom arched an eyebrow. “Do you think he wants me that
way?” Tom thought being able to control both Abraxas and Hermione with sex
might simplify matters greatly.
               She bit her lip, chewing the way she did when she was trying to
figure out an Arithmancy problem. He found it adorable, and noticed that he was
relaxing as well, that both of their magics had calmed, and there was more
pleasure of just being together, of a simple touch, the way it had been when
they were first years. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it until now.
He suddenly wanted to keep this, even if it came at a great cost, to keep
Hermione happy, to keep her open to him.
              “I think he might be,” she finally answered. “We compared
ourselves to Arthur, Lancelot, and Guinevere, and that legend certainly has
homoerotism aplenty. And,” she ran her fingers down his jaw, tracing the line
of bone, “who, male or female, could resist this face?”
               “You’ve been resisting it,” he said sourly. “If you’d kissed me
last year, we could have avoided all of this.”
                “Don’t lie to me, Tom,” her voice was firm, her fingers found
the back of his head and pulled his face closer. She bit his lip again, and it
was hard. “I know you. You would have fucked her regardless, because it suited
you to do so.”
                He didn’t pull back.   He found the harsh sting pleasant, and
he wanted to dig into her in return, to hurt her just enough to make her scream
in the same kind of pleasure. “So, if I let you have Abraxas, if I let Abraxas
have you, if I eventually take him myself, will that appease your feelings,will
you stop trying to control me?”
                “Control you?” her hair moved of its own accord, her eyes
darkened with anger.
                “Hush,” he said again, bringing his finger up between their
lips. “Think, think with that brilliant mind of yours, my dear soul mate,
instead of those messy emotions. You can’t change me. You doinfluence me,
whether I like it or not, and you remind me of consequences. You loveme, and
I…can’t be without you. I won’tbe without you. We are meant to be together, and
I want you to be mine, but I also want you to be happy. Do you understand how
significant that is? I don’t care what other people think or feel, but I care
about you. And, if we are being brutally honest, I can’t make you happy,
Hermione, not if you try to fit me into some romantic ideal. I’m not Lancelot,
that's your precious Abrades. I’m Arthur, the once and future King of all
Britain, and his wizard, Merlin, all in one. You are not only Guinevere, you
are Morgan Le Fay. The dark part of you knows this, even though you try to
silence it.”
               “Morgan and Merlin nearly killed each other,” her voice was sad
again, and he didn’t like that.
               “We won’t,” he said, kissing her fiercely for a minute, then
stopping to speak. “We will surpass their legends with ease. You are my lady,
my Queen, and my dark enchantress, but you have to let me be who I am.”
               “Let you sleep and torture your way though the school, through
the larger wizarding world, securing power by any means?” her tone was light,
though they both felt the weight of her words.
                “Not exactly,” he laughed softly. “I can see now how I might
have been hasty with Marguerite, and after kissing you, well, she’s not even a
shadow of you, Hermione.”
                She blushed, this time in pleasure, though her critical glance
told him she was well aware he hadn't answered her question.
               “And Abraxas?” he pushed her shoulders back against the couch.
“How did he kiss?”
                Hermione’s golden brown eyebrow raised and her mouth tilted.
“Very, very well,” she replied, her voice barely on the safe side of a taunt.
                His hands were on her knees, then sliding down her legs to her
ankles. Slowly, he unbuckled her shoes and set them aside. She swallowed, her
legs seeming to be the center of the world as his hands slid up her thighs,
under her skirt, finding the tops of her stockings, whispering an unsticking
charm, and rolling them down an inch at a time, his mouth starting kisses at
her knees and continuing to her ankles.
               “And where, exactly, did he kiss you?” Tom’s voice was somewhere
between deadly and amused. He was unhurried, revealing pale flesh in small
increments, then kissing that flesh. Once both of her stockings were crumpled
on the floor and she was panting, he looked up at her from his place between
her legs, a place no boy had ever been.
                “Only my face and neck,” she breathed, distracted by his
fingers and mouth, but not enough to stop this dangerous game they were
playing.
                “Only?” Tom made a tssking sound. “I know Abraxas could have
done better than that. He’s told me about other girls, you know, told me what
it felt like to fuck them. Pureblooded boys start early, you know. He must
truly be in love to respectyou so much,” his hands inched further up as he
spoke, found the lace of her knickers, made hooks in the waistband, and with a
wicked grin, he gave a harsh tug, and the scrap of red silk joined the grey
stockings on the floor.
                 He smiled, a coy, amused grin as he glanced at the red lace
and silk. “I would have guessed white cotton.”
                “Shows what you know,” she said, trying to be haughty, but
laughing herself.
                “I am going to show you what I know,” his smile widened and his
eyes darkened. “You’ve always been so far ahead in so much, and now, I’m going
to be the one giving the lesson.”
                 “Yes, Sir,” she breathed, half-mocking, half-seriously
aroused.
                 “Oh, my, you like that, don’t you?” Tom shook his head, and
lust and power poured off of him in waves. “Abraxas is probably the perfect
gentleman, and that…well, that’s a bit boring, isn’t it? ”
                 “I find it lovely,” Hermione lifted her chin defiantly, and he
grabbed it, put his finger in her corner of her mouth. She made to bite it, and
he pulled away, laughing.
                 “A powerful thing like you, longs to be reined in, held
tightly. Watch and learn, my dear,” he murmured, lifting her skirt and handing
her the hem. She took it, looked down at herself, bare to his eyes. Her pubic
hair was neatly trimmed, not nearly as wild as the hair on her head, and it was
glistening. He leaned forward, pushed gently at her thighs. She spread them
wider and he, in turn, spread her most intimate folds, his long, strong fingers
making her shudder.
                 “I’m doing this because I want to,” Hermione panted as his
fingers slid inside her, first one, then two, stretching and pulling. “You
can’t control me, either. Sexual submission isn’t the same as magical
submission.”
                 “Mmmm,” Tom murmured, using his free hand to trace around the
skin of her thighs and pelvic area. “Where are my words, Hermione?” the
question was an order.
                  She raised the hem of her skirt higher, revealing the curve
of her stomach. He sucked in his breath. There was his hand writing, coiled
like a spiral, like a snake, around her navel What are you? What are we?As if
the skin there were magnetic, his fingers went to them, unerring, immediately.
Her whole body trembled under him as he traced the path of his words.
                  It was too much, Tom felt their magic rising, connecting in
new, stronger ways, and he had to see it through, had to seal it, to never let
her escape him. He pulled on her hips, sliding her closer and lowered his mouth
to her stomach, tracing his words with his tongue, then trailing down to her
hip bones, sucking and licking until she was writhing against, all breathy
moans that had to be the most beautiful sounds he’d ever heard. It didn’t
matter how well Abraxas kissed, how much he said he loved her, he was nothing
next to Tom.
                  Her shudders and moans morphed into a loud gasp as his
talented lips and tongue followed the path of his hands, licking and sucking at
her labia and clitoris with the same energy he normal reserved for punishment
and revenge. Because this was a bit of punishment, a reminder to her that she
couldn’t resist him, that she wouldn’t be complete or happy without his touch,
without being in his good graces. She didn’t care about herself, but he had
plenty of leverage, especially those two pale blondes Hermione loved, and he
knew she loved Abraxas, even if she wasn’t in love with anyone except Tom
himself. His soul mate had a billion pressure points, and he would experiment
with all of them.
                 “Did you do this for Marguerite?” Hermione managed to say
between her more vocal reactions.
                 “What do you think?” Tom gave her a nasty, sarcastic smile as
he raised his head. He replaced his lips with three fingers, inserted harshly
and fast, making her wince and lean into him at the same time. “I didn’t even
kiss her, Hermione. She is pathetic. She is not worth your thoughts.”
                 “Oh, God!” Hermione was distracted by his pumping fingers, by
the way his thumb was toying with her clit, in a lazy, careless way.
                 Tom’s smile sharpened, his teeth bared. “I think I prefer the
term, my Lord. It has such a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? I think I’d like to
hear it screamed in your voice, Hermione. What do you say, my little bird?” He
dragged a finger over the Ravenclaw shield on her chest, over the swell of her
breast.
                 Her body went taut as a bowstring for an instant, and he felt
fear, but he worked her through it, lowering his mouth to her cunt again. He
would never lower himself to do such a thing with someone else. But Hermione
was a world unto herself. She was the exception to everything, his one
weakness, and as such, she needed to be completely under his control. He had to
be clever, though, because she understood him, guessed his motives and actions
frighteningly well. Handling her properly was the greatest challenge of his
life, but he knew that she was also the key to his greatest reward.
 
-oOo0oOo-
                 Hermione hated herself as her body responded to Tom’s touch
like his was its master – as if the arrogant bastard needed any more fuel for
his superiority complex. But she couldn’t stop herself. Too much had happened,
and she could feel what Tom couldn’t – that he was giving himself to her as
well. He might be all power plays on the outside, but she’d found a crack, a
way in. He’d admitted she was everything, had even tacitly agreed not to hurt
Abraxas, to give up Marguerite, at least for now, and if she handled her
supposed submission in just the right fashion, and she would be more in control
than she’d been in years, and he wouldn’t even know.
                 She also hated that much of what he said was correct, even if
it wasn’t right. Her fear of him, of loving him, of giving him power over her,
had complicated matters. And, she did judge him. She held him to the standards
of regular people, and he wasn’t a normal person – he didn’t have a conscience.
As much as she tried not to, the shadow of his future self loomed in her mind,
and his current self was more than capable of wrecking havoc. She and Narcissa
were constantly debating how far Tom could go into darkness before he reached
the point of no return. Would it be the imperius? The cruciatus? Would he kill
someone? Hermione honestly couldn’t imagine Tom going his life without killing,
multiple times, and that realization was horrible, because she loved him
anyway. How could she let a killer, a sociopath who wanted to control her, to
control everyone touch her? How could she like it?
                Hermione pushed those thoughts away, because there was no
answer. It simply was. Tom might not have a conscience, but he had desires, and
right now, his burning desire was her. If she kept it that way, she might keep
him from sliding into the abyss.
                He was laughing above her, drawing all kinds of sounds from her
throat, sounds she would never have thought she could make – sexy, husky moans
and gasps. He said he wanted to hear her call him my Lord, and part of her
wanted to, to see his satisfaction as she screamed out. Would giving him that,
that sense of power, soothe his ego enough to relax him into a less angry
space?
                These thoughts swirled in her mind, but they were barely
coherent, as they were punctuated with waves of pleasure from Tom’s
ministrations below her waist. She could feel an orgasm building, even though
she tried to keep it back, not ready to give him that yet.
                “Stop it, Hermione,” Tom’s tone was amused and annoyed at the
same time. “I know you are holding back, trying to punish me. That isn’t how
this works. You crave order and rules, and I’m the one who can supply those
things for your physically. Give in, be a good girl and let go, let me feel
you,” his voice dropped, and it was so sexy, Hermione shivered from the sound.
                 “Not until you do,” she bit her lips, trying to tense her
muscles against the rising euphoria.
                 He grinned, and rose, pulling her to her feet in front of him.
He was so tall, her head only came to his collarbones. In one swift motion, he
had her sweater over her head, her tie on the floor, and was unbuttoning her
shirt.   He arched an eyebrow at her, daring her to argue.
                 She responded by tugging at his clothes, and shortly, they
were naked. Hermione stopped breathing for a moment. He was so beautiful, so
terrible, so powerful, so…hers. No one else would see him so vulnerable,
whether he realized that or not. She lifted his arm to her mouth, kissing her
words again.
                His eyes closed, his mouth tightened, and she knew he was
holding back, that he was just as concerned about this irreversible step in
their connection as he was. She wouldn’t call him out on that, though. His
fingers were in her hair, and he was tugging. She found she liked that.
                They were in sync, lowering themselves to the floor, on one of
the thick rugs, which Tom transfigured into a soft mattress and Hermione
swiftly covered with slick, cool sheets that felt amazing against their bare
skin. Rolling, she found herself on top, and she clenched at his hips with her
thigh muscles, running her hands down the elongated muscles of his chest, the
plane of his abdomen, the jut of his hip bones, the hard length of his very
aroused cock. She curled her hand around him, fascinated by the silky skin that
moved easily over the hard muscle underneath.
               “Hermione,” he half-panted, half-warned. He clearly wasn’t a fan
of being teased. He flipped her over and she sighed at the feel of his entire
body covering hers, of his magic covering her, bringing every cell to
heightened awareness.
               “You are mine,” he spread her legs, stroked her, then lined his
cock up with her entrance. He kept his hips still, bringing his hands up to
grab hers, and pin them to the mattress on either side of her head, her curls
caught tightly under them, a warning. They were both motionless, just staring
into each other’s eyes. “You are mine, no one can touch you without my
permission, little bird. Do you understand, Hermione?”
               She nodded, because she needed to give him this, because she
wanted to give him this, despite all logical thought.
               “Do you really?” He pushed forward just slightly, his cock
brushing all the nerves in her labia, at the very outer part of her vagina. “I
want to be perfectly clear,” he moved forward again, barely at all, only enough
to set off another round of fireworks between her legs. “I will kill any one
who touches you without my permission, and there will never be a body found,
and all your tears and anger won’t change a thing, because your body, your
magic, knows its mine.”
                Hermione responded before thinking, “And you’re mine?”
                His pupils were wide, the blue around them just a hint, but it
was an icy blue. She held back a shiver. His response was to push inside of
her, hard, all the way. She shrieked. Even though she was very aroused, it was
an intrusion, an instant stretching that pulled at her muscles, burning. Once
he had filled her, he was still again, kissing her face in a much gentler way
than she expected, though his wrists continued to pin her own down.
               “You feel like bliss, Hermione,” he breathed, his mouth close to
her ear. “And I’m going to make you feel the same way. Relax.” The last word
was said in his command voice, that particular tone that managed to bypass her
brain entirely and go directly to her animal instinct. She took a deep breath
and focused on how the pain was turning into pleasure.
              “Does it hurt and feel good all at once?” he asked when he
started to move, pushing down against her wrists, making long, deep strokes in
and out of her.
              “Yes,” she breathed. It did hurt, but she liked it. His movements
skirted the line between pleasure and pain, pulling first to one side, then
into the other, leaving her panting and wanting more of both.
             “Good,” he laughed and kissed her. It was no longer gentle. They
were teeth and tongues, and she would have bruises on her wrists, bruises
inside, but it was so good. She reopened the bite on his lower lip and tasted
coppery blood.
              “You are positively feral, dear,” he leaned down and bit her
breast in retaliation. It was a hard bite and she yelled, though he followed
the bite with a long, soft laving with his tongue, twirling his tongue over her
nipple, licking at the swell of her breast, then repeating his actions on the
other side.
               She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I’m
not the only one who’s feral,” she hissed.
              “Just marking my territory, darling,” he made a very sharp, deep
thrust and closed his eyes at the half-cry, half-moan she made. He spoke a
series of spells, ones for contraception, and then he moved even faster.
               Hermione held on with her legs, because her hands were still
pressed into the mattress, she could feel something growing, not just an orgasm
on the horizon. No, their magic was preparing, and something was going to
happen, something beyond their control.
              Tom clearly noticed as well, because even though he didn’t break
his pace, he let go of her wrists, twining his fingers into the hair at the
nape of her neck instead, pulling tightly so that her head was bowed back, so
that she was looking directly into his eyes.
              Her whole body was shivering, in a way that wasn’t entirely
physical. This was a spell. This was some ancient magic, and they were already
past the point of stopping.
             “Say it, Hermione,” Tom demanded, his voice low and harsh, but
also somehow pleading. “Say you’re mine.”
             “You first!” tears formed in the corners of her eyes as he tugged
on her hair, but she felt powerful, the magic rising through her made her feel
invincible.
             He was shuddering, too, looking at her in anger and wonder, biting
his own lips, as if he could hold back the magic that was about to hit them
like a tsunami.
            “Tom! My Lord!” she screamed against the pleasure, and those words
did the trick, just as she knew they would.
             Tom pulled her hair even tighter, determined to hurt her even as
he gave her what she wanted. There was a price for this, and she would be
paying it forever. “I’m yours, Hermione,” he gasped, ecstasy overtaking the
feeling of defeat.
             “And I’m yours!” she exhaled, her hands wrapped around his chest,
leaving no room between them.
             It happened then, whatever itwas. Magic filled them, pushed them
both past the pleasure point of human bodies, lifted them into something
outside of flesh, outside of time. Was this heaven? Hermione wondered, as they
slowly came back into themselves. Tom looked bewildered, and slightly
distraught, not at all his normal, carefully controlled self.
             He looked down at her, rolled them to their sides. “What did you
do to me?” His voice was too stunned to be completely angry.
             “It wasn’t me, Tom,” she shook her head. “It was us.”
             “This,” he gestured to the two of them, “was not normal. It was,”
              Hermione hid her smile. It was scary, how powerful that had been,
and he had to be terrified over what he’d admitted. “Amazing?”
             Tom said nothing. He moved away from her, and she felt the instant
he pulled away magically as well. She didn’t push, didn’t need to. She could
still feel him, behind his walls. She wondered if he could feel her as well.
             “Your words,” he scowled, looking at her stomach, then his arm.
Hermione followed his gaze. Their words, which had been inked in their skin in
a bold, black color, were now a glowing gold, shimmering in the light like the
words would come off and float away, ethereal and beautiful.
             Before she could say anything, he was putting on his clothing. He
was scared, and angry, unsure of how this would affect him. She felt gently
along their bond, along the edges of their magic, searching for a soft spot,
some place where she could help.
            She used magic to get her clothes back on quickly, then crossed to
him. He looked livid and dangerous. “What do you want?” she asked softly.
           “The world, Hermione,” his smile was not a happy one. “You know
that.”
            “What do you want of me?” she clarified.
             He had grabbed her waist and pulled her close before she’d
finished her question, his face pressed into the wild cloud of her curls,
breathing slowly and deeply. When he drew back, he tapped the locket and spoke
in a low, trembling voice. “Take care of the part of me I seem to have given
you.”
            Then he was gone, angry again, blasting furniture away from the
door, and down the hall at a sprint.
***** Roommate Conversations and Interrogations *****
Chapter Summary
     Tom has a talk with Abraxas. Hermione's roommates have a talk with
     her. The Room of Requirement makes an appearance, and the Chamber of
     Secrets is discussed as well.
Chapter Notes
     I'm so happy that most people are pleased with the age shift and the
     change in our favorite couple's relationship status. Trust me,
     Hermione isn't giving up her power just because she digs a power
     exchange during sexy times. Also, Abraxas just became a character I
     like more and more, so I'm giving him some additional space. Narcissa
     and Galatea will be back in the next chapter.
 
 
            Tom didn’t actively recall walking back to the dungeons. When he
entered the Slytherin dormitory, he paused, blinking at his surroundings,
orienting himself. The common room was full, as usual at this time of night. It
was barely past eight o’clock. Time seemed to have stood still on the fifth
floor.
            Marguerite came toward him as he crossed the room. He put up a hand
in warning, and she stopped, a sullen expression clouding her face.
            The thought that her presence hurt Hermione tempted him to find a
way to get rid of her, permanently, but that would piss her off, too. Honestly,
his soul mate was difficult to please.   He continued down the hall to his
room, and was happy to find Abraxas the only occupant.
            He closed and warded the door against opening and sound. Abraxas
immediately got off his bed, homework sliding onto the floor unheeded.
            “Abraxas,” Tom said calmly, a polite smile on his face. He watched
the other, older boy closely. Abraxas was a strange mixture of defiance and
resignation.
            “Tom,” he replied softly, his grey eyes wide.
            He knew Abraxas was handsome, knew that his pale good looks were a
foil for Tom’s own dark ones. But, now, gazing at him in the diffuse, low light
in the dungeon, he saw that Abraxas was beautiful, and he saw how Hermione had
been attracted to him. Plans were forming in Tom’s mind, and he had several
things he needed to test. Abraxas’s loyalty was first and foremost, along with
the hint Hermione had made.
            Tom came to stand in front of him, much closer than was normal for
them. He lifted his hand, put on the back of Abraxas’s neck, and though he
started, Abraxas didn’t pull away. Tom could feel his pulse, pounding nervously
under his fingers. He tugged gently on Abraxas, bringing him even closer.
            “What do I smell like, Abraxas?” Tom whispered, a venomous sound
that was more hiss than speech.
            Abraxas’s grey eyes went even wider, his long lashes curling back
to his pale eyebrows. He didn’t answer, only sucked in his breath.
            “Do you see my lips, Abraxas?” Tom continued in a low voice, the
same one he had just used on Hermione to great effect.
            The other boy nodded, only the barest movement of his head.
            “Hermione made those marks,” Tom grinned, the bloody marks red
against his white teeth. “Whomdo I smell like, Abraxas?” this time, he inched
his fingers up a bit and wound them in the silky pale hair that brushed the
other boy’s neck.
            “Hermione,” Abraxas exhaled shakily, his words mostly inaudible,
though Tom knew exactly what he’d said.
            Tom gave a sharp tug on his hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.
Whomdo I smell like?”
            Abraxas’s face was so close, Tom could smell chocolate on his
breath as he answered, louder this time, but still softly, “Hermione.”
            “Yes,” Tom lowered his head to Abraxas’s ear. “Hermione. I smell
like Hermione because I just had her under me, screaming my name. I smell like
Hermione because she is mine. Now, that makes sense because she is my soul
mate. What I don’t quite understand is why you know what she smells like.”
            With a quick jerk, Abraxas tried to pull away, but Tom was too
fast, and his grip was too strong. “Now, now. If you want to be alive tomorrow,
you will behave in a civil fashion, my dearfriend.”
            Abraxas was still again, though his eyes darted to his wand. Tom
waved his hand and it vanished from the bed. Abraxas closed his eyes, a deep
sigh torn from his chest, then squared his shoulders, clearly gathering his
courage. Tom appreciated how he didn’t grovel. He really was a clever boy, Tom
thought. He decided to turn a knife, just to see the reaction.
            “Do you know that Hermione asked me to make a wand vow to not hurt
you?”
            “What?” Abraxas flushed, his pupils dilated. “She asked that?”
            Tom nodded, still holding Abraxas’s hair. “Hermione thinks you are
worth saving, that you are loyal despite your recent actions.”
            “I am loyal,” Abraxas said firmly.
            “We’ll see,” Tom’s tone was breezy. “First, you need to recount
your sins, Abraxas, before I can decide whether or not to forgive you.”
            Abraxas wet his lips, and Tom noted how wide they were, how they
curved pleasantly even when motionless. “I…I kissed Hermione.”
            Tom laughed. “Yes, you did! She told me that you kissed her several
times, and that you kissed her….how did she put it? ‘Very, very well.’ But that
isn’t all, is it Abraxas?”
            His eyes were wide again, a bit of panic there. Tom thought it was
unbearably lovely, that tiny amount of terror threading through the slate grey
of his irises. He shook his head. “No, no, I haven’t done-”
            “Oh?” Tom arched a brow. “You don’t love her? You didn’t fall in
love with my soul mate, offer her not only physical attention, but romantic
love? You didn’t try to creep into her heart, yet another place reserved only
for me?”
            Abraxas’s gaze flew to the floor, his pretty mouth turned down.
“I,”
            “Yes?” Tom prompted, another hard tug at his hair. “Honesty is the
best policy, Abraxas. Or don’t they teach purebloods that?”
            Grey eyes looked up at him incredulously. Tom laughed, in actual
amusement this time. “True, we are Slytherins. Honesty isn’t one of our common
virtues. But, do you know, Abraxas, I think will demand honesty from you, and
trust me when I tell you that I will know if you are lying.”
            Abraxas nodded heavily, hampered by Tom’s hold. “I do love her. She
is,”
            There was another pull, much more vicious than any others so far.
“I know exactly what she is, Abraxas. She is mine.”
            “I just wanted to make her smile,” Abraxas finally said, “She was
crying and it hurt to see. She was so sad!”
            Tom was close again. “And you’d risk your life for her?”
            Abraxas nodded without hesitation but said nothing.
            “What about for me?” Tom mused. “What would you do for me?”
            “Anything that didn’t hurt Hermione,” came the swift response.
Abraxas barely winced at the way Tom’s hand wound tighter and tighter in his
hair.
            “Anything? Well, that is something,” Tom replied. “That
is…excellent to hear.”
            He closed the remaining distance between their bodies. They were so
similar in height, there was no noticeable discrepancy, their hips, shoulders,
chins, mouths, and eyes in alignment. Tom had power over Abraxas, and Abraxas
was a very attractive person. He made no attempt to hide his arousal over these
facts. Abraxas’s grey eyes were blown black, wide and wary, but aroused as
well. Tom could feel the evidence of that, too.
            “Hermione is mysoul mate,” Tom used his low, seductive voice again,
and watched as Abraxas tried and failed to hold back a shudder. “I want her to
be happy, and I am not the cuddly, romantic type. If she needs those things, I
will need to find a way to supply them for her, even if they don’t come from
me,” he smiled, his blood red lips close to Abraxas’s pink ones. “But, I’d need
to trust that source. That other source would also have to be mine. My things
can play with one another if I allow it. Do you understand what I’m offering
you, Abraxas?”
            The pale boy wet his lips again. “Yes,” his breath came out in a
low exhalation that was almost a plea.
            Tom spoke a finger’s width from Abraxas’s mouth. “And how will you
repay me for such a generous offer?”
            Abraxas swallowed. “However you want.”
            Tom smiled so broadly, the bites on his lips reopened. “Oh, I hoped
you would say that, my clever friend.” Then, he kissed Abraxas, pushing his
face forward with the fist at the back of his neck.
            Even though Tom applied force, Abraxas went willingly, parting his
lips and kissing Tom with a passion that surprised him. So, Hermione had been
absolutely right. Abraxas wanted them both. It was silly for him to doubt her,
Tom thought. She was almost always right, annoyingly so. There was copper in
his kiss as well, and Tom was oddly pleased at the idea of both Hermione and
Abraxas swallowing his blood, even in minute amounts.
            The kiss, which had been angry on Tom’s part to begin with, grew
languorous, and he once more agreed with his soul mate. Abraxas Malfoy was a
very, very good kisser.
            Tom pulled away, released Abraxas’s hair, watched in satisfaction
as the other boy tried to restore his composure. His lips were red now, too,
and his pale cheeks flushed and Tom was very, very pleased. Yes, he could
forgive Abraxas his indiscretion. After all, Hermione was irresistible, and she
would need another outlet, a place to focus her messy emotions. And Tom would
allow that, with Abraxas only, because now they were a closed circuit, the
three of them, and both Hermione and Abraxas were his.
            He waved his hand and he was holding Abraxas’s wand. He held it
out, a show of good faith, and Abraxas took it, and immediately put it on his
bed again and shrugged, as if to say he didn’t need it all, not in Tom’s
presence. Once again, Tom was impressed. Abraxas was so much smarter than most
knew, and he could read people well. He really was an excellent choice for a
right-hand man.
            Abraxas came back to him, stood closely. “May I kiss you again?”
            Tom laughed. “You are a greedy one, aren’t you?” He wrapped his
arms around the other boy’s waist, so much more substantial than Hermione’s
slender form, and kissed him for several more minutes, then stopped abruptly.
“We’ll continue this later, but you have homework to do,” he motioned at the
parchment and books on the floor around Abraxas’s bed.
            “Homework? Really?” Abraxas asked in disbelief, his erection
evident against his trousers.
            “Have you ever been fucked by a man, Abraxas?” Tom titled his head,
curious.
            The pale boy shook his head furiously, his cheeks flushed and eyes
down.
            “Excellent,” Tom said, then added. “If you’re going to be mine, you
will be mine only, and Hermione’s, of course. I’m sure she’ll want to play with
you, too.”
            Abraxas’s mouth was open, but no sound came out, and Tom had
cancelled the spells on the door and left before he could think in words
instead of sheer lust and panic.
 
-oOo0oOo-
            Hermione put the room to rights and headed slowly back to Ravenclaw
Tower. She had a lot to think over, and she wanted to be alone. She changed
directions and found in herself in a long, empty hallway, pacing in front of an
empty stretch of wall.
            The Room of Requirement responded gracefully to the request, I need
a place to think. The room was part library, part bedroom, and a fire crackled
in an enormous marble fireplace. She crossed to one of the seats in front of
the fire.
            It was oversized and plush and swallowed her in a comfortable way.
She drew up her knees and stared into the fire, watching the magical flames
dance. The flicker movement was hypnotic, and she enjoyed letting her mind rest
after so much turmoil, finding a peaceful, meditative space.
            Strangely, it wasn’t difficult to get to that peaceful place, nor
was it a problem to come back to herself, and lay out her thoughts in her mind
afterwards. Normally, Hermione was prone to over-thinking and second-guessing,
her clever brain seeing too many possibilities, branching out into an
overwhelming sea of potential actions and consequences. This was one of the
main reasons why she loved reading and research so much. By accumulating
knowledge, she was better able to wade through and discard actions that hadn’t
worked for others in the past or that might lead to future problems.
            The situation with Tom was even more complex because she had two
sets of knowledge to try to work with and integrate: the current set of
circumstances and their probable outcomes based on the factors she knew, and
the future outcomes that had been created by a timeline she was interfering
with, but still had the potential to occur in some similar or even wildly
mutated fashion.
            It was evening, getting late, and her potion, though weakened
greatly because she was only a few years away from the age she’d been when she
and Narcissa had first arrived, was worn off. She could always tell when the
potion was gone from her system because she would feel a bit wistful and
introspective, thinking of her parents or her friends. She didn’t allow herself
to dwell on them long though, because she couldn’t imagine what they would say
to her about the day’s events.
            Instead, she focused on the present, and the immediate future. Tom
was angry and sacred, but that was good in a way. Whatever had happened with
their soul mate bond had forced him to recognize he was capable of feeling,
even if it didn’t follow the same patterns as most others. This gave Hermione
hope. He could be reasoned with, he could be molded. For all that he said she
couldn’t change him, she knew very well that she already had, and even though
the sex would surely lead to some future drama, she was glad she’d done it, for
multiple reasons.
            Her new points of research were to find out everything she could
about the Chamber of Secrets and killing basilisks – hadn’t there been some
sort of ridiculously easy solution, something involving a chicken…no…a crowing
rooster? She’d figure that out and make sure that no one who was muggleborn was
anywhere near the third floor bathrooms until that thing was killed. That
includes you, she reminded herself. Sometimes, after years of being Hermione
Bonneau, she forgot her own story. The other item was to discover more about
the soul mate marks, especially the change in color in their marks. It had to
be some kind of sex magic tied to the soul mate bond, because it hadn’t taken
place until after they’d both climaxed, simultaneously.
            Having been on the run with a limited library, and then having been
put back into the body and, at least during the day, the mind of a twelve year
old, Hermione hadn’t done much research into sex magic, but she was definitely
going to be correcting that deficit in the next few days.
            The calm she’d felt all evening kept steady, and she thought maybe
her magic was just so happy to be free, and her soul mate bond was thrilled to
be re-established, stronger than ever. If she concentrated, she could feel
Tom’s magic humming somewhere far away. She focused a bit more and
felt…happiness? She shook her mind. No, it was more like satisfaction and
thrill. A thrill at doing something, proving something. Whatever it was,
though, it wasn’t violent or angry, and she was relieved. Despite the threats
he’d made, she didn’t think he would hurt Abraxas, not after the intrigued look
he’d had on his face when she’d asked him about the two being attracted to one
another.
            It made sense, given Abraxas’s unerring devotion to Tom from their
first year, even when Abraxas had been coming from a background that was
decidedly not in favor of half-bloods proclaiming their equality, and
especially not of half-bloods championing muggle borns as well. She sighed,
understanding exactly how Abraxas felt, the magnetic pull of Tom Riddle. She
supposed she even understood Marguerite’s attraction to Tom, to the power he
represented, though that didn’t stop her from hating the girl. If it had been
any one else, Hermione was sure she would have been at least fifty percent less
angry, but Marguerite reminded her so much of Bellatrix that even on a good
day, she itched to hex her.      
            She rose and went to the shelves by the fireplace and perused the
books. The Room, always helpful, provided a book on dangerous magical
creatures, and Hermione noted she was right. All they needed was a crowing
rooster, which couldn’t be too difficult. She would have asked Professor
Kettleburn for one, because she was sure he kept several kinds of birds, but
his roosters where probably crossbred with dragons and breathed fire. One of
the families in Hogsmeade must have a rooster. She put the book back on the
shelf and went onto the one beside it, a crimson leather bound volume with no
label. Gingerly, she lifted it, cautiously opening the cover, though she didn’t
think the Room would provide her with anything that would hurt her.
            Inside, in calligraphy that was overly loopy and a tad difficult to
decipher, Hermione read a faded title: The Moste Astounding Magick of Linked
Heartes. Could linked hearts be another term for soul mates and their bond? She
turned the thin parchment pages, her speed slowed by the handwriting that took
effort to read. There was no date on the book, but from the spelling and some
archaic word usage, she estimated it was about least six hundred years old, not
quite as hard to read as Chaucer, but more challenging than Shakespeare. The
content was badly organized, more of a collection of musings rather than a book
with a central, recognizable thesis and clear evidence provided to support said
thesis. However, Hermione was nothing if not persistent, and she bit her lip in
frustration and curled her hair around her finger and forced herself to read
the entire thing.
            From what she could garner, the author (also unnamed) was the
husband of a woman who had soul mate markings, and who later left him to be
with the soul mate, or as the man termed it, ‘her other heart’. Though the
writer didn’t seem bitter, he was clearly heart-broken himself, and began
collecting all the information he could on how the ‘heart link’ worked.   He
had traveled all over Europe, looking for people who had found their soul mates
and gathering their stories, which he related in bits and pieces. Most of the
text was personal anecdotes that were interesting but not really helpful.
However, he did mention that those linked with writing had the most powerful
bond and were most likely to find one another. These pairs, he wrote, ‘are the
glowing sun and the pallid moon, the fragrant summer and the frozen winter,
extremes of behavior and magic – often one very light and one most dark.’
Hermione knew this was true, from the small amount of research she’d been able
to do. Marked pairs tended to be strong personalities with great magical
abilities, and not a lot else in common.
            The book offered no explanation for the marks or soul mates in
general beyond references to fate. However, toward the end, the author made a
list of stages of the marked bond, based on the information he’d collected.
First was the initial appearance of the words, usually upon the two first
meeting one another, but, he noted, occasionally one would be marked before
meeting the other, if exposed to a great deal of the other’s magical energy in
the form of a wand, enchanted objects, etc. When the words appeared, especially
if the pair was with one another, their magic would create a link, enabling
them to feel the presence of the other, and emotions as well.
            After that, the more time the pair spent together, and the more
physical touch, the more the bond strengthened. Crucial to this was the viewing
of the bond, seeing one another’s writing, and touching the writing, which were
stages two and three. Hermione frowned in thought at this. Because they were so
young at their first meeting, and because her marks were on a more private
place, they hadn’t fully complete stages two and three until tonight, as well
as stage four, which was alluded to as a ‘physical and spiritual congress.’
That had to be the sex, and no wonder their bond had made such a powerful
connection, practically taking them out of their bodies – they’d solidified
several significant steps in the bonding process in a very short span of time.
            She squinted at the last stage, which was not clearly worded. It
was labeled, ‘The Unified Hearte, Body, and Spirit.’ Did that mean the bond was
capable of linking their bodies and souls completely, tethering their lives
together? Would they eventually be able to read one another’s minds without
legilimency? Thatwould be a serious problem, for multiple reasons. Under no
circumstances could Tom Riddle ever know the contents of her mind. Though she
read the entire book, there was no further information on what caused this
final state of bonding, whether it occurred naturally from continued exposure
to one another, or if they had to do something additional to make it happen.
           Hermione rubbed at her temples, thinking that she now had a
headache, and the book had only given her vague worries, not any truly useful
information. The thought lead to an inventory of her other physical aches, and
they were many. She wished for a bath, and the Room provided one. Hermione sank
into the tub, letting the hot water soothe her muscles. In the long mirror on
the opposite wall, she saw the signs of her earlier adventure. There were
matching finger shaped bruises on her wrists, and perfectly symmetrical bite
marks on her breasts. Everything from her navel to her knees was sore, and she
carefully healed herself, removing the outward evidence, though she left one
thumb bruise on her left wrist, a single spot she could gaze upon, a small
gateway to all the memories of wild range of sensations she’d felt.
          She had given her virginity to Tom Riddle, to her soul mate who
didn’t actually seem to have a working soul. Clearly it was there, intact, but
he didn’t use it the way other people did. And the sex itself? She bit her lip
at the memory, felt the tender spot where he’d bitten her, though much less
hard than she’d bitten him. There was no surprise that Tom would want to
dominate her physically, and she was honest enough with herself to admit she
found it arousing, though she was blind-sided by her reaction. She hadn’t
imagined that rough, angry sex, a battle with their bodies, could be so
amazing, or that it would transform into something much more profound by the
end.
          Submitting to Tom sexually also served the purpose of giving Tom an
area of their lives where he called all the shots, where he could feel in
control, which was important to keeping him stable. When Tom Riddle felt out of
control, bad things happened. In Tom’s original timeline, this year was a
pivotal one. He had opened the Chamber of Secrets, killed Myrtle, made his
first horcrux, framed Hagrid, and solidified Dumbledore as an enemy. Then,
there was the search for the Gaunts, and the murder of his father and
grandparents, along with more horcruxes.
         He had mentioned offhandedly that they would kill the basilisk, but
Hermione wondered how willing he would be to kill such a powerful weapon, a
snake that he could talk to and control. Would he want to keep it? Train it?
Adjust its magic to become some kind of attack dog? That seemed a cunning and
likely choice for Tom, who valued power so highly. She was positive that he
wouldn’t turn the snake loose in the school to hunt muggleborns, but she was
much less positive that he wouldn’t use it to kill someone who’d annoyed him at
some point in the future.
           And his father and grandparents? There was no reason to think they
would react any differently to Tom finding them now than they had in the
original timeline, and that would mean murder. Tom did not take kindly to
rejection. His uncle was probably out of Azakaban by now, and if Tom decided to
visit him, he would be very upset to learn that his mother had used a love
potion on his father, not because he believed in the sanctity of free will, but
because he would learn his father reviled his mother, never wanted her, never
wanted to have a child with her, and no matter how beautiful and brilliant Tom
was, he would never be welcome at the Riddles’. And, because he was half-
blooded, he would never be welcome at the hovel of the last of the Gaunts.
            She gathered her clothes along with her thoughts, taking the two
books as well, and went back to Ravenclaw Tower. It was close to curfew, and
there were only a few students out in the common room. She took the stairs up
to her room, and found that her three roommates were sitting on the central
rug, talking quietly.
            “Hermione!” Josephine was up and hugging her as Hermione put the
books on her nightstand. “We were worried about you!”
            “Why?” Hermione was confused. None of the three Ravenclaws had been
at the study group because they had been on the Astronomy Tower, working on a
shared star charting project.
            Felicity put her hands on her hips and made an exasperated sigh.
“What do you think everyone is talking about? There were twenty students in
there, and they all went back and told their common rooms that you and Tom were
probably going to kill each other before the night was over, that the doors
were warded and silenced, and you did something to Marguerite?”
            Hermione looked down, not answering. She was a bit annoyed she’d
let her emotions get the better of her over Marguerite. It seemed so petty now,
to say that she’d cut Marguerite’s leg out of jealousy.
            Patience was at the side of Hermione not taken up by Josephine, in
the extremely close way that Patience always stood by her, and her button nose
scrunched as she sniffed Hermione’s hair.
            “You’ve had a bath,” Patience stated. “You smell like vanilla soap,
with a hint of mint, too.”
            All three girls stared at Hermione. Felicity and Josephine both had
dropped jaws, while Patience simply smiled in her vaguely absent fashion.    
            “Why would you need a bath, Hermione? And why would you take one
somewhere else?” Felicity’s tone was teasing, fishing for the story.
            Josephine had pulled back, was looking Hermione over with a close
eye. “Yes, Hermione, why would you do that?”
            Hermione flushed. She was not ashamed of the sex, but it was
extremely…intense, and not the sort of sexual interaction most girls a few days
from their sixteenth birthdays engaged it, especially not in 1942.
           Felicity was smirking now. “Tom just looks the same as always, huh?”
           Josephine laughed. “What does he kiss like, Hermione?”
          “Probably like a very strong snake,” Patience supplied helpfully. “I
imagine he has a long, flickering tongue.”
           No one commented on that, though they all snickered for a few
minutes. Hermione collected herself. “He was very…passionate.”
          “I’ll bet,” Josephine had collapsed backward onto Hermione’s bed.
“I’d be afraid to touch someone so…”
          “Pulsating with power?” Patience asked, laying beside Josephine.
           Felicity shook her head and looked at Hermione in mock despair. “Did
she just say ‘pulsating with power’?”
            Hermione could barely answer for the laughter spilling out of her
throat. Once she could breathe again, she took Felicity’s arm, and they both
sat on the bed with their other roommates. Hermione leaned over Patience’s
perfectly calm face.
            “Don’t ever use that phrase around Tom, Patience,” she laughed a
bit more.
            “It isn’t true?” Patience drew her eyebrows together.
            Josephine was half-laughing, half-choking. “Yes, Hermione,” she
gasped. “Tell us all about Tom’s pulsating -”
            She was cut off by the launching of a pillow at her head, which in
turn became a full out battle. Fifteen minutes later, feathers surrounded them
and they were breathless. They cleaned up the mess with magic, then all laid
cross ways on Hermione’s bed, the four of them staring up at the sapphire bed
hangings.
            “Seriously, though, do you think you’ll marry him?” Josephine
asked, breaking the quiet that had fallen.
            “I can’t imagine you with anyone else,” Felicity remarked, before
Hermione had answered.
            “Maybe Abraxas,” Patience mused.
            “Malfoy?” Josephine’s voice held amusement and disbelief.
“Hermione, he’s worse than Tom. Between the two of them, they have the whole
school in love with them, but Abraxas actually kisses all the girls who fancy
him! He’s a Romeo! Plus, he’ll have to marry a pureblood.”
            “It would be hard to be in love with someone everyone else wanted,”
Felicity sighed. “I’d get very jealous.”
            Hermione bit her lip, then answered, “I did get jealous, of
Marguerite,”
            Josephine made a scoffing sound. “Tom couldn’t care less about
Marguerite. You’re the only girl he ever really looks at.”
            Felicity added, “When he watches you when you do magic, in classes
and during the dueling club, his eyes get dark and he gets this smile, and…”
she fanned herself.
            Now, Hermione laughed. “How much do you watch him?”
            She shrugged. “He’s pretty. I like pretty boys.”
            Patience turned, laying her head on Hermione’s shoulder, which
wouldn’t have been possible when they were standing, because Patience was quite
a bit taller now, the tallest girl in their year, in fact. “Some of the
prettiest things are the most poisonous.”
            They all fell silent again. There was no arguing that point. No
matter how lovely Tom’s words, his manners, and his smile, the power barely
contained within him was dangerous. Three sets of arms suddenly surrounded
Hermione, holding her close.
            “Be careful,” Josephine whispered.
            “It’s too late for that,” Felicity murmured. “If you weren’t his
before, you certainly are now.”
            Patience sighed, her breath warm on Hermione’s clavicle. “Don’t
worry. Hermione is more than a match for him.”
            Hermione hoped that was true.
 
-oOo0oOo-
           The next morning, Hermione woke early, dressed quickly, and hurried
to breakfast. Patience accompanied her, a quiet, calming presence always at her
side. Over the years, Patience had become a part of Hermione’s life that was
automatic. Rise, dress, walk arm and arm with Patience to breakfast, to class,
to study, to dueling club. During the summers, when Patience was traveling with
her parents, Hermione felt the loss keenly. Her odd, but very perceptive,
friend was like a security blanket, a support to her emotions, and often, the
voice of thoughts Hermione herself did not speak. She had not had close female
friends in her previous school experience, but her bond with her roommates, and
Patience especially, was something that made losing her future friendships
bearable.
             Tom found Patience annoying, she knew, mostly because Hermione
gave her love and attention without thought and unreservedly. And also because
Patience seemed to know more of Tom’s true nature and secrets than he liked
others to be aware of.
            At the base of the stairs that lead to Ravenclaw Tower, Hermione
and Patience found Tom and Abraxas standing, apparently waiting.
            Tom’s eyes flicked to Patience and narrowed.
            “Good morning, Tom,” Patience smiled as if he weren’t practically
scowling at her.
            “Patience,” Tom replied tersely.
            “Are you boys going to escort us to breakfast?” Patience asked,
then added, “How nice.”
            “We were hoping to have a few minutes to speak with Hermione
alone,” Tom answered.
             Hermione gave him a smirk. “You can say anything you’d like in
front of Patience.”
             Tom frowned. “Really? So you want me to talk about how I fucked
you last night in front of Patience?”
             The only person who looked embarrassed was Abraxas, who
immediately ducked his head.
             Patience gazed directly at Tom. “I know. Under the vanilla and
mint, she smelled like blood and lightening – like you.”
             Hermione made a coughing sound to cover her shocked laughter.
             Tom’s expression would have scared anyone else, but as usual,
didn't phase Patience. “Do you have an exceptionally excellent sense of smell,
Patience, or were you exceptionally close to her?”
             Abraxas made a sound of distressed warning, his eyes trying to
catch Patience’s, but she was still meeting Tom’s eyes completely.
             “My head was on her shoulder, while we were lying in bed
together,” Patience gave him a broad smile, as if she just taught him a new
spell. Hermione briefly wondered if Patience were deliberately baiting Tom.
             “Tom,” Hermione interjected. “This is nothing new. Patience is my
best friend. She hugs me all the time.”
              “In bed?” Tom asked, though he seemed more resigned than angry
now. “How many pets do you need?”
              Hermione didn’t respond, but, to her surprise, Patience let go of
Hermione and took Tom’s arm, looping her own arm through his. Tom glanced at
her in shock, which only increased when Patience hugged him tightly, then
rested her white blonde head on his shoulder for a moment before she kissed his
cheek, rather close to his mouth.
              Tom, Abraxas, and Hermione were all frozen as Patience gave
another bright, distracted smile and said, “There, now I’ve given you all the
same affection I give Hermione. I think you needed it. Affection always
improves one’s mood.”
              She let go of Tom and repeated her actions on Abraxas, who
actually smiled in return and gave her a shaky, “Thanks, Patience,” after the
kiss on his cheek.
              “What planet are you from?” Tom mused aloud as he continued to
stare at Patience for several minutes. Hermione noted that he made no move to
rebuke Patience, which she took as a promising sign that he would accept her as
a part of Hermione’s life she wouldn’t set aside. Finally, he shook his head
and turned to Hermione.
               “I think the Chamber entrance is in the girls’ third floor
bathroom. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I think we should explore it.  What better
way to spend your birthday, Hermione, then uncovering magical secrets buried
for centuries?” he said, then sighed. “You can come, too, Patience.”
               Patience graced him with another smile, to which Tom rolled his
eyes.
               Hermione fought against panic. “I think there is a basilisk
there, and I think it is incredibly dangerous. We’ll need to take several
precautions.”
              Abraxas was close to her free elbow, closer than she would have
thought Tom would allow, but Tom said nothing, nor did he say anything when
Abraxas actually touched her, putting a calming hand on her arm. Her eyes
darted to Tom, and he smirked at her, a sexy, knowing smirk. What had he said
to Abraxas last night, she wondered.
              “The basilisk shouldn’t be dangerous, right? I mean, it only
targets muggleborns. We’ll just keep them away until we deal with it.” Abraxas
squeezed her arm, and Hermione felt an odd thrill, not only from his touch, but
from the fact that Tom was watching with that expression on his face.
               She shook her head, focusing. “No, the basilisk won’t be
dangerous to Tom, because he is the Heir of Slytherin, and he is a parselmouth.
But it’s venom and stare could kill any of us, no matter our blood status.”
               Tom’s smirk dropped as he seriously considered her words.
Patience began to hum her ever-lengthening ballad. He glared at her, but she
continued as if she didn’t notice.
              “A rooster’s crow will kill it,” Hermione began. “I looked it up
last night.”
              “Maybe we should see if I can control it before we try to kill
it,” Tom said, a thoughtful expression on his face.
              “I was sure you were going to say that,” Hermione’s brow
furrowed. “If you do want to keep it alive, you will need to make sure that it
can’t go beyond the chamber. This creature is deadly, and if you are
controlling it, and it hurts someone, there will be serious consequences.”
              “Tom doesn’t want to kill anyone right now,” Patience’s words
were half-sung. “Isn’t that right?”
              “Listen to your pet, Hermione,” Tom laughed. “I’m not feeling
murderous at the moment, so everything will be fine.”
               Abraxas laughed, too, and stroked Hermione’s arm gently,
lightly, as if it truly were a silly fear on Hermione’s part to be concerned
about potentially letting loose a creature that only Tom could control.
              “You’ll need to go down first,” Hermione insisted. “You’ll need
to talk to it, get it slither away, or stand down, or whatever, before the rest
of us can enter. And you need to promise me that you will command it not to
kill anyone.”
              “If there is actually a basilisk down there,” Tom replied, “and
if it responds to my orders, I will command it not to kill anyone, unless I say
so.”
              Abraxas gave Tom a questioning look. “What if it is down there,
but it doesn’t respond to you? If it doesn’t want to obey you?”
             “Snakes tend to obey me,” Tom arched an eyebrow. “But in that
unlikely scenario, well, you and Hermione and her pet will be waiting in the
girls’ bathroom with a rooster, just in case.”
             “Stop calling Patience my pet,” Hermione glared at Tom’s self-
satisfied grin.
             “Oh, it’s fine,” Patience said airly, patting Hermione’s other
arm. “It makes him feel better. Snakes can be so tetchy.”
             Tom opened his mouth to say something venomous, Hermione was sure,
but other Ravenclaws were coming down the stairs.
            “We need to be getting to breakfast,” Tom said instead, giving
Patience a look of warning that she blithely ignored.
           “Abraxas, take Patience’s arm,” he ordered, and took Hermione’s arm
in his own.
            It was the first time Tom had touched her this morning, the first
time he’d touched her since last night, and there was surge of magic as their
arms linked, threading up their shoulders, spreading through the rest of them.
They were still a moment, absorbing the impact. Tom glanced intently at her
wrist. Her sleeve had ridden up a bit, and the thumb shaped bruise was visible.
            He lowered his head to her ear and whispered, “I’m glad you kept
that.”
            She turned and kissed his cheek, right there in the hallway, even
closer to his mouth than Patience had. He shivered. “So am I,” she replied.
            “Kissing in the hall, Miss Bonneau?” he asked as they began to walk
behind Patience and Abraxas. “Trying to stake a visible claim?”
            “As if I need to,” Hermione scoffed. “You told me the truth last
night, I could feel it. I’m the one you want.”
            Tom nodded. “That’s right, little bird. You don’t need to prove
anything. Remember that, and try your best not to peck out Marguerite’s eyes
with your sharp little beak.”
            “I’m not going to touch her,” Hermione replied loftily.
            The sexy smirk was back, full-force. “Are you sure? You seem to
require an awful lot of touching, from an awful lot of people: me, Abraxas,
your little pet.”
            “You make friendly hugs sound salacious,” Hermione protested. “And
most people do like to be touched, as Patience said.” She switched topics and
lowered her voice. “What happened with Abraxas?”
            “Why, I only touched him in a friendly manner,” Tom’s tone was
teasing, and he laughed at Hermione’s wide-eyed response. “You put the idea in
my head, dear, and you were right. I think Abraxas will be even better friend
to us in the future, his loyalty to us thoroughly secured.”
            She sighed. “It isn’t just about controlling him,” she began.
            “I know,” Tom cut her off, and she watched his face as he looked
ahead at Abraxas, saw the glint of appraisal and felt the affection in his
magic. “I do like him, you know.”
            Hermione felt the truth of this through their connection and she
smiled. “That’s wonderful, Tom.”
            “That doesn’t mean I’m going to start liking your pet, though,” he
warned, his eyes moving to the loose, straight waterfall of pale hair that fell
to Patience’s waist. “She’s an impossibly annoying thing, and if it weren’t for
you, I would have stuffed her in a vanishing closet in our first year.”
            Hermione laughed, because she felt no real malice from him, only
exasperation. “I think she’s growing on you, Tom.”
            “Never,” he vowed, but there was a hint of smile at the edge of his
mouth.
***** Narcissa Makes Threats...And Also Makes Time in the Forbidden Forest
*****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione and Narcissa discuss the potential problems with Tom's
     plans. Narcissa and Galatea weigh in on how they feel about the
     evolution of Tom and Hermione's relationship, and think of their own
     as well. Moaning Myrtle makes a cameo, though she's not dead. yet...
Chapter Notes
     So, I was lazy and didn't check my books for the right bathroom...in
     one source on-line, it said first floor, and another said second, and
     then I remembered the difference between US and UK designations of
     first versus ground floors, so I apologize for any earlier mistakes.
     I'll correct them eventually, when I finish the whole story and go
     back to do final, clean-up edits.
     For those who love Narcissa/Galatea, they have some fun action in
     this chapter, and we'll get back to our others soon. I'm already
     working on the next chapter, where Tom talks to a giant snake.
 
-oOo0oOo-
            “The Chamber?” Narcissa frowned, pacing in her small parlor. “So
soon?”
            “He’s actually close to the original time line,” Hermione replied
absently, sitting in the chair by Narcissa’s window, looking out over the
moonlight reflecting on the lake. It was far past curfew, but Narcissa had
informed Galatea that she wanted Hermione to spend the night in her quarters,
as an early birthday evening spent together, since Hermione would be spending
most of Saturday, her actual birthday, with her friends. “He did open it in his
fifth year.”
            Narcissa nodded. “True, but we’ve changed so much. I’d hoped that
maybe that whole issue would be sidestepped.”
            “Ha!” Hermione laughed, a touch bitterly. “If Tom knows there is a
chance something down there will increase his power and status, nothing could
keep him from exploring it.”
            Suddenly, Narcissa had crossed to her, was on the floor, holding
Hermione’s hands tightly. “You can’t be anywhere near this! You are muggle born
and I will not have any harm come to you!” Her voice was fierce, a mother’s
love suffusing it.
            Hermione uncurled from the seat and hugged Narcissa. “Give me some
credit, mother.” She’d grown used to calling Narcissa mother, and it was
natural now, an easy habit. She had two mothers in her mind, her mother from
the future-past, and Narcissa, the woman who’d changed her life and was helping
her to save the world. “I’ll have mirrors set up over the bathroom, a spell for
clouding its eyes, and a rooster ready if Tom can’t control it, though we
already know he can.”
            “So, he’ll have a basilisk at his beck and call,” Narcissa sounded
worried.
            “He did before, but he didn’t risk using it much – it’s too large,
too difficult to explain away,” Hermione soothed, but then thought about
Hagrid, who had Aragog growing somewhere in the castle and shuddered. “I
honestly think he’s more interested in what else might be down there.”
            “Do you know?” Narcissa asked.
            Hermione shook her head. “Harry didn’t really explore it beyond
what he described as a kind of enormous antechamber-underground cavern that was
carved from rock, with stone and tile and serpentine sculptures. That can’t be
all, though, I agree with Tom on that point. Slytherin would have some kind of
lab or library or both down there, too, I would think.”
            “Yes,” Narcissa agreed, “It doesn’t seem likely that he would
design something so elaborate only to hold the basilisk, but Hermione, darling,
you must be careful. Many, many old pureblood families guarded their
possessions with curses designed to keep those objects and books within the
family. They will likely recognize Tom as being a descendant of Slytherin, and
perhaps even Abraxas because the Malfoys have familial connections to
Slytherin, but you should not touch anything.”
            Hermione squeezed her hand. “It will be fine, mother. After five
years of watching Galatea, I understand the protocol for approaching
potentially cursed objects, and so does Tom.”
            Narcissa looked at her wrist, at the bruise there that had faded to
a yellow brown color, like a smudge of dried turmeric. Her expression was
thunderous. Hermione had never seen such emotion on Narcissa’s face. “Did he
hurt you?”
            Several thoughts flashed through Hermione’s mind in rapid
succession. Narcissa had seen Tom’s future self torture and kill many, many
people. Even if Hermione was his soul mate, she didn’t have this knowledge,
this deep-seated fear that Narcissa concealed so well, the vivid memories of
just what Tom was capable of.
            “No,” Hermione answered firmly. “No, he didn’t. It was consensual.”
            Narcissa managed to both relax and raise a suspicious eyebrow at
the same time. It was quite a feat. “Consensual what, exactly?”
            Hermione squirmed. Narcissa was her confidant, but she was also her
mother figure, and this was slightly embarrassing. She took a deep breath,
remembering a comment her other mother had once made in her fourth year, ‘If
you’re too embarrassed to talk about it, you’re too young to be doing it.’
            “We had sex, Tom and I,” she looked at Narcissa with a bit of
difficulty.
            “So I surmised,” Narcissa sighed. “Were you…careful?”
            “What?” Hermione asked, then understood. “Oh, yes, of course.”
            “Hermione,” Narcissa began, then stopped. She rose, poured a drink
of fire whiskey from a decanter she rarely touched, then turned back and
continued. “I am well aware of how the Dark Lord treated the people he slept
with. It was often a form of humiliation, a punishment. Even those who enjoyed
such activities found him cruel. My sister,” she looked away and gulped the
drink in one swallow. “My sister bore many marks that came from him, and though
she also would have labeled them consensual, I want you to know that you can
come to me if he hurts you, and we will figure something out. I would keep him
under imperio for the rest of his life rather than let him hurt you.”
            Hermione’s eyes welled with tears, and she went to Narcissa and
hugged her again, more tightly this time. “Thank you, thank you, for your love
and care, mother, but I am fine. I wouldn’t lie to you. Tom is…a dominant
presence, but I can handle him. I am his soul mate, I…” she thought of the new
development.
            She untucked her shirt and unbuttoned the bottom few buttons,
revealing the words that had remained their new shade of shimmering gold.
Narcissa gently traced the words. “Does it feel different now?”
            “Only when he touches it,” she admitted. “Otherwise, it feels like
normal skin.” She re-buttoned her shirt and went to her school bag, taking out
the book she’d been given by the Room of Requirement.
            She pointed out the relevant passages and they discussed
possibilities for over an hour. Narcissa agreed with Hermione that there was
most likely some kind of magical event or spell that created the final unified
state, and that they needed to make sure Hermione and Tom never reached it,
which was difficult without knowing what it was in the first place.
            Then, Hermione took a bath and changed into her night clothes and
Narcissa brushed and spelled her hair in front of the hair, as she had when
they had first travelled back in time. They were almost ready to fall asleep in
front of the fire when there was a knock on the door.
            Narcissa stood, a smile on her face. “It’s Galatea,” she said
simply and went to the door.
            Hermione wondered if non-marked soul mates went through the same
stages. Galatea and Narcissa had become as close as any couple she’d ever seen.
It didn’t seem a stretch at all to imagine them sharing thoughts, and, unlike
Tom, Galatea would probably understand, respect, and support the changes
Narcissa had made to create a better future.   The weight of future knowledge
was a heavy one, she knew.  
            Galatea came in wearing her usual crooked smile, looking very
pleased. “I’m sorry about the late visit, and I know tomorrow is your birthday,
but I would like to give you your present tonight.”
            “You finished it?” Narcissa asked her, happiness shining in her
eyes.
            “I wouldn’t be able to wait now,” Hermione smiled. “Not after
seeing how you two are grinning.
            Galatea laughed. “Well, I can’t help but be excited. I’ve been
working on this gift for five years, with your mother and Madame Selwyn’s
help.”
            Hermione chewed her lip, trying to figure out what in the world the
three women would have collaborated on, but then Galatea gently took her arm,
and she knew. With a light touch, Galatea slid up her nightgown sleeve and
carefully unwound the ever-present bandage to reveal the jagged wounds that had
never even so much as scabbed over in five years.
            Narcissa took a jar off the mantle and rubbing a cooling lotion
over Hermione’s angry cuts. In her mind, Narcissa’s voice there, a tender use
of legilimency that said, “I’m so sorry I didn’t stop her.”
           There were tears in Hermione’s eyes again. Galatea said, “I have to
warn you, this is going to hurt. I have to trigger the curse in your wound to
get to be able to transmute it. It might not disappear completely, either, but
I’ll do my best.”
            Hermione nodded and steeled herself. Galatea waved her wand, and
there was a burning fire in her arm, a bone-deep pain that she’d never
forgotten, but had been able to push to the furthest corners of her mind. The
pain wrapped around her, dragged her into the past, which was the future, and
she screamed, not sure where she was, not sure when she was, only that the pain
was there, and she couldn’t escape it.
            Suddenly, Tom was in her mind, yelling for her, and she tried to
shut him out, to keep him from feeling her pain, but she was stretched too
thin. “Tom!” she gasped, and blacked out.
-oOo0oOo-
            When she came to, she was in the second bedroom of Narcissa’s
quarters, the one Tom slept in when they arrived at Hogwarts before the
dormitories were opened. Tom was beside her, his face angry. When he saw her
open eyes, his anger faded.
            “Hermione,” he breathed, as if it were the first breath he’d taken
in years.
            “I told you that she would be fine, Tom,” Narcissa was on her other
side, Galatea at the foot of the bed. “We knew what we were doing. The curse
was extremely dark. There was no way to get rid of it without some pain.”
            “Somepain?” Tom snapped, angry again. “I felt it. It was…torture,”
he finished, his jaw muscle twitching as though he were holding back worse
words.
 
            Galatea nodded solemnly. “Yes, it was. The curse was made for
torturing, and Hermione has been living daily with its lingering effects, which
though not as intense as the initial occurrence, are decidedly unpleasant.”
 
            Hermione tried to sit up and two hands, Narcissa on right and Tom
on the left, pushed her back. “I’m fine now,” she protested, though weakly.
 
            “It was a strong curse, and an even stronger countercurse, and both
of those spells flooded your system. You need rest,” Narcissa’s tone brooked no
argument. It was her ‘I’m your mother and a healer’ voice.
 
            “Can I at least see it?” Hermione made to lift her arm, but it
wouldn’t obey. Her whole body was weighted with exhaustion.
           
            Tom was the one who rolled up her sleeve with the delicate touch
she’d only previously seen in the way he cut magical ingredients in Potions or
harvested plants in Herbology. She stared, and he did, too. On her forearm was
a pale pink scar, raised and knotted in the way that burn scars usually were.
It covered most of the space from her inner elbow to her wrist, as the words
had, but there was no visible writing, and no pain, either, other than a
certain tightness from the pull of the raised skin.
 
            “One day, I’ll fix it completely, make it as flawless as the rest
of you,” he said, his words low in her ear, more sweet than he probably
intended.
 
            “I have many flaws, as you well know,” she smiled, her head tilted
toward his, their foreheads close together. She saw Galatea and Narcissa
watching them – the professor in amusement, her mother in resignation.
 
            Hermione met Galatea’s eyes. “Thank you, so much. To look at my arm
and not see that hateful word, it’s…it is the best gift.”
 
            Galatea came over and kissed her forehead. “I’m only sorry that it
took me so long, and that it was still such a painful process.”
 
            “That doesn’t matter,” Hermione reassured her, tears in her eyes.
“It was worth it. I’m going to be thanking you for a lot longer than the five
years you worked on it. This is priceless, Galatea.”
 
            Narcissa waved her wand, checking over her daughter’s vital signs.
“You need rest, dear. It’s late and you should sleep.”
 
            “May I stay? I want to be sure she sleeps peacefully.” Tom was the
picture of innocent concern, no hint of impropriety.
 
            Narcissa looked at him, her intelligent gaze piercing directly
through Tom’s act, and making Tom aware of this as well. “Hermione needs rest,
not an anxious soul mate. You can only stay if you promise to let her sleep.”
 
            “Of course,” Tom smiled, his expression angelic. “I want Hermione
to be full of energy for her birthday tomorrow. We are going to go exploring in
the castle.”
           
            Galatea waved her wand and transfigured a chair into a cot for Tom.
“This castle is the best place in the world for exploring, but if you find
something that is exuding dark magic, or even hints at it, please come fetch me
or Professor Dumbledore. We don’t want to have to be spending Hermione’s
birthday in the Hospital Wing with more counter-curses.”
 
            Tom nodded, “Don’t worry. We won’t try to deal with any magic we
aren’t prepared to handle.”
 
            Hermione managed to hold in a snort, and when Narcissa leaned in to
kiss her cheek again, she whispered, “Be careful. Send me a patronus at once if
anything goes wrong.”
 
            The two ladies left shortly after, and Tom immediately got off the
cot and slid under the covers beside Hermione, putting his arm under her upper
body and pulling her against his chest. She rested her head, listening to the
physical evidence that he did have a heart.  
 
            Tom didn’t say anything, though Hermione had expected he would
launch into plans for tomorrow. He simply held her, stroked her hair, and said,
very softly, “I was afraid you were going to die. That pain was much, much
worse than the burning curse from our first year. I will get my hands on that
man, eventually, and he will be paid back in kind, with interest.”
 
            “I’m not giving him another thought, Tom,” Hermione answered
sleepily, knowing the fictitious man would never be found, and not wanting to
wish a vengeful Tom on any of Grindelwald’s followers, no matter their beliefs.
“You shouldn’t, either. He might be dead by now, anyway. It was years ago, and
fighting has been going on in Europe all this time.”
 
            “Death is too good for him,” Tom muttered, but surprisingly let the
matter drop. He occupied himself instead by playing with her hair, twisting the
curls around his finger. “But sleep now. We have an eventful day ahead of us
tomorrow.” He kissed her temple, and she fell asleep in his arms, dreaming of
terrifying glimpse she’d had of the basilisk in her mirror, and of the instant,
complete paralysis that had frozen her for days.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Narcissa’s back was to the door when Galatea entered the bedroom.
She could feel the waves of confusion and upset pouring off of her soul mate,
but Galatea wasn’t sure of the exact cause.
 
            She came up behind her, looped her arms around Narcissa’s slender
waist, resting her chin on the shorter woman’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, love?
Are you upset about those two? They are soul mates, and they are both so
mature. Tom will be sixteen in a few months as well; I’m surprised they waited
this long to get involved romantically.”
 
            Narcissa didn’t answer, but her shoulders shook ever so slightly.
Galatea’s heart jumped, and she turned Narcissa around, holding her close. “Is
it that your daughter is growing up? I think it’s natural to feel some loss
over their movement towards adulthood, and Tom, he’s been like a son in a way,
too.   Do you want to talk about it?”
 
            “I can’t,” Narcissa spoke through her tears, rubbing her face
against Galatea’s shirt. “Not right now.”
 
            “That’s alright, too,” Galatea soothed, and kissed the top of her
head. “Let’s go to bed.”
 
            They lay down on the bed, and Narcissa put her arm and leg across
Galatea, as she always did, her entire body molded to the side of Galatea’s
form. Her long, blonde hair was down, and it hinted at the smell of orchids and
other hothouse flowers. There was something exotic about Narcissa, something
secret and intriguing, something Galatea felt she would never quite grasp or
touch, even after four years of being together as soul mates.   As Narcissa’s
breath deepened and she fell asleep, Galatea thought of how they’d become
lovers.
 
            It had been in March, on an usually warm day. They had gone out to
the Forbidden Forest to gather unicorn hair from the bushes for Professor
Slughorn, and make cuttings from some of the healing plants and herbs for
Madame Selwyn. Though they had shared a bed most weekends since returning from
the Christmas break, they had not progressed beyond kisses and touching over
clothing. Narcissa held back, and as much as it hurt, Galatea did not press the
issue. She told herself that it would be all the sweeter when Narcissa finally
was comfortable, and she took many long showers.
 
            They came to a circle of trees, an area strong with peaceful,
protective magic. There was quite a bit of silky strands of unicorn hair in the
surrounding low brush, and the thick grass in the center was like a soft
carpet, inviting bare feet. Galatea was an impulsive person, and her boots and
socks were gone in an instant. Only a few seconds later, she was lying in the
grass, staring up at the leaves that blocked most of the blue sky, but allowed
enough soft light in that it felt more like dusk than noon.  
 
            Narcissa laughed at her as she gathered the hair, carefully winding
it around large spool. “You’re such a child sometimes.”
 
            “Just because I enjoy nature doesn’t mean I’m a child. You’re just
afraid to have fun, Narcissa,” Galatea had teased, though there was an element
of truth there as well. Narcissa was carefully controlled, very tightly wound,
and any humor she displayed was more sarcastic or dark than joyous.
 
            With an indignant expression, Narcissa had set down her things and
taken off her own shoes and socks, lying down beside Galatea in one fluid
motion. “I can be spontaneous, too,” she protested.
 
            “Just how spontaneous?” Galatea raised herself up on one arm,
leaning over Narcissa, her voice dropped low.
 
            Narcissa raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Why don’t you find
out?” She lifted up high enough to brush her lips against Galatea’s in a
teasing manner.
 
            “There is nothing I’d like more,” Galatea whispered as she gently
pushed Narcissa back down onto the ground. The grass was tall enough that it
framed Narcissa’s pale blonde hair and dark eyes with a vibrant green aura,
making her edges seem almost aglow. “I wish I were an artist,” Galatea sighed,
her thumb rubbing across Narcissa’s high cheekbone. “I would paint you, just
like this.”
 
            “You don’t need a portrait,” Narcissa twisted into Galatea’s touch,
following the movement to stay connected. “You have me.”
 
            Galatea sobered for a minute. “Do I? I don’t know that anyone can
have you, Narcissa. You are the most guarded person I’ve ever met.”
 
            “And you are one of the most open I’ve met,” Narcissa responded.
“Soul mates tend to be complimentary. We give each other what we lack most.
Through you, with you, I can be more open, more spontaneous.”
 
            “And I can learn discretion?” Galatea laughed. “I don’t know if
that’s possible.”
 
            Narcissa smiled, a quirk of her lips both sweet and sad. “I
wouldn’t want you to learn any of the lessons I’ve had.”
 
            “What are you keeping back, Narcissa?” Galatea frowned. “I am here
for you. I will help you carry any and every burden you have.”
 
            “I don’t want you to carry them, Tea,” Narcissa softly argued,
using the diminutive that she only spoke when they were alone. “I want you to
kiss them away, make me forget them completely.”
 
            Galatea knew there was more than one deep hurt Narcissa was
avoiding, but this was the most frank she’d been about it so far, and they had
the rest of their lives. Galatea was a patient woman, and when her soul mate
looked at her with that inviting gaze, she couldn’t do anything except the
woman’s bidding. “Far be it from me to disappoint a lady,” Galatea murmured.
 
            She slowly undid the line of buttons down the front of Narcissa’s
dress, watching with growing anticipation as more and more pale, perfect flesh
was revealed. At the waist line, she stopped, and pushed the sides of the dress
back, exposing Narcissa’s brassiere, a concoction of black lace that hardly
shielded her now pebbled nipples.
 
            “Oh,” Galatea breathed, her fingers coming up to trace the line
where lace met flesh, dipping below the fabric, feeling the rise of Narcissa’s
chest with each deep, shuddering breath. She lowered her head, and kissed along
Narcissa’s clavicle, paying attention to both sides before she focused her
attention on the hollow of her throat, then traveled the path of her breast
bone. “You are unbearably lovely.”
 
            A pink flush suffused Narcissa’s skin, which only added to her
charm, Galatea thought. She had reached the inner swell of Narcissa’s breast,
and she whispered, “Divesto.” Her hands came up, cupping the rather generous
curves, her mouth finding and teasing the nipple, just as Narcissa’s hands
wound into her curls, pulling her closer.
 
            Galatea chuckled lowly, “Don’t try to rush this. We’ve waited so
long, we need to do this right.” She used her tongue to make circles around the
nipple, then gave small nips and kisses across the rest of the breast tissue.
           
            Narcissa groaned in frustration, tugging on Galatea’s hair, trying
to get her to refocus her attention on the nipples, which were hardened and
flushed a deep rose color. “Don’t tease,” she moaned.
 
            “I haven’t even started teasing you, sweet thing,” Galatea answered
softly. She shifted Narcissa to her side and worked her dress the rest of the
way off without magic, slowly pulling her clothes off, stroking and kissing
down the line of her spine, the curve of her hip, the back of her knees, the
small dip just below her ankle bone. Narcissa gave a shiver, and Galatea cast a
warming charm.
 
            She lay, still clothed, behind Narcissa, one hand lightly touching
her breasts, darting back and forth in a way that was delightful and
unsatisfactory at the same time, her other hand spreading through the darker
blonde curls between Narcissa’s legs, finding the slick crevice there, tracing
first the outer lips, then the inner ones, hovering over the small button at
the top, but barely making contact.
 
            Suddenly, Narcissa’s hand closed over hers, forcing fingers to go
where she wanted them most, index and middle digits pinching lightly, on either
side of her clitoris, rubbing in tight, frantic circles. She pushed back
against Galatea’s shoulders and hips, then spoke the same spell, leaving
Galatea naked behind her, their skin touching from shoulders to toes.
 
            Galatea gasped, but it was from Narcissa’s rising magic, not the
boldness of her action. Their increased skin contact made their magic hum
delightfully, creating a depth of intensity to their touches that left Galatea
fearing she was going to spin out of control.
 
            She scrambled to gather her thoughts and coordinate her movements,
to use the techniques she knew would pleasure Narcissa, leave her shuddering
for minutes at a time, drawing out the sensation. Even though they were soul
mates, that wasn’t a guarantee that they would end up together, and she wanted
to give Narcissa everything, to show her that she didn’t need to go anywhere
else. Part of her was terrified Narcissa would end up married again, probably
to a Pureblood, with Galatea as the dirty little secret she was so used to
being.
 
            Try as she might though, there was too much desire and magic mixed
together to be premeditated, to artfully seduce Narcissa, and her body was so
soft, so beautiful, so perfect, Galatea was in a state of awe, hardly believing
she was allowed to touch this woman, that this woman had been designed by fate
to be with her.
 
            Narcissa’s grip loosened a bit, and she turned in Galatea’s arms,
out of breath, but with a concerned look on her face. “What’s wrong? Are you
ok? Do you want to stop?”
 
            Galatea laughed. “Those are my lines, not yours,” she kissed the
bridge of Narcissa’s nose, then the indentation above her lips. “I was simply
overwhelmed for a moment. You are…perfect.”
 
            “I’m over forty and I’ve given birth,” Narcissa’s smile had a self-
deprecating twist. “I’m far from perfect.”
 
            She looked at the fine lines, hardly noticeable around Narcissa’s
eyes, and the bit of frown line between her brows. Galatea felt a pang of
sadness at how often her soul mate had to have frowned. She kissed the lines
individually, then went down and kissed the faint, almost silvery marks on the
curves of her hips and the gentle rise of her stomach from where the skin had
stretched during pregnancy. She lifted her head after touching the last one to
her lips. “I love every mark on your body because they have been your life, and
they have led you here, to me, to us, now, in this place.”
 
            There was a distinct glistening in Narcissa’s chocolate colored
eyes, “That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”
 
            Galatea’s easy, crooked grin came out. She felt a bit more at ease,
some of the nervousness faded away, and she was in a prime spot, between
Narcissa’s spread legs. “Let’s see if I can’t shift your mood from romantic to
lustful.”
 
            Narcissa laughed. “I have no doubt you can,” she said, but she sat
up, scooting away.
 
            “What are you doing?” Galatea asked, unclear on what was happening.
If she didn’t get to make Narcissa come, she would likely die, she feared,
though more from the sting of rejection than un-culminated sexual desire.
 
            Narcissa pushed Galatea back to the grass, then straddled her.
Galatea was sure her brain had stopped working completely at this point. She
kissed her for several minutes, rocking her hips against Galatea’s until they
were both panting. “I just didn’t think it was fair for you to do all the work.
I’m not like your other women, Galatea. I’m not going to use you for sex and
then pretend we are nothing to one another. And I’m not going to make you do
all the work, lay back and be pleasured, without returning the favor.”
 
            Galatea raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever touched a woman? Have you
ever tasted a woman? It’s a learning curve. Don’t worry about me, Narcissa. I’m
happy to please you and then take care of myself.”
 
            “No!” Narcissa’s voice was sharp. “I desire you. I want to touch
you, so take your own advice and be patient and let me do this without
rushing.”
            Galatea put up her hands in surrender. “I am at your mercy.”
 
            Now, Narcissa’s smile held a hint of danger. “Well, that was silly
of you.”
 
            She shimmied down Galatea’s lower half, rubbing as she went, then
settled on her stomach between Galatea’s legs. Her touches were soft and a bit
hesitant at first, and she began her kisses on Galatea’s smooth, hard inner
thighs, thin and toned from years of nervous energy, running up and down stairs
and corridors in the castle, hiking and horseback riding in her spare time. The
warmth of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the tiny flicks of her tongue,
had Galatea a moaning mess before Narcissa even made it to her cunt, spreading
her lips, licking and kissing from the bottom of the folds to the hard nub at
the top, sucking at her clit while sliding her hands under Galatea’s buttocks
to lift her up closer into Narcissa’s mouth, pushing her tongue deeply inside
of Galatea, then pulling back to replace her tongue with fingers and kiss and
lick higher. Galatea’s hips were bucking and each touch was imbued with magic,
but she held back.
 
            Galatea wanted them to come together, to feel their magic combine,
along with the physical pleasure.   She managed to twist herself away, and
realign their bodies so that they could each be pleasing one another. Narcissa
was above her, and she pulled her hips and cunt down to her mouth, using every
bit of skill, every trick she knew to bring her soul mate to the edge with her.
The combination of a finger curved up high on the soft, spongy spot of her
inner wall along with a circular motion of her tongue on Narcissa’s nub seemed
to be effective, if the increased pace of her rocking hips was any indication.
 
            Galatea felt her own body start to tense, to prepare to break
apart, and she moved her tongue faster and pressed her finger harder, and
suddenly, they weren’t bodies writhing in an enchanted forest, they were energy
whose only experience was bliss, their magic wrapping around one another and
caressing inside one more deeply than any tongue or fingers could. For an
instant, Galatea touched something, dark and raw, inside of Narcissa, but then
it swirled away, hidden again.
 
            Narcissa had collapsed on top of her, and Galatea could feel the
pulse in her cunt, the throb of her pounding blood as it flooded the lower half
of her body. Narcissa’s long white legs were sprawled over her chest, and
Narcissa’s blonde head was resting on her thighs, her heavy breathing sending
aftershocks of pleasure through Galatea as the warm puffs of air hit the
delicate skin of her lower lips. The idea of ever moving from this spot seemed
impossible.  
 
            “I believe you may have inadvertently used a bone-dissolving spell
on me,” she murmured, turning her head to kiss the side of Narcissa’s knee. “I
can’t wait to see Electra’s face when I tell her what you did, and I have to
spend a night screaming while I re-grow bones in the infirmary.”
 
            Narcissa’s body gently shook with laughter, the vibration against
her skin making Galatea sigh in pleasure. “Well, you’ve done the same to me, so
I don’t know how we are going to make it out of this clearing.”
 
            “Oh, we aren’t,” Galatea looked up at the tree canopy above. “I
think we’re going to have to live here now.” She lightly traced the curve at
the bottom of Narcissa’s buttocks, watching with a smile as the other woman
shivered.
 
            Though they had been exaggerating, it had taken them quite a while
to recover. They had cuddled in the soft grass for over an hour, half-dazed,
before their magic and their bodies settled to the point where standing and
dressing were viable options. After they had gathered the rest of the items
they had set out for, they’d made their way back to the forest entrance, and on
to the open school grounds, where many students were enjoying the lovely day,
sitting on blankets by the lake, practicing flying on the Quidditch pitch, and
walking the outdoor gardens.
 
            As soon as they reached the first students, a pair of second year
Gryffindor boys who were trading chocolate frog cards, Galatea had moved
further away Narcissa, so used to keeping her relationships private. But
Narcissa had shocked her by sliding her arm into Galatea’s, and walking arm in
arm with her for the rest of the way back to the castle.
 
            “I told you, I’m not ashamed of you, Galatea,” Narcissa whispered,
and Galatea had to look away, because if she had meet Narcissa’s gaze, she had
known she would have cried.
 
 
            And Narcissa had been true to her word. They didn’t stand in front
of the school and make an announcement, but staff and students alike seemed to
slowly realize they were a couple, and when people started asking, Narcissa
told them that Galatea was her soul mate, and Galatea did the same.
 
            They kept their separate quarters at Hogwarts, but spent the
evenings in each other’s rooms when Narcissa wasn’t covering the overnight
watch in the Hospital Wing. On vacations, they mostly went to the Merrythought
estate, but spent occasional weekends at the Hogsmeade cottage Narcissa had
purchased.
 
            Galatea looked down at Narcissa, sleeping with a frown. It was hard
to see Hermione and Tom grow up, to know that they would come of age in just
over a year, and leave Hogwarts in two years. Narcissa was exceptionally close
to her daughter, Galatea knew, and she cared for Tom deeply as well. Galatea
adored Hermione, and considered her an adopted daughter, and she found Tom
fascinating, though there was a darkness about him that gave her pause.
Sometimes, standing near him, she felt a power exuding that nearly matched some
of the darkest cursed objects she’d dealt with. She knew that Dumbledore felt
it too, though most of the other staff sang the boy’s praises. Hermione and Tom
were going to change the world, she had no doubt, and Galatea only hoped that
Hermione’s leveling influence would win out over the anger that Tom tried to
bury deep inside himself.
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Hermione’s second attempt at a sixteenth birthday began in a much
more dramatic fashion than the first time. She woke from a restless, not-quite-
nightmare about the basilisk to Tom’s low hissing against her skin, a vibration
more than a sound, his lips trailing over her neck.
 
            “What were you saying?” she asked as she slowly opened her eyes,
focused more on the feel of his lips.
 
            Tom smirked, and damn her if he didn’t look even more gorgeous with
tousled hair and sleepy eyes. Her heart thumped as his hand found the hem of
her nightgown and began inching up her thigh. “I said, ‘Happy Birthday.’”
 
            She wiggled closer, putting her mouth near his ear and her hand in
his dark hair, caressing the spot where his scalp dipped in right at the base
of his skull with her thumb. “I didn’t think snakes celebrated birthdays,” she
teased.
 
            “Oh, they don’t, but I’m making special words, just for you,” he
laughed, leaning his head back into her touch, then quickly forward to kiss her
lips.
 
            “Well, Narcissa owes me a tidy sum,” Professor Merrythought
observed from where she leaned lazily against the door jamb. “I told her you
two would be in the same bed.”
 
            Tom and Hermione had pulled apart at the sound of her voice, which
was definitely more amused than angry, but she gave Tom a pointed look until he
got out of the bed.
 
            “I’m sure you’ll want to get cleaned up for Hermione’s birthday
explorations,” she said, looking pleased that Tom was still completely clothed.
 
            “Yes, indeed,” Tom answered smoothly, no embarrassment on his face.
He glanced at Hermione. “I’ll see you in just a bit.”
 
            Hermione nodded and he left. Galatea sat on the side of the bed Tom
had vacated. “I’m sure you’ve already had a thoroughly awkward conversation
with your mother about this, and I don’t want to add to that, but I do want you
to know that you can always come to me with any questions and concerns. I’ve
been Head of House for long enough to know that some of the most brilliant
students can also be the most stunningly stupid when it comes to romance and
sex. Tom being your soul mate both eases and complicates matters. I’m sure the
attraction is strong, to the point of being overwhelming, once normal hormones
are factored in.”
 
            “It is…intense,” Hermione admitted, looking down at bedspread.
 
            “I won’t natter on,” Galatea stood up again. “Happy Birthday, dear,
and remember that I am here for you.”
 
            Hermione stood up as well, and hugged Galatea tightly. “Thank you
for the thoughts, and for last night.”
 
            Galatea flushed happily. “You are the closest thing to a daughter I
have, and I couldn’t let you suffer if I had the ability to stop it.” Then she
left, before Hermione could thank her again.
 
            It was early, especially for a weekend, and the Great Hall had very
few students in it. Patience was at the Ravenclaw table sitting beside Irma
Pince, who was a seventh year now, and who was lecturing Patience on something
she was clearly ignoring. When she saw Hermione enter, she stood up, and they
walked arm in arm to the Slytherin table, where Tom and Abraxas were sitting at
the far end, across from one another.
 
            They both stood as the girls came over, and met them half-way. Tom
immediately put his arm around Hermione’s waist and kissed her cheek. “Happy
Birthday, Hermione. Are you ready for an adventure?”
 
            “Once I get down to Hogsmeade and back,” Hermione noted. She still
needed a rooster.
 
            “The spells we went over last night for the clouding of the eyes,
the mirrors we will set up, and my parseltongue really should be enough,
dearest,” Tom narrowed his eyes. Even though the use of the word ‘dearest’ was
more emotion than Tom usually displayed, he managed to make it sound more like
an admonishment than an endearment.
 
            He clearly did not want to kill the basilisk, and didn’t want any
crowing bird to do so by accident, either. Hermione chewed her lip in thought.
Since Tom hadn’t yet opened the Chamber, it was possible that the basilisk was
not even active. It could be in a magical hibernation, waiting for instructions
from the Heir of Slytherin. Salazar Slytherin was too clever a wizard to leave
a beast at large that could potentially kill his precious purebloods as well.
 
            “Fine, but no one except you goes down into the Chamber until
you’ve found the thing, temporarily clouded its eyes, and ordered it to go into
the pipes or someplace out of the way until further notice,” Hermione offered
her compromise.
 
            Tom squeezed her arm again. “You are worrying over nothing. There
probably isn’t even a ‘monster’ down there.”
            “We’ll see,” Hermione answered grimly. She leaned over and took a
muffin off the platter on the Slytherin table. “Let’s get this over with.”
 
            As luck or fate or whatever gods wanted to fuck with Hermione would
have it, the first floor bathroom was occupied at only eight in the morning on
a Saturday. By one whiny third year doing her damnedest to get killed, Hermione
thought bitterly.
 
            As they entered, it was not immediately apparent that anyone was in
the room, but as Hermione and Tom began to put repelling wards on the door, a
face that was not much paler in life than it had been in death peered out from
an open stall, large eyes blinking owlishly behind even larger circular frames.
 
            “Ooooh! What are you doing bringing boys into the girls bathroom?”
Myrtle sounded both appalled and thrilled simultaneously.
 
            Tom froze, as did Abraxas. Hermione could practically see the
potential lies spinning in their minds, but there really was no time for
convincing Myrtle. Hermione would not have her blood on any of their hands.
 
            She quickly raised her wand and oblivated Myrtle, then pushed her
out into the hall and closed the bathroom door. Tom raised an eyebrow.
 
            “What?” Hermione said defensively. “She’s muggleborn. I don’t want
her anywhere near this place.”
 
            Patience gave Hermione’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “It was for the
best. She talks too much, and Tom would end up very upset.”
 
            Tom eyed Patience with annoyance. “Don’t pretend to know my mind,
Patience.”
 
            She turned those light blue eyes that seemed to see through
everything to Tom. “Oh,” she said offhandedly, “I’m not pretending.”
 
            Abraxas fidgeted as Tom continued to stare at Patience. “Can we
please get on with this?”
 
            Hermione nodded. “Yes, let’s.” She gestured at the bathroom at
large. “Where do we start?”
 
            Tom strode over to the sinks, looking at them carefully. “There was
a book left in the private Slytherin library, written in something that no has
been able to understand in generations. It’s a curiosity now, a game or trick
that Slytherins play on incoming students – trying to make them decipher
something that isn’t decipherable. But I’ve figured out what it was – notes
left by a parselmouth, notes written in phonetic parseltongue, since it isn’t a
written language. It was a rough translation, since so much is tone of voice
and inflection, but I believe one of my Gaunt ancestors knew there was an
entrance in this place, and made an effort to keep it hidden even when more
modern plumbing was installed.”
 
            Hermione was peeved. Tom hadn’t told her he’d found such a book.  
Of course, in all previous conversations about the Chamber of Secrets, she’d
tried to play it down or say it likely was a musty dungeon or cave not worth
the trouble.
 
            He was speaking parseltongue now, softly, and the sink came apart,
just as Harry had described. The exposed pipe was large enough around to slide
down, but it was a blind slide, with no way to see what was at the bottom. Tom
spun around, grinning widely at his success. Abraxas started forward as well,
but Hermione caught his arm.
 
            “Wait!” she said sharply. “Let Tom go first. That’s what we
decided.”
 
            Tom was too happy to be annoyed at her fear. He came over and
kissed her on the mouth, quickly, and winked. “I’ll be back in a few moments to
tell you that there is no basilisk and you’ll feel silly.”
 
            Before she could reply, he climbed into the pipe and slid into the
darkness. Hermione felt a bit sick to her stomach. She noticed that Patience
was already moving mirrors, arranging them around the room, and she breathed a
bit more easily, going to assist her friend, then standing close to the door,
at an angle that only allowed for seeing the entrance to the Chamber through
the mirrors.
 
            “Hey,” Abraxas came and stood beside her. “This really has you
shaken up. I can’t believe you oblivated Myrtle. I thought you thought
oblivation was borderline dark magic because it is a form of mind control, no
matter what the Ministry thinks about using it on muggles. In fact, I’m pretty
sure you used that line on Tom during one of your famous arguments.”
 
            Hermione changed the subject. “I’m surprised you are still walking
and talking after mine and Tom’s last argument. I’m so sorry you got dragged
into that,” she told him truthfully.
 
            He was blushing now, and it was adorable on his pale skin and
against his chin-length white-blonde hair. “I would have stayed,” he said
quietly, “but Tom has forgiven me, and even said…” he trailed off, his pink
cheeks turning red.
 
            “I can just imagine what Tom said,” Hermione responded tartly. “Tom
knows we care about one another, and that we care about him, and he will use
that to his advantage.”
 
            Abraxas met her eyes. “I don’t mind being used as long as I’m
allowed to touch you,” He was so earnest, his feelings so plain, Hermione
wondered how on earth he’d been made a Slytherin.
 
            “It isn’t just Hermione you want to touch,” Patience sang, having
finished work on her last mirror and come to stand beside them, so quietly
they’d barely noticed.           
 
            Poor Abraxas was rapidly approaching the shade of a tomato. “It’s
ok, we aren’t judging!” Hermione said quickly, taking his hand. “But I think we
should continue this discussion with Tom present, just so there are no
misunderstandings.”
 
            “Right,” Abraxas looked relieved, and Patience merely smiled
serenely. Hermione tried to relax as well, feeling through her bond with Tom
that he was fine. In fact, he was happy. She wasn’t sure whether that was a
good sign or not.
***** The Chamber of (SEX) Secrets *****
Chapter Summary
     Our favorite foursome explores the Chamber of Secrets. Then, there's
     a magical goblet that gives them an endless supply of meade. And Tom
     casts a sneak spell. Then, well...I'm sure your filthy minds can take
     it from there. Features plenty of sex, of every variety.
     You probably don't need it, but Warning for Underage Drinking (though
     not so much that it causes consent issues) and Warning for a spanking
     and general D/s sexual behavior (though it's all consensual).
Chapter Notes
     I'm of the mind that the basilisk, as a magical creature, has decent
     communication skills, and also that Slytherin wouldn't have made it
     his pet if he didn't have magical control over it, that he could pass
     down through his blood line. There isn't a lot of source material on
     what would be in the Chamber, or even all that much about Slytherin,
     really, so I used my imagination.
     I was also thinking about types of magic, and elemental aspects, and
     since Tom and Hermione are fire and air, respectively, I thought they
     might need some earth and water to ground them. Also, I'm just kinky
     and wanted an excuse to write group sex, lol.
     Love to everyone!
 
-oOo0oOo-
             Tom was more than a little shocked to find an enormous basilisk
curled in the mouth of a giant statue of Salazar Slytherin in the main
antechamber. It wasn’t that he doubted Hermione’s intelligence, but he had
truly believed her to be wrong on this matter. Even though he had lived in the
magical world almost exclusively for the past five years, with only occasional
trips to muggle London or other large cities, and had seen all manner of
wondrous things, it still seemed a bit far-fetched that a giant basilisk had
been living in the bowels of the school for centuries.
 
            When he approached the statue, he saw the glint of scales, and
quickly cast the eye clouding spell he and Hermione had devised, and as he came
closer, it lifted its enormous emerald green head, in a questioning motion he’d
often seen from Damballa, its eyes now a milky white.
 
            One of The Blood? It spoke quickly, flicking its tongue, testing
the smell of Tom on the air.
 
            Yes, One of The Blood; the blinding is only temporary, Tom replied
without hesitation, and he could have sworn the snake smiled.
 
            It uncoiled, and Tom, who had also researched basilisks to be on
the safe side, noted that it lacked the red plume which would indicate it was a
male. She was gigantic on a scale that was beyond impressive, and Tom smiled
back, flicking his own tongue against his teeth as he spoke.
 
            I claim this space, as One of The Blood. Are you claimed, too? It
was hard to ask questions that were based on more human concepts, but the snake
was a magical creature, not an average serpent, and she seemed to understand
and speak more clearly than other snakes Tom had encountered, other than
Damballa, who always understood Tom, even when he didn’t speak.
 
            She bobbed her head. Yes, I am Snake Queen, but I am bound to this
place, bound to serve Ones who are of The Blood.
 
           Tom was impressed with her speech. She was indeed more advanced in
her ability to talk in human concepts. Was Salazar Slytherin the first of The
Blood? Did he place limits or rules on you?
 
            Salazar brought me here. I cannot leave without One of The Blood’s
order. Her hiss was sharper now. I am very hungry for a good meal. Tiny
creatures do not satisfy.
 
            We will get you something better soon,Tom promised, pondering how
difficult it would be to get a cow down here. Or maybe that talking cow,
Marguerite.
 
            We? She moved her head from side to side, scenting the chamber.
 
            I have friends who will be coming down. My magic mate and two
others. They are not directly of Slytherin’s blood, but they are not to be
attacked.
 
            The snake reared back, rising high, her head towering above Tom.
She was clearly affronted. I do not attack invited guests of One of The Blood.
 
            Excellent,Tom replied, then added, I won’t be ordering you to kill
muggle borns, either. Centuries have passed, and I have no interest in wiping
out what might be the only way to revitalize inbred magical bloodlines. We’ll
have to find a way to supply you with larger mammals. If I give you freedom to
leave the castle at night and hunt in the forest and nearby mountains, can you
be discrete, killing only animals, and return to the chamber during the days?
Or do you have an insatiable taste for people? You might have to wait a while
before I have someone who annoys me enough to feed him or her to you.
 
           One of her thin nostril slits twitched in what might have been a
sneer. She was apparently a very moody snake, Tom thought. Deer and other large
mammals will be sufficient. And I need only hunt once every few weeks if my
prey is large enough. People aren’t very satisfying, either – they taste like
large, fatty rats.
 
            Do you have a name, other than Snake Queen?Tom asked, amused.
 
            Salazar called me Astarte,she answered, and leaned in very close to
Tom, flicking her tongue along his skin. Tom stood very still and did not
flinch. You are very magical. Salazar would be pleased you have come.
 
           Tom tried not to preen at the praise. I am pleased as well. Return
to your nest for now, and stay there until this evening, when you may go out
and hunt.
 
           The snake acknowledged his order with a quick head bob, and then
turned and disappeared into the recesses of the mouth of the statue. Tom was
indeed pleased that the snake had obeyed him without question, that she could
be reasoned with, and wasn’t simply a vicious attack dog that would kill anyone
who entered the chamber or even came across her path.
 
            Once the snake had retreated, Tom explored the Chamber, looking for
some kind of hall or door that led into a different area. The walls were rough-
hewn stone, more of a natural cave than a man-made room.   As he moved around,
he drank in the magic of the place. It was alive with energy, with power. The
walls were warded heavily and there was old, thick magic not just in the walls
and emanating from the presence of the basilisk, but in the air itself. He
hovered his palms over the rock, and found a place that wasn’t as solid as it
appeared. There were still wards, but it was an entrance of some kind. He spoke
in parseltongue again, “Open for the Heir of Slytherin,” and after a shimmering
flash of light, there was a doorway.
 
             He followed the short hallway that opened into a large, circular
room with a vaulted ceiling and shelving around the entire circumference. The
walls were an emerald green tile that shone dully in the light from enchanted,
never diminishing candles ablaze in a massive silver chandelier. The shelves
were English oak, stained so dark they were nearly ebony. Many of the shelves
were filled with books and journals, but there were also magical objects and
instruments, jars, boxes, and vials of potions and potion ingredients. There
were two large white marble fireplaces on opposite sides of the room, with a
cluster of green leather chairs in front of each. The center of the room had
four long tables arranged in a diamond shape, with potion making supplies
littered on the tops.
 
            Tom examined the tables closely. Not a hint of dust or cobwebs were
present, so the chamber had to have some kind of perpetual cleaning
enchantment. The cauldrons on the four tables were all empty, but there were
ingredients and instructions laid out – and they were mostly rare and very
advanced, tricky potions that Tom had read about but not yet attempted. One was
a mind-altering potion that produced effects similar to the imperiuswithout a
wand trace, and the other three were all attacking potions that led to various
nasty deaths.
 
            Knowing Hermione would be annoyed by all four, Tom carefully put
the parchment with the instructions in one of the drawers built into the wall
below the potion shelves and floated the ingredients back to their places. He
breathed deeply. It was lovely – the feeling of power that surrounded him. This
was his inheritance, his birthright. Maybe the Gaunts had gone weak and insane
from inbreeding over the centuries, but his original ancestor had left so much
magic behind that it was almost unfathomable how powerful he must have been in
life. Tom was elated, so ready to absorb all the knowledge and magic and
strength this space was offering. It was his for the taking, and he would use
it to rise, but he was smarter than Slytherin. He wouldn’t preach exclusion and
isolate himself from others who didn’t agree with him. No, he would take over
the world, with the world none the wiser, with the world thanking him for it.
 
            He explored the rest of the area, finding another hall that led to
a suite of personal rooms – bedroom, bathroom, and sitting area with another,
smaller library, this one with row after row of green leather bound journals.
Tom picked one off the shelf, felt a tingle as the magical wards in the journal
reached out to him, tested him. The writing inside was small and neat, but it
was in late Old English, right near the boundary when Old English was
transitioning into Middle English, and though Tom had some familiarity, he
would need to get dictionaries and study further before he could unlock all
these no doubt precious secrets.  
 
            Walking back to the entrance, he was almost floating. Tom was so
alive. This year was going to be the best yet, he knew. He had his loyal
followers, he had his plans, he had the Chamber of Secrets, and he had
Hermione, more firmly than ever. Anything – everything – was possible.
 
            It took a great deal of undignified shimmying to get back up the
pipe, and Tom vowed to make another entrance soon. Going in and out of the
girls’ bathroom was not a habit Tom wanted to continue, and he needed something
more convenient, because he would certainly be spending a large amount of his
time there from now on.
 
            When he came out of the pipe, he saw Hermione, Abraxas and Patience
standing near the door, facing away. They were very close to one another, and
the two tall, pale blondes made attractive bookends framing the shorter stature
and darker coloring of his soul mate.
 
            “Tom!” Hermione had turned, and rushed toward him, looking him over
for damage. “What happened? Are you alright?”
 
            “I’m excellent,” Tom replied as he put his hands on her waist and
kissed her lips in an offhandedly possessive gesture. “You must all come down
and see it now.”
 
            Abraxas bounced on his toes, pausing only briefly at the entrance
to ask over his shoulder, “So, no giant snake?”
 
            “Oh, there’s a giant snake,” Tom laughed. “But she’s bound to serve
the Heir of Slytherin, and she’s promised to leave my guests alone.”
 
            “Did you cloud her eyes?” Hermione looked concerned.
 
            Tom nodded impatiently. “Yes, I clouded her eyes, but as I said,
she will obey me, and I explicitly told her no killing of people, and certainly
not on the grounds of blood status. She’s retreated to her nest for the rest of
the day, anyhow.”
 
            That answer seemed good enough for Patience, who stepped past
Abraxas to slide down the pipe, and Abraxas himself, who immediately followed.
 
            Hermione walked to the edge of the entrance, but her feet didn’t
move farther. Tom could feel her worry, her anxiety, her outright fear. He
thought of the pain she had relived last night, that he had shared a small
fraction of, and how she been subjected to pureblood prejudice, and how badly
it had scarred her, both externally and internally. Though he usually enjoyed
watching others be afraid, Tom did not like to see it in Hermione. He preferred
her active, passionate, even angry and vicious, not withdrawn and rooted to the
spot.
 
            He pulled her into his arms, let his magic surround her. Her own
magic responded instantly, reaching to his, and allowing her to be soothed.
“How about a bit of trust, my little bird? I told you I would keep you safe.
This is no different. Astarte will not harm you, and I would kill her a
thousand times for even thinking it.”
 
            Quickly, before she could protest, he gathered her up, and they
slid down the pipe, Hermione clutched tightly to his chest, the smell of woods
and sunshine filling his nose from her hair. He smiled as she made a small
squeaking noise when they landed on the pile of bones, and pushed him away in a
huff.
 
            “I was going to come down on my own!” she snapped, her hair coiling
in snakish curls around her face, down loose as he preferred it. “There was no
need to manhandle me.”
 
            “But I enjoy manhandling you so much, dearest,” Tom replied. “Come
on, let me show you around.”
 
            The four entered the Chamber, and Tom watched with pleasure as they
displayed proper levels of awe and excitement. Even Hermione relaxed,
especially once they entered the library-potion lab area. So many books and
magical objects won her over easily. Patience started fires at both sides of
the room, then took a glass ball off one of the shelves and sank into a leather
chair.
 
            “This place is a bit creepy,” she spoke softly, though her voice
carried well. “I like it,” she added as an afterthought.
 
            Tom rolled his eyes, though he noticed with interest that she had
made the glass glow a brilliant, sunny yellow with a shining ring of pink
around it. “What is that?”
 
            Patience gave him her slow smile. “It is an aura ball. It focuses
the aura of those who touch it. My aura is yellow with pink, so when I hold it,
the ball glows those colors. Do you want to try?”
 
            “No,” Tom said shortly. Auras were a soft magic, not really
something he was interested in, but he also wasn’t about to let Patience see
and diagnose his internal self from the color of his aura. All knowledge was
power, and Patience already had the uncanny ability to know things he had never
told her – or anyone else, for that matter.
 
            Abraxas came and sat beside Patience. “I will,” he took the ball
from her, and it went clear for a few seconds, then became an almost solid
silver, with a small bit of bright red in the center, like a drop of blood
pooled in mercury.
 
            Patience took Abraxas’s free hand, holding it tightly. “You are
very rich,”
 
            Tom and Abraxas laughed together. “That is hardly news, Patience,”
Tom scoffed.
 
            “The silver is his material wealth, which surrounds him and enables
him to manifest many ideas, and the bright red is the love he feels,” Patience
continued, unperturbed by Tom’s tone.
 
            Three sets of eyes focused on Hermione, who had remained strangely
in the center of the room, not touching a thing. She flushed, and all three
smiled.
 
            “Let’s be careful what we touch,” Hermione spoke, though she looked
away in embarrassment. His soul mate wasn’t quite used to all the attention she
was receiving, Tom noted. He found that adorable, and it only heightened his
already buoyant mood.
 
            Patience nodded gravely. “Yes, much of this room is either warded
or cursed, but this ball is fine. It has no wards or spells on it.” She took it
from Abraxas and walked over to Hermione, placing it in her hands.
 
            Tom glanced at the ball, curious to see what color it would turn.
He expected green, like the forest, or even blue, but the ball glowed a deep
red. “What does that mean?” he asked Patience.
 
            “I’m strong-willed, a survivor, a realist, very grounded and
passionate,” Hermione answered, and threw the ball at him.
 
            He caught it by instinct, and then dropped it in annoyance, but not
before the glass sphere had turned jet black, with hairline cracks of purple
spreading over it like a spider’s web.
 
            “You absorb power, transfigure and transmute it, have little
capacity for forgiveness, a great capacity for anger, and you are very
magical,” Patience announced, floating the ball back to the shelf before it
crashed to the ground.
 
            “Once again, no surprise,” Tom scowled, giving Hermione a pointed
look.
 
            She shrugged. “Then there’s no need to hide, is there?”
 
            He came to stand in front of her. “You are quite sassy today,
aren’t you?”
 
            “It is my birthday,” she grinned, her teeth tugging at her lower
lip.
 
            “Indeed,” Tom replied, looking down at her with darkened eyes. He
did so like it when she chewed on her lip. It was like an invitation for him to
do the same. “What would the birthday girl like to do?”
 
            Hermione glanced around the room. “You want to use this area for
our group meetings eventually, right?”
 
            Abraxas frowned. “Not everyone, surely. The original group only,
I’d say. It will be hard to keep this a secret if all the people currently in
the study group know.”
 
            “I agree with Abaxas,” Tom said. “This is more of an inner sanctum,
and will have limited membership.”
 
            “Still, that’s us, and Jacob, Corvus, Vidhi, Sebastian, Felicity,
and Josephine,” Hermione listed.
 
            Patience gave her a long look. “You left out Marguerite,” she
noted, then gazed at Tom questioningly. “Are we leaving Marguerite out because
you’ve been sleeping with her? Don’t you still want her money and influence? It
doesn’t make any sense to leave her out once you’ve already invested so much
time in her.”
 
            Hermione’s face turned red. Abraxas’s turned white. But Tom beemed
at Patience, looking at her with something other than annoyance in his eyes for
the first time ever. “Patience, I completely agree with your assessment, and
I’m sure our red-aura, pragmatic leading lady will see the sense in that
statement now that you’ve pointed it out.”
 
            “Fine,” Hermione ground out. “Marguerite, too. But she’s not
allowed in the bedroom area. I want it warded against her. I want it warded
against,”
 
            “Everyone except the four of us?” Patience supplied helpfully.
 
            Tom arched an eyebrow, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Why,
Patience, do you have designs on my bedchamber?”
 
            She shrugged her shoulders, as if he’d asked if she wanted to sit
at the same table or share a sandwich. “I think you three need me, to even
things out, magically. But I mostly like to watch and cuddle.”
 
            “You do a lot of watching, Patience?” Abraxas asked in mock shock,
his eyes playfully widened. “Just who have you been watching?”
 
            Patience turned her dreamy pale blue eyes to his grey ones. “I
watched you and Marilyn Tuttle on the Quidditch pitch last spring.”
 
            “That girl from Gryffindor with the really big -” Tom began,
smirking.
 
            “Yes, they are quite large,” Patience agreed with a placid smile.
 
            Abraxas flushed. “In all fairness, I was just curious. I’d never
seen such enormous -”
 
            Hermione’s mouth made a grim line. “Marilyn Tuttle can’t even do a
proper accio, and she’s a sixth year, for Circe’s sake!”
 
            “Well,” Patience reasoned, “one doesn’t need magic to get naked.”
 
            “Or even half a brain, apparently,” Hermione muttered.
 
            Tom was laughing out loud now. “And you get annoyed at me, little
bird? You don’t want to share your toys, either.”
 
            “I thought I was a pet,” Patience corrected gently.
           
            “Yes,” Tom put an arm around her shoulders, in a way that would
have been friendly and maybe a touch seductive if anyone else had done it, but
with Tom, was all claiming and possessiveness. “Yes, Patience, you are our pet,
I think.”
 
            “Well, you do treat Damballa well. He is a very happy snake,”
Patience was not at all disturbed or insulted.
 
            “Regardless,” Hermione tried to change the subject. “If we are
going to be down here, working on projects that are not sanctioned by the
school, and that may stray into darker magic, we need protections in place. We
can make a vow that everyone has to sign to keep the secret of the larger
chamber, but there are things here that are not for everyone. I don’t care if
Marguerite is part of the larger group, but I don’t trust her, nor do I trust
Sebastian or Dolohov, and I think we need to go over the inventory of this
place and move any sensitive or especially powerful items or books into the
personal suite and ward it against all except us.”
 
            Tom nodded. “Let’s get started, then we can do the warding at the
end.”
 
            They set to work. A quick use of revealing spells indicated which
items were simply warded against use as opposed to cursed, and Abraxas moved
the warded items to the smaller library area, as he was able to touch them
without difficulty. They soon discovered Patience could handle the items as
well, and Tom was not surprised. She had two magical parents, and though she
didn’t claim to be wholly pureblooded, her line had been mostly magical for at
least the last five generations.   Hermione made no attempt to touch any item,
working instead on the cursed objects, using techniques she’d learned from
watching Galatea to try to undo the dark magic. Tom joined her, and they
managed to undo several minor curses, mostly things like burning the hands of
someone who was not of the Slytherin line who picked up the book or object.
 
            When they had finished, all the books left on the shelves could be
touched, as well as the remaining potion ingredients, useful items like mortars
and pestles, small cauldrons, spoons enchanted to stir on their own, rolls of
unused parchment, quills, and ink and several basic magical objects, including
an early version of a rememberall, an enchanted cup that constantly refilled
itself with wine, meade, or water, according to the drinker’s choice, and a
pair of dragon hide gloves that shrunk or enlarged to fit the wearer’s hands.
 
            The entrance to the larger room was already visible and it posed no
problem to enter. Clearly, Slytherin had reasoned that with the outer entrance
protected by parseltongue as a code, any one who came this far was likely
accompanying the Heir of Slytherin. The back hall branched into the bathroom,
then into the sitting room, and behind it, the bed chamber. They left the
bathroom unwarded, but worked together to ward the sitting room door to their
individual magical signatures, along with basic repelling and forgetful spells,
so that anyone else would think this hall contained a bathroom and nothing
else.
            A clock chimed in the main room, a strange, haunting sound, like
wood flutes hanging in the forest. It was dinner time. They had spent almost
ten hours on magic, and they were all hungry and exhausted, but thrilled as
well.
 
           “The spells on the bathroom doors upstairs have probably faded by
now,” Hermione told Tom. “It’s six.”
 
            Tom smiled at her. “It’s not a concern. I shut the entrance behind
us once we were all down here.”
 
            She smiled. “Good. I know you said Astarte will behave, but I
wouldn’t want anyone else stumbling down here on accident.”
 
            “I don’t want to leave,” Tom admitted to the others, surprising
himself with the confession.
 
            “We can’t yet,” Hermione pointed at the pile of darker cursed
objects they had floated to a distant spot on the floor. “We have to find a
secure place to put those things until we can figure out the proper counter-
curses or dispose of them safely.”
 
            Tom eyed the collection. These were the much darker items, ones
with curses that hinted at madness and death. Possession of these items alone
was probably illegal and if someone accidentally touched or used one of them,
time in Azkaban was a distinct possibility.  
 
            “There’s a large closet cabinet in the bedroom,” Abraxas said. “We
could float these things in there, then lock and ward it. With the wards on the
outer sitting room, it would be very unlikely anyone would ever find them.”
 
            Hermione stared hard at one of the items, a delicately carved bone
box, decorated with two entwined snakes on the lid. Tom followed her gaze. On
the surface, it seemed innocuous, just a container for magical herbs or maybe
rings or brooches. But the closer one got to it, the more one wanted to touch
it – it almost had a siren song. Tom alone could hear the second voice, the one
in parseltongue that warned the box was a trap, that opening it would mean
death. All four of them had tried to cast silencing spells on the box, but it
remained impervious for now.
 
            Tom took her hand, and she shook her head. “Yes, that’s a good
idea,” Tom kept his fingers tightly curled around Hermione’s, since the box
seemed to bother her the most.
 
            They each floated a section of the pile into the empty cabinet in
the corner of the bed chamber. Then they locked, warded, and silenced the
cabinet itself, and were relieved to find that the whispering from the box was
no longer audible.
 
            Patience went over to the large canopy bed hung with green curtains
embroidered with what gleamed like real silver thread. The posts were high, and
there was a three step stair by the bed, which Patience climbed. She threw out
her arms and fell face first into the green comforter with a small “oof” sound.
 
            “This mattress is surprisingly comfortable for being several
hundred years old, though it does smell a tad musty,” Patience wrinkled her
nose as she sat up and cast a few cleansing spells on the bed. “I’m ready for
food and a nap.”
 
            Tom watched her closely. Hermione’s best friend defied
categorization. When he’d first met Patience, he’d dismissed her as flighty and
odd, with the potential for intelligence, since she was a Ravenclaw, but
unlikely to be practically skillful. He tolerated her because Hermione valued
her for unknown reasons. But by the middle of their first year, and after
watching Patience in their shared classes, Tom realized she could easily have
been sorted into Slytherin based solely on how well she hid her talents. Over
the years, he’d seen Patience grow into a strong caster, with a strange ability
for absorbing knowledge without seeming to pay the least bit of attention. It
was also becoming apparent that Patience had some kind of extrasensory skills
that were not yet fully developed, but which could become critical in the
future. Because she also read people on a deep level, it made sense to Tom to
keep her close and happy. Of course, knowing what made her happy was not an
easy task. The girl was wildly unpredictable. Nothing seemed to upset her, nor
did anything make her excited. As a person who worked to keep his own emotions
and responses hidden, Tom respected that about her.
 
            As annoying as Patience could be, she was right about their
complimentary magic, and Hermione was right about Patience growing on him. He
suspected the way they fit together was due to the various elemental natures of
their magic. In Ollivander’s shop, the wandmaker had said Hermione was aligned
with air, and Tom with fire, and he believed Abraxas to be earth and Patience
water, creating a magically balanced quartet.
 
           The four of them had been partners in many classes over the past
five years, and they knew each other’s minds and magic very well, often casting
classwork with no need to work out who would do what. Tom had also had many
other partners or opponents in classes, dueling club, and the study group. No
one else’s magic fit with his in the same way. When they worked together, their
spells were strong and instinctive.
 
           Vidhi was firey, like he was, and their magic worked best together
when pointed in the same direction, casting the same spell. Corvus and Jacob
were both very familiar, being his other roommates. Most of the others in the
group had magic that was so much less in sheer force than Tom’s that it simply
submitted to his. Josephine was an exception, her water magic somewhat
temperamental around his, like Patience’s could be when it was only their magic
alone, without Hermione and Abraxas as well.
 
            “your birthday,” Abraxas was saying when Tom came out of his
musings, his fingers surreptitiously stroking the side of Hermione’s hand where
they sat side by side on the wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. Patience had
rolled to the end of the bed, and was sitting behind Hermione, absently
braiding small strands of her hair. They all looked happy, and Tom found that
this pleased him.
 
            Tom crossed the room and sat on the bed beside Patience. When she
had touched him the other day, hugged him and kissed his cheek, Tom had been
surprised, but she, like Abraxas, was a lovely creature, and Tom did appreciate
beauty, and even better, he liked to own things of beauty. “Yes, we’ve finished
the first part of Hermione’s birthday adventure – uncovering all kinds of
ancient magic. Now, we need the celebration.”
 
            Abraxas frowned, looking over his shoulder at Tom. “We’ll have to
go back up to get anything to eat, though there is that fantastic goblet in the
other room.”
 
            “There’s still so much to look at,” Hermione looked around the room
wistfully, her gaze falling on the bookshelves, and the three other cabinets
which they had yet to explore the contents of.
 
            “That’s not a problem,” Patience announced, her unfazed smile in
place as always.
 
            “What?” Hermione and Abraxas said at once, but Patience had already
summoned an old, wizened house elf who bowed low in front of the four of them.
 
            Tom stood rapidly, his heart beating fast at the thought of his
secret getting out, but Patience spoke before he could.
 
            “Hello, thank you for coming. You can keep this place a secret,
correct?” her high, sweet voice sounded like a constant song, even when she was
speaking the most mundane of words.
 
            The elf nodded primly. “Of course. The Chamber is a secret passed
down with the Hogwarts magic. No Hogwarts house elf can reveal its location or
even talk of it.”
 
            Hermione made a face, probably thinking of Salazar threatening
house elves with dark magic, but Tom was glad of it, because it protected the
secret he didn’t want to share, and it made staying for longer periods of time
easier if they could get food brought to them.   “Would you be kind enough to
bring us some food? Just some sandwiches or something?”
 
            The elf nodded and was gone. “How did you know that, Patience?”
Hermione asked.
 
            “It made sense. I can’t imagine Salazar Slytherin making his own
food, and he obviously spent a lot of time down here, so he must have allowed
for house elves to enter to wait on him,” Patience answered, and used her wand
to move a small table that was against the wall to the center of the room.  
Abraxas went to the main room and came back, floating a leather chair. Tom and
Hermione pitched in, floating three more chairs to surround the table.
 
            In a few moments, the table was laden with much more food than a
few sandwiches, and Abraxas had pulled the magical cup off the library room
shelf, commanding it to fill with meade, and the sweet, heady drink was passed
around the table.  By the time the strange wooden chimes had sounded again,
everyone’s cheeks were flushed and even Tom’s laughter was coming easily.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Hermione knew that she’d had a bit much to drink. The meade was
stronger than she’d allowed for, and it was easy to drink. She could recognize
the looseness in her limbs, and the increased urge to laugh and smile. However,
she refused to feel guilty. She hadn’t consumed so much that she was ill, and
she could still think – everything was just a bit slower, softer, and funnier.
 
            Though she had been very concerned, well, honestly, terrified, of
coming down into the Chamber of Secrets, it had pleasantly surprised her. The
snake was nowhere in sight (thank Circe), and the library and potions
laboratory was beyond her imaginings. There were so many books to explore, rare
potion ingredients to experiment with, perhaps even lost spells and theories to
bring back to the magical world.   From the books that she’d handled, she’d
seen they were written mostly in Latin and old English, though there were some
Greek and Egyptian, as well as a bit of Babylonian, Sanskrit, and Arabic. The
Latin and Greek wouldn’t a problem, but the other books and journals would take
some time to translate. Honestly? A library full of magical books that required
time and research? Hermione couldn’t possibly begin to think of a better
birthday present.
 
            Magic itself was thick in all the rooms of the Chamber, and it was
invigorating, though Hermione forced herself to channel Mad-eye Moody and
remain vigilant while in the library, not touching anything until she had
ascertained and undone any ward or curse on it. It was a testament to how
paranoid and stingy Slytherin was with sharing magical knowledge that he had
bothered to curse or ward anything in the Chamber at all. The whole place was a
secret, after all, and only accessible with a parselmouth leading the way.
 
            She was glad Tom had agreed to stash the darker objects that they
couldn’t deactivate in the bedroom for now. Hermione could never forgot the
horror of Katie Bell’s silent scream when she had touched the cursed necklace
in their sixth year, or the look of Dumbledore’s blackened, withered hand. She
wasn’t surprised that there was so much dark magic in the Chamber, but she was
surprised that there seemed to be an equal, if not greater, amount of neutral
or even light books, potions, and objects as well. Slytherin may have embraced
darker magic, but he certainly didn’t seem to use it exclusively. There were
books on healing, Herbology, magical history, and several handwritten rolls of
parchment for spells that appeared to be just as likely to be normal things
like headache remedies or sleeping draughts as poisons or pain-inducers or
truth serums.
 
            Hermione had great hopes for this space, for the knowledge it
contained. She knew Tom was move into experimenting with darker magic, but
perhaps she could show him that neutral or light magic could be just as
powerful, and help temper whatever secrets they would discover here.
 
            She nibbled on a chocolate biscuit, very happy with her birthday.
Tom looked much more relaxed than normal, taking a drink of the meade and
passing it to Abraxas. He caught her eye and smiled, a wide, toothy grin that
went up to his deep blue eyes, as well as straight to her groin. Apparently the
meade also made everything sexier, she noted.
 
            “Enjoying your birthday, dearest?” he asked, reaching over quickly
and pulling her out of her chair and into his lap. She rubbed her head
affectionately against his shoulder, turning sideways so that she could loop
her arm over his neck and pull him down for a kiss before she had really
thought about it. His mouth tasted honey sweet, like the meade, and they kissed
slowly for several moments, then pulled back to look at the other two people in
the room.
 
            Abraxas was watching them hungrily, his grey eyes closer to a
stormy sky now. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, like a coil ready to
spring. Patience was watching them as well, though her expression was as serene
as an undisturbed lake, her posture gracefully slumped in her chair, both her
long legs thrown over one arm.
 
            “I think we should all give Hermione birthday kisses,” Patience
said calmly. She didn’t wait for a response, but stood and walked over to
Hermione and Tom, and sat on the other side of Tom’s lap, facing Hermione.
 
            “Ah,” Hermione began, unsure of how exactly this would play out, or
how Tom would react, but Patience was already leaning in and kissing her.
 
            Hermione had never kissed a girl. She had no fear of doing so, or
even repulsion, but she’d never really desired to do so, not with any girl
except the one kissing her now. Over the last two years, she suspected that
Patience liked her more than as a friend. Josephine and Felicity were her
roommates, too, and they touched Hermione’s arm, or buttoned up the backs of
her dresses, or gave her hugs, but that contact felt different from the way
Patience touched her. Patience’s hand fit on her arm in a different way,
Patience breathed on her neck when she rested her head on Hermione’s shoulder,
Patience cuddled. Hermione had also realized, to her surprise, that she liked
the way Patience touched her, and if Patience had suddenly stopped, or had
started touching her the way her other friends did instead, Hermione would have
felt a loss. Patience was special. She was dear to Hermione in a way that she
wasn’t sure how to explain. It simply was.
 
            And, now, she knew, Patience had the softest lips in the world. Her
tongue was soft, too, and also tasted like the honey from the meade, but where
Tom was passion and danger and excitement, Patience tasted like peace. Hermione
knew that was a ridiculous thought, but her intoxicated brain insisted it was
the right description. Patience was peaceful and safe and a warmth that
Hermione could fall into.
 
            She hadn’t realized that she’d lifted her hands to Patience’s face,
pulling her closer and kissing her more deeply, until they fell off balance and
were jerked back by Tom.
 
            “My, my,” Tom drawled dryly as they righted themselves. “If that
was a sample of ‘friendly’ affection, then I’m surprised you ladies ever leave
your tower.”
 
            Abraxas laughed, trying not to choke on the meade he had been
sipping. “It certainly gives a new meaning to bosom friends, doesn’t it?”
 
            Hermione scowled playfully, but Patience looked confused. “Oh, I
haven’t touched her breasts yet.”
 
            Tom raised an eyebrow. “But you apparently have plans to, pet?”
 
            “Well, we are all need goals, don’t we?” Patience asked.
 
            “I think that’s a marvelous goal. I’d love to see you reach it,”
Abraxas grinned.
 
            Hermione huffed. “I hope you all realize I have a say in who does
and doesn’t touch my breasts,”
 
            Tom kissed the top of her head and then pushed her off his lap,
though he wrapped a loose arm around Patience’s waist, keeping her in place. “I
think Abraxas would like to give you a birthday kiss as well, dearest,” Tom’s
voice came out lower than usual, his arousal clear.  
 
            Hermione gave him an annoyed expression. “I’m only going because
he’s a great kisser, not because you told me to,” she said as she walked over
to Abraxas, and sat on the edge of the table in front of him.
 
            For a few moments, they simply stared at each other, unsure of this
permission to touch. Then Abraxas took her hand and lifted it to his mouth,
kissing the ends of her individual fingers, then turning her palm up and
sliding his lips along the curve of her thumb down to the place where veins
showed a faint blue under her skin at the beginning of her wrist. Her pulse was
jumping as his tongue delicately traced those veins, and her eyes closed
involuntarily against the strength of the sensation. When she opened them,
Abraxas was standing, pulling her against him, and kissing her like he hadn’t
been able to touch her for weeks, as if he would never get enough of her. Where
Tom and even Patience kissed her like they were sure of her affection, sure she
would return their embraces, Abraxas devoured her as though she might try to
escape, as if this might be his only chance to have her. With a gasp, they both
pulled back for a moment of air.   Hermione glanced at the others.
 
            “That is not how he kissed Marilyn Tuttle,” Patience noted, her
whole upper body resting bonelessly against Tom, who now had one hand splayed
over her hip and the other at the bare skin where Patience’s knee socks stopped
and the hem of her skirt hadn’t quite reached. His fingers were drawing circles
on her skin, the same circles Hermione had felt only a few days before.
 
            “Well, he didn’t love that silly Gryffindor,” Tom replied, and as
Hermione and Abraxas watched, he rearranged Patience to face him as though she
weighed nothing, as though she wasn’t only a few inches shorter than he was,
with legs that went on for miles, and kissed her, twining his hands in her
long, pale hair, tugging on it to force Patience’s head back, allowing him to
kiss along the line of her neck, and giving them an excellent view of how wide
his eyes went when Patience leaned forward and bit his ear, hard.
 
            “Bad pet!” He growled, wrenching on her hair and biting her neck
roughly in return. The skin on the place where her neck joined her shoulder
instantly reddened, and would be bruised soon, but Patience didn’t cry out at
all. Instead, she giggled, then brushed his lips lightly as a falling feather,
her hips canting forward as though she were riding a horse.
 
            One of Tom’s hands was on the small of her back now, pushing
Patience closer to him, and even though he was annoyed, he was also clearly
aroused. Abraxas was breathing heavily against Hermione’s ear, his lips skating
her outer earlobe, though both their faces were turned to watch Tom and
Patience.  
 
            “Do you think they might break each other?” Abraxas whispered, a
bit of humor mixed in with actual concern. “They are at the opposite ends of
everything.”
 
            “Mmm,” Hermione breathed, the touch of Abraxas’s lips distracting
her ability to produce rational thought. “My money’s on Patience.”
 
            Abraxas laughed. “I had a feeling you were insane,” he lowered his
head to her neck, lifting her hair out of the way, turning them so they could
continue to watch.
 
            Patience had risen to her knees, straddling Tom, and Tom had
twisted her hair into a rope, winding the ends around his palm for a firm grip.
She was kissing his face all over, his forehead, eyebrows, eyelids, cheeks, her
lips moving quickly. Tom continued to make marks on her neck, above and below
the original bite.
 
            “Tom,” Hermione protested softly from across the table. “Her whole
neck is going to be bruised!”
 
            Tom lifted his head, his eyes darkening at the sight of Abraxas’s
mouth on Hermione’s neck. “It’s your fault, for not teaching your pet better
manners. Sad, really, that her discipline has fallen to me.”
 
            Patience had half-turned in his lap and smiled at Hermione. “It’s
ok. You can kiss it better later, Hermione. Plus, it hurts in a nice way. And I
really like biting him,” she demonstrated how much right then by turning and
biting Tom’s neck, and Hermione could see, even across the table, that it was a
very hard bite. Tom winced and his mouth made an angry line, but Hermione had
seen that look in his eyes before, and she had no doubt he was hard as a rock.
 
            Standing quickly, Tom rose with Patience still attached to him, and
walked over to the bed, throwing her on it. Patience rolled over onto her
stomach, her lips and cheeks flushed, her pale hair a loose white blonde cloud
around her as she laughed. Her laughter continued as Tom flipped up her skirt
and pulled her knickers down just enough to expose her rather surprisingly
shapely (given how straight and flat Patience was over the rest of her body)
arse cheeks.
 
            “Do you know what happens to pets who bite their masters,
Patience?” Tom’s voice held no amusement whatsoever, though Patience didn’t
look at all worried. Hermione’s stomach did a flip. It was one thing for Tom to
dominate her. She knew she enjoyed it, and she also knew that Tom cared for
her, and that, whether he admitted it or not, she had power over him as well.
Patience was a mystery in many ways, even to Hermione, and she didn’t want to
see her friend hurt or damaged, emotionally or physically.
 
            “They get punished?” Patience answered, her voice near a taunt in a
sing-song tone. She looked right at Hermione and winked. Hermione breathed in
relief, resting against Abraxas, who had also taken a step forward in concern.
 
            Tom nodded, and brought his hand down, the sound of the slap loud
in the quiet room. Both Tom and Patience’s breathing became heavier, but
Patience didn’t make a sound of protest, nor did she cry. The noises she made
were moans, and her hips moved back toward the spanking as opposed to away from
it. Her creamy flesh turned a bright pink, then red, before Tom stopped. He was
biting his lip, and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Patience had
clearly won this round, Hermione thought, though she wasn’t about to point that
out.
 
            “Do you feel better?” Patience asked, looking over her shoulder at
Tom, who was on his knees behind her, his hands now lightly hovering over the
skin he’d reddened. “You like punishing people, don’t you?”
 
            Tom looked at her sharply. “Yes. Just as you like biting people,”
he pulled her underwear further down and slid his hand between her legs. “And
apparently, as you like being punished.”
 
            Patience squirmed, more than she had during the spanking. “Oh,” she
breathed, and Tom smiled, clearly feeling in control again and determined to
press his advantage.
 
            He lifted her onto her knees and pulled her hips to his. They were
still fully clothed, and her skirt fell back down as they moved. One hand kept
Patience’s hip against his, the other wrapped around and under her skirt.
Patience’s head lolled against Tom’s shoulder as his fingers tapped out a
rhythm beneath her underwear.
 
            “Oh,” she cried again, and Tom’s hand moved faster, sensing a
weakness. Abraxas and Hermione forgot to do anything but look at the two people
on the bed, Tom’s expression arrogant and fierce and very lusty, and Patience’s
perfectly calm except for the way her lips parted in a round, languid shape as
her “Ohs” came out closer and closer together until they were one long string
of sound, and her hips twitched against Tom’s tight grasp, a silent fight that
Hermione knew would leave finger-shaped marks.
 
            To Hermione’s shock, Tom kissed Patience gently on the cheek and
eased her back onto the bed. He spoke softly, but Hermione heard him say, “See?
Isn’t it better when you behave, pet?”
 
            Louder, he said, “Hermione, dearest, come tend to your pet for a
moment.”
 
            Hermione kissed Abraxas and used the steps to climb onto the bed,
pulling Patience into her arms. Though Patience was several inches taller when
they were standing, she always scooted down in bed so that her pale head was
nestled on Hermione’s chest.
 
            Patience smelled like warm honey and sex and the lavender shampoo
she used. Hermione stroked her hair, which was rather tangled from Tom’s
twisting and pulling of it, and whispered, “Are you alright? You seemed to
enjoy that, but it wasn’t too much, was it?”
 
            Tilting her head back to meet Hermione’s eyes, Patience smiled
broadly. “It was lovely. I’ve always wanted to be spanked. Tom is rather
forceful, isn’t he? I can see why you needed to take a bath afterwards. I’m
very sticky now.”
 
            Hermione sighed in disbelief. “Only you, Patience. You aren’t a bit
scared of him.”
 
            Patience pushed herself up a bit, and kissed the underside of
Hermione’s chin. It was somewhere between arousing and ticklish. “He’s like a
wild thing, never taught how to love. He’s more scared of us than we are of
him,” Patience whispered back between kisses, her lips moving up to Hermione’s
lips.
 
            In the space of only a few days, Hermione had learned quite a bit
about kissing, and she’d realized the main reason why kissing had seemed so
lackluster with Viktor and the Octopus also known as Cormac was that they
simply weren’t good at kissing. Kissing required more finesse and less brute
force than either of those boys had understood. Abraxas had it down to an art
form, Tom was simply magic, and Patience made her forget herself. Those soft
lips of hers were like having a flower petals drifting over her skin, leaving a
trail of sensitized flesh and little shivers in their wake.
 
            Patience put a hand up to the shiny red buttons that fastened the
cardigan Hermione was wearing. Almost daily, she cursed the formality of dress
in the 1940’s, wishing for jeans, a lightweight knitted jumper, and trainers to
go exploring in the Chamber instead of one of the many ‘casual’ day dresses
Narcissa had purchased for her that was still fancier than most dresses she’d
owned in future.   Her dress today was black, with bright red poppies printed
on it, and a matching hued cardigan over top for warmth.
 
            “Are you cold?” Patience asked softly as Hermione shivered.
 
            Hermione whispered a warming spell. “Not now.”
 
            With quick, nimble fingers, Patience unbuttoned the cardigan, and
Hermione sat up. Patience undid the back, pulling the dress down to just above
Hermione’s waist. She smiled at Hermione’s pale pink bra, and then put a hand
out to touch the scar on Hermione’s arm.
 
            “You always had this covered,” Patience ran a finger over the
raised, knotted skin. “Does it hurt?”
 
            “Not anymore,” Hermione smiled widely.
 
            Patience kissed the length of Hermione’s scar, her soft lips moving
from wrist to elbow, and though Hermione didn’t feel much through the scarred
skin, it was a sweet sight that made her sigh. “That’s good.”
 
            Hermione turned to her, looking at the tiny white buttons on
Patience’s blouse. “May I?” At a nod, Hermione unfastened the line of pearl
buttons, watching with fascination as Patience’s long torso was revealed, along
with a white cotton bra.
 
            The two friends stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for several
minutes, foreheads touching, noses bumping, breath mingling, lips occasionally
kissing, hands mapping out the lines of collar bones and ribs and shoulders.
Every pass of their fingers became a bit bolder, sliding under the straps of
bras, moving down and across the swell of a breast, or inching up from the
diaphragm to press gently at the underside of the breast.
 
            As the kisses grew longer, the bras disappeared completely, and
Hermione felt a growing ache between her legs as Patience fondled her breasts
and kissed them for what seemed like hours. She returned the favor, pleased to
see Patience’s nipples grow hard under the attentions of her mouth and fingers.
Hermione rubbed her thighs together, clenching her inner muscles, and moaned in
frustration. Patience slid one of her long, lean legs between Hermione’s thighs
pressing firmly against her throbbing cunt. Hermione bit her lip to keep from
yelling.
 
            “It’s ok,” Patience whispered against her lips, twisting one of
Hermione’s nipples between her fingers, just hard enough to make her whimper.
“Go ahead. I’m here. You’re safe.”
 
            She pushed her leg up harder, and Hermione pressed down, and that
was enough to unwind almost two hours of sexual tension and touching.
Hermione’s whole body shuddered and Patience moved her leg back and forth until
the shuddering stopped and Hermione went limp, her mouth open and gasping
against Patience’s shoulder.  
 
            Hermione felt so relaxed, she almost didn’t notice when Patience
pulled her up and over, bring her back toward pillows that rested against the
headboard, putting the cover over both of them and letting Hermione rest
against her chest. Patience was cuddling, playing with her hair, and humming
softly. Hermione wondered briefly why they had moved from the center of the
bed, but then she looked over and saw the answer.
 
            Tom and Abraxas were both standing, shirtless, by the side of the
bed. Hermione had seen both of them shirtless before. Tom, a few days ago, and
Abraxas once last summer on a particularly hot day when she’d visited Malfoy
Manor with Narcissa to pick up Tom. The two boys had been flying outside, and
Abraxas had done so without a shirt. Of course, when he realized there was
company, and ladies at that, he’d hurried off to get dressed, but that quick
glimpse from afar had been impressive. The two of them together made both
Hermione and Patience take a deep breath.
 
            “Aren’t they lovely?” Patience sighed.
 
            Tom heard her and laughed, while Abraxas flushed. “Yes, tell us,
Hermione, what do you think?”
 
            Hermione clicked her tongue and snuggled against Patience under the
covers. “You know you are both gorgeous, the two most handsome boys in this
school.”
 
            “I agree,” Tom said, and he kissed Abraxas, pulling the other boy
up against his body, his hands sliding down Abraxas’s bare back to cup his arse
and push his hips forward against his own.
 
            Hermione sat up, leaning forward. This exhibition was incredibly
erotic, and from Tom’s grin, she knew that he knew she was terribly turned on.
Soon, Abraxas’s hands were mirroring Tom’s, and their kissing was more
aggressive, their hips grinding against each other.  Patience’s chin was
resting on Hermione’s shoulder, and both girls watched enrapt.
 
            “Do you know that Abraxas told me he’d do anything for me, as long
as it didn’t hurt you, dearest?” Tom said as he pulled away from the kiss for a
moment.
 
            He glanced at Hermione and she saw that he was playing games,
trying to manipulate them all with through their affection for one another, and
the feel good chemicals of sex. She had to hand it to him, it felt like it was
working.
 
           Abraxas lifted his chin, looking sadly stubborn, and Hermione wanted
to kiss his worry away.   “I meant it,” he insisted.
 
           Tom tugged on the belt loops of Abraxas’s pants, keeping their
groins pressed tightly together. Abraxas’s head fell against Tom’s chest, and
he let out a deep moan. “I know you did, my friend. I was simply pondering
whether I should let Hermione have you first or not. It is her birthday, and
she’s been lusting after you for a while. Of course, she did just enjoy some
time with our pet, who we both saw take very good care of her.”
 
           “It’s obvious our pet plays favorites,” Tom shot Patience a dark
look. “You didn’t bite Hermione, I noticed.”
 
           Patience only smiled in return, then said, “Why not share him at the
same time?’
 
           “Good idea.  On the bed, Abraxas,” Tom gave him a little push
forward.
 
            Abraxas looked like he was both thrilled and terrified by that
suggestion, his grey eyes widening, but he did as Tom instructed.
 
            Tom pointed his wand at the bed and enlarged it, making it big
enough to easily accommodate all four of them. He got onto the mattress on the
other side of Abraxas, and they were now in a row, Patience on the left of the
bed, Tom on the right, and Hermione and Abraxas in the middle. Despite the
extra room, they were close together, Patience pressed against Hermione’s back,
Tom pressed against Abraxas, with Hermione only separated from a breathless
Abraxas by the blankets Patience had pulled over them.
 
           Reaching over Abraxas’s shoulder, Tom tugged gently at the sheets,
and Hermione let him pull them away, leaving her bare to the waist, just as
they were. Abraxas sucked in his breath with a shaky sound and Tom brought his
hand back, deftly unbuttoned Abraxas’s pants until Hermione could see the white
fabric of his underwear. Abraxas had stopped breathing completely.
 
         “Touch her,” Tom whispered, his lips against Abraxas’s ear, though
they could all hear it. “You want to, she wants you to, I want you to.”
 
          Hermione gave the pale blonde a soft smile and leaned in to kiss him.
It was a soft, sweet kiss. “Relax,” she said, and took his hand and placed over
it her breasts. “They’re certainly less than Marilyn’s – you can handle them,”
she teased.
          They all laughed, and some of the tension was broken. Abraxas used
his exceptionally light touch to trace over her chest, her arms, her neck, and
he followed his fingers with his lips. Occasionally, he would shudder against
her violently because of something Tom was doing, and Patience would sigh over
her shoulder, and Hermione would think how odd of a situation this must look
like from outside of it, but how natural it felt from the inside.
 
        “I think Abraxas needs to loose his pants, don’t you, dearest?” Tom
asked as he watched his friend kissing the space between each of Hermione’s
ribs.
 
        Hermione moved her hand from Abraxas’s muscled chest to his hip, to the
waistband of his pants. She dipped her fingers lower and found Tom’s hand. She
slid her fingers into his and they both sighed in pleasure. Tom held her hand
fast and drew it even further, until he was bending her fingers around the hard
length of Abraxas’s cock, then wrapping his hands around hers to guide her in a
rhythmic stroking.
 
        “God!” Abraxas was gasping, and Tom leaned forward, kissing Hermione
over Abraxas’s shoulder, keeping a tight grip on Hermione’s hand.
 
        “Patience was right,” Tom smiled lecherously. “It’s good to share.”
 
         Patience merely continued to hum, watching them while running her
fingers over Hermione’s back and hair.
 
         There was a feeling of cool air, and Hermione opened her momentarily
closed eyes to see that all their clothes were gone. Abraxas was staring at the
golden words spiraled over Hermione’s stomach. His hand hovered over them, not
quite touching.
 
          “See?” Tom’s voice was smug. “I told you she was mine.”
 
           “And you are mine,” Hermione reminded him sharply, running her free
hand over the words on his arm, and feeling satisfied in a petty way when he
shuddered deeply.
 
            Abraxas’s expression showed that he was both deeply aroused and
deeply confused. “Why am I here? You are both so…” he was not going to use the
words ‘in love’ because they had their hands around a rather delicate part of
his anatomy.
 
            Tom kissed his shoulder. “You are here because we want you,” he
said simply. “Does there need to be another reason?”
 
            Abraxas shook his head, though he was clearly holding back.
 
            “It’s alright that you love her, Abraxas,” Tom said, his lips now
on his shoulder blade, his hand still closed over Hermione’s sliding up and
down in a slow, torturous pace that kept the other boy on edge, hardly able to
reason. “I was very upset that you coveted my soul mate at first, but I’ve been
thinking very carefully about this situation, and I think this kind of
connection between the four of us will make our magic stronger, make our bond
stronger.”
 
            Tom released Hermione’s hand and took Abraxas’s instead, pulling
his hand behind him, and placing it over his own cock. Abraxas whined in the
back of his throat as he felt Tom throb in his hand. “See how interested I am
in our bond?”
 
            Hermione made a tsking sound against Abraxas’s neck, where she was
kissing him. “It isn’t just about the magic, Tom. We care for each other. I
care for you, Abraxas,” she smiled.
 
            Abraxas smiled back so widely, so happily that Hermione felt a pang
in her chest. He did love her, unreservedly.
 
            “Yes,” Tom said with some exasperation in his tone. “The three of
you can cater to one another’s emotions. Now can we please continue with the
sex? I think some people need to put their mouths to better use than all this
talking.”
 
            Abraxas tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a moan, as did
Hermione’s because Abraxas was sliding down her stomach, and then burying his
head between her legs. He was just as good at kissing down there as he was on
her other lips. She twisted her fingers in pale blonde hair, tugging and crying
out, but Tom swallowed most of her noises as he kissed her, pausing once in a
while to whisper filthy things in her ear.
 
            “My, he is excellent at this sex business, isn’t he?” Tom laughed
lowly. “He makes you taut as a bow, dearest.”
 
            “Uhhh,” was all Hermione managed in reply. Tom flicked at one of
her nipples, a sharp movement that only added depth to the pleasure she was
feeling.
 
            Tom’s hand joined hers in Abraxas’s hair, and he forced the pale
blonde’s head up. “Tell me what she tastes like now, Abraxas,” he commanded.
 
            “Magic,” Abraxas answered with no hesitation. “Alive and buzzing
and joyful magic.”
 
            Tom slid down and kissed Abraxas’s mouth, both of them inches from
Hermione’s cunt. After a few seconds, Tom pulled away. “What a clever boy you
are. I agree. That’s exactly what she tastes like.” He pushed Abraxas’s head
back down between Hermione’s legs and smiled up at her. “Is his tongue just as
talented on your cunt as in your mouth?”
 
            “Yes,” Hermione gasped, her head thrown back against the soft
pillow of Patience’s chest, who was still behind her, her long fingers stroking
the side of Hermione’s arm in a way that was both comforting and erotic.
 
            Tom moved up just slightly and dropped a quick kiss on Hermione’s
words, which made her whole body give a great shudder. Then, he was up by her
ear again. “Shall we fuck him, dearest? He wants us both so badly.”
 
            “Yes,” Hermione answered, her lips pressed to Tom’s jaw, just as
turned on by Tom’s voice and words as by Abraxas’s ministrations. She could
hardly believe she had said that. She would never, never, have thought that
uptight, bookworm, killjoy Hermione Granger would be doing something as wild as
this, let alone reveling in it. What had Tom said to her? That, as his soul
mate, she was darker than she thought? Well, she wasn’t so sure about the
darkness, but she was definitely setting aside society’s rules about love and
sex and monogamy, and it felt wonderful.
 
            “Oh, my little bird,” Tom murmured as he kissed her ear and nuzzled
against her hair. “You really are a serpent in disguise, aren’t you? I love
your mind, your magic, your lust,”
 
            She shivered against him as his kisses turned into bites on her
neck. “I love you, Tom.”
 
            He yanked back on her hair, and brought her eyes to his. “I know,
and you – you are my dearest, and we are going to rule the world together,
whether you like it or not,” he kissed her fiercely, and she bucked her hips at
something amazing Abraxas started doing with his tongue. Tom laughed and looked
down. “He’s getting impatient, I think.”
 
            “He’s not the only one,” Hermione moaned. She was on the edge, had
been there for quite a while. Abraxas was a horrific tease, she was realizing.
 
            “Well, let’s see what we can do,” Tom kissed Hermione’s breasts as
he worked his way down, leaving behind bites and bruises in his wake. When he
got behind Abraxas, and pulled him upright, almost in the same position he’d
had Patience in earlier. Tom wrapped his hand around Abraxas and gave a few
sharp tugs that made him cry out and weep clear fluid from the slit at the top
of his cock.
 
            “He’s very similar in size with myself,” Tom noted in a clinical
tone. “A tad shorter, but maybe a tad wider? Honestly, a negligible difference.
I’ve no doubt he can satisfy you, dearest.”
 
            “No doubt,” Hermione echoed, her eyes focused on the two gorgeous
boys in front of her. Was it possible to be even more aroused just from
watching them? She thought she might have an orgasm right then, spontaneously,
from the way her cunt was pulsing and clenching, all on its own. Patience
squeezed the side of her hip, and Hermione had a feeling she was thinking the
same thing.
 
            Abraxas had twisted in Tom’s arms, was facing him now, kissing him
deeply, and their lower halves where a tangle of hands on cocks and hips
grinding together. They broke away, both panting. Tom turned him back around,
held him by both hips, pushing his cock against Abraxas, and forcing Abraxas to
hold still.   He rested his chin on Abraxas’s shoulder, kissed his temple.
 
            “Look at her, Abraxas,” Tom said quietly. “Look at my soul mate and
her little pet. Aren’t they beautiful?”
 
            “Yes,” Abraxas answered simply.
 
            “Now, if Patience belongs to Hermione, then who does Hermione
belong to?” Tom prompted.
 
            “You,” Abraxas replied quickly.
 
            “Yesss,” Tom hissed, his voice almost sounding like parseltongue.
“And who do you belong to?”
 
            “You and Hermione,” Abraxas said again, just as quickly as before.
 
            “Mmmm,” Tom licked down the line of Abraxas’s neck, snapping his
hips again as well. “I love having smart, beautiful, obedient things,” Tom
smiled. “Will you serve her? Serve me? Do anything for us? Be ours?”
 
            The part of Hermione still rooted in her old morality wanted to
protest as she watched, but there was nothing to argue, really. They had been
on this path for much longer than she had initially realized. The four of them
had been harboring tangled emotions for one another for at least the last two
years, and Tom was a dynamic leader with few limits. This was a test of
loyalty, a way of binding Abraxas to them, and Patience as well, and everyone
here was a willing and aroused participant. No one was being hurt, and Hermione
thought that was quite a victory given Tom’s previous timeline. He had already
killed and made a horcrux by this point in history. Kinky sex magic was
definitely an improvement.
 
            “Of course,” Abraxas was saying, looking down at Hermione with a
soft expression in his eyes. Hermione smiled up as him, lifting her hands to
stroke his trembling thighs. “I think I already am.”
 
            “You are so good,” Tom sighed, and pressed him forward. “Show
Hermione how good you are. Please her.”
 
            It was her turn to gasp as Abraxas grasped her hips, pulled her
down to meet him and entered her in a careful, fluid motion. He closed his eyes
and moaned as he sank into her, but Hermione barely heard him because she was
too busy making her own obscene sounds. Tom had been right. Abraxas was more
than enough to please her, though the slow, long strokes he began to make were
much more gentle than anything she’d felt from Tom. This, she thought, was what
it was like to be adored. Tom wanted her, needed her, desired to take her apart
and put her back together. What she and Tom had as soul mates couldn’t be
duplicated, but Abraxas was making love to her, and it was beautiful, and she
fell into it, let him worship her body and kiss her with reverence while
Patience held her hand and played with her hair.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Tom ran his fingers lightly down Abraxas’s spine as he watched his
friend fuck his soul mate. This evening had been full of pleasant surprises.
Even though Tom had been planning on having sex with them all as a group, for
the benefits of binding the quartet and strengthening their magic, it was much
more arousing than he would have thought, watching them play together. He saw
Patience glance at him from beside Hermione and she gave him a sly smile.
 
            Hermione’s little pet had been the first surprise. She was a bold
thing, initiating the whole affair, which made Tom a bit suspicious. It seemed
more and more likely that Patience had the unique ability to know what people
wanted, and then give it to them. Though he’d never say it out loud, Patience
had almost made him come in his pants. Her sharp little teeth, coupled with
that vacantly innocent expression? It had gone straight to his cock, and then
she’d liked the spanking. Her cunt had been soaked, drenching her knickers and
his fingers. When she’d come with that long, low moan, he’d had to use every
bit of will power he possessed not to come as well.
 
           Then, he had barely been able to calm down while he watched her with
Hermione, the two of them the opposite of what he’d experienced with Patience.
They had been slow and sweet and hesitant, and though he had been kissing
Abraxas, they had stopped several times to look at the two girls, and watch
Hermione come spectacularly just from the pressure of Patience’s thigh between
her legs.
 
           Tom had silently cast a sex magic spell when they’d first started
drinking. He had begun researching sexual magic right after he’d started
fucking Marguerite, and though even the Hogwarts restricted section didn’t
contain much, the Malfoy and Rosier libraries both did, and Tom had borrowed
several books surreptitiously, charming the covers to look like textbooks. He
hadn’t used any of the spells on Marguerite because, one, they weren’t
necessary, as she already did everything he told her, and, two, he wasn’t
interested in having his magic mix with hers. She was smart and good at spell
work, but her magic didn’t mix with his naturally in the way he wanted.  
 
          This spell was not for controlling; it was to strengthen their
natural magical compatibility, which of course he didn’t need with Hermione,
but would be helpful with Patience and Abraxas, and among them as well. It was
meant to create a bond that increased with each orgasm, and Tom felt it begin
to work with Patience, then get stronger when Hermione came. The air was abuzz
with magic, and the look Patience had just given him told him that she knew
what he’d done.
 
          Hermione and Abraxas, on the other hand, seemed much too distracted
to notice at the moment. The books had spoken repeatedly about the magical
anchor in any practice of sexual magic, and though Tom had thought at first
that he would logically be the anchor, he had realized tonight that the anchor
was undoubtedly Hermione. She was the center of the group, the one that they
all felt most strongly for.
 
          The way Patience had touched her, and the way Abraxas was moving with
her now was further proof. They were both in love with Hermione, in their own
fashions, and Tom knew this would make the spell even stronger. The fact that
his soul mate was such an object of desire was heady. Tom loved that she was
his, first and foremost, and that she, as an extension of him, inspired such
loyalty and devotion. They really would rule the world together, and it would
be brilliant, with their beautiful blonde pets at their sides, grounding and
strengthening their magic until they were unstoppable.
 
            Tom watched Abraxas’s back, his slender hips and those rock hard
thighs, muscled from clenching a broom. He lifted his wand, and spoke a spell
he’d only recently learned. Abraxas made a gasping sound, and moved his hips
back against Tom, who had moved to be flush against him.
 
            “Are you surprised I did some research, my friend? I didn’t want to
hurt you, not too much,” Tom let his voice drop low, saw the shiver go down
Abraxas’s spine in response.
 
            Abraxas moaned as Tom’s hand went between his legs, spreading him,
and he slid two fingers inside him at once, with no warning. “That spell was
for lubrication, as I’m sure you can tell. There was also a spell to loosen
you, but I’m not going to use that one.”
 
            He leaned forward and bit Abraxas’s shoulder, hard enough to leave
a mark, looking down into Hermione’s brown eyes, which were mostly black from
her dilated pupils. She gasped too, as Abraxas pushed into her harder at Tom’s
invasion. “Because I want you to feel every bit of my cock as you take it, my
friend.”
 
            “Yes,” Abraxas answered, his head and hips thrown back against Tom.
“I want that, too.”
 
            Hermione moaned, biting her lip. Tom grinned at her as he thrust
into Abraxas’s arse, and Abraxas cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure that
reminded him of the sound Hermione had made when he’d taken her for the first
time. It was such a wonderful noise, a sound of claiming, of conquering, and
Tom closed his eyes, focusing on the way Abraxas’s walls squeezed his cock in a
fucking death grip that felt like heaven. Sex magic, Tom decided, was the best
magic. He barely gave the blonde time to adjust before he set a quick pace, and
Abraxas was moving back to meet him and pushing back into Hermione who was
quivering and moaning, and Abraxas was shaking, but maybe that was Tom himself,
and he could feel the spell thickening around them, and then a cool hand was on
the side of Tom’s hip and he felt Patience’s magic, too, and opened his eyes.
Patience was sitting up, one hand on Hermione’s arm, one hand on his hip, and
all of their magic was flowing around them, and it was fucking amazing.
 
            Hermione started screaming, then Abraxas was shouting a string of
obscenities, and Tom began to shudder, coming hard, shaking from the magic and
the orgasm, the release so badly needed after so much stimulation, and he could
hardly think for the pleasure.
 
            There was a long silence, where the only sounds where their
attempts to breathe normally. Patience was up on her knees over them, still
naked to the waist, her small, pert breasts high on her long, slender torso,
her hair falling straight over her shoulders. She pointed her wand at each of
them in turn, using cleansing spells.
 
            “Now you won’t be so sticky,” she smiled at them.
 
            “Thanks, Patience,” Abraxas murmured, sounding half-asleep,
collapsed on his side between Hermione and Tom. “You’re a gem.”
 
            Tom reached out an arm and pulled her down, turning to face her. He
wanted to keep an eye on their little pet. She returned his suspicious glance
with a guileless expression. How had she known about the spell? Though,
honestly, he was sure she’d given it a boost at the end. He had to admit that
he appreciated the way Patience seemed to know instinctively what to do, and
how to keep her mouth shut.
 
            “Tom?” Hermione’s voice was exasperated, but too exhausted to hold
much annoyance. “What spell did you use on us?”
 
            He sighed. It had been silly of him to think she wouldn’t notice,
no matter how many orgasms she had, he thought. “Nothing objectionable,” he
responded.
 
            “I’m pretty sure the definition of objectionable includes ‘lack of
knowledge and/or consent’,” Hermione answered quickly. “Why didn’t you ask us?”
 
            Tom didn’t have an answer for that. He could have, he knew. The
four of them had just had group sex. It was unlikely they would have said no to
sexual magic. He could tell Hermione that he hadn’t wanted to ask, but that
would start a fight and ruin what had otherwise been a lovely day. So, instead,
he said, “I’m sorry. I just wanted to make our magical compatibility stronger.
It will be good for all of us.”
 
            There was a huffing sound from Hermione, but she didn’t respond. He
wasn’t sure if that was good or not. She had a tendency to hold grudges and
explode about them later. He crawled across Abraxas and slid behind his soul
mate, holding her against him, his finger tracing her words, because he knew
that would relax her.
 
            “Oh, Tom, you’re awful, but I’m too tired to fight,” she sighed.
“Tell me now, right here, that you won’t do anymore spells on me or them
without letting us know. And I want to see the book you got the spell from.
Tomorrow.”
 
            She pressed her fingers on his arm over his own words, and he felt
her along his magic, knew she was checking to see if she could feel deception.
“I won’t do any more sex spells without telling you,” he told her, honestly.
They would probably be more effective with her knowledge, he reasoned.
 
            He felt her magic, pleased and relaxed, and she closed her eyes.
“Set an alarm for an hour,” she murmured. “We need to get back before curfew.”
 
            “I will,” he whispered back, kissing her forehead. He looked over
to see Abraxas watching him. He kissed him over Hermione’s shoulder, and even
graced Patience, curled up behind Abraxas, who draped a loose arm around her,
with a rare, genuine smile. They did make an excellent court, Tom thought. He
was King, with Hermione as his Queen, Abraxas his knight, and Patience the
soothsayer. Honestly, the world didn’t stand a chance.
***** Patience is a Virtue...A Virtue Tom Doesn't Have. *****
Chapter Summary
     Flash-forward two months later. Our poor foursome has been hard at
     work preparing the Chamber of Secrets...isn't it time they had some
     fun? Patience and Tom certainly think so, though those two have each
     other figured out a bit too much for comfort.
Chapter Notes
     Hey my lovelies! Sorry about the long wait for this chapter, but it's
     here, and I'm already about 2K into the next chapter, which will
     feature some fun Hermione/Abraxas action. Love to you all!!!
 
            It was late November before the rest of the core members of the
study group stepped foot into the Chamber of Secrets. Most of the delay was
finding a way to create an alternate entrance. There wasn’t much opportunity to
go down except on the weekends, and it had taken all four of them several
weekends to use their combined blasting spells to make way through the rock
wall and fashion a low, slanting tunnel that came out behind the greenhouses.
It was not ideal to be traipsing outside, close to curfew, especially as the
weather grew cold, but at least the greenhouses weren’t across the lawns, and
it was better than trying to take a dozen students through the girls’ bathroom.
           
            There had been an intense debate over how to conceal the entrance.
Tom had wanted practically every spell known to man, in addition to the
parseltongue password, but Hermione had argued that too much use of magic would
flag the area to the staff and the more clever and magically sensitive
students. In the end, the entrance was covered with rocks and brush that could
be levitated, and then warded by the parseltongue, so that no one would be able
to enter without Tom along. This restriction, of course, not only appealed to
Tom’s desire for control, but also kept anyone from facing Astarte alone.
            Astarte, however, had been on her best behavior. She went out
through the pipes, into the lake, or through the new tunnel, and hunted in the
Forbidden Forest or the mountains. She did not attack or even threaten anyone
and stayed mostly in her nest behind the statue of Slytherin. Tom reapplied the
clouding spell every time he went into the Chamber, and she didn’t protest.
Rather, the giant snake seemed pleased to have freedom to roam and weekly
company.
 
            The effects of the sex magic spell were already making themselves
known. When Tom, Hermione, Patience, and Abraxas did spells together in their
shared classes, everything flowed exceptionally well, and when they practiced
more advanced spells in private, the magic was even better. The combination of
their complementary magical styles made for strong shields and attacks in
Dueling Club as well, and Professor Merrythought had started forcing them to be
on different teams because when they were together, they were unbeatable, even
when facing the best seventh year students.
 
            On the weekend evenings, after they had exhausted themselves with
blasting rock, they sat in the Chamber library, translating books that looked
interesting. The work was slow, as none of them were fluent in ancient Egyptian
or Arabic or even old English. They were all intelligent, though, and each
worked on a different book, switching occasionally to check each other’s work.
 
            Once the tunnel was complete, before noon on a chilly November
Saturday, they all lingered in the library, strangely unwilling to tell the
others, even though they had worked long and hard to be able to bring them down
to the Chamber.
 
            “We can bring the others down tomorrow,” Patience broke the
silence, her voice echoing off the tiled walls as she twirled in a slow circle.
“I’d like to keep it just ours for one more day.”
 
            Hermione looked up from a very dense Egyptian text on resurrection
that she was purposely taking sparse notes on – really, this was not the kind
of thing Tom should be reading - ever. “I agree. The quiet is nice. Even with
the muffling spells, all that blasting earlier gave me a headache.”
 
            Abraxas went over to the potions along the nearest shelf and
selected a bottle. He set the vial down beside Hermione’s hand, then moved her
hair to the side and gently massaged her neck.
 
            “Thank you,” she murmured, drinking the headache potion and leaning
into his touch. “That feels good.”
 
            Tom watched them all with a small smile on his face as he continued
translating one of Slytherin’s journals. The man’s writing was not very
detailed. Slytherin took just enough notes to prompt his memory, but not enough
to enable someone else to copy his work. Luckily, Tom was quite skilled at
reading between the lines, and he had an inkling that his mind worked similarly
to that of his ancestor.
 
            Although he wanted to see the looks of awe on the rest of the
group’s faces, he understood the desire to keep the Chamber as their place for
just a while longer. They hadn’t really been able to enjoy the Chamber since
that first weekend, since they had been working so hard to make the second
entrance and complete a few translations of books that looked especially
interesting. Hermione was right – the blasting was loud and exhausting, and
even though they had all thoroughly enjoyed the delicious sex they’d had on
their first night in the Chamber, they hadn’t had the time nor the energy to do
much since then.
 
            Not that they’d been chaste – touching was second nature in the
Chamber. Down here, they were free with their caresses and kisses, and Tom
liked that. He didn’t care for rules that were not of his own making, and he
found it annoying that he couldn’t touch Patience or Abraxas in the hallways if
he wanted to. He didtouch Hermione, though, and the whole school had taken
notice. Tom held her hand in the halls and kissed her cheek upon parting.
Abraxas and Patience walked with them, sometimes on either side of the couple,
sometimes behind them, holding hands, but even though the two pale blondes were
unusually affectionate with one another, their relationship was not deemed
serious because Abraxas was a Malfoy, and Patience was not from one of the
sacred Twenty-Eight families he would most definitely need to choose a bride
from.
 
            Tom wasn’t too happy about that, either. Abraxas’s father had sent
several letters in the last few months, urging his son to come up with some
suitable candidates for a fiancé before his mother sent a list that would
severely limit his choices. They would want him engaged by seventeen or
eighteen, then married by twenty or twenty-one. Tom did not relish the thought
of Abraxas married to some half-insane, dim-witted, magically null Pureblood
wife. Money and connections were important, but power was paramount, and
Abraxas was too valuable a resource to squander. Also, Tom admitted to himself,
he did not wish to share Abraxas with someone outside their group. He rather
thought it would be perfect if he could somehow convince Lord Malfoy to let
Abraxas marry Patience, but short of the imperius or that potion he’d found
when first coming down to the Chamber, that was impossible. The only
Pureblooded girls in their inner circle were Marguerite and Josephine. The mere
thought of Hermione’s reaction if Abraxas became engaged to Marguerite made Tom
reconsider the use of the mind control potion.
 
            Abraxas had not mentioned the letters to the girls, and Tom thought
that was wise. Following the night in the Chamber, Tom had felt closer than
ever before to Abraxas. Abraxas had shown the perfect combination of initiative
and submission, and Tom had no more doubts about his loyalty. In fact, Tom had
made it a point to rise early on several occasions, rouse Abraxas, ward and
muffle the bathroom off their bedroom and press his pretty face pressed against
the mirror while Tom fucked him roughly from behind if he was in a bad mood, or
more slowly, face to face, with long, languorous kisses if he was in a good
mood. Regardless of his mood, sex with Abraxas calmed him, and though he wished
the others could have been there, Abraxas was the most accessible and the sex
bound them tightly. Tom was mostly certain that Abraxas was in love with him as
well as Hermione, and though Tom didn’t care about love as long as he had
Abraxas’s loyalty, there was something uniquely satisfying about collecting
hearts.
 
            Marguerite’s heart was currently broken, Tom knew. He barely
noticed her these days, as busy as he had been with the Chamber, though he was
careful not to push her away or snap at her more than usual. Tom did want
access to her money and connections, and he kept Marguerite guessing, flirting
just enough to give her hope. Abraxas pointed out how cruel this was on more
than one occasion, but Tom didn’t care. Marguerite was useful, but now that he
had slept with Hermione, had felt the magic of joining with his soul mate, and
the elemental magical combining with Abraxas and Patience, there was no need to
have sex with someone who didn’t add to his magic in some way, at least not at
the moment. When she came to his room, pouting that he never made time for her
anymore, he let her run her hands over his chest and kiss him, but always told
her to leave before her mouth or fingers made it anywhere important.
 
            Now, he pushed away thoughts of Marguerite. She would be here, in
the Chamber, tomorrow, but for the rest of today, he was going to enjoy the
lack of extraneous company. For most of his life, Tom had preferred to be
alone. He didn’t have friends at the orphanage, or at school, and he spent all
the time he could in hidden corners, reading, or practicing his ability to
control things. And presently? He had many people who would classify him as a
friend, and three people who knew him intimately and still wanted to be with
him.
 
            That was quite a feat, he understood. Tom was very self-aware, and
he knew he was significantly different from other people in many ways, but
especially in terms of feeling emotions and connections to other people.
Walking down the corridors of Hogwarts, sitting in the classrooms, lounging in
the library or Slytherin common room, he observed his fellow students. They
were so relaxed with one another, girls giggling in each others’ ears and
practically skipping arm in arm down the halls; boys teasing each other,
lightly punching or wrestling when the teachers or prefects weren’t looking. It
was no difficulty to fake casual connections, to smile at the appropriate times
or open doors or give a few compliments, but touching…touching had not been a
natural action until Hermione came into his life, and even now, years later, he
preferred not to be touched except by a select few.
 
            But with Hermione, Abraxas, and Patience, he wanted to be touched,
wanted to feel their fingers on his skin, in his hair, down his back. He
thought about touching them and being touched by them more than he would admit.
He told himself that it was natural – he was a teenager, and there were
hormones and drives and all that rubbish. It would calm down eventually, but
best to satisfy that hunger when the opportunity was upon them.
 
            Hermione had read the books on sex magic he’d liberated from the
various libraries and reviewed the spell he’d used last time, and she agreed
that it was neutral magic, strengthening without any draining or negative
aspects. They had discussed some complimentary spells that could be used along
with the first one, and spells that would bind individual pairs. There was a
book in Slytherin’s library, thankfully mostly in Greek and Latin, that focused
specifically on elemental magical connections. He and Hermione had translated
it together and found many interesting spells.
 
            As soul mates, their bond of air and fire couldn’t be any stronger,
but there were several spells designed to help strengthen all the cross
connections of an elemental quartet: fire and water, earth and air, water and
air, fire and earth, and earth and water. According to the text, a successful
and thorough binding of elemental magic would create life-long bonds and the
ability to at least partially channel and use one another’s magic. He didn’t
want any of them leaving Hogwarts, going off and getting married or studying
abroad without being bound in such a way that they would always return, that
when he was running the magical world, they would be at his side.
 
           Tom’s plans for the future were starting to take shape. Between
Slughorn, Gawain Malfoy, and Dolohov’s connections at the Ministry and his own
brilliant mind, he had no doubt he could secure a place from which to work his
way up to the top. The same was true for Abraxas and Hermione. Patience was a
wild card, but he wasn’t worried. She seemed to instinctively know which
direction to take in life to produce the best outcome. However, the more he
reflected on the future, the more he realized that a direct transition into the
Ministry was not the path for him. He wanted to study further, and reporting to
a boss at the Ministry who would no doubt be inferior to him in every way would
probably drive him to murder. No, he needed to distinguish himself in the
public eye.
 
           He thought of the mess with Grindelwald, and pondered that if he
could bring down that man, seen by so many as one of the greatest wizards
alive, that he would be famous – a hero. Just the sort of publicity that could
propel him into a high position, bypassing the need for years of low-level
work. Tom could be patient when he had to be, but he would always look for the
most efficient way to rise. And the fact that Grindelwald, through his
followers, had killed Hermione’s father and marked her? Well, that just made
the idea of hunting him down, making him suffer, and then eradicating all
traces of him from the planet all the more attractive.
 
            He had begun keeping track of Grindelwald’s movements, reading the
papers and listening to the radio broadcasts on low in the Slytherin common
room in the late evenings. The man’s feats of magic were impressive, if they
were truly as described, and Tom knew better than to rush in. He needed more
practical dueling and fighting experience, but he wasn’t sure how to get it
yet. Although the Dueling club was great practice, and Professor Merrythought
had taught him excellent form and improved his casting speed, he couldn’t truly
simulate battle conditions there. He had never fought for his life, and he
needed to be comfortable doing so before attempting to face Grindelwald.
 
            Right now, though, he thought as he closed Slytherin’s journal, he
had more pleasant things to occupy his mind. They were done with all the
Chamber preparations, and there were many, many hours before curfew. He rose,
passing a closed eye Hermione who was still getting a shoulder rub from
Abraxas. Though Tom doubted anyone except himself could make sense of
Slytherin’s journals, he wanted to keep them locked away and safe in the warded
area of the Chamber. Carefully, he placed the book on the shelf in the inner
library-sitting room.
 
            When he turned around, he found himself face to face with Patience,
staring into those eyes the shade of pale sea glass, more a suggestion of blue
than the color itself. Those glassy orbs were like mirrors, and Tom had never
been able to read Patience in the way he did most others. He had tried
legilimency on her, but unlike Hermione, whose brain had a clear and strong
barrier that didn’t allow for any reading beyond what he felt as her soul mate,
Patience’s mind was a wide-open, chaotic wonderland that he could spend hours
in and never begin to understand. She mainly thought in pictures, and he caught
flashes of dancing flowers and talking animals and honestly, it was so
exhausting to try to translate into an actual thought, Tom had given up on it,
at least at his current skill level with mind reading.
 
            Since Tom had spent the better part of five years being thoroughly
annoyed with Patience, his appreciation of her in the past few months had come
slowly, with much thought. Patience was a contradiction. She was the least like
him, all flights of fancy and no plans and half the time barely present in the
room, unlike his extreme focus and hyper awareness. She was his opposite – the
water to his fire.
 
           And yet, she was the most like him in that she was not like others.
Her brain wasn’t wired ‘normally’ either. Just like Tom, she didn’t feel or
think like other people, and her morality was selective. She was the only other
person who seemed to have no problem with Tom using sex to control others, or
even Tom trying to control others in general. Tom was sure Patience was tapping
into some psychic field, some sense of a bigger picture, that his actions were
on the ‘right’ or at least predestined course, and that was why she was so
accepting of his behaviors when the others protested. He wished he could see
what she saw or feel what she felt, but then, no, he thought, that would
probably be like smoking opium. He wasn’t sure his brain could stand a trip
through Patience-land.
 
           However, his eyes were definitely enjoying the landscape. Like
Hermione, though for different reasons, Patience was seen by the other students
as beautiful, but untouchable. Tom simply reveled in having something no one
else did. He’d overheard many a conversation since their third year about how
pretty Patience was, what lovely, full lips she had, what long, long legs. He
hadn’t really paid attention until this fall, but he was focused now. She was
only a few inches shorter than he was, so tall for a girl, but slender and
seemingly frail, though Tom would never be so foolish as to think her weak. No,
there was a reason most students kept their distance from Patience. They could
sense, on some level, that she was like a less malicious, but no less dangerous
Siren, attractive to hear and see, but not to be approached.
 
           Currently, despite the chill of November in Hogwarts, she was
wearing those blasted knee socks. Like most of the girls older than second or
third year, Hermione wore stockings that went up to her mid-thigh, so that no
skin was visible below the hem of her skirt, only hosiery, which this time of
year, had turned to wool. True, they were secured with a sexy silk and lace
garter belt, and that knowledge sometimes drove him to distraction, but
Patience’s knee socks presented a very singular temptation. Her skin was smooth
and pale like marble, and a neat expanse of it was exposed from the distance
from the top of her knee to the hem of her skirt, which Tom noted was decidedly
shorter than when she had entered the Chamber.
 
           “Patience, pet, did you shorten your skirt?” Tom inquired, laughter
at the edge of his question.
 
           “Of course,” she answered blandly. “You like to look at my legs.”
 
           He did laugh then. “Yes, I do.”
 
          “And we’re all going to get naked again.”
 
           At that, he sobered, his lust hitting him like a stunning spell. Tom
nodded. “Yes, we are, Patience. We’re going to do some lovely sex magic.
Starting with the two of us.”
 
           “No, we already started months ago,” she went over to the green
leather chair beside the shelves and sat down, spreading her legs wide open,
one long limb draped over each arm of the chair, her skirt now high enough to
reveal sapphire silk knickers.
 
          Tom stared. It had been a while since he’d seen under a girl’s skirt,
and he liked the view. “True, but this spell is different. It is just for us.”
 
          “You want to do the spell for the cross corners, the opposite
elements?” Patience asked in her high, sweet voice, but Tom was more focused on
how Patience’s fingers were moving up her leg, dancing closer and closer to the
silk that was getting darker by the second under Tom’s gaze. Her fingers were
long, pale, and slim, like her legs, and when they grazed the edge of her
knickers and slipped under, it had a hypnotic effect on Tom’s brain.
 
          He struggled for words. “Yes…did you see the spell I was discussing
with Hermione last weekend?”
 
            Patience hummed and nodded as her fingers began to make slick
sounds against her flesh, and though those damned knickers kept him from seeing
her pretty pink cunt, Tom remembered exactly how it had felt when he’d fucked
her with his fingers. His hand twitched against his leg in memory.
 
            “That’s a permanent spell, you know,” she spoke in a level tone,
calm and easy, as if she weren’t touching herself, making obscene noises.
 
            “I do know,” Tom replied, happy to hear that his voice was also
calm, that his intense desire had not bled into it, giving him away. “Are you
afraid?”
 
            Patience shook her head. “We’re meant to be in each other’s lives –
four elements, four directions, four chambers of the heart,” her eyes were not
at all dreamy when she looked directly at him and asked, “Are you afraid?”
 
            Tom had started, very subtly, when she had said ‘heart’, and he
knew she had noticed. He didn’t feel fear – he never felt fear. He was,
however, attuned to recognizing potential weaknesses and any mention of a heart
was a red flag.
 
            “No,” he scoffed, a cold mask dropping over his face out of habit.
“It’s my plan. Why would I be afraid?”
           
 
            She shrugged. “Because connection of any kind with other people is
difficult for you.”
 
            “But you aren’t people,” Tom stalked closer, ready to shift the
balance of power in this room. “You are my pet, Patience.”
 
            Her answer was a decidedly cheeky smile, a cat in the cream. Tom
wanted to smack it off her face and kiss her at the same time. She reached up
and pulled her wand out from where she’d tucked it absently into the top of her
long braid. Her hand was steady as she pointed it at Tom and said the spell in
Greek, which roughly translated to, “burning water.”
 
            Tom pointed his wand at her almost at the same time and spoke the
accompanying words of “liquid flame.” There was a flash of purple light as
their magic met, like fireworks, but it quickly faded, leaving nothing except a
wall of sexual tension between them.
 
            For a moment, Tom wasn’t sure how to proceed. Even though Patience
seemed to know everything and have a very relaxed, at times even worldly
presence, she was a virgin. He wanted her, very much, and he wanted her magic,
but he wasn’t out of control like he’d been with Hermione, and he wasn’t
running on pure lust, like he had with Abraxas. For some bizarre reason, he
wanted to go slowly with Patience, to make sure he didn’t break her, not the
least of which was that he knew Hermione would kill him if he did.
 
            “You can’t hurt me, you know,” Patience smiled.
 
            “I’m not known for being gentle,” he raised an eyebrow. “And you’re
a virgin.”
 
            “That’s a meaningless designation,” she replied, her fingers moving
faster beneath the blue silk, though her breathing stayed calm and steady. “It
sees us as separate bodies, bodies that do or don’t do actions to one another.
We’re already joined in our minds. What happens with our bodies doesn’t really
matter.”
 
            Tom clenched his jaw to keep from laughing because he wasn’t sure
whether or not he wanted to laugh. If he were less clever, it would be easy to
write Patience off as half-insane, but Tom was brilliant, and Patience was too,
in her own way, and if she said their minds were linked, he believed her, even
though that made him wary as hell.
 
            He put one knee on the chair cushion between her widely spread legs
and pulled her hand from her pants, lifting her fingers to his mouth and
sucking them one at a time. She tasted like sea foam, and Tom thought of the
trips he’d made with the other orphans to the seashore, of how he’d delighted
in the special power. That magic had been merely parlor tricks compared to what
he could do now, to what he would do in the future.
 
            “Just how are our minds joined, pet?” he asked, pleased that she’d
made a breathy little gasp as he’d licked and sucked her fingers.
 
            “By a little bit of choice and a lot of fate,” she said, leaning
forward to kiss him. It was a small, chaste kiss, a mere peck on the lips.
“Your plans are too grand for one person, or even two. But a solid elemental
quartet will keep you grounded while letting you also rise.”
 
            Tom pulled back, his eyes on her soft, wide lips. “How do I know I
can truly trust you, little soothsayer?”
 
            Patience stared at him with her pale eyes, unblinking. “You’ve
already been in my mind.”
 
            “And it makes no sense!” he snapped, annoyed that she’d felt his
legilimency. “That isn’t a help.”
 
            “Your magic wouldn’t let me in if I didn’t belong there. Your walls
are too strong. And I’m about to give you my virginity,” she added.
 
            “You said that didn’t matter,” he threw back.
 
            “It doesn’t,” she confirmed. “But you like to claim things, and
that will make you feel good.” She came forward in a flash and bit his lip,
hard. “Make me yours. It will calm you down.”
 
            Tom didn’t need to be told twice, or even once, honestly. The spell
was certainly intensifying their desire, and though he still wasn’t comfortable
with the idea that Patience had access, at least in some small way, to his
mind, he would deal with that as it played out. Whatever she could see or feel
of his future plans, she clearly approved. His priority now was to get her
bound to him tightly, to make sure she would always be the water magic in his
quartet.
 
           “Biting again, pet?” Tom wiped at his lip and found a faint smear of
blood. “I know you don’t do that to Hermione.”
 
            Patience shook her head. Tom bent forward and slid his hands
beneath her legs, lifting her and turning them so that he was sitting in the
chair and Patience was straddling him, their faces only a breath apart.
 
            “What do you do with my soul mate, pet?” Tom whispered. Thoughts of
Patience and Hermione sometimes kept him up at night, imagining what they did
in their blue bedroom high above his.
 
            Shimmying her hips against his to find the best balance, Patience
sighed. “The same kinds of things you do with Abraxas in the dungeons, I
suppose.”
 
            Part of Tom’s brain exploded at the thought of picturing Patience
and Hermione in some of the positions he’d been in with Abraxas. “I doubt
that,” he smirked.
 
            “You shouldn’t,” Patience smirked right back. “I’ve given her more
orgasms than anyone else so far.”
 
            Tom’s eyes darkened in anger. “Taunting me isn’t your best bet,
pet.” Fuck going slowly, he thought as he yanked Patience’s hips against his
own. “Hermione is mine, before anyone else. I let you have each other, but you
are all mine. Remember who is in control here.”
 
            With that, he stood and harshly pushed her against the bookshelf,
the ledge of it at just the right height to set her on. He was a lethal
combination of angry and turned on, and she was warm and wet and wiggling
against him, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her fingers threading
through his hair, clearly excited as well.
 
            “I think you like making me angry, pet,” Tom’s voice had dropped
lower, and he pulled back enough to run his wand down the front of her blouse,
magically undoing her buttons as he went. He was pleased to see her bra matched
her knickers, the same sapphire silk covering the pale swells of flesh on her
chest.
 
            “I think,” he continued, vanishing her shirt, skirt, and shoes,
leaving only her bra, underwear, and knee socks, “You do it on purpose because
you like it when I punish you.”
 
            Patience gave a little shiver, and Tom smiled. “So, it really isn’t
much of a punishment, is it? It’s a treat, a reward,” he hooked a finger under
her bra strap, caressed the line of skin from her shoulder to the beginning of
the slope of her breast. “It simply won’t do to reward bad behavior, pet.”
 
            Tom had never seen Patience pout, but the expression on her face
was probably as close as she got to one. He laughed, pleased to have the upper
hand. Her hands had settled just above his hips, and she was tugging at the
back of his shirt, trying to untuck it from his trousers. He helped her,
pulling off his shirt, standing before her naked to the waist.
 
            Those pale eyes widened, taking him in with an appreciative glance.
“What do I need to do to be rewarded?” Patience asked softly, as she pulled him
closer with her legs, her lower limbs tightening around his waist, bringing her
soaked panties flush with his straining trousers.
 
            “How about doing as you are told for once, without any mouthy
comments?” Tom answered, keeping his voice level and his hips still even though
he wanted to rip off her knickers and pound into her. This was a test of wills,
and he was going to win.
 
            “I’d say that sounds hard,” Patience tilted her hips upwards,
rubbing back and forth against his groin. “But I think you know exactly how
hard it is.”
 
            “Here’s your first lesson: good pets know how to be still,” Tom
frowned, and waved his wand, using a sticking charm to keep her hips on the
bookshelf ledge. Then, he quickly raised her hands above her head and repeated
the sticking charm. He stepped back and admired his work. Patience’s face was
calm, but her eyes were narrowed, and he knew he’d scored a point. Her long,
lovely arms and legs were on display, spread out for him.
 
             He took a silver knife from one of the shelves behind her and
slipped it between her skin and the middle of her sapphire silk bra. Her pupils
dilated as the flat of the cool blade touched her chest. “Knives, Patience?
Really? You are such a naughty thing.”
 
             “Only with you,” she whispered, her tone perfectly sweet and
sincere.
 
              And didn’t that just hit Tom in a soft spot. He knew he was vain.
He knew he liked owning things others couldn’t have, people included, having
parts of them that no one else would experience. He also knew under her sweet
seeming exterior, Patience was a master manipulator, though how aware she was
of that, he simply couldn’t tell.   The risk – that she might know too much,
that he might take too much – it was all part of their game – their dance of
fire and water. The elemental opposites of their magic had to find a natural
equilibrium, and he intended to establish his dominance thoroughly.
 
             With a sharp tug, he sliced, smiling at the sight of her small,
pert breasts with tips the exact winter rose shade as her lips displayed to
great advantage by her raised arms. He experimentally dragged the tip of the
blade up her sternum, over to her left nipple. Patience remained very still, as
ordered, but a low moan escaped her throat and the barest hint of a shudder
passed through her.  
 
            Very carefully, pressing hard enough to leave behind a fine pink
line, but not enough to break her skin, Tom criss-crossed her chest with the
blade, moving lower and lower until he reached her knickers, where he cut
through the fabric at her pelvic bones, letting the scrap of soaked silk fall
to the floor. He placed the blade back on the shelf and began tracing the lines
he’d made with his tongue.
 
            Through it all, Patience stayed perfectly still, though not silent.
Her low, breathy sighs were distracting, and Tom’s cock was throbbing painfully
against his pants. Because they didn’t usually have a lot of time, his sex with
Abraxas tended to be rushed, quick fucks that left them breathless, not drawn-
out like this. He was torn between a desire for instant gratification and a
need to keep Patience wanting for as long as possible.
            When his tongue finally made it between her thighs, Patience gave a
short, high-pitched shriek. “Oh!” Tom responded with a quiet chuckle and used
two fingers to spread her slick folds, holding her open for his tongue and
teeth.
 
            He could see her pelvic muscles strain, and he knew if it weren’t
for the sticking charm, that she’d be mashing herself into his face. He turned
his head and sucked a deep bruise into her inner thigh while he pushed his
fingers inside her, going in and out in fast, hard movements. The muscles on
the inside of her cunt were fluttering against his fingers, and he knew she was
close to coming, so he pulled away and vanished the rest of his clothing.
 
            Tom muttered an end to the sticking charms, and Patience was on him
before he could react, her legs wrapped around him, one hand between them,
squeezing his cock and lifting herself onto him, pushing down and up against
him. One second he was planning on torturing her for the rest of the night, and
the next, he was inside her, gasping at the wet, hot glove around him – liquid
flame, indeed.
 
            She was bouncing on him, moving up and down like she weighed
nothing and gravity didn’t affect her – had she spelled herself, he wondered
briefly, before pleasure completely took over his brain. Tom held onto her
hips, thrusting into her, his face buried in her chest, nipping and licking at
the fine marks he’d made over her skin. Her nails were raking down his back and
it hurt, but he liked it, liked that he brought out the animal side of
Hermione’s little pet, made her lose control. He wanted to mark her
permanently, mark her with more than a spell. She was one of his things now,
and he was going to keep her.
 
            “Now,” he ordered in the tone he saved for sex and violence, “be a
good pet and come when you’re told.”
 
            He expected a bit of a fight, some of Patience’s naughty little
passive aggressive hold out behavior, so he was shocked when she immediately
clenched around him, whispering the spell from earlier over and over, her voice
growing in volume as her body spasmed, but he quickly joined her, speaking his
half of the words and coming so hard his knees gave out and they fell in a
sweaty, panting heap on the stone floor, magic shimmering around them in waves
of blue-green fire.
 
            Tom pulled her up into his lap and wrapped his arms tightly around
her still shuddering form. “To whom do you belong, pet?”
 
            “Hermione,” she smiled, her sea glass eyes dreamy and perfectly
unconcerned.
 
             Of course she would be difficult now, Tom thought. “And?” he
prompted, squeezing tighter like a constrictor.
 
             “You, my Lord,” she whispered, and Tom instantly tensed.
 
             He had not spoken of his desire for that title to anyone except
Hermione, and he knew his soul mate would not have breathed a word of it.
Patience was giving him what he wanted and baiting him at the same time. If he
weren’t buzzing with magic and the afterglow of excellent sex, he would have
been angry. As it was, he settled for merely annoyed, which, honestly, was his
default setting with Patience. Apparently even sex magic couldn’t change that.
 
             “Don’t worry,” Patience cooed in his ear. “I’ll keep all your
secrets, my Lord, even the ones dipped in blood.”
 
             Her words coiled in him, like a snake at the base of his brain,
waiting to strike. But he was a master of snakes, so he smiled, tilted her neck
by pulling her hair and bit her along the throat until she was moaning against
him, that curvy arse stirring his cock all over again. “Yes, pet, you will. Or
you’ll be the one who’s bloody.”
 
              She turned with an easy laugh, pushing him back on the floor and
straddling him. How did she always end up on top? “You don’t need threats with
me,” her voice was doing that sing-songy thing he hated and yet found a bit
cute against his will.
 
              “What do I need to do to keep you, then?” he asked, bemused by
the fall of her hair over him like a pale, silky curtain, and the slide of her
wet cunt over his stomach, down, down, until he was inside her again, and
ohmygod that had to be sex magic, because being that hard again, that fast,
should have been impossible, but the blue-green flames were still around them
and he did feel on fire, in a good way. And Hermione would simply kill him if
he drove Patience away, and he did like her, did want her, because she was rare
and unique and so…Patience.
 
               Patience didn’t answer right away. She put one hand flat on his
chest, splayed over his heart, and she took his hand and placed it in a mirror
image, and she chanted the spell again, and they were, unbelievably, coming
again, together, the wavy flames rushing toward them until they were hit and
Patience was knocked forward, her head to his shoulder, the two of them gasping
for air, magic covering their skin like a heavy mist in the air.
 
              “Swear you’ll never hurt her,” she breathed into his ear, and he
swore he felt magic from her lips literally flow into his brain, surrounding it
in a hazy, euphoric cloud.
 
               He shook his head, still abuzz, but trying to speak nonetheless.
“I don’t love people, Patience. Not even Hermione. But I would never hurt her.
She is mine, a part of me.”
 
               Those light blue eyes were icy at the moment. “You’ve already
hurt her.”
 
               “The thing with Marguerite?” Tom rolled his eyes. “We’ve been
over this. And I thought you were on my side.”
               “Hermione is my side,” Patience’s voice was more forceful than
Tom had ever heard it. “Unlike you, I love her. You don’t have to change; you
only have to be honest with her. She knows who you are. When you hide things
from her, she finds out anyway, and then it’s a mess.”
 
               “Fine. No secrets. I’ll be honest with all three of you.” Tom
ran a lazy palm through the corn silk of Patience’s hair. It was almost like
unicorn hair, he thought idly. He was pleased to know that the key to keeping
Patience was simply keeping Hermione happy, which he already planned on doing,
so it involved no real extra effort.
 
                He brushed aside her hair and trailed his fingers down the long
line of her back. Her skin was smooth and without marks, unlike Hermione and
Abraxas, who both had little freckles and moles and assorted scars from life
and war and Quidditch and, in Hermione’s case, his words. The lines on her
chest from the knife had already faded, and Tom was filled with a desire to put
a permanent mark on her so that anyone who looked at her would know she was
claimed. Hermione might fuss and claim that was a barbaric tendency, but he
knew she loved seeing her words on him, and that she’d probably secretly like
some kind of variation of a magical tattoo of theirs on Patience and Abraxas.
 
“How are your drawing skills these days, pet?” he asked with a smile.
 
***** Abraxas Has It Bad...And It's Catching *****
Chapter Summary
     While Patience and Tom were getting it on, Abraxas is helping
     Hermione with her headache. It starts out silly, turns sweet, then it
     just might break some hearts.
Chapter Notes
     I got this out as soon as could. For those who love Tom/Hermione,
     don't worry. Spreading the love doesn't decrease the power of our
     main pairing, I promise. Love isn't limited; it is infinite and ever-
     expanding. Also, Hermione might be Tom's soul mate, but she deserves
     sincere love as well as his hot, sexy, possession. Love to you all!
         
 
           Hermione’s head was throbbing. Even with the headache potion and
Abraxas’s clever fingers working another kind of magic on her neck and
shoulders, Hermione was only a few minutes away from a full-blown migraine. She
knew the muffled sounds, vibrations, and magical exertion of the blasting had
exacerbated the pain, but the true cause was the slow weaning from the potion
she’d been taking daily for the last five years. Though there was nothing
harmful in Narcissa’s potion, it did have mood enhancing effects, and to be on
a much lower dosage this year, right when OWLs were looming, and Tom was
exploring the Chamber of Secrets, and she had to worry about somehow triggering
the final stage of the soul mate bond and giving Tom access to her mind? And to
finally, finally, finally, after years of age regression, be able to explore
her sexuality again, only to find herself in an elemental magic quartet that
was bound mostly with sex magic? Well, stressed didn’t begin to cover it.  
 
            She’d read a few passages in Slytherin’s journals that Tom had
pointed out to her, and they both decided, in their growing familiarity with
old English, that the Hogwarts founders had been an elemental quartet, though
not a sexual one. Slytherin and Gryffindor were soul mates, if rumors and the
Hat were reliable sources, but Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were simply dearest
friends with one another and with the other pair. They had clearly explored
their complimentary elemental magic in the amazing act of building and warding
Hogwarts, and it made Hermione hopeful for the future, that their combined
magic could achieve great things.
 
                She was well aware that Tom wanted them all bound quickly and
tightly so that he could feel in control of the situation. From her roommate’s
mischievous look when Patience had followed Tom out of the library, Hermione
had a feeling there was sex magic happening right now, on the other side of the
wall.
 
               In fact, she had more than a general feeling. She could sense
Tom’s pleasure and humor, and that actually calmed her nerves a bit. What Tom
seemed to be ignoring was that sexual magic worked both ways, and he was giving
more of himself than he realized, making personal connections that the Tom
Riddle from the previous timeline had never had. Also, if Tom was distracted by
Patience and Abraxas, the chances that they would end up somehow fucking
themselves right into the last soul mate stage was lowered, though she doubted
that was truly a risk. Hermione still hadn’t been able to find any additional
information on what caused total mental unity between soul mates, but her
logical brain told her that it couldn’t simply be sex or even lots of sex. The
soul mate bond was already sexual, so to push it to a further level must
require something beyond mere physical intensity.
 
               The last few months hadn’t allowed for much free time to
research, between classwork and preparing the Chamber. It still made Hermione
nervous to walk past Astarte coiled up in the antechamber, even if her eyes
were clouded. She was a bundle of nerves, waiting for something to go wrong,
and her continuous state of anxiety, as well as working hard to keep that
feeling out of her bond with Tom, was beginning to take a toll.
 
              “Your shoulders feel like they’re made of wood,” Abraxas
murmured, his hands working against her shoulder blades. “What has you so
upset? Is it Marguerite coming down here tomorrow?”
 
               Hermione shook her head. “No,” she said honestly. “I’ve gotten
over that. I’m not going to like her, but I really was holding Tom to a
standard he simply couldn’t achieve, and, besides, I have you and Patience as
well now.”
 
               “He’s sent her away every time she’s come to our room the last
few months,” Abraxas used his thumbs to push on a knot along her spine, making
Hermione groan. “She’s not happy.”
 
              “Mmm,” Hermione sighed. “Poor thing. I suppose you are more the
cause of that than I am. Tom has you right there in his room, and he’d rather
be with you than her.”
 
              Abraxas mumbled something unintelligible. Hermione grinned,
though she knew he couldn’t see it. She couldn’t resist teasing him a bit. “Two
healthy young men like yourselves, I’m sure you’re working off plenty
of…steam.”
 
             “You forget that I’ve seen you riding Patience’s thigh, Hermione,”
Abraxas replied, running his fingers up to her neck, making small circles at
the base of her skull. “I am absolutely positive that things are just as…steamy
upstairs.”
 
            “Point taken,” she paused. “Did you enjoy it? Watching us?”
 
            “Of course. You are both beautiful.” His hands stopped then started
again, fumbling slightly in her hair. “Did you enjoy watching me with Tom?”
 
               Hermione felt a rush of warmth between her legs at the mental
picture the memory supplied her with. “It was the most arousing thing I’ve seen
– all of us together, sharing our bodies and our magic. It was a lot to process
at once, not something I would have imagined myself doing, but now that we’ve
all been together, it feels natural. Our magic fits together – we’ve seen that
in action after the initial spell a few months ago.”
 
            He nodded and continued to massage her shoulders, and she drank
another headache potion, and the tension finally started to ebb away.
 
              “Tom really wants to do more elemental bonding, with the various
pairs, as well as all of us again,” Abraxas closed Hermione’s book and put her
notes away on a shelf. He glanced toward the back rooms. “I think Tom and
Patience may have already started on their pairing.”
 
                “Oh, they definitely have,” Hermione smiled wickedly. “I can
feel Tom’s pleasure, especially since he’s so close.”
 
                He looked impressed. “How does that even work?”
 
               “When he feels something strongly – pleasure or anger, I can
feel it, like a tingling at the edges of my magic, in my body. It is usually a
general sensation. I can’t read his mind, though the closer we are, the more I
can intuit.”
 
               Abraxas watched her carefully. “So, what do you sense now?”
 
               Hermione laughed. “He and Patience are…bonding. And he is
thoroughly enjoying it.”
 
               Abraxas gave her a slow, sexy grin that increased blood flow to
all her erogenous zones.   “I’d like to do some bonding as well.”
 
              “And here I left all my ropes and chains in my room,” Hermione
joked.
 
              “We don’t need them,” Abraxas was beside her, pulling her to her
feet and flush with his body. “I get all tied up inside every time you smile at
me.”
 
              She opened her mouth, but he was kissing her before she could
think of a witty response. As usual with Abraxas, the kiss went on and on, slow
and sweet, and just so good. He made kissing an art form, and Hermione barely
had the presence of mind to transfigure one of the leather arm chairs into a
chaise before they were lying on it, their hands in each other’s hair and down
one another’s backs, but the kissing no more hurried.
 
             After several minutes, he pulled away enough to press his lips to
her forehead and sigh, “I could kiss you all day.”
 
             She laughed softly into his collarbone, her own lips finding the
hollow of his throat. “I don’t think this spell works with just kissing.”
 
             He raised one pale eyebrow in mock offense. “Is this just a ploy
to get me naked?”
 
             “Yes, absolutely,” she nodded emphatically as she slid her wand
from her sleeve. “I simply can’t stand another second with that gorgeous body
of yours covered.” She waved her wand and his clothes were neatly folded on the
table several feet away.
 
              Abraxas laughed so hard, he almost fell off chaise. “I can’t
believe you did that, you lusty wench!” He threw up his hand and Hermione’s
clothes were simply gone, nowhere to be seen.
 
             “Lusty wench?  I hope you’ve been practicing on retrieving items
as much as you’ve clearly been working on vanishing them, because I liked that
dress, you insatiable rogue!” Hermione snapped, adding in a grudging tone,
“Good work with the wandless and nonverbal spell, though.”
 
            “Well, my motivation factor was high,” Abraxas admitted, running
his fingers down her arms so lightly that she shivered. “I really am an
insatiable rogue when it comes to you, and I’ve been dying to see you naked
again for weeks.”
 
             He summoned his wand from the table, pointed it at her, and spoke
the spell. It translated to something like “dust in the wind,” which made
Hermione think of the famous song, though, of course, that song didn’t exist
yet, like the rest of her previous life.  She had to make the most of this one,
this amazing chance she’d been given to save the world.   With a small
flourish, she aimed her wand at him and spoke the accompanying words, which
were a bit scary, since they seemed to mean “whirlwind” or “tornado.” She was
sure this would be an intense spell, made more so by their feelings for one
another.
 
            They lay side by side, kissing and touching for several more
minutes, and if Abraxas had pushed her at all, she probably would have
panicked. It wasoverwhelming to go from zero to three lovers in such a short
time, and to adjust years of belief in monogamy. She wasn’t a prude; she never
had been, despite what Lavender Brown and her little gaggle had thought.
Hermione had simply had other priorities and been unsure of her physical body.
Now, having experienced sex in more variations than she would have imagined,
she was more confident in her body, but her mind was still reeling.
 
            Tom was her soul mate, and she loved him, even if he wasn’t capable
of loving her back in the same way. He was also her duty, her obligation, her
mission. She and Narcissa had assumed the awesome responsibility of rewriting
history, and every decision she made had an impact on the future. Keeping Tom
human, with an intact soul was her primary purpose, not her own pleasure. There
had been more than one night since September when she’d worried herself to
sleep, wondering if she was just as bad at pleasure seeking as Tom was, if
pulling Patience and Abraxas deeper into Tom’s orbit was wise. He was so
excited about the elemental magic, though, and could it really be a bad thing
for him to connect to more people, to care for them in his fashion?
 
            And, she thought, as Abraxas’s fingers tangled in her hair, and his
mouth deepened their kiss, in Tom’s mind, he had given her Abraxas and
Patience, as if they were presents, given them to her to supply her with the
types of affection he couldn’t provide. Of course, the two had come willingly
because they loved her, and she loved them, so rejecting them and trying to
engage in some kind of traditional, one-sided monogamous relationship with Tom
just because that was the model she’d always seen in society would be an insane
level of masochism. No, she realized, she had to adapt to the realities before
her, and make the best choices she could in any particular moment. And right
now, in this moment, Abraxas was showering her with love and she needed to
return it.
 
           Hermione could feel the spell working on them, a sense of urgency
building as their kisses became almost frantic, their hands moving faster,
stroking lower and lower. She shivered as Abraxas’s finger lightly traced
circles on the little dip at the top of her arse. She’d never realized how
sensitive that spot was before. Her hips moved upward with no prompting from
her conscious mind, her breath shortening.
 
          “You are so beautiful,” Abraxas spoke against her lips, though his
mouth began trailing downward. “I can’t think when I’m touching you. I just
want to please you.”
 
           “I’m not the only beautiful one,” she protested, though weakly.
Abraxas knew he was good looking. His desire to please was lovely and sweet,
but she wondered if he had received much personal attention in the last few
months. Tom had been all over him, she was sure, but Tom, though the sexiest
thing alive, was not a particularly giving lover. He pulled orgasms from his
lovers’ bodies, rather than gave them, forcing them to the edge of pleasure,
then pushing them over with sadistic glee. “And I think it’s your turn to be
pleased.”
 
           She moved down, letting her curls slide down his chest as her lips
kissed the line that went from his breastbone to his belly button.   At his
navel, she traced the blank skin, wishing briefly that she could keep him with
her and Tom and Patience forever, that he wouldn’t have to get married and live
a life separate from them in only a few more years. She wondered if Tom’s
possessive nature was rubbing off on her, because she just couldn’t bear the
thought, so she pushed it far away, concentrating on the warmth of his skin
beneath her own. His temperature ran hot, and she wanted to wrap herself in him
like a blanket.
 
           Abraxas took a shaky breath when Hermione’s lips finally touched the
place where his thigh met his groin. “You don’t need to do that,” he tried to
pull her up, grasping at her shoulders.
 
          Her fingers slipped between his legs, cupping the tender sac in her
palm, one thumb ghosting over the thin, sensitive skin. “I want to,” she said
firmly, dropping a light kiss on the head of his cock. “Show me what to do. I
don’t have much experience with this.”
 
          “Ah,” he closed his eyes briefly. “You seem to do be doing very
well.”
 
           “You know I’m a quick learner,” she teased, her mouth now licking a
path down his rigid shaft, swallowing the tip of him for an instant, sucking
hard, then releasing him with a pop. “Always the top of the class.”
 
          He gently placed his hands on either side of her head, guiding her
without pushing. “You can be on top of me whenever you want, love,” he moaned.
 
          His eyes were closed again, and Hermione didn’t stop moving her
mouth, alternating long licks with twists of her hand and sucking and kissing
along the head and shaft until he was thrusting his hips toward her, his
fingers twisting tighter and tighter in her curls. Always the gentleman, he
still wasn’t forcing her head down, but she found she wanted to go closer, take
him more deeply in her mouth. With one finger pressed firmly to the spot
directly below his bullocks (which she had read years and worlds ago in one of
her mother’s guilty pleasure Cosmo magazines was a magic spot for men), she
surrounded him with her mouth, doing her best to relax the back of her throat.
The sound from histhroat alone was worth the effort, and she tasted a slight,
salty flavor leaking onto her tongue as she swirled it around him like she
would a lolly.
 
           Once, she had thought that going down on a man seemed a bit
demeaning, something women did to please men, but not themselves. Now, having
done it twice (even though Tom had barely let her spend five minutes on him due
to his control issues), she cheerfully revised her opinion. It was sexy and
powerful, holding such a vulnerable part of her lover’s anatomy in her mouth,
at the mercy of her lips, tongue, and teeth. And Abraxas was definitely at her
mercy, writhing and groaning. Her cunt was slick against his leg, her inner
muscles throbbing at the noises she was wringing from him.
 
           “Oh, love, please, stop,” Abraxas managed to get out between gasps
of pleasure. “I…that’s amazing…but I don’t want this to end just yet.” He
lifted her head, staring into her eyes with a dazed but determined expression.
“Come up here.”
 
            She crawled up his body, grazing the hard tips of her breasts along
his skin, the wetness between her thighs slicking his leg and hip. Resting her
head to his chest, she listened to his steady heartbeat, felt it speed up as
she closed her hand around his cock, lazily stroking up and down.   His
fingers, thick and strong, went between her legs, caressing lightly, then
slipped into her, stretching at her walls, the callouses from holding the
Quidditch brooms pulling at the ribbed lining of her cunt, each drag a flurry
of sensation.
 
            “Can we do this forever?” he asked, kissing her neck as he removed
his fingers and pulled her on top of him.
 
             Despite the fact she was no longer a virgin, no longer a novice,
Hermione flushed. Abraxas’s desire for her, so much more than lust, the way he
called her ‘love’, warmed her heart, and she wanted to pretend, even for just a
few minutes, that this wouldn’t become terribly complicated. Her stupid brain
didn’t get the memo, though, because a response tumbled out of her mouth before
she could censor it. “I don’t think the future Lady Malfoy would like that.”
 
            Abraxas was rather good-natured. He put up with Tom’s behavior,
submitting like the obedient right-hand man he was. He worshipped Hermione and
amused Patience, flirted adorably with all the ladies of Hogwarts who wanted
him to, and saved all his aggression for the Quidditch pitch, where he was
single-mindedly vicious in his protection of the hoops, earning a fearsome
reputation that most students found difficult to reconcile with his easy-going
attitude in school. But when Hermione spoke those words, his grey eyes blazed a
terrible combination of rage and sorrow.
 
            “You are the only Lady Malfoy I want,” his voice was harsh and
forceful, more a tone that Tom would use. As he spoke, he tugged at her hips
and was inside her, suddenly filling her with a hard, burning stretch.
 
             She gasped, both at the feel of him, which was delightful, and his
statement, which was terrifying on multiple levels. “Your father,” she began,
but then he was thrusting upwards and she couldn’t form words against the rush
of pleasure.
 
            “Fuck my father,” he hissed, moving faster. “I’m his only heir. He
can’t give away the title or money, and he can’t force me to do anything.”
 
            “Tom,” she gasped, biting her lip, because one of Abraxas’s hands
had moved from her hip to her clit, and he was pinching and rubbing at the nub
and she was sure she was going to fall apart or explode or something equally
dramatic.
 
            “You’re his, I know,” he moaned, his voice softening a bit as she
began to ride him in earnest, chasing after the rising sensations inside her.
“I know.  But I’m his, too, and we’re each others, and we can all be together,
but I have to marry, and I only want to call you ‘wife,’ and it will make the
Malfoy money and power his forever. He isn’t the marrying kind, love.”
 
            “I know,” she moaned, her orgasm coming closer and closer, the
magic between them building, and she felt a bit of panic. What had they done?
Binding their magic when there was already so much emotion involved? She wasn’t
sure this had been a good idea, but it was too late now.
 
            Abraxas sat up, pulling her close, embracing her upper half with
incredible tenderness even as he fucked the living daylights out of her lower
half. She pushed her fingers in the muscles of his back, scrambling for
something solid, something to hold onto against the explosion that was coming
their way. Whirlwind had been the right word. They were going to be blown
apart, laid bare, and Tom was going to come and pick at their bones.  Their
love for each other, for their love for him, gave Tom all the power, and he
would run with it.
 
            Her body started to shake violently, and he was kissing her and
whispering against her mouth, “I love you, Hermione. I love you. I want to
marry you. I want you to have my children. I want you to be happy,” and those
words made their way into all the vulnerable places in her heart and she came
against him, screaming silently because she was actually gasping for breath as
he thrust into her, shuddering and shaking until they may have passed out.
***** Tom and Abraxas: A Kinky Bromance for the Ages *****
Chapter Summary
     Tom overhears something a bit troubling. Everyone has more sex. Tom
     confronts Abraxas, and...wait for it....more sex.
Chapter Notes
     Yeah, so you didn't think Abraxas was going to get away with
     proposing to Hermione so easily, did you?
     And don't worry, these guys still have two years of school! No one is
     getting married for a long, long while.
     Warnings (though if you need them by now, I don't know which story
     you've been reading) for a little heavier D/s sex scene and some
     temperature play, as well as Tom being his usual self.
     Oh, and I've been listening to specific songs while writing the
     various sex scene pairings, so I thought I'd share those for your
     listening pleasure - a list is provided at the end to enhance your
     reading/listening pleasure...also, I was thinking of recording this
     as a podfic when I'm completely done...does that sound like a thing
     people would like? Or would I just sound silly reading so much porn
     out loud, lol?
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
            Tom stood in the doorway to the Chamber library, a naked Patience
standing beside him, so close he could feel a few fine strands of her loose
hair brushing his arm. He’d thrown his trousers back on, but his chest and feet
were bare. He’d felt Hermione’s magic rising just as he and Patience had been
collapsing against one another, and the pull of it was irresistible. Abraxas’s
magic was there was well, mingled with his soul mate’s. Once he’d been able to
move, he had tugged at his pet’s hand and they’d walked quietly down the short
hall.
 
            What they’d found was two bodies, one pale, one a bit more golden,
tangled together, moving like one fluid machine, Abraxas whispering words of
love and devotion, as well as a fucking marriage proposal, until they both
shuddered themselves right into unconsciousness and the air was suffused with
their combined magic. Tom remembered when he’d claimed Hermione, how it had
felt like they’d left their bodies, how their words had transformed. Standing
there in the doorway, he could feel her pleasure, knew it was intense,
beautiful, but it wasn’t what they had experienced. That knowledge calmed the
anger that had flared up and he let out a long exhale, clearing his mind.
 
            “Love is sweet,” Patience announced, her cool fingers absently
tracing the words on Tom’s forearm. “Hermione would make a lovely Lady Malfoy –
better than any of the other ones so far.”
 
            Only a few hours ago, Tom would probably have ignored Patience’s
comment, or snapped at her. Now, after the spell they’d just done, he felt a
connection to her, an awareness of her and her magic that made him more
generous and tolerant, though not that generous and tolerant. “Love is foolish,
a weakness,” he answered automatically.
 
            “So, you don’t care, then?” Patience slipped her hand down into
his, grasping his fingers.
 
            Tom felt the surge of their magic. It was intoxicating, all that
power Patience kept hidden. Their spell, and the remnants of the one in this
room, made Tom feel a bit drunk on the magical energy flowing around and
through them.
 
            “Don’t think you can trick me into showing emotion that isn’t there
in the first place, pet,” Tom replied calmly, his eyes running over the naked
bodies in front of them. He’d touched both of those bodies, intimately, and
wanted to do so again, very, very soon. They could do with a reminder of who
was in charge, especially Abraxas.
 
            Patience started to hum and danced away, taking a book off one of
the shelves, settling naked and cross-legged on the floor in front of one of
the fireplaces, which roared to life as she sank down.
 
            Tom walked slowly toward the chaise, working through the
complications before him as quickly as he could. Nothing had to happen right
away, of course. They had two more years of schooling, and even if Abraxas’s
parents were anxious to see him engaged, he could put them off at least until
graduation. Even if Hermione had been touched by Abraxas’s romantic words, she
was too strong-willed and sensible to want to get married at a young age. He
knew that she was just as puzzled as he was at how quickly and seriously
magical students as young as sixteen (and even occasionally younger) were
paired off, engaged, and then married before the ink was dry on their Hogwarts
diplomas.
 
            She spoke frequently of all the advanced magical studies she was
interested in, of seeking out apprenticeships for mastery levels. On the other
hand, she probably would want a permanent home and family life one day,
something like Narcissa had with Galatea. He tried to imagine a future with
Hermione separate from him, living in a different home, or even a different
city, and he found himself angry at the mere idea of it. Then, he tried to
imagine the same without Abraxas, or even Patience. Even now, across the room,
Patience was humming that bloody awful tune and he found himself involuntarily
smirking. When had the company of three other people become so much a part of
his daily life that he was thinking of a future with them, not just his own
plans?
 
            Hermione was stirring, her head twisting as though trying to shake
herself awake. She was very beautiful, his soul mate, and looking at her did
make him feel like nothing else in the world, nothing except magic coursing
through his skin. She wasa part of his magic, a part of him, and just as
Abraxas and Patience amused and pleased him, they made Hermione happy. He
glanced at Abraxas, who had begun moving as well, one arm wrapped around
Hermione’s waist, his face against her shoulder. They all had to stay together,
Tom thought, because that was his will,and he would keep them together, even if
that required some creative solutions in the future beyond Hogwarts.
 
            Those honey colored eyes were open now, and when she met Tom’s
gaze, her cheeks flushed a rosy tint. He grinned at her, ready to put her at
ease for the moment. “I trust your cross corners bonding went as well as mine?”
 
            Even though she was completely naked, she nodded primly as she sat
up. Abraxas stood, looking sideways at Tom as if searching for cues. He
couldn’t resist making the blonde squirm just a tad. “Though, I must say,
Ididn’t propose marriage to Patience, so we must have done something wrong.”
 
            Abraxas went paler than usual, nearly snow white. “I simply said
what I was feeling – you already know that I love her-”
 
            Tom slid a hand behind Abraxas’s neck and pulled him close, until
their lips were touching. “I’m not mad at you. I believe it’s called teasing.”
 
            “Oh,” a shudder of relief passed through Abraxas’s shoulders, and
Tom kissed him, more gently than he normally did.
 
            “No one is getting married right now, anyway,” Hermione stood and
hugged Abraxas from behind, her hands reaching past his hips and pulling on
Tom’s as well. “And we aren’t going to hold what people say in the moment of
orgasm against them.”
 
            Tom laughed, kissing Hermione over Abraxas’s shoulder, thinking of
some of the obscenities he himself had wrung from Abraxas’s lips, and the way
‘my Lord’had sounded coming from both his soul mate and their pet. “A good
policy, I’m sure,” he vowed to make sure Abraxas said those words very soon.
 
            He was pleased to know that he was right about what Hermione
wanted, at least for the meantime, and eager to do the group spell again now
that they’d established some of the cross quarter bonds. Tom still needed to do
the formal bond with Abraxas, and Hermione with Patience, but since those were
the roommate pairings, they could probably find the time and space to perform
those bindings late at night in a warded dormitory bathroom, or even in their
beds with the proper blurring and muffling spells in place. Now, while they had
the opportunity, he wanted to feel them all together, feel the difference in
their strengthened bonds.
 
            He looked directly at Hermione this time and spoke the general
spell. She shook her head, but there was a smile playing at the corner of her
mouth. “Aren’t you exhausted?”
 
            Tom held her gaze, and put his hands over hers, pulling her closer,
and grinding his hips into Abraxas, who was still between them. “Abraxas isn’t
too tired,” Tom noted as he felt his roommate’s cock stir against his own.
 
            “You know, there’s a term that might apply to you - nymphomaniac,”
Hermione scolded playfully, letting them go and walking over to offer a hand to
Patience, who practically leapt into her arms.
 
            “Shall we go sit on the bed and be entertained by our boys?”
Hermione asked her, giggling at the indignant looks that immediately covered
Tom’s and Abraxas’s faces.
           
            “You read my mind,” Patience twirled one of Hermione’s curls and
kissed her nose. “Do you think the house elves would bring us popped corn?”
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Three hours later, as well as several bowls of popped corn,
Hermione didn’t think she had a body left. The sex had been wonderful, as
always, but the magic raised and shared between them had left her in a state
that she supposed was similar to some drug like ecstasy. Unlike with just Tom
or Abraxas, when the magic channeled had overwhelmed her, this magic flowed
easily between the four of them, spread out enough so that no one passed out,
though they all felt euphoric and able to do anything.
 
            Tom had insisted on doing spell after spell together afterwards to
test the effect on their magic, levitating and vanishing half the furniture in
the bedroom, summoning items from the library, and even unlocking the chest in
the corner, and using their combined magic to disarm a few of the cursed
objects they hadn’t been able to previously. One of those objects was a
delicate silver bracelet that slowly cut into the wearer’s flesh.
 
           After they’d removed the curse, Tom put on the bracelet on Patience,
transfiguring the simple chain into a snake swallowing its tail. She, in turn,
changed the color to a bold, metallic blue and made Tom teach her how to say
“pretty” in parseltongue so she could enchant the snake’s head to hiss it
periodically.
 
          “Snakes do notslither around calling things pretty,” he’d protested,
but he had made a series of low hissing sounds at Patience, repeating them
three times until she was satisfied and her bracelet was making a vague
approximation of whatever word he’d actually said.
 
          Hermione had hugged him then, full of affection, and some amazement,
at how normal he was acting. He kissed her hair and swung her onto the bed.
Abraxas was on the bed, more asleep than not, and Patience was curled in the
chair, alternately reading a book and hissing along with her bracelet.
 
          “You are in an excellent mood,” Hermione observed, leaning into his
fingers, which were tracing the words on her stomach. She sighed, enjoying the
sensation, which was closer to love than she’d ever felt from him. He was very
happy at all their magic, and he wasn’t upset by the variance in their
individual bonds.
 
          “So are you,” he replied, taking her hand and placing it on his arm,
so they were touching each other’s words, and their magic was thrumming in the
air, shimmering like a heat wave.
 
        “Oh, Tom,” she smiled. It had been too long since they had done that,
and the connection was stronger than ever, a joy she felt to her toes, to the
ends of her curls. “I’ve missed this.”
 
          He hissed low in her ear. “So have I, dearest. Just remember that I’m
the only one who can make you feel like this. I am your soul mate, and my touch
is the one your body craves most, the one your magic craves most.”
 
          She didn’t smile because she knew he would see that as a challenge,
and she wanted to reassure him, to soothe the tiny, rarely acknowledged part of
him that still had the mindset of an orphan, that still worried she might not
be his to keep.
 
          “We are forever, Tom, beyond time and space and any other arbitrary
boundaries.” Leaning down, she kissed his words gently, then raised up to kiss
his lips. “I am yours, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Never doubt that.”
 
          “I don’t.” His voice was cool and even a bit scoffing, but Hermione
felt his relief through their magic, the way his emotions settled, and she
relaxed fully for the first time in months, feeling safe and secure and more
hopeful for the future than she had in years.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            When they finally left the Chamber, with hardly time to spare to
get back to their dormitories before curfew, Abraxas kissed both the ladies’
hands, and even Patience flushed a little. Tom, in contrast, kissed Hermione’s
mouth soundly and bit Patience’s neck, leaving behind a rapidly darkening
bruise. Then, he walked away, silently laughing at Hermione tutting over
another mark they would need to heal or disguise on the way to Ravenclaw Tower.
 
            Abraxas followed him, and when the blonde caught up with his long
strides, Tom teased, “You never kiss my hand.”      
 
            “Do you want me to?” Abraxas laughed.
 
            “I imagine you’ll be kissing most of me soon enough,” Tom briefly
squeezed his roommate’s arm in the empty hall. “We still have our spell to
perform.”
 
            A barely-there flush crossed over Abraxas’s cheeks. “Hermione might
be right – how much sex can a person have in a day?”
 
            Tom gave him a sideways smile. “Night has fallen, Abraxas. You’re
just mine now.”
 
            The flush came out in full-force at that, and Abraxas didn’t
respond. They walked quickly toward the dungeons, but Tom didn’t let the
silence stay.
 
            “Why do you love her?” he asked, his voice neutral, no hint of
accusation, or even real curiosity.
 
            Abraxas stopped for a moment, looking directly into Tom’s eyes for
a trap. When he didn’t see one, he resumed his pace, taking several seconds
before answering, “For the same reasons you do.”
 
            Tom laughed. “I don’t love anyone.”
 
            “You do everything a person in love would do. You enjoy her
company, like to hear her laugh, desire to impress her, not to mention, you
can’t keep your hands off of her these past few months, andshe is your bloody
soul mate.” Abraxas had stopped again, his grey eyes not blinking as he faced
Tom. “You might not feel things in the exact same way, but you value her the
way a person in love values another. Call it what you like, but it’s love, in
some shape or form.”
 
            Though his first instinct was to push Abraxas against the stone
wall, hard, Tom let out a breath and continued walking. “You didn’t answer the
question,” his voice was cold as the air around them now. “Please do so.”
 
            Abraxas shivered slightly. The more polite Tom became, the more
danger was present. He gathered his thoughts. “I love her because she is
everything I have never had. My family is not kind. They do not give away
smiles, or help anyone without securing a deal in advance. The only thing that
ties us is our blood, our traditions, which you and Hermione have forced me to
re-evaluate and throw to the winds. She is the only person I have ever met who
holds me to no standard other than basic humanity. She is the only person who
has never asked anything of me. She doesn’t care about the Malfoy name or money
– if anything, she scorns it. She is brilliant and beautiful and I feel like I
could do anything when she looks at me with those big brown eyes and smiles
simply because she is happy to see me.”
 
            He had spoken while they walked, and Tom was glad he was not
looking at Abraxas’s face. He wasn’t sure how well he would have taken the
fucking adoration he surely would have seen if he had glanced over. He had
already known, on some level, everything Abraxas had just said. Having spent
weeks at a time at Malfoy Manor in the summer, Tom knew exactly how different
Abraxas’s home life was from the easy, unconditional affection that was
continuously present at the Merrythought estate, or the little cottage in
Hogsmeade.
 
            The Malfoys were not overtly cruel, but there was no hint of love,
only approval, and that approval was contingent upon Abraxas’s performance at
school, at Quidditch, at the social luncheons conducted entirely in French, and
his impeccable personal appearance (no slouching, tie perfectly knotted, hair
either tied back or pomaded within an inch of its life). If Tom allowed himself
to be introspective for a minute, he could easily find parallels with the
Malfoy home and the orphanage in London. Yes, Abraxas had anything and
everything money could buy, but he was emotionally impoverished. Of course he
would be enthralled by someone like Hermione – who was simply kind and loving
because that was her core nature.  If a person valued love, then Hermione was
the jackpot.
 
            “Do you not want me to love her?” Abraxas asked quietly, but they
had reached the Slytherin dormitory entrance.
 
            “We’ll talk later,” Tom simply replied, not looking his way.
 
            Marguerite was sitting on a couch by the fire, homework for History
of Magic in front of her. She glanced up when they entered. “Rumors are
starting about you two,” she said as she quickly returned her gaze to her
parchment and scratched a few lines.  Tom noticed that the quill she used was
dull at the tip and smirked at the memory of Hermione's act of anger.
 
            Tom walked over and sat beside her, reviewing what she had written.
Marguerite was needy and grasping, but she was also clever and rich, and he
didn’t want to completely alienate her. “I care nothing for rumors. We have a
surprise for everyone. All these weeks, we’ve been working on something
amazing, and we’ll share it with you tomorrow.”
 
            She did her best not to look pleased. “Is that so? Well, I’m sure
Thad will be happy.”
 
            “Oh, you’ll be happy, too,” Tom replied, as he stood. “Be at
breakfast by seven, please. And make sure Vidhi knows as well.”
 
            Abraxas and Tom went toward the boys’ rooms and stopped into tell
Dolohov, Sebastian, and Thad that the study group needed to meet first thing
after breakfast, then headed to their own room, where Corvus and Jacob were
playing a game of wizarding chess.
 
            “Would it do any good to ask where you’ve been all day, again?”
Corvus met Abraxas’s eyes. As the Slytherin House seeker, as well as a fellow
Pureblood who was related as some fourth or fifth cousin, Corvus Black was
probably Abraxas’s best friend after Tom. Their hours of practice together had
made an unspoken bond, and they could read each other well.
 
            “Ask me again in the morning,” Tom replied lazily, answering for
Abraxas, sprawling across his bed.
 
            Jacob took Corvus’s remaining bishop. “What does that mean?
Everyone really misses our weekend practices. There isn’t enough time in the
evenings to get into the better spells, not after all the OWL studying Hermione
is making everyone do.”
 
            “You’ll thank her after the tests,” Tom said from across the room.
“You doneed the extra study time in Arithmancy.”
 
            Abraxas pulled up a seat and watched the game. “He’s going to take
your Queen in three moves,” he told Corvus.
 
            Jacob reached over and punched Abraxas’s arm. “Don’t bloody tell
him!”
 
            Corvus glared at the board. “How? I hate this game!”
 
            “We’re meeting after breakfast tomorrow,” Abraxas said as he moved
Corvus’s knight for him to Jacob’s continued dismay. “Trust me, what’s
happening tomorrow will have been worth the wait.”
 
            “I hope so,” Jacob grumbled.
 
            Corvus snorted. “You’re just mad because you haven’t had as much
time with a certain little dark-haired Ravenclaw.”
 
            Abraxas laughed as Jacob scowled. “Josephine is quite pretty,” he
winced as piece of destroyed pawn flew up in his face.
 
            “It is more important that she’s clever and powerful,” Tom added,
still on the bed. “If you are thinking about getting engaged, those are more
important factors. Looks fade, but power and intelligence remain.”
 
            “No one is talking about engagement,” Jacob insisted, his ears red,
his eyes on the board.
 
            “Patience told me in Herbology that you’re on Felicity’s parents’
short list of suitable candidates,” Corvus grinned, starting to move his rook,
then rethinking when Abraxas subtly shook his head toward the king.
 
            "Stop helping him cheat, Abraxas!" Jacob muttered, then added, his
eyebrows raised incredulously. “Patience says the weather is controlled by
fairies. She’s hardly a reliable source.”
 
            All four boys laughed at that, and the subject was dropped. They
fell into companionable conversation on easy topics like schoolwork and
professors and the upcoming Quidditch match with Gryffindor. Once Corvus had
been beaten, though Abraxas helped him enough to draw the game out for an hour
longer, they went to bed.
 
            Tom cast a sleeping spell on Corvus and Jacob to make sure they
stayed asleep, then went over to Abraxas, who was wide awake, staring up at the
emerald hangings on the bed. His roommate looked troubled, and Tom was annoyed
that he didn’t like to see the frown on Abraxas’s face. Caring for others was a
horrible inconvenience, and it gave others power that Tom found unacceptable. 
Still, he could feel the effects of the group spell, tiny tendrils of Abraxas’s
earthy magic reaching out to him, and Tom didn’t want to deny himself.
 
            “Come with me,” Tom took his hand.
 
            Abraxas didn’t move, nor did he look at Tom.
 
            “That wasn’t a request,” Tom added, his fingers tightening around
Abraxas's palm, digging in.
 
            “So you can take the anger you didn’t show Hermione earlier out on
me now?” Abraxas asked, though there wasn’t any emotion in his voice.
 
            “Well, you’ll need to get your arse into the bathroom to learn the
answer to that question. I suggest you not make me wait any longer,” Tom said
coldly, then walked to the bathroom.
 
            Sighing, Abraxas followed him, knowing that testing Tom’s limits
would only make matters worse. Tom didn’t hesitate to use hexes or worse if he
was angry, though he always performed his angry magic wandlessly, and never
anything that left a mark. Which didn’t mean that he couldn’t make it hurt like
hell. Tom’s power had grown exponentially over the last year especially, and
now he was finding new spells in the Chamber every week.  
 
            Tom was usually restrained, and only struck out at his fellow
Slytherins when they did something he found either a personal insult or slurs
about blood status. Even the most fervent Blood-purists soon learned not to
speak about dirty blood. It was common knowledge that the term mudbloodwould
send Tom into a rage. And once one had seen Tom in a rage? Well, one wasn’t
likely to want a repeat performance. Abraxas hadn’t truly been on the receiving
end of Tom’s rage, though he’d certainly felt his anger.
 
           Abraxas couldn’t believe he’d spoken so honestly in the hallway,
about Tom loving Hermione, and about how he felt about Hermione. I must be the
worst glutton for punishment in the whole fucking world, he thought. Maybe the
Hat misplaced me, because that was a fucking dumb-ass Gryffindor move if there
ever was one.
 
          The bathroom was only lowly lit, candles floating high in the air and
creating deep shadows. The mirrors that lined the two opposite walls above the
four sinks made illusions of a grand space. Tom was standing in the center,
facing away, his hands behind his back, that pale, viciously curved wand
twitching in his fingers. Abraxas swallowed as he shut the door and put locking
and sound wards on it.
 
         “Why are you so scared tonight, Abraxas?” Tom asked without turning
around. “Have I ever really hurt you? Even when you touched Hermione without
permission? Didn’t I forgiveyou?”
 
          Abraxas looked in the mirror, gazing at Tom’s profile, which gave
nothing away. He could have been carved from marble. “I think that when we
start talking about love, then all the previous rules dissolve,” he finally
said, deciding he would be honest, no matter the consequences. “Because love is
the one thing that scares you.”
 
          Whirling around, Tom had Abraxas up against the tile in what felt
like an instant. Abraxas had seen it coming, of course; he was a keeper, he was
used to having objects flying toward him at high speeds. He could have
deflected the assault, but he didn’t. With Tom, he had learned, the greatest,
and really only, power was in submission.
         “I am continuously amazed at the growing number of people who think
they know my mind,” Tom hissed. “Just because I fuck you doesn’t mean I owe you
anything, that I feel anything for you.”
 
          His lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Surely, you can see the truth
of that, given the number of conquests you’ve had.”
 
          Abraxas nodded. “Yes, but I also know the difference between a fuck,”
he put the same inflection on the word as Tom had, “and sex that means
something more. Are you really trying to say that you would rather me
fuckHermione than make love to her? Use her the way you used Marguerite? Like
she’s nothing?”
 
          “If you ever,” Tom began, his wand at Abraxas’s throat, a drop of
blood welling at the tip.
 
          “I would never, that’s the point, Tom,” Abraxas didn’t try to move
away from the pressure, even as the drop became a line running down his
clavicle. “We loveher,” he leaned forward, even though the wand cut deeper, and
kissed Tom’s lips.
 
         Tom dropped his hand like he’d been burned. “Keep your opinions on
myfeelings to yourself, my friend.”
 
         “Tom, can’t you see that I would never say any of these things to
anyone else? I know you are destined for greatness. I want to be beside you
when you are changing the world, when you are runningit,” Abraxas smiled. “I’m
your man.”
 
         “And Hermione’s,” Tom bit out. “You want her more than anything.”
 
         Abraxas titled his head, looked into Tom’s blue eyes. “Not more than
anything,” he admitted.
 
         Now, Tom grinned, like a predator finding a soft spot for a kill. “Do
you want power more?” He asked, pondering aloud. “You already have power as a
Malfoy.”
 
         “No,” Abraxas smiled, sadly. “I want you just as much.”
 
         Tom looked shocked, though he was so handsome, he wore it well. His
eyes widened, his mouth opened slightly, and Abraxas felt lost. As easy as it
was to love Hermione, as wonderful as it was, it was that hard and terrible to
love Tom Riddle, but he couldn’t stop doing either. They were a pair, a package
deal, and of course Patience as well, and even though their magic had only been
truly linked and mingling for a few months, Abraxas couldn’t imagine not having
it, not having them,for the rest of his life.
 
        “Wanting isn’t the same as love,” Tom finally said, his tone cautious.
“I don’t require love from you – just your loyalty.”
 
         “It’s easiest to be loyal to something or someone you love,” Abraxas
shrugged. “And I didn’t really choose it; it just happened. You don’t have to
love me back, I don’t expect that. I would like to know, though, that you value
me.”
 
         It did not escape Tom that Abraxas had used the same word he’d
mentioned in the hallway, the one he had equated closely with love. He
remembered the conversation he’d had with Patience, about being honest. These
elemental and sex magic spells were having unintended side effects, creating
more than magical connections. Now, it seemed, there were emotions that needed
sorted out.
 
         “I would have thought your value to me was obvious,” Tom was
exasperated, and didn’t bother to conceal it. “How many times have we-”
 
         “But you just said fuckingme didn’t mean anything,” Abraxas argued.
 
         Tom raised an eyebrow. “I think I’m done with this conversation. You
and Hermione and Patience can save your talk of love and making love for one
another. You know who I am. Either you accept that or you don’t. I will never
be some tender lover, Abraxas, and I won’t have you thinking you can be in some
tug of war for power with me. You may be the future Lord Malfoy, but I am the
Lord and Master here – over all of you.”
 
         “These are the facts: I let you touch my soul mate. I trusted you with
her, alone. I touched you, wanted you over and over – I still want you. I am
willing to enter a permanent magical binding spell with you, and let you in
turn enter into one with my soul mate. If that doesn’t qualify as me valuing
you, then you must be truly impossible to please, my friend,” he cupped the
pale blonde’s jaw, running a thumb over his lower lip as he spoke low and
harshly. “Now, if you’re done whinging about feelings, I’d like you on your
knees, and we’ll get our spell started.”
 
        Abraxas’s eyes glazed a bit at the feel of Tom’s thumb, and the press
of Tom’s other hand on his shoulder, pushing him down to the floor as Tom
pointed his wand and said the Latin words for the mixing of fire and earth,
something like magma, and Abraxas lifted his and said the matching ones.
Nothing seemed to get Tom as aroused as proving his dominance. And very little
aroused Abraxas as much as submitting to it. He kept his smile inside as he
thought of how much Tom had said, even though the word love had not been
mentioned, nor likely ever would be.  
 
        “Your mouth has been rather impertinent this evening,” Tom smirked, one
hand taking Abraxas’s wand and setting it on the counter, and his other hand
twining in Abraxas’s hair, glad the length was just enough to wrap his hand in
once over. “And we need to deal with that, don’t you agree?”
 
        “Yes,” Abraxas quickly supplied. It was impossible to know for sure how
much payment in flesh Tom would exact for his earlier admissions, for Abraxas
stepping out of his usual character as unquestioning follower.
 
        Tom shook his head, tipping up Abraxas’s chin. “Oh, no, that won’t do
at all.”
 
        Abraxas’s grey eyes were wide with confusion. Tom laughed, and it was a
sound that sent a chill down his spine and up his cock, all mixed messages of
sex and violence.
 
        A sharp tug brought Abraxas’s head further back. “You see, my friend,
since you’ve allowed yourself so much latitude with your behavior towards me, I
feel the need to have you reminded of our relative positions. So, for the rest
of evening, you willaddress me as my Lord, or there will be consequences.”
 
       “Yes, my Lord,” Abraxas breathed, shocked at how hard his own cock
became as he spoke those words. How could he have made the sweetest love in his
life, a heaven if there ever was, with Hermione only hours ago, and now want to
be torn apart and put through hell by Tom Riddle?
 
       Tom laughed again, even lower this time, stroking his face with his
wand, a light, tingling touch emanating from the wood like mild electricity.
“Oh, you can be such a good boy when you want to be, Abraxas. I hate to have to
punish you, but I think you need just a little, to help you remember what’s at
stake when you disobey, don’t you?”
 
            “Yes, my Lord,” his shoulders shook, half in anticipation of pain,
half in desire.
 
            “Undo my trousers, slowly, please,” Tom raised his wand, twirled it
between his fingers while Abraxas ran his hand up the inseam of Tom’s trouser,
lightly, until he reached the buttons and began to slide them free of their
holes, one at a time. “You know, I’ve been reading so much on elemental magic,
not only on joining with others, but on exploring the unique properties of my
own. Elemental magic is practically a lost art.”
 
            “For instance,” Tom sucked in his breath slightly as Abraxas freed
the last button and his hand grazed Tom’s rigid cock, “I’ve learned I have a
special talent for making things hot, and tolerating heat.”
 
           He tapped his wand to Abraxas’s cheek and smiled. “Now, show your
Lord and Master your special, earthy talent of making things disappear into
holes.”
 
           “Yes, my Lord,” Abraxas only just managed to gasp, because his lips,
mouth, and throat had risen several degrees in heat. Tom pushed forward,
through his lips and groaned in pleasure.
 
           “Excellent,” he hissed. “You feel like a bloody sauna, so hot and
wet.”
 
           Abraxas could barely concentrate. His mouth was on fire and it made
it difficult to gauge how much pressure he was applying as he moved his lips
and tongue around Tom. He knew this was part of his punishment, especially when
Tom laughed and held his head, fucking his mouth while Abraxas did his best.
And he was still aroused, despite the heat, despite, or perhaps because, he
knew it was a punishment. How fucked up am I? Abraxas thought, as a moan came
out around Tom’s cock.
 
           “Mmm,” Tom sighed, pulling back then pushing forward so hard that
Abraxas’s head was forced against the tiled wall. “Do you know how to cool off,
my dear friend? Do you know what to do?”
 
          He didn’t pull out, so Abraxas could only make a slight shake of his
head in between thrusts of Tom’s hips. He had a guess, though.
 
          Tom confirmed it with his next words. “Swallow it all, Abraxas, show
me how good you want to be for me, the Master whom you love.”
 
         Abraxas started at the word love coming from Tom, throwing off the
rhythm he had created, but it didn’t matter because Tom was coming, chanting
the words of the elemental binding spell, and Abraxas was swallowing, barely
tasting anything; instead, it was the blessed sensation of coolness spreading
through his burning mouth and throat and he pressed Tom’s hips against his
mouth, thanking any and all gods that Tom had kept his promise to end the heat.
Tom smirked down at him as Abraxas sighed in relief at the end of the
punishment spell.
 
        “Are you ready to behave, then?” Tom asked, his beautiful mouth making
him look like an angel, even though Abraxas knew better.
 
         Abraxas nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”
 
        “That sounds so good,” Tom held out his hand, helped Abraxas up. “And
not because of a hereditary title – it is because I am superior, because I am a
King among men. One day, we’ll show that to the world, Abraxas. And you will be
at my side.”
 
         “It would be my both my duty and my pleasure, my Lord,” Abraxas
replied smoothly. He was nothing if not a quick study, and he knew Tom craved
power and respect more than anything else.
 
         Tom leaned close, kissed him for several minutes. “I like that you
taste like me, with a hint of Hermione as well.”
 
         Abraxas moaned his agreement, moving in for another, long kiss. Tom
pulled at the front of Abraxas’s clothes, then got impatient and vanished them.
He wrapped his hand around Abraxas, tugging a bit too harshly, but somehow
Abraxas didn’t care.
 
         “Hermione went down on you today?” Tom’s tone was a question, his hand
stroking Abraxas’s cock quickly up and down.
 
          “Yes, my Lord,” Abraxas gasped. “She did.”
 
          “She did that for me, very briefly, the first time we had sex. It was
very distracting, her sweet little mouth all around me. I made her stop because
I thought I would come. Did you make her stop?”
 
          His hips were moving now, and Abraxas bit his lip to focus enough to
get out, “Yes, my Lord.”
 
          Tom raised an eyebrow. “How long has it been since you’ve finished in
someone’s mouth?”
 
         “Ahhh…”Abraxas nearly came at the question, his cock giving a thick
spasm, his bullocks tightening threateningly. He knew instinctively, though,
that Tom would not be pleased if he came without being told to do so. He tried
to remember the question. “Ahh…sometime last year? Maybe Marilyn Tuttle? In the
spring, my Lord?”
 
         “Pining after Hermione so long that you couldn’t bear someone else
sucking your cock?” Tom’s voice was low and seductive, with a hint of teasing.
“Silly boy, she didn’t even know at the time.”
 
         Abraxas wasn’t fooled into thinking that a teasing Tom was necessarily
a safe Tom. There was no safety with Tom. Only intensity, be it pleasure or
pain, joy or fear.
         “I didn’t want to hurt her, my Lord,” Abraxas allowed, attempting to
focus on something other than the growing need to explode all over Tom’s hand.
“And I honestly didn’t want anyone else except…”
 
            Tom gave an evil grin, followed by an evil twist of his hand, his
finger skimming over the head of Abraxas’s cock, rubbing the pre-come over his
shaft, using it as lubrication on his palm to move even faster. “No one else
except me, Abraxas?”
 
            Before Abraxas could answer, he leaned forward, whispering in his
ear as he kissed and bit along the lobe, “How long have you wanted me, Abraxas?
How long had you been dreaming about my hand on your cock, my cock in that
pretty, wide mouth of yours?”
 
            Abraxas closed his eyes against all the sensation – Tom’s voice,
his lips and teeth, his fucking hand, his near psychic penchant for asking the
questions guaranteed to elicit more arousal, both physical and mental. “I…since
you stayed with me this past summer and we rode brooms without our shirts and
we got caught in the rain, and you undressed in front of me in the shed, since
we were soaked and we couldn’t use magic” it all came out in a rush, like a
confession, even though they’d been having sex for weeks.
 
            “My Lord,” he hastily added at the quirk of Tom’s mouth.
 
            “Lie down,” Tom ordered brusquely, using his wand to transfigure a
stack of towels into a mattress.
 
            Abraxas quickly complied, speaking the required words of assent,
feeling more exposed naked on the small mattress than he had standing. Tom
vanished his clothing as well, revealing that he absolutely was not done for
the night, then kneeled on the mattress, straddling Abraxas’s hips, low enough
that he could continue that torture he’d been practicing with his hand, but now
there was the added bonus that his own cock was bumping against Abraxas, and
Tom’s naked skin pressing along Abraxas’s was wonderful and awful all at once.
 
            “I’m not going to use a spell to keep you still like I did with
Patience, and if you move at all, I will stop, and you will be sorry. Do you
understand?” Tom asked while his fingers squeezed and released, squeezed and
released, along Abraxas’s shaft.
 
            “Yes, my Lord,” he could hear the whine and plea in his voice, and
Abraxas wanted to be mad at himself, but it was too much effort to keep from
coming.
 
            “Oh, good,” Tom sighed, straightening out his legs and lowering his
lips to within a breath of Abraxas’s leaking cock. “I just can’t wait to see
how long it takes you to disobey me again.”
 
            And then, Abraxas’s vision went white for a few seconds, and he
forgot to breathe or have a heart beat or anything except clamp down on the
urge to come because Tom Riddle’s mouth was all over his cock. Was it any
wonder that Hermione was Tom’s soul mate? Neither of them had experience with
blow jobs, and, yet, in the same day, they’d both given him the best ones he’d
ever had. Trust Tom to turn something that could have been interpreted as a
loss of control into a game of control. He’d suck Abraxas’s cock, but he’d also
punish him if he moved. The man was the goddamned devil.
 
            Tom laughed, and the vibrations from his mouth were Abraxas’s down
fall. It was simply too much sensation, and he could feel the dam breaking
inside him. “My Lord!” he gasped, his hips thrusting off the mattress despite
himself.
 
            “Say the spell!” Tom hissed, then put his mouth back on Abraxas and
pulled at him with such suction that Abraxas literally ached from the pleasure
as he yelled the spell out, over and over, spilling into Tom's mouth.
 
            The air was hot and muggy with magic around them, and Tom gave him
no time to recover before he flipped Abraxas over onto his knees, pulling his
arse flush with Tom’s rock hard erection. Tom spoke the lubrication spell, and
Abraxas shuddered. Why was that so sexy?
 
            Abraxas felt the tip of Tom’s cock at his arse, put Tom only
pressed lightly, not even entering him truly.
 
           “You moved,” Tom said, in that voice that dripped with sex and
power.
 
          “I’ll give you points for effort, and you did warn me, thankfully for
you, but the fact remains,” he leaned down and kissed Abraxas, first on one
shoulder blade, then the other, then down the line of his spine, all the while
keeping his cock head teasingly poised at his entrance, “that you disobeyed me.
Again.”
 
          “I’m so sorry, my Lord,” Abraxas was moaning now, and his hips were
still twitching with aftershocks of previous orgasm. He thought he legitimately
might die from wanting Tom to fuck him, and he really didn’t care how much he
was punished, so long as Tom put his cock inside him.
 
           Tom made a string of hissing sounds, the most musical parseltongue
Abraxas had heard him speak. “I believe you are sorry, my dear friend, I do,
but I have to admit, I lied earlier,” he entered Abraxas is one harsh stroke,
making the blonde cry out, “I just love punishing you.”
 
          The punishment became immediately clear. Tom’s cock was on fire, hot
like Abraxas’s mouth had been, though not quite so severe. The heat and the
pull and the pressure and Tom’s ability to hit that one spot, over and over,
had Abraxas on the verge of a second orgasm in moments, and this time, he
begged, pleading to come, nearly incoherent.
          “Of course you can Abraxas,” Tom thrust harder and faster, his own
breath coming in gasps. “You only had to ask nicely,” he spoke in time with his
strokes, moving so deep so fast that they came together, gasping the spell yet
again and falling, both face first, into the mattress, the floor around them
glowing like lava, heat and magic surrounding them.
 
          They twisted to face each other, and Abraxas was feeling so blissful,
so high on sex and magic, that he stroked Tom’s cheek and kissed his lips and
said, “I love you,” before he’d even processed any of those actions.
 
          Surprisingly, Tom said nothing, just pulled him close and held him.
They lay like that for a while, coming back to themselves, absorbing the magic
and recovering physically from the exertion.
 
         “So,” Tom spoke after several minutes. “There’ll be no more talk of
how much you’re valued?”
 
         Abraxas smiled against Tom’s shoulder. “No, my Lord. I have learned my
lesson.”
 
         “Excellent,” Tom replied, his lips brushing Abraxas’s temple, then
pulled away and rose, helping Abraxas up. “We need to get to bed. Tomorrow is a
big day.”
 
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Songs for Sexy Times with the Various Pairings/Groupings
     Tom & Hermione: “From Eden” – Hozier
     “Irresistible” – Fall Out Boy
     “Fidelity” – Regina Spektor
      
     Tom & Patience: “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” – Pat Benatar
     “Wild Ones”- Flo Rida
     “S&M” - Rihanna
      
     Tom & Abraxas: “Closer” – Nine Inch Nails
     “I Wanna Be Yours” – Foxy Shazam
     “Love You Madly” – CAKE
      
     Hermione & Patience: “Cool For The Summer” – Demi Lovato
     “Honeysuckle Lullabye” – Moanin’ Michelle Malone and The Low-Down
     Georgia Revue
     “True Colors” – Cyndi Lauper (The Body Acoustic version)
      
     Hermione & Abraxas: “Crash Into Me” – Dave Matthews Band
     “Ice Cream” – Sarah McLachlan
     “I’ve Just Seen a Face” – Jim Sturgess (covering The Beatles in
     Across The Universe)
     Everyone Together: “You Make Loving Fun” – Jewel (covering Fleetwood
     Mac)
     “In the Dark” - Dev
     “When It Don’t Come Easy” – Patty Griffin
***** What Patience Knew *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione spends some time with her roommates. Patience and Hermione
     perform their bonding spell, and Hermione realizes just how savvy our
     little blonde dreamer is.
Chapter Notes
     Happy Fourth of July! Here's some fireworks! Love to you all!
     And don't worry - plot is coming back...it won't all be porn until
     the end of time, sadly.
oOo0oOo 
            Hermione was trying desperately not to kick Felicity in the face.
She had one of her feet, was painting her toe nails, but Hermione’s feet had
always been terribly ticklish, and it was near torture to hold still while her
friend ran fingers along the sides of her soles and toes, pushing her this way
and that to get the right angle for applying the magenta varnish.
 
            “I don’t even know why we’re doing this,” she said to Josephine,
who was sitting on the pillows beside her, the dark haired girl’s own toes
being seen to by Patience.
 
            Josephine laughed as she painted her fingernails, carefully
balancing the polish bottle on her extended knee. “Well, you and Patience won’t
tell us what tomorrow is all about, only that it’s a surprise, and I just have
a feeling that it will be like a party,” she added, “and it is important to be
pretty at parties.”
 
            “You mean it’s important to be pretty when you think Jacob will be
there and looking at you,” Felicity said as she gripped harder at Hermione’s
foot. “Stop trying to wiggle away. I’ve had to redo your last two toes three
times. If you’d just keep still, I’d be done.”
 
            Hermione made a sound that was a cross between a giggle and growl.
“No one is going to be seeing our feet, though! We’ll be wearing stockings and
shoes!”
 
            “But we already did our fingernails,” Felicity explained. “Trust
me, the boys will look at our fingernails and wonder if our toenails match, and
that will have them thinking about our bare legs, even if they can’t see them,
and that means we are winning.”
 
            “Winning?” Patience stopped blowing on Josephine’s big toe. “Isn’t
it more of a draw if you are imagining them naked, too?”
 
            Felicity and Hermione laughed, though Josephine blushed, a delicate
pink shade that made her more adorable than usual. “I’m not imagining anyone
naked,” she said primly as she capped the polish bottle. “Painted nails just
look nice, and I like them.”
 
            “Well, it isn’t really a party, anyway,” Hermione gritted out,
fighting her instinct to jerk away from Felicity’s hand. “And next time, I’m
painting my toe nails with magic.”
 
            “What is it?” Felicity asked, for probably the fifth time.
 
            Patience shook her head. “You’ll find out tomorrow. Words can’t do
it justice anyway.”
 
            “I hope this surprise, whatever it is, means our study group gets
back on track on the weekends,” Josephine sighed, setting down the polish and
picking up the bottle of butterbeer she’d brought back from their last
Hogsmeade weekend. She took a sip and handed it to Hermione. “I could use the
extra practical practice in transfiguration before the OWLs.”
 
            Hermione drank from the bottle, noting again that something in the
recipe had changed over the years. The butterbeer from the future had been
slightly sweeter, though this version was richer, more buttery. She couldn’t
decide which she preferred. There was a slight catch in her chest, as she had a
pang of despair that she’d never see the future again, not in the same way. So
much had changed, at her hands. And she could only hope she was making the
right choice as the future slowly unrolled in front of her.
 
            Felicity let go of her foot, and Hermione looked at the others.
“Sorry, I was miles away. Everything will be explained tomorrow, and you will
have plenty of opportunity for practicing, Josie, I promise.”
 
            “And for flirting?” Felicity prompted, making Josephine blush
again.
 
            Hermione smiled. Josephine and Jacob were too cute together, the
way they both tried to pretend they weren’t interested in one another except as
friends. If even one of them actually managed to flirt tomorrow, she’d be
shocked. “Sure, flirting, too,” she gave Felicity a knowing smile. “Who’s going
to be your victim?”
 
            “Ha!” Felicity turned her nose up in mock arrogance. “As if I’d
lower myself to flirt with a snake.”
 
            Her face turned serious for a second, and she added, “They all play
nice, but I know most of them still think I’m not good enough to be any kind of
love interest. Sebastian looks at my arse when he thinks I don’t notice, and
Corvus stares at my chest, but they wouldn’t ever actually touch me, other than
the kind of ‘dirty secret’ tumbles that take place in abandoned classrooms on
the west wing fourth floor.”
 
            Folding up her legs, Hermione leaned over and hugged Felicity
tightly. “You are wonderful and smart and pretty and any wizard would be lucky
to have you, no matter any silly thoughts of blood status.”
 
            “Yes, but I think I’ll stick with a Gryffindor or Hufflepuff,”
Felicity joked. “Easier to control, since I’ll be the smart one.”
 
            Hermione snorted, thinking of how not a single Gryffindor boy from
the future, with the exception of Neville, had listened to her, especially when
she was speaking common sense. “Better just stick to Hufflepuff, if you want a
man who might listen.”
 
            This observation led to a discussion of all the annoying things the
male students at Hogwarts did, which continued until Josephine began to yawn.
Patience was already asleep on Hermione’s pillow, and Hermione didn’t have the
heart to wake her, so as Felicity put out the lights, Hermione whispered a
spell to enlarge the bed that was not made for two, and snuggled backwards
along the length of Patience’s form.
 
            Soon, the other two girls were sleeping, as Hermione could tell
from Felicity’s gentle, but deep breathing and Josephine’s mumbled dream talk,
which seemed to mostly consist of giggles and Jacob’s name. Being an only
child, Hermione had never had to share a bed, except for a few Christmases as
the Burrow. Even the magical tent she’d called home while on the run had
provided a separate bunk for her.
 
            Now, with Patience so close, Hermione felt wide awake and painfully
aware of how their bodies touched, Hermione’s back to Patience’s front, the
gentle swells of Patience’s breasts pushing softly against Hermione’s shoulder
blades, Patience’s arm thrown over Hermione’s waist, her long fingers splayed
over Hermione’s abdomen.
 
            Patience had been an amazing, ridiculous, beautiful surprise in
Hermione’s life. For the first few months, Patience had felt like a link to the
future, a way of still being with a friend who wouldn’t be born for decades.
But as time had passed and Patience had become a closer and closer friend,
Hermione simply loved her for who she was, not what she represented. Patience
was kind, loyal, and much smarter and more powerful than most people realized.
 
            Her grades didn’t always reflect this, because Patience either
‘forgot’ to do homework that bored her or would write long, complicated essays
that had nothing to do with the actual assignment, and she had the dubious
honor of being the Ravenclaw most likely to receive detention for these exact
reasons. Professors often scolded her in class for not paying attention, as
Patience was almost always looking off into space, that dreamy expression in
her eyes, but when they asked her questions, she would answer correctly most of
the time. Professor Kettleburn loved her, though, because Patience seemed to
have not an ounce of fear in her body, and was always willing to volunteer to
be the first to interact with whatever dangerous creature he’d brought to
class.
 
            Hermione couldn’t think of another person more different from
herself than Patience. Even Tom had more similarities to her than the pale
blonde Ravenclaw currently in her bed. At least she and Tom shared a passion
for knowledge and magic, and a drive to see their wills made manifest, even if
those wills were often very different. Patience was a giant question mark so
much of the time – what was she thinking? What motivated her? What in the world
would she do with her life after school? Sometimes, Hermione pondered a future
for Patience, but no idea seemed feasible for more than a minute or so.
Patience have a steady job? Patience undertake a mentally and physically
grueling apprenticeship needed to become a ‘Master’ at a particular type of
magic? Hermione honestly worried about her best friend quite a bit. It wasn’t
that she didn’t trust Patience to know what was best; it was that she didn’t
trust the world to understand how beautiful and unique Patience truly was.
 
             “You don’t need to worry about me, Hermione,” Patience whispered
in her ear.
 
             Hermione started, coming out of her thoughts, not so much shocked
that Patience knew what she’d been thinking as that Patience was awake. “I
know,” she turned to face her friend, her own arm circling Patience’s waist.
 
             They were face to face now, as they had been many times since
September. Patience had ended up in Hermione’s shower every Saturday and Sunday
morning, and though time had been of the essence, as their two other roommates
were early risers as well, they had become quite familiar with each other’s
bodies, with all the secret places that elicited sighs and gasps and moans.
Their fingers knew the right rhythms and thrusts, their tongues the exact
twirls and perfect pressure.
 
             Patience whispered a muting spell around the bed and laid a finger
over Hermione’s lips. “Our elements are begging to be combined.”
 
            “Here?” Hermione squeaked, glad for the silencing spell. “Now? What
if Josephine wakes up? She’s the lightest sleeper.”
 
             “Here,” Patience nodded, sliding her hands under Hermione’s
nightgown, rucking it up past her waist. “Now.”
 
              Hermione shivered as Patience’s cool palm moved up the curve of
her ribcage. “We’ve done so much magic today – do you even have the energy?”
 
             “Our magic is circling around us. I can feel Tom and Abraxas’s.
Can’t you?” Patience’s mouth was on Hermione’s bared shoulder, alternately
kissing and sucking.
 
             Closing her eyes, Hermione pulled at her magic, and felt it – Tom
glowing with satisfaction, and Abraxas, radiant with pleasure. She was
connected to both of them, and now, they were connected to each other. This was
much, much stronger than the group magic they had done in the Chamber. That
spell had laid the foundations for these deeper, permanent connections that
were closer to the soul mate bond than Hermione had realized. Had Tom realized
the impact of this yet? Was he still so overwhelmed by the initial wave of
pleasure that he hadn’t completely experienced how tightly the four of them
would be bound once these cross-circle spells were all done?
 
            “Don’t be afraid,” Patience’s lips were at Hermione’s ear now, her
fingers undoing the buttons on the nightgown. “We’ll be fine. He needs us, even
if he doesn’t want to admit it. And you need us, so that you don’t get lost in
him, in trying to prevent or counteract everything he does. You are not
responsible for Tom, Hermione. Only he is.”
 
            Hermione was used to Patience saying things out of nowhere, of
Patience’s ability to pull thoughts and feelings from deep inside and lay them
bare, but being used to it didn’t make it any easier. “But I am,” she protested
quietly, unable to say more.
 
            “No, no you are not,” Patience countered, pulling Hermione’s night
gown completely off her. “You are as bad as he is sometimes. You both think you
can control the whole world,” she said these last words in amused frustration,
her silky soft lips kissing Hermione’s neck between words.
 
            “I do not!” Hermione protested, though her indignation was spoiled
slightly by the moan she made when Patience’s fingers lightly traced her
areola, making that sensitive skin instantly respond by hardening. “I don’t
think I can control -”
 
            Patience’s grin was only just visible in the moonlight coming
through the window as she interrupted her friend. “You want to control people
just as much as Tom does. The only difference is that Tom wants to control
people because he likes the feeling of power, and you want to control people
because you think you know what is best for everyone.”
 
            She would have immediately argued if Patience hadn’t placed her
lips on Hermione, kissing her with those soft lips that made Hermione forget
everything, that made her relax like some kind of drug designed to shut down
thinking. Her hands moved along the edges of Patience’s knickers, slipping
under the waistband to squeeze that curvy arse that even the boxy Hogwarts
uniform failed to hide.
 
            “Let all that responsibility go, Hermione,” Patience said, handing
Hermione her wand from the bedside table. “Just for tonight. Let’s have fun.”
 
             Hermione couldn’t help the smile that formed on her lips.
Something about Patience brought out her lighter side, the part of herself that
Hermione usually kept weighted down by a sense of duty, knowledge of future
horrific possibilities, and the need to be the best in all her studies. That
was probably why she loved Patience so much. With the pale, dreamy blonde who
never seemed completely present, Hermione was able to find that lightness, the
joy of simply being without the use of Narcissa’s potion.
 
             “Fine,” Hermione murmured, using her wand to divest Patience of
her nightgown and knickers, then cast “procella,” the Latin spell word that
meant hurricane. She had always felt that her relationship with Patience was
one of peace, and wondered just what she was getting herself into with invoking
a destructive tropical storm.  
 
             Patience’s returned phrase was something similar – a gusty storm,
and as soon as the words were spoken, Hermione felt the magic settling on her
skin, sinking into her, making her hungry for touch, for completion of the
spell. Patience clearly felt the same, because she pulled Hermione’s knickers
off and asked in a husky voice that didn’t sound at all like her normal self,
“Fingers or tongue?”
 
             It was dark, which emboldened Hermione. “Both, please,” she
replied.
 
            “Good answer,” Patience laughed, and slid her body down Hermione’s
front, kissing and licking as she went, taking her time to suck on Hermione’s
nipples and leave little love bites on her ribs. She even traced Tom’s words,
whispering, “how lucky we all found one another.”
 
             Before Hermione could ask her what she meant, her hips were canted
forward as Patience slipped her hands under them, pulling Hermione as close as
she could. She spoke again, this time with exaggerated emphasis, so that little
puffs of air teased at the slick, sensitive skin Patience was less than an inch
from. “You smell like lightening – the mix of your charged air and Tom’s fire
as it hits Abraxas’s earth.”
 
             “What about you?” Hermione asked breathlessly, aching to have
Patience touch her with more than her breath.
 
             Patience smiled, and she was so close to Hermione’s cunt that the
movement of her lips brushed against her labia, gliding smoothly through the
moisture there, no catching, just a whisper of a caress, and when she pulled
back, Hermione could see how her lips glistened in the moonlight.
 
             “I’m right here,” her lips curved upward in a wide smile as she
ran a finger along Hermione’s seam, then suddenly thrust two fingers in and
out, twisting and withdrawing in a move that left Hermione panting. “Do you
think you’d be this wet without my water magic flowing all over you?”
 
             “Patience,” Hermione gasped, half aroused and half embarrassed.
She was insanely wet; she could feel it seeping into the sheets below her. This
bed was going to need a serious scourgifybefore morning.
 
             The pale blonde lowered her head, and Hermione finally understood
fully the slang phrase “eating out,” because Patience was devouring her.
Hermione wound her fingers in Patience’s hair, but it was more to hold on than
to provide any direction. Usually, Patience was languid and gentle in her
movements, but now she was much more forceful, her fingers long and curling
into the soft inner walls, finding all the spots that made Hermione’s back
arch, while her tongue worked a magic that made Hermione’s toes curl into the
blankets.  
 
            Occasionally, she would raise up just long enough to make filthy
comments that reminded Hermione how much she secretly loved dirty talk. “The
boys taste your magic, but I can taste the girl underneath. You are sweet and
tart and juicy, like a plum…and something else.”
 
           Patience dragged her tongue at a painfully slow pace over Hermione’s
clit, flicking it with her tongue, then grazing it hard enough with the edge of
her teeth that a buzzing thrill shot through Hermione’s body even as warnings
went off somewhere in the back of her mind.
 
          “Something else,” Patience repeated, her lips massaging the upper
part of Hermione’s labia while her fingers thrust and stroked the lower half,
her thumb dipping below, toward the delicate skin of Hermione’s arse, ghosting
over the spot that sent another thrill up her spine, along with a jump in her
pulse.
 
           Hermione tugged on the pale blonde hair, forcing Patience up. She
kept her fingers in the silky mass and pressed her lips to Patience’s, tasting
herself. There was a hint of ozone, the tingle of magic, mixed with the unique
flavor of Patience, which was like the breeze from the ocean on a summer day –
cool and wet with a hint of salt. As they kissed, Hermione let one of her hands
drift down Patience’s chest, past her hips, and into the wetness between her
legs.
 
          It didn’t take long for the magic to reach a fever pitch around them
with their fingers thrusting and curling and twisting, their mouths on each
other’s faces, necks, and breasts. Hermione’s heart was beating so fast, her
breath coming in such pants that she worried she would pass out again. Sex
magic, she was learning, had the ability to shut one down completely, to
temporarily short-circuit one’s magic from its sheer power.
 
          “Hold on,” Patience whispered with a grin as her finger pressed into
Hermione’s clit. “We’re coming.”
 
          And they did, together, Patience with a joyful shout and Hermione
with a bitten lip and a low, sustained moan of pleasure, their arms and legs
wrapped around each other, somehow managing to work the words of the spell into
their orgasms. Their combined magic settled around them, and the sensation was
shockingly similar to a protection spell, the feelof it was one of being
safe.  
 
          Patience brought her fingers to her lips, the ones that still
glistened with Hermione’s juices and sucked on them. She cocked her head to the
side, not dreamy for once, but lost in serious contemplation.
 
         “Oh,” Patience said, her eyes and mouth wide as if she'd suddenly
understood an ancient mystery. “You are a juicy plum,” her fingers went back to
Hermione’s cunt, going deeper, making Hermione’s hips rise to meet them in the
aftershock of orgasm and magic, “stuffed with juicy secrets.”
 
         As Patience spoke the word secrets, Hermione froze, but Patience’s
touch gentled, like someone approaching a spooked horse, and she whispered,
“Don’t worry, Hermione, not even Voldemort could pull your secrets from my
mind.”
 
         “What did you say?” Hermione was filled with a paralyzing cold.
 
         “Voldemort,” Patience replied easily, as if naming a cloud in the sky
on a lazy afternoon. “One of the many potential futures for Tom, the one you
are trying to change. I had a vision of him a few days ago, but it was not in
our timeline.”
 
          “How?” was all that came out of Hermione’s mouth, though it sounded
more like strangled despair than a word.
 
          “Did you hear that in my mind?” She knew that Patience was special,
that she knew things, but it was easier for Hermione’s orderly, logical mind to
believe in something like ESP than to believe that someone could see into the
future, that things like divination(such a fucking ridiculous study that wasn’t
even really a study) or prophesies were actually…true. She knew that Trelawny
had predicted the future, but that prophesy wasn’t real until a crazed
Voldemort made it so. Hermione was firm acolyte of free will, that one’s future
was always in one’s hands, not predestined. The only time prophesies even
worked was when one of the people who was involved heard the damned thing, then
let that “knowledge” either consciously or unconsciously affect his or her
behavior and life choices.
 
            Patience was still between her legs, still touching her in a
soothing way, her soft, sweet voice smoothing down some of the frayed edges of
Hermione’s nerves. “No, I told you, I saw it. I’ve always been able to see the
future, many different versions of it. It comes in flashes, and often doesn’t
make any sense until the events have come and gone. Sometimes it is the near
future, and sometimes I think what I see is far beyond my own life. I don’t
control it. I’m just a conduit. But you’re out of time, Hermione. You and your
mother, and being around you makes the visions come more often, because you are
a split in time, a source of more than infinite possibilities.”
 
           “How?” Hermione repeated dumbly, her brain in tatters.
 
           “I don’t know,” Patience shrugged, then a fierce expression came
over her face, and with her pale looks, Hermione was briefly reminded of
Narcissa when she was angry. “But you are safe with me. I’m yours, mind, body,
and soul, and I won’t let you fail.”
 
           Hermione was crying, not realizing it until she felt the tears
splashing onto her chest. She was still scared, but she was also relieved. The
knowledge was such a weight, and Patience was offering to help carry it, to
help her make the best decisions she could, to give her a shoulder to rest her
head on when she was overwhelmed, which was so often these days since opening
the Chamber, Hermione barely remembered what it was not to be stress-filled and
anxious.
 
          “Shhh,” Patience cooed, coming up to hold Hermione, though one of her
hands stayed between Hermione’s legs, moving in long, slow strokes, not trying
to arouse her so much as reassure her. She slid her other arm under Hermione’s
shoulder, pulling her toward her chest, their loose hair tangling together.
“We’re supposed to be having fun, remember? You are always safe with me,
Hermione. And you are safe with Tom, too. I know it. I can feel it. He might
still do bad things, but he will never be that.He will never be Voldemort – not
now you are here. You did change the future.”
 
           It was difficult for Hermione to reconcile all the emotions she was
experiencing. There was the aftermath of the spell, of her body’s intense
pleasure, and then there was her noisy brain, running through all the possible
ramifications of Patience’s knowledge.
 
          “I think I have impacted Tom’s life in a positive way, that Mother,”
she paused wondering how much Patience knew about her ‘future’ self, whether it
was simply knowledge that they were ‘out of time’ or details of their lives,
“and I have helped put him on a much less angry path, but I don’t know that
I’ll ever feel confident that the wrong series of events wouldn’t create
Voldemort, all over again.”     
 
          “Between the three of us ladies, we’ll figure it out.” Patience
looped both arms around Hermione’s waist, pulling her close and resting her
pale head on Hermione’s shoulder. It was such a common position, Patience’s
favorite one, that it was instantly familiar and comforting, and Hermione
sighed in pleasure despite her busy brain.
 
           “Oh, Patience, I hope so,” Hermione whispered into her hair,
summoning their clothes, murmuring cleaning spells on the bed, and cancelling
the silencing spell. Patience was asleep again in less than a minute, but
Hermione lay awake for a long time.
 
            Up until now, she and Narcissa had taken a rather organic approach
to influencing Tom, simply providing affection and support, a home for him,
space for him to learn how to be around others without the need to control
them. This had worked very well for a ten year old, but now, Tom was only about
a month away from sixteen, and almost an adult by the standards of the magical
world. His ambition would only explode after leaving Hogwarts, and Hermione
needed a plan to deal with that, with the fallout that would inevitably follow.
He wouldn’t stop until he had climbed to the top, and Hermione couldn’t simply
be running ahead of him, trying to prevent messes before they occurred. She had
to be pro-active. Fortunately, she smiled to herself, planning was one of her
strongest skills.
 
***** Secrets Are Made to Be Told *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione talks with Narcissa about what's being happening down in the
     Chamber, and Narcissa shares some very valuable information. Tom
     tells Hermione his long-term plans, and Astarte tells Tom a secret.
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is plot heavy to make up for the last few very porny
     chapters. Love and hugs to you all! I love this fic and all the
     awesome feedback!
             
 
             The first thing Hermione did upon waking at five the next morning
was run to her mother’s suite. Narcissa entered the sitting room in her robe as
Hermione came in the door, which was warded to only allow immediate access to
Galatea or Hermione.
 
            “Darling, what are you doing here before dawn? Is something wrong
with Tom?” Narcissa pushed a strand of light blonde hair behind her ear, her
face lined with worry.
 
            “Is Galatea here?” Hermione whispered, glancing toward the bedroom.
 
            Narcissa shook her head. “I was at the infirmary over the night.
Three second-year Hufflepuffs have some form of the measles we haven’t been
able to cure yet. I actually just got back after Electra came to relieve me. I
was going to take a bath and then a nap, but looking at you, I think I might
need to call for tea.”
 
            “Some very strong tea would be lovely,” Hermione sank into one of
the chairs by the fireplace and pointed her wand to start a roaring fire.
 
            After Narcissa had summoned an elf, who had a pot of tea and tray
of toast and other breakfast breads on the tea table between their chairs in
less than a minute, they sat facing each other. “Now, what has you so upset?”
 
            “What doesn’t?” Hermione groaned. “I forgot how crazy OWLs made me
the first time around, and add to that being in the Chamber with a basilisk
trained to kill me, even if it does obey Tom, and all the spells Tom has access
to now, and everyone is going down there today, and I just…”she trailed off,
then summoned her courage to tell her the one thing that really mattered.
“Patience knows we’re from the future.”
 
            Even after five years, Narcissa continued to impress Hermione with
her absolute sense of self-control. Her adopted mother barely batted an eye.
“Is that so? I wouldn’t have thought Patience was aware of what day of the week
it was.” The snark in her voice was the only clue Narcissa was at all bothered.
 
            “She’s,” Hermione hesitated to use the word, but forced herself to
do so, “a seer of some kind. She told me that she knew we were both ‘out of
time’ and that being around us increased her visions.”
 
            “What kind of visions has she told you of?” Narcissa calmly took a
sip of her tea.
 
            “Tonight, she used the name Voldemort,” Hermione answered.
            Narcissa’s face remained impassive, but her teacup rattled on the
saucer. “She’s seen Tom become the Dark Lord in this timeline?”
 
            “No,” Hermione put a hand over Narcissa’s, taking the teacup and
setting it on the table. “Patience said that was an alternate future, one that
we’ve prevented. She said that she sees different paths, but she can somehow
sense which ones are more likely to happen.”
 
            “That’s an extremely rare talent among seers, who are already an
extremely rare breed,” Narcissa observed. “Seers tend to keep to themselves and
not make a lot of personal connections. Are you sure that Patience will keep
this secret of ours?”
 
            Hermione answered immediately. “Positive.”
 
            “What makes you so sure?” Narcissa arched an eyebrow, telling
Hermione without words that she was aware there was much more to this story
than Hermione was currently sharing.
 
            There was silence, and Narcissa squeezed Hermione’s hand. “You and
I have promised to be honest and frank with one another. We would not have been
able to bear these past five years, if not for that surety.   I know I am
older, and that I have taken the place of mother in your mind, but you must
never be embarrassed to talk to me, about anything.”
 
            “What do you know about elemental magic and bonding?” Hermione
replied with a question.
 
            Narcissa blinked, then looked toward the fire, her expression
thoughtful. “The standard amount, I suppose. Perhaps a bit more. There were
many old books on elemental magic in my childhood home and in the Malfoy manor
library. Combining one’s elemental magic was once widely practiced, about five
hundred years ago and further back, and seeking out a balanced quartet was
common, especially for powerful witches and wizards, a way to increase their
magical abilities and hone their casting. Many times, two married couples would
join and that was considered as binding as a group marriage if the permanent
spells were used because they tied the casters for life. Usually, the children
from the two pairs would be encouraged to marry because their magic was often
very strong from birth.”
 
            “Why did elemental magic and bonding fall out of common practice?”
 
            “Oh, many reasons,” Narcissa waved a hand. “The biggest reason was
blood purity.”
 
            Hermione’s mouth twisted into a bitter frown. “Of course it was.”
 
            “Elemental affiliations tend to run in families, so intermarriage
over and over narrowed down the magical signatures. Most pure-blooded families
have earth magic, and weak earth magic at that. Occasionally, a child is born
with a different element to his or her magic, but not often enough to support
the elemental quartets andmaintain blood purity.”
 
            Hermione concentrated, let her magic move toward Narcissa. “But
you’re not earth. You’re fire.”
 
            Narcissa nodded. “I am because my mother was, and so were both my
sisters, but that really was unusual. Even here, a few generations in the past,
most of the pureblooded students I treat are earth. Why do you ask, Hermione?”
 
            “Well,” Hermione started, thinking that Narcissa probably already
had a good idea of what she was going to say. “Tom and Abraxas and Patience and
I have done most of an elemental quartet bonding.”
 
            Her mother closed her eyes and rested her head back against the
chair. “Oh, Hermione. What is most? And howexactly did you bond? With sex
magic?”
 
            “We’ve done two complete group spells, and completed all the cross
corners except for water and earth,” Hermione said, then added in a mumble,
“and yes, it was sex magic.”   
 
            “Darling,” Narcissa began in a concerned tone, her brown eyes open
and locked on her daughter now. “Have you been using the permanent spells?”
 
            Hermione nodded, feeling vaguely ashamed and angry that she did. It
wasn’t that she had entered into this behavior lightly, or at least, she didn’t
think she had.
 
            “What is it about the elemental bonding that has you so concerned?”
she asked.
 
            “Besides the fact that a group of fifteen and sixteen year olds
have permanently bound themselves magically to one another for the rest of
their lives?” Narcissa raised both eyebrows, which was rare for her.
 
            Hermione frowned. “That isn’t uncommon in the magical world,
especially in this time period. You told me you were engaged at sixteen.”
 
            “Yes, that is the common practice, for purebloods and other half-
blood families who have been magical for many generations, but it is not for
everyone, and it is not a practice I would endorse for my own child.”
 
            “You wouldn’t have seen Draco engaged in a few years?” Hermione
asked before she thought.
 
            Narcissa’s face flashed with raw pain before it quickly became her
normal, neutral mask. “I was talking about you. You are my only child, because
Draco won’t ever exist in this timeline, and since you have bonded elementally
with Abraxas, Lucius isn’t likely to be born in this timeline, either.
 
            “What?” Hermione hadn’t even thought about potentially writing
Lucius out of existence, and she felt awful for mentioning Draco, which she
knew was a source of great pain to Narcissa, her biggest regret when it came to
their actions was leaving her son behind.
 
           “I don’t think you understand what you’ve done. When the Malfoys try
to enter into a magical engagement contract with another pureblood family for
Abraxas, several diagnostic spells will be conducted,” she glanced into the
fire with distaste.
 
            “Usually, these are mainly to ensure that the girl is a virgin, but
they will also reveal any other magical contracts or bindings, to prevent
hiding previous engagements or claims. Your bond with Abraxas and his bond with
Tom will both be there, and if you continue forward, there will be one with
Patience as well. And when Lord and Lady Malfoy see those bonds, they will try
to break them, and I think we know just how well Tom will take that. We’ll be
lucky if he doesn’t kill them and end up in Azkaban.”
 
            Hermione’s stomach was churning as she tried to think of solutions,
of words to reassure both Narcissa and herself. “It’s too late to go back now,”
she kneeled in front of Narcissa, taking both her hands. “I know it seems rash,
but believe me, our connection – all of our connections – are strong. Tom is
better, more balanced with us, and this is healthy. It isn’t some lewd, purely
sexual thing. He feels more than he used to, and that has to be a good thing,
doesn’t it?”
 
            “I’m not judging you by muggle morality standards,” Narcissa gently
stoked Hermione’s cheek. “Don’t think that. Sex magic isn’t considered wrong or
immoral, and neither is elemental bonding. It is simply, that because of the
strength of both of these kinds of magic, they are not meant to be used by
minors. I know that you are not really a minor, and that Tom is very mature,
but what of Abraxas and Patience? Do they really understand what they’ve done?”
 
            “They do,” Hermione said firmly. “We are all mature, more than you
realize. These bonds, this magic, it is so natural. It’s like an extension of
myself. I can feel all of them now, their magic filling in the gaps in mine,
the weak spots shored up. It really is wonderful, Mother.”
 
           They were both silent for a few minutes, then Hermione spoke again.
“You said that the Malfoys would tryto break the bonds,” Hermione latched onto
Narcissa’s earlier words. “Can these bonds be broken?”
 
            Narcissa shook her head. “Maybe if the magic had been weak, but
with both you and Tom involved in the casting? I don’t think the Malfoys stand
a chance, and the only other way to break it would be to kill the others in the
bond.”
 
           Her brown eyes filled with tears, something that never happened. “Do
you believe for an instant that the Malfoys would hesitate to hire someone to
try to kill you and Tom and Patience? This is going to be a disaster. Abraxas
is sixteen. His parents will be pressuring him to start looking at prospective
fiancées. Even if he does put them off, it is only a matter of time before that
fact that the four of you are bonded will come to light.”
 
            Hermione needed to comfort Narcissa, but she wasn’t sure of the
right way. “Mother, we’ve both stood against the most powerful dark wizard in
history. What are the Malfoys to us? And we have some time. Abraxas will put
off his parents, at least until we’re all seventeen, and then… What about the
‘good as marriage’ bit you mentioned? What if we can say we’re already bonded,
in a public forum? If everyone knew, the Malfoys couldn’t try to hurt us
without it being obvious they were behind it.”
 
         “Darling, those are ancient customs, maybe not even actual laws,”
Narcissa protested. “I have no idea if they are even still in place,”
 
            “I’ll look in the Chamber,” Hermione cut in. “There has to be some
information there, and we can find out from the Ministry about laws on this
subject. I’ll request a copy of all laws pertaining to marriage and binding.”
 
            Narcissa couldn’t hold back a startled laugh. “Hermione, that will
be thousands of pages, I am sure. I don’t know if even you would be able to
sort through it.”
 
            “Well, then it’s a good thing I have a year and three people to
help me, isn’t it?” Hermione replied with a smile.
 
            “Darling, you have five,” Narcissa corrected gently. “Of course, I
will tell Galatea about the bonding, and we will help as well. She loves
trouble and intrigue. Nothing will make her smile wider than the thought of a
pureblooded family like the Malfoys being forced to include half-blooded
members.” She shook her head. “Thank all the Gods and Goddesses that no one
knows you are muggle born.”
 
            Hermione had relaxed somewhat, though she knew Narcissa was still
very concerned. “The primary goal was to keep Tom’s soul intact, Mother. This
really is a step in the right direction, even if it raises other complications.
We’re changing the future. It couldn’t all be smooth sailing.”
 
            Narcissa arched one brow and her lips took on a sarcastic tilt.
“Darling, this isn’t a little bit of choppy waters. This is going headlong into
a hurricane.”
 
            “Then, with so much water, the glass will have to be half-full, at
least, right?” Hermione smiled so widely her face ached.
 
            “You are a silly, silly goose,” Narcissa sighed, hugging her. “But
I love you. And we’ll weather it together, as we always do, dear.”
 
 
oOo0oOo
 
 
            Hermione left her mother’s quarters about an hour later, heading
down to the early breakfast. Narcissa had agreed to talk to Galatea about the
situation and making the marriage laws request to the Ministry from Hogwarts,
to make it look like a project for school, rather than a personal inquiry. They
would find out if there was any law that would protect the completed elemental
binding as superior to any engagement contract or subsequent marriage bond. If
that was the case, then there wasn’t a lot of recourse for the Malfoys, though
Hermione was sure they would take exactly the kind of measures Narcissa had
mentioned. However, unlike Narcissa, who was concerned as a mother, Hermione
was not scared of Abraxas’s parents, especially not with Tom, Abraxas, and
Patience at her side, not to mention Narcissa herself and Galatea.
 
            She did want to have a conversation with the rest of the group,
though, to make sure they were truly aware of just how serious this was.
Narcissa had told her that she thought if Patience and Abraxas remained
unbound, then the other connections would weaken a bit with time and the
quartet wouldn’t have the status to prevent any future engagements. Yes, the
links to Tom and Hermione would show up, but they could potentially be ignored.
            As much as Hermione thought this solved many of the problems of
Tom’s possessiveness (and her own, if she were honest with herself), she had to
be sure that everyone was on the same page, that no one was being lied to by
omission. It would hurt greatly to see Abraxas married to someone like
Marguerite, but that should be his choice, not hers, and not Tom’s.
 
            Patience was standing outside the dining hall. She gave Hermione
her far-away smile as she approached. “Look what Tom’s fire magic is letting me
do.”
 
            She waved her wand, tracing fiery runes for desireand power that
burned brightly in the air, then making the runes wash away in what looked like
rain, though no actual water fell. It was not practical magic, but it did
require skill and effort for Patience to tap into the part of Tom’s magic that
was bound to her own, and Hermione appreciated it from an intellectual
standpoint. “Nice, Patience.”
 
            “And this is from you,” Patience continued, forming the runes for
beautiful, friend,and love in the air in hovering rain drops, then allowing
them the blow away, as if by an unseen breeze.
 
            Hermione took her arm and squeezed it. “I love you, too, Patience.”
 
            The blue snake on Patience’s wrist hissed and Hermione’s locket
rattled gently, apparently responding to even a bastardization of parseltongue.
Patience looked pleased, and they walked into the hall smiling.
 
            There were more students than usual so early on a Sunday, but they
were almost all part of the study group, which meant that most of the students
were at the Slytherin table, even the non-Slytherins Felicity and Josephine.
Hermione steeled herself when she saw Marguerite sitting at Tom’s side, though
she noted that Marguerite had left at least a foot and a half of space between
them. Tom immediately noticed them, as did Abraxas, who was on his other side,
and definitely less than a foot away.
 
            “Hermione,” Tom called, his voice echoing. “Patience,” he added as
an afterthought, though Patience didn’t seem to notice.  
 
            Corvus and Vidhi moved down to allow Hermione and Patience to sit
directly across from Tom. “Thanks,” Hermione murmured.
 
            “I was thinking of sending out a search party,” Tom said, his voice
tart as a lemon. “We wanted to get started early today, as you both knew.”
 
            Hermione met his gaze and frowned. “I was speaking to my mother,
about something rather important, Tom.”
 
            His mouth flattened into an unpleasant line. “Important? Really?
More important than our work of months?”
 
            Several of the Slytherins subtly began moving away, sliding along
the benches. Hermione made her voice as calm as possible. She was not in the
mood to deal with Tom’s autocratic behavior. She’d just spent an hour defending
how far he’d come emotionally to her mother, and now he was acting like a
spoiled brat.
 
            “Actually, it impacts some of our work, and I’m happy to discuss it
with you later. I’m here now, and I had breakfast with my mother, so I can
leave whenever you are ready.”  
           
            Tom looked annoyed, but he nodded and stood, telling the others to
follow him, quietly. The group exchanged many glances, but everyone followed
Tom out of the hall, out the front door, and around toward the greenhouses.
Hermione brought up the rear, erasing any tracks in the soggy ground and
murmuring notice me not spells over the entire group as they walked.
           
            When they reached the entrance, Abraxas and Tom levitated the rocks
and branches and the whole group began buzzing as the tunnel mouth was
revealed.
            “Quiet, please,” Tom spoke firmly. “We need to get everyone in as
quickly as possible to keep this location a secret. I need to go first, and
Hermione will close the entrance behind us. Everyone move in a neat single
file, please.”
 
            The excitement was palpable, Hermione thought, as the small group
instantly formed a line and disappeared down the tunnel, the taller ones
ducking as they went. She closed up the entrance, and turned to Patience, who
had waited for her, and walked down arm in arm.
 
            The group had come to the wide-open antechamber, and even
Marguerite and Sebastian, who were the most difficult to impress, were wide-
eyed and open-mouthed in astonishment.
 
            “It’s real? The Chamber is real?” Marguerite was asking repeatedly
in a low voice for once not throwing angry glares at Hermione.
 
            “This is bloody brilliant!” Corvus whooped. “The ceiling's so high,
we could fly our brooms down here!”
 
            Several shrieks interrupted the joyful laughter and comments when
Astarte slithered out of the mouth of the statue.
 
           “Fucking hell!” Jacob yelled, which seemed to be the standard
response, even from the girls. He threw himself in front of Josephine, who had
moved back toward the wall in shock.
 
           Felicity froze, her voice trembling as she held out her wand in a
defensive posture. “Isn’t the legend that this thing kills muggleborns?” Her
words echoed in the cavernous space.  
 
           Tom spoke in a rapid hiss and Astarte answered back and then slipped
away again. He turned to Felicity, and Hermione was shocked when he actually
put his hand over hers, lowering her wand slowly in a comforting gesture.
 
           “You don’t need to worry, Felicity, Astarte is bound to serve me as
the Heir of Slytherin, and I’ve told her that I don’t believe in blood purity.
She would never attack anyone, regardless of blood status, without my command.”
 
           “So, what you’re saying is that I need to stay on your good side?”
Felicity joked, deflecting her fear with humor, as she always did.
 
           Tom smiled, and it was a beautiful smile, all charm and reassurance.
It would have worked on anyone, let alone a scared fifteen-year old girl. “You
have nothing to fear from me or Astarte, Felicity. You are safe here.”
 
           He let go of her hand and said to the group at large, “You are all
my guests in the Chamber of Secrets. This room isn’t even the best of what it
holds. Come,” he motioned for them to follow and led everyone into the library/
potions laboratory.
 
           There was another extended round of ooohs and aaahs as everyone
walked around, drawn to different areas depending on their personalities. Jacob
and Vidhi went straight for the books, browsing the titles and both groaning in
frustration when they realized that most of the selection was in foreign
languages, though Vidhi was delighted to find some in Hindu, and Jacob knew
Greek, and they both could read Latin, as well.
 
           Sebastian, Marguerite, and Josephine went to the potions
ingredients, poking around in jars and holding vials up to the light, while
Felicity found the aura ball, and promptly made it glow a deep green with spots
of yellow like fireflies in a forest. Thad picked up the goblet and laughed
delightedly when it filled with mead. Corvus examined the dueling platforms
that ran along the curve of the northern wall, taking a light fall on the
cushions to test the padding.
 
           Tom came to stand beside Hermione, absently wrapping an arm around
her waist. “What happened this morning?” his tone was less confrontational than
it had been at the table in the Great Hall, and Hermione reminded herself that
a powerful public image was important to Tom. No, not important, vital to his
sense of self. He would always be more relaxed in their private conversations,
more reasonable. That was something she had to get used to, as it would likely
only get worse as he got older.
 
          “I talked to Mother about the elemental binding,” she began.
 
          “Why in the world would you talk to your motherabout that?” Tom
snapped, anger in his blue eyes.
 
          All anger is really fear in disguise, Hermione chanted in her mind
before replying, “I don’t have secrets from my mother, and I was honestly a
little concerned about the ramifications of the connections – are you feeling
the power of them yet?”
 
         Tom nodded, his anger subsiding and curiosity taking its place. “What
did Narcissa say? What does she know about these kinds of bonds?”
 
        Abraxas and Patience had come over and were standing close, Abraxas
looking concerned even as he good-naturedly allowed Patience to twirl her
fingers in his hair . Hermione looked at them each in turn. “We all need to
talk about this, but it will have to wait. We have guests now.”
 
        Another smooth smile slid over Tom’s face as he was reminded of the
others. “Of course. Tonight, then.”
 
oOo0oOo
 
            Josephine had been right, Hermione decided. Although there were a
few solid hours of practicing spells and making plans to translate specific
books or try out particular potions, the unveiling of the Chamber turned into a
party rather quickly. The rooms themselves were magical spaces, the air charged
with power and potential, and the group was giddy with it, as well as their
inclusion in a secret and their new access to so much ancient magic.
 
            Hermione had drawn upon her own previous spellwork for Dumbledore’s
Army and created a binding secret keeping agreement, to make sure that neither
the existence of the Chamber nor its many secrets could be revealed or
discussed outside of their group. Tom had wanted to create the spell for this,
but Hermione had insisted on being the maker. If she had let Tom do it, she was
sure that the punishment for revelation would be something close to death. As
it was, she had put in a tongue swelling hex and memory erasing charm (a
modification of the powerful spell Lockhart had inadvertently used on himself
in their second year), so that the moment the Chamber was mentioned to someone
not in their group, the speaker’s tongue would swell, making words difficult to
understand, and all memories of the Chamber would be erased from the speaker’s
mind. It was a complicated and advanced spell, and Hermione had used the
elemental connections to help create it, recognizing that her magic was indeed
stronger from the binding spells, and she had even had Narcissa sign the
contract earlier, in invisible ink, so that they wouldn't be barred from
discussing the Chamber with one another.
 
            None of the eight other students had hesitated before signing the
document after Tom, Hermione, Patience, and Abraxas had done so, and once that
was done, Thad had started passing around the enchanted cup and any pretense at
studying was gone. Hermione did not have a drink, nor did Tom, and they sat in
the chairs by the fire watching the rest of the group laughing and talking or
practicing dueling over by the mats.
 
            “This is not exactly what I had in mind,” Tom looked exasperated,
which she knew would quickly turn to anger.
 
            Hermione got up from her chair and sat in his lap. He glanced at
her, surprise crossing his face, as they weren’t usually this affectionate in
front of others. She couldn’t help but notice Marguerite’s expression of barely
suppressed rage from across the room, and tried not to feel petty satisfaction.
“They are happy and excited. They’ll settle down after visiting a few more
times. And honestly, we still have more translation to complete before we can
try out many new spells.”
 
            Tom relaxed, putting his arms around her and pulling her back
against him. His face was in her hair for a moment, and she felt him inhale
deeply, then exhale hotly on the back of her neck. “I love the way you smell,”
he whispered, his voice low and husky.
 
            It was an effort not to wiggle in his lap at that comment, but
Hermione just managed. Instead, she turned and kissed the corner of his mouth,
their magic like electricity between them. “I love you,” she replied.
 
            His smile broadened and he held her tighter, keeping her firmly
against him as he gazed out at the others. “Do you think this was a good idea?”
 
            Hermione thought quickly. It was not often that Tom expressed any
kind of doubt, and never over his own plans. He had been the one who had most
wanted to bring the others here. She wondered what exactly he wanted, what his
long-term goal was. In this existence, he didn’t have followers in the same way
as his alternate self did. There were no Knights of Walpurgis, but this group
was loyal to Tom, willing to listen to his directions, lie and keep secrets
from teachers for him. True, none of the secrets had been dangerous – yet.
Hermione still cringed to think that she was the one who had caused the group
to keep the worst secret – her injury of Sagitta Black back in their first
year, and Tom’s subsequent oblivation of the witnesses. As well as she knew
Tom, as much as she could feel this moods, she didn’t know his plans for this
group, and it was time she did.
 
            “That depends,” she spoke quietly, her face turned close to his
ear, the back of her head resting against his shoulder. “If all you wanted to
do was continue the study group, then this is a bit extreme. What is that you
truly want from them, Tom?”
 
            He was quiet for a long while, and Hermione could feel his
struggle, a pulling back and forth along their bond as he debated what to say.
Finally, he answered. “I’ve been asking myself that same question, dearest, and
I am not sure. For a few years, I was thinking of the political route, but I
think we both know I’m not suited for red tape or committees.”
 
            Hermione couldn’t hold back a snort. “No, you are certainly not.
You’d hex everyone until they did what you wanted and end up in a lot of
trouble.”
 
            Tom’s smile was wide enough that she felt it along the side of her
face. “True, I’m not the diplomatic type. In the last year, I’ve thought more
along the lines of ‘War Hero, Savior of the Wizarding World.’ What do you
think?”
 
            “And how would you accomplish that?” Hermione asked, pushing down
the insane laughter threatening to bubble up inside her. Tom Riddle the Savior?
The Hero? There was changing the world, and then there was turning it upside-
fucking-down.
 
            “Grindelwald,” Tom replied, his voice hardly audible. “If I can
defeat him, then all doors will be open to us, and there will be positions
offered without the need for years of menial work.”
 
            She tried to twist to face him, but his arms kept her turned
forward. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed again. His hold reminded her that
they had an audience, and it was best to not over-react. “Tom,” she hissed
lowly. “That is insane. You are a genius, and you will go down in history as an
amazing wizard one day, but Grindelwald is also a genius, a Master at many
forms of magic right now, and has decades of practical magical experience.”
 
          “With the knowledge held in this Chamber, and a bit of practice in
real battles, I think I will be able to defeat him,” Tom replied calmly, though
he did not release his grip on her.
 
            “You can’t simply simulate battle conditions down here, Tom, not
without putting everyone’s life at risk, and possibly landing all of us in
Azkaban!” She protested, adding, “Besides, even if you could, the magical
skills of highly talented fifth years are not the same as the attack skills of
Grindelwald and his army!”
 
            “I know all of that, dearest,” Tom’s voice wasn’t angry, but it was
determined. “We will explore the limits of dueling and simulations down here,
but there is no doubt I need to get to France or Germany sometime soon, maybe
over the Christmas break. If I can test myself against a small group of
Grindelwald’s men, then I’ll have a better idea of how long it will be until I
can face the man himself.”
 
            Hermione’s heart was thudding in her chest, and she was at a loss
for what to say. In this time, Tom hadn’t shown any interest in searching for
the truth in the children’s tale of the Deathly Hallows, but Grindelwald
didhave the Elder Wand, and, given its violent history, Hermione did not want
it falling into Tom’s hands. Add to that, Dumbledore knew about the wand as
well, and though he was not antagonistic toward Tom, the Transfiguration
Professor and Deputy Headmaster did not fawn over him and seemed a bit
suspicious of his easy smiles. Tom going after Grindelwald would put Tom on
Dumbledore’s radar, and not necessarily in a good way.
 
            It was late 1942, almost 1943, and in Hermione’s original time,
Dumbledore hadn’t had his famous duel with Grindelwald until 1945. There was no
guarantee events would unfold like that now, but since Hermione and Tom had no
direct contact or any kind of influence over what was happening in Europe, it
seemed likely that series of events would happen roughly in the same way, if
Tom didn’t interfere. And now that he had the idea, Tom would do his best to
interfere. Of course, he didn’t know he was interfering, no one knew that
Dumbledore would eventually step in to stop Grindelwald, though Dumbledore had
to have an inkling of what was coming. That man played the long game, Hermione
knew, and she would never underestimate his willingness to sacrifice the well-
being of a child or children for what he thought was the Greater Good.
 
            “Tom,” Hermione started slowly, thinking of the best way to
continue. “You aren’t ready for such a step. And think for a moment what the
perception would be. Even if you defeated Grindelwald, you would be this young,
rash student who’d gone in without a plan, without sanctioning by the Wizarding
world – you’d be a kind of…vigilante.”
 
            Tom’s cheek rubbed hers as he laughed. “You are simply adorable
when you are all concerned and indignant, dearest.” He kissed the side of her
face, and then spoke again, his voice much harder this time. “I’ve made up my
mind. This isn’t happening tomorrow, and I won’t go in until I’m sure of my
success, but it ishappening.”
 
            Hermione slumped against him, a thousand disastrous scenarios
competing to play out in her mind. It wouldn’t help to argue. She would need to
talk to Narcissa and figure out some kind of way to influence Tom’s behavior
more subtly.
 
 
            The rest of the day continued in a festive mood for most of the
group, and Hermione had to perform her tried and true role of kill-joy a half-
hour before dinner by brewing a sobering potion and making everyone drink it
before exiting the Chamber to go to the Great Hall. She and Tom had already
decided that it wouldn’t be a good idea to let the others know that they could
summon the Hogwarts elves, because then it would be more difficult to convince
the group to leave. Already, as she led others up the tunnel, she heard them
excitedly chatting about next weekend in the Chamber, of the books and potions
and spells they each wanted to test out.
 
            She still needed to talk to Tom, Patience, and Abraxas about the
elemental bonding, but they could do that after dinner, in the fifth floor
classroom that still served as the get-together spot for the larger study group
during the weeknights. It wouldn’t do to be running back and forth to the
outside Chamber entrance multiple times a day. Hermione wished they could
create an access point inside Hogwarts that didn’t involve going through the
girls’ loo, but after her talk with Tom about Grindelwald, she had much larger
worries to occupy her mind.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            As usual, Tom was the last person to leave the Chamber. He liked to
take his time, looking around to make sure all the books and supplies were
replaced neatly on the shelves, and when he came out to the antechamber, he
called to Astarte. He made a point to talk to her every time he was in the
Chamber. She had been alone for centuries, and though Tom didn’t exactly feel
sympathy, he knew it was a good idea to remind her of her connection to humans,
to give her at least a bit of company occasionally. And praise, also. Over the
years at Hogwarts, and countless hours spent with Hermione, Narcissa, and
Galatea, he’d learned about positive reinforcement. How much that mattered to a
basilisk, he wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t hurt.
 
            “Your restraint was excellent today, Astarte,” Tom hissed warmly.
“I know you are bound to obey me, but it must have been difficult to hold back
today, with a muggleborn here in the Chamber, after so many years of being told
to kill them.”
 
            Astarte rose on her coils, about a third of her height.   The
orbital bone above one of her eyes shifted, and Tom thought that if snakes
could arch a brow, then she was doing so. “It was no different than any other
day. There is always a muggleborn in the Chamber. Today was simply one more.”
 
            “What do you mean?” Tom was genuinely confused. “Abraxas is
pureblooded, but the rest of us are halfblooded.”
 
            Astarte shook her giant head. “Your magic mate is muggleborn. I can
taste it in the density of the magic around her.”
 
            Tom’s expression shifted from confusion to disbelief. “I know
Hermione’s mother. She’s my guardian. At the very least, Hermione would
halfblooded, and Hermione is the most powerful source of magic I’ve ever felt.
Her magical density is beyond compare. Perhaps you are getting old, Astarte,
and your senses of taste and smell are waning.”
 
            “No,” she spat rose up higher, towering over Tom. “I am a creature
of magic, I do not age. And you, with your weak human nose, are confusing power
with density. Pureblooded, halfblooded, and muggleborns have different levels
of exposure to magic. Purebloods and halfbloods are exposed to it even in the
womb, from either one or both parents. Muggleborns have only their own magic,
none given from any other source. The density of their magic is less, but that
has nothing to do with how powerful their magic is,” Astarte made a noise that
would have been a condescending sniff in a human. “and your magic mate, even
though she now has elemental bonds in addition to your mate bond, is a
muggleborn.”
 
            Though Tom was tempted to send a stinging hex toward Astarte for
her tone, he did not. Instead, he hissed a low apology for the misunderstanding
and quickly left the Chamber, his thoughts whirling.
 
            He did not care in the least if Hermione was muggleborn, but he did
care greatly about being deceived. And either one or both of the Bonneau ladies
were lying to him. It was going to be his top priority to discover which of
those conditions was true.
***** Narcissa Malfoy: Extraordinary Mixologist of Truth and Lies *****
Chapter Summary
     Tom confronts Narcissa about Hermione's heritage. Narcissa lies very
     well. Galatea confronts Narcissa about her sadness. Narcissa tells
     the truth. Both Bonneau ladies confront Tom about his proclivities
     toward mind-reading.
Chapter Notes
     I struggled a bit with this chapter, but it's out now (yeah!). It's
     not super long, but it's setting up our next chapter, which will
     feature the bonding of our final pairing, those sweet, sexy blondes.
     Love to you all!
 
 
             Narcissa’s day ended how it had begun, with a frantic teenager at
her door.
             Though Tom was not instantly admitted to her quarters like
Hermione, she let him in as soon as the door magically announced his name. His
energy was tightly controlled, but Narcissa was still able to sense that he was
very upset about something.
 
            “Tom, come in,” she motioned for him to enter, walking toward the
chairs by the fire.
 
            He did not follow her. Instead, he began pacing in the middle of
the room, his magic now coming off of him in angry waves.
 
            She was about to prompt him to speak when he turned to face her,
their eyes meeting. Narcissa had spent most of her life protecting her mind
from invasions. Every person who had cast legilimens on her had a unique feel.
The spell was conveyed by the individual’s magic, so it contained that person’s
magical signature, especially since legilimency was a very difficult, finicky
spell that took great power to do correctly. The Dark Lord had used legilimency
on her multiple times. His magic was strong, a burning buzz that snaked into
her brain, looking for lies or discrepancies between what she thought and what
she said. However, Narcissa was such a natural, strong occulumens that those
attempting to break into her mind thought they had, that what they saw were her
true thoughts, with no idea that she was completely in control of their spell’s
outcome. Though Tom Riddle at fifteen was not the Dark Lord from her future,
his magic was unmistakable, even if his touch was much lighter and worlds less
menacing.
 
            “It is rude to try to read my mind, Tom,” Narcissa spoke in a
matter of fact tone. “If you want to use legilimency, which is illegal without
consent from the other party, you will need to improve your skills to avoid
detection.”
 
            Tom’s mouth tightened infinitesimally; otherwise, his expression
was blandly polite. “That is good to know, ifI were going to do such a thing.”
 
            “Yes, it is important to be aware of all the possible ramifications
of our actions, especially if one is using magic generally considered dark or
invasive,” Narcissa continued, racking her mind to think what could have
happened to make Tom act so impulsively. His attempt at legilimency was not
clumsy by any means, but it was noticeable, and he needed to realize this was
not something he could do, especially not to the adults at Hogwarts.
 
            Narcissa held her arms wide in an open gesture. “I think I’ve done
my best to be honest with you, Tom. Perhaps you could simply ask me what you
want to know?”
 
            Tom smiled now, both handsome and horrible. “Fine, AuntNarcissa,”
he stressed the title sarcastically, venom dripping from his voice, which had
deepened to a lovely baritone over his past summer, a voice very much unlike
the high, shrill sound of the Dark Lord, though the inflections were similar
enough to make Narcissa fight back a shiver.
 
            “How is it that your daughter, my soul mate, is muggleborn?” he
asked softly.
 
            Whatever Narcissa had been expecting, it wasn’t that question. It
was too close to too many important secrets, but piling lie on top of lie was
not the tidy solution she wished for. She honestly contemplated oblivating Tom,
but if he found out once, he would find out again, and he would come to a skill
level soon where she wouldn’t be able to cast that spell on him, not without an
actual fight.
 
            The best lies had an element of truth, Narcissa decided. “Hermione
is not my biological child. I adopted her when she was an infant. As you know,
many purebloods have fertility problems, and I lost several pregnancies, as
well as a son,” the pain in her voice was real, her memories of the
miscarriages she had suffered and Draco’s face in the forefront of her mind.
 
             Tom said nothing while she paused, collecting herself. “My husband
was the magistrate of our small wizarding village in France,” she knew this was
verifiable, if Tom wished to check. All the other Bonneaus were dead now, and
she had long since secured the title and rights to the land, though that
wizarding village was currently controlled by Grindlewald. “Having a muggleborn
mother, my husband was very comfortable with the muggle villages nearby as
well, and had friends among the other, muggle landed gentry in our general
area. He happened to be visiting one of these friends when the muggle police
came to tell his friend, who was also a magistrate, that there had been a
terrible crime committed in the village.”
 
             “My husband went with them to the scene, a little cottage on the
outskirts of town. Thieves had broken into the house, killing the husband and
wife, but somehow, their infant daughter, only a few months old, had survived,
and no one could enter the room with her crib, though the door was open. My
husband quickly realized the child was magical, that her innate magic had
protected her, creating a barrier spell to the room. He was able to subtly send
a calming spell to the child, and enter the room. Once he picked her up, he
knew she was indeed magical, and no muggle orphanage would be equipped to help
her, and her parents had no close relatives. He convinced, probably with magic,
though he never admitted that to me, the others to let him bring the child home
to me, and we claimed her as our own, raised her as ours,” Narcissa finished
quietly, certain that her reference to the muggle orphanage system would arouse
Tom’s sense of protection over Hermione, as well as creating a story that
echoed what the Dark Lord had done to the Potters, hopefully making him
repelled by such an action at a younger age.  
 
             His brow was knitted, his hands clenched, but he looked more
thoughtful than angry. “So, Hermione doesn’t know that she isn’t yours?” Tom
asked, his eyes locked with hers, though he didn’t attempt legilimency this
time.
 
             Narcissa pondered quickly. If Tom asked Hermione a direct question
about her knowledge, with their connection, she might not be able to hide the
fact that she was lying. If, on the other hand, Narcissa told him that Hermione
knew, he would be angry that she had kept that knowledge from him, though that
would be more a lie of omission.
             Narcissa decided to split the difference.
 
            “I have never explicitly told her, no,” Narcissa answered
carefully. “But Hermione is the brightest person I’ve ever known. There were
whispers in the village when I suddenly had a child, and I’m sure she was aware
of them as she grew up, as well as the fact that she looks nothing like either
myself or my husband, who was also tall and fair. When she was attacked in the
village, even though the word carved on her was supposedly referencing her
father’s heritage, I believe that she put everything together, but, I simply
don’t know for sure, because we’ve never discussed it.”
 
            Tom nodded, and deep inside her mind, Narcissa relaxed slightly. He
seemed to believe her, and to not be particularly angry, unless he was hiding
it very well. “Why didn’t you tell her? Because of the fear of her being judged
as less?”
 
            “Yes,” she said, fleshing out the lie in a logical fashion.
Narcissa was an excellent liar, with decades of practice. “My husband’s mother
had a particularly difficult time with being treated differently, and her
experience shaped my husband. He wanted only the best for Hermione, as did I.
We wanted to give her every advantage we could, though she was so smart and
magically powerful from infancy, she barely needed our help.”
 
            “Why do you think she hasn’t confronted you about this? Hermione is
very vocal in her belief that blood status has nothing to do with ability. Why
would it bother her to admit that she is adopted, that she is muggleborn? It
wouldn’t make her any less of a witch to the opinions of those who matter,” Tom
spoke slowly, reasoning out his thoughts.
 
            Narcissa gave him a sad smile. “I suspect it is because the truth
is painful. Hermione knows she is my daughter, that I would die to protect her,
but if she admitted that she isn’t my biological daughter, then there is
another mother out there, a father, too, who would have died for her – they
actually did die for her, trying to protect her, though she doesn’t know that.
As clever as she is, she must know that she was either given up, or lost her
parents.   Either scenario is a loss I don’t think she wishes to face.”
 
            “I wonder about my father, sometimes,” Tom admitted. “Is he alive?
Did he know my mother died? Did she leave him for some reason? What would he do
if he knew I was alive?” These questions were spoken with an intellectual
curiosity only, no feelings attached.
 
            It took effort for Narcissa not to visibly react to this line of
inquiry. “I don’t know, Tom. However, the muggle age of majority is older, and
I wouldn’t like to see you put in a position where you might have to leave
Hogwarts due to a custody concern. You are so talented, a natural at magic, and
I don’t know that a muggle life, even part of the time, would suit you.”
 
            “Oh, it wouldn’t,” Tom agreed. “I really am not that interested in
searching for him. It is simply an idle thought now and again.”
 
            Narcissa nodded, unsure of what to say next.
 
            “I think you should talk to her about this,” Tom announced. “We are
a family, you and Galatea, and Hermione and I, and we shouldn’t have secrets
from one another. Hermione told me she didn’t keep secrets from you. You should
return the favor.”
 
            Tom Riddle lecturing her about family and keeping secrets? Narcissa
felt the world shifting beneath her feet. Before she could respond, he spoke
again.
 
            “Hermione told me that she talked to you about the elemental
bonding we have started with Abraxas and Patience,” he said. “We didn’t have a
long discussion, but she implied that you had concerns.”
 
            Narcissa hadn’t been so uncomfortable in years. Her brain could
barely process the thought of her father-in-law, the Dark Lord, and her adopted
daughter rolling around in a bed with that odd girl who was clearly an
ancestress of the Lovegood girl who had been languishing in the Malfoy dungeons
when Narcissa had left with Hermione for the past.
 
            “Yes, I do,” Narcissa finally said. She pushed her embarrassment
aside and spoke plainly, telling Tom what she had said to Hermione about the
visibility of the bonds, of how they would certainly impact Abraxas, and
perhaps Patience as well.
 
            Tom listened quietly, asking a few questions, then sat silently for
several minutes, lost in thought. “So, Hermione’s plan is to have Abraxas put
off his parents for as long as possible, and use that time to research if there
are any laws on record about elemental quartet bonding superseding betrothal
contracts?”
 
            “I believe so,” she answered, inwardly surprised at his calm.
Perhaps Hermione was right about the elemental quartet being a humanizing
influence on Tom.
 
            “How like Hermione to want to solve a problem with research,” he
murmured, a small smile at the corner of his lips.
 
            Narcissa didn’t keep back her little laugh. “Indeed.”
 
            He glanced at Narcissa, his beautiful face so deceptively angelic.
She was thankful for once that the Dark Lord had changed his face. Somehow it
would have been more horrible to see him commit atrocities with such a lovely
visage. “What do you believe the Malfoys will do when they realize what has
happened?”
 
            She closed her eyes. “The Malfoys are one of the oldest and most
powerful pureblooded families. Their wealth and position in society, combined
with their pureblood status, makes them the shining example to other pureblood
families, especially since they have managed to avoid madness or magical loss
in the bloodlines. Lord and Lady Malfoy would do anything to keep that
prestige. They can’t disinherit Abraxas, as that would be the end of their
line, so be sure that they will fight to make sure he marries a suitable,
pureblooded bride.”
 
            “You think they would try to kill us?” Tom’s blue eyes narrowed, an
indignant and haughty expression covered his face.
 
            Narcissa gave him a thin smile. “I think you would find yourself
narrowly avoiding many odd accidents, and needing to constantly scan your food
and personal belongings for curses, especially outside of Hogwarts.”
 
            “And if we find a law to support the validity of the bond and make
that knowledge public, before any betrothal?” Tom was calm again, but a
deadliness was emanating from his entire person.
 
            She gave a noncommittal gesture. “I’m not sure, Tom.”
 
            “I am not giving any of them up,” Tom said quietly, his voice cold
and resolved.
 
            “Alright,” Narcissa replied. “But you must be prepared for a fight
when the time comes, Tom, and you must be smart about it. Landing yourself in
Azkaban would make you lose them as well.”
 
            Tom smiled, full of self-assurance. “I don’t believe there is a
prison that could hold me, Aunt Narcissa.”
 
            “I’d prefer you didn’t test that theory, Tom,” she shook her head.
“You are young and impulsive. If you wish to rise to a position of power and
influence, you need to reign yourself in. Act cautiously and with restraint
until you are sure of victory. Isn’t that the Slytherin way?”
 
            Tom laughed. “Certainly, for the followers. I am the Heir of
Slytherin, and I set the course of action.”
 
            Narcissa looked at him closely. Outwardly, he was near to perfect:
incredibly handsome, charming, polite, with a touch of arrogance that only made
him seem commanding and self-assured. Inside, she knew, he was manipulative and
calculating, controlling and possessive, and purposely obscuring his true
magical skill level. Where was he? His legilimency would work on most people
now, she thought, though Hogwarts professors tended to be more powerful than
the average witch or wizard. He hadn’t cast any Unforgiveables yet, she didn’t
think, but he was certainly capable of doing so, and he had elemental bonds and
a soul mate bond to draw upon, magical sources he had not had access to in the
future timeline. This young man was growing more dangerous by the day, and
Narcissa realized her hopes that he might simply go into politics were unlikely
to come true. How could she help direct him in a way that would be most
positive?
 
            “Tom, what do you want to do? You need to think about the future,”
Narcissa was completely composed again, the perfect picture of elegance and
restraint, of a wise and knowing witch. “Those who amass power are noticed, and
then they are challenged. You must have an idea of where you are headed.”
 
            Tom stood, took her hand, and bowed over it. He gave her a winning
smile. “I’m headed to the top, Aunt Narcissa, and you’ll be there as well.”
 
            With that, he left the room, and she sat there, lost in
contemplation of what the fuck, to borrow a phrase from Hermione, was
happening. She was still sitting, her chin in her hand, staring somewhere
beyond the fire, when Galatea arrived.
 
            “Bad day?” Galatea put her hand on Narcissa’s knee, drawing her
back to the present. “You look far away, in an unpleasant place.”
 
            Narcissa turned to her soul mate, at the older woman’s easy grin,
at how youthful she managed to look, younger than Narcissa if one went by the
weight in her soul. She and Hermione had discussed telling Galatea the truth,
telling her about the future, but she had held back. Now, though, she felt
terribly alone, and she was tired of that feeling, tired of lying to the one
person she should be able to share everything with.
 
            “I would like to tell you a story,” Narcissa began slowly.
 
            “How coincidental! I would love to hear a story,” Galatea sat in
the opposite chair, pulling it closer and taking Narcissa’s feet into her lap,
massaging the soles through her stockings.
 
            The paler woman shifted, her body relaxing into Galatea’s touch
even as her mind wound tightly, her emotions a tangled mess of fear and need to
share the truth. Galatea looked up at her. “You are scared, darling. Don’t be.
I love you.”
 
            Narcissa felt wetness on her cheeks, realized she was crying. “Oh,
Tea. I love you, too. I…but…I’ve kept so much from you.”
 
            Galatea nodded solemnly. “I know. You have walls so tall and thick
I haven’t even tried to scale them. I knew you would share if and when you
could. Nothing you tell me could make me love you less, Narcissa. You are my
soul mate. I’ve waited my whole life for you. No past events could change
that.”
 
            “What about future events?” Narcissa asked, her voice breaking.
 
            Galatea raised her eyebrows. “Our future?”
 
            “No,” Narcissa shook her head sadly, her eyes on the fire again. “A
future that is also the past.”
 
            “Time travel?” Galatea asked slowly, putting together an untold
story, using five years of evidence. She was a brilliant Ravenclaw, after all.
“Are you from the future?” The green flecks in her hazel eyes seemed to glow in
the light from the flames. “Is Hermione?”
 
            Narcissa nodded, and then she told Galatea everything, beginning
with her childhood, losing Andromeda to her marriage, Narcissa’s own marriage,
losing Bellatrix, first to Azkaban, then to madness, Lucius’s decision to
follow the Dark Lord, the rise and fall and rise again of the Dark Lord, the
terror of war, of living in a house occupied by the most evil person she’d ever
met, a terrible tyrant who retained only the barest shred of a soul. She
explained her decision to change the past, the research she’d done, the curses
she had combined, of how Hermione had been thrust into her path, of how she’d
seen the soul mate words and known that Hermione was a vital part of whatever
she would do in the past. Narcissa told her of taking Tom from the orphanage,
of everything she had discovered from Hermione about the Dark Lord’s childhood.
She laid out the differences she and Hermione had already created, of all the
changes they had made.
 
            And, she cried. Narcissa shed the tears she had held in for half a
decade. The tears over Draco, the son she had unmade, of losing Lucius, her
husband of over twenty years, of all the connections she’d lost, and possibly
destroyed forever. She cried for Hermione’s losses, the parents and friends she
would never have again. All through this, Galatea held her, taking her from the
chair and leading her to their bed, wrapping her long form around Narcissa’s
shorter one, enclosing her in the smell of cloves and comfort.
 
            When her tears finally subsided and Narcissa felt she could breathe
again, Galatea spoke. “I trust you, Narcissa. I trust you not because of what
you say, which I believe, but because I feel the truth of it in my soul. You
have literally taken the future of the wizarding world in your hands, you and
Hermione, and though I could say from my safe vantage point as a person who
hasn’t witnessed what you have that sounds incredibly arrogant, I know it was
bad. That it was unlivable. I can see it in your eyes.   You and Hermione are
the two dearest people in my life. You are my family, and Tom is a part of that
family as well. I will not turn my back on that, on you.”
 
            Narcissa gave a gasp of relief, clinging to Galatea’s shirt. “Thank
you. I know this is…overwhelming.”
 
            Galatea frowned. “That is an understatement of massive proportions,
darling. This is worldview-changing. As frightened as you are? As bad as
Grindelwald is, and you say Tom grew up to be worse?”
 
            “I really do think we’ve made quite a bit of progress,” Narcissa
murmured. “Tom is a different person already. He hasn’t done any of the
horrible things he’d already done by now.”
 
            “Like murder Myrtle? One of my Ravenclaws?” Galatea’s voice was a
bit harder now. “Yes, not murdering a fellow student is progress, I’m sure, but
maybe we should raise the bar a bit.”
 
            Narcissa sat up on her elbow. “How, Tea? You don’t understand how
fragile he is, how hard Hermione has worked to keep his soul intact, to make
him more human.”
 
            Galatea’s frown was never quite as crooked as her smile, and
Narcissa missed the un-level expression. Frowns didn’t belong on her soul
mate’s face. “Darling, I might not know the future, but letting Tom do whatever
he wants for fear of what he mightbecome doesn’t seem like a solution.”
 
            “I’m not letting him do whatever he wants, Tea,” Narcissa began,
trying to keep the testiness out of her tone. They had never really argued.
 
            “Darling! Your view of this situation is impossibly skewed by
horrific violence and fear. Tom is amassing power; he’s creating an elemental
quartet at fifteen! I think that constitutes unbelievable latitude,” Galatea
replied.
 
            “You are right,” Narcissa said coldly. “My view is skewed, because
I know what Tom is potentially capable of. I’ve washed the blood off the walls,
Galatea. I’ve buried the bodies. I nursed my son and husband after they were
subjected to hoursof the cruciatuscurse. I need you to do more than believe me!
I need you to support my decisions and accept that Hermione and I are acting in
the best way we can, that what we are doing isn’t kowtowing to Tom, but subtly
shaping him to be the best version of himself. Short of killing him, what would
you suggest I do differently?”
 
            Galatea stared at her, having never seen Narcissa so passionate, so
clearly communicative of her thoughts and feelings. She took a deep breath, put
her hand on Narcissa’s cheek, feeling her through their bond. “I do trust you,
Narcissa. It’s just you are so close to the situation, and playing with time
also plays with your mind. Magicians who move through time have a tendency to
go mad with all the possibilities,” she paused, then added, “Have you thoughtof
killing him?”
 
            Narcissa nodded. “And I will, if I must. If he makes a horcrux,
Hermione and I will destroy it and kill him.”
 
            The professor was silent, taking in the anger under Narcissa’s
statement, along with all the knowledge she had gained in the last hour.
Narcissa wasdoing what she thought was right, Galatea could feel it, and
between her soul mate and Hermione, Galatea couldn’t think of two more capable
and determined witches. “Narcissa, I support you. I can’t promise to always
agree, and I can’t promise I won’t argue with you, but I will always love and
trust you.”
 
            Narcissa leaned into Galatea’s touch, drawing from the love infused
in her soul mate’s magic as it mingled with her own. “Thank you. That’s more
than I thought I’d ever have.”
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Hermione had asked Tom, Abraxas, and Patience to meet her in the
fifth floor classroom after dinner. Abraxas and Patience were there, but Tom
had disappeared, and Hermione could feel anger in their connection, though it
eventually subsided. Abraxas and Patience felt it as well, though not as
strongly. She started without Tom, telling the other two what she’d learned
about the elemental bonding process. Patience, of course, took it in her usual,
unbothered manner. Abraxas blanched, but his jaw took on a stubborn set, and he
insisted that it didn’t matter, that he wouldn’t bow to his parents’ wishes.
 
            They were on the floor, lying on the dueling cushions, staring out
the windows at the stars, Patience occasionally pointing out a made-up
constellation. Abraxas was in the middle, both girls with a head on his
shoulders, their hands linked over his stomach, trying to calm his fears with
their touch.
 
            “They’ve already sent a list,” Abraxas said quietly, breathing out
a sigh that smelled of the mint chocolate pudding he’d had for dessert. “They
want an answer by the new year.”
 
            “Oh, Abraxas,” Hermione rubbed her head against the side of his
shoulder, her cinnamon curls tickling along his neck and jaw. “Why didn’t you
say anything?”
 
            He shook with frustration, his face rubbing Patience’s corn silk
hair that somehow, impossibly, was scented with the ocean, all bright sea foam
and clean salt, along with a hint of lavender. Her lips were soft as she placed
a chaste kiss to the tender place behind his ear. “I didn’t want to worry you,
to upset you. And I felt powerless. What am I supposed to do? If I refuse, what
will they do to me? They certainly won’t disown me. My parents would never
admit I failed as a pureblood, as a son, as a Malfoy. They’d take me out of
school and torture me until I signed the papers.”
 
            Hermione felt sick. As much as she couldn’t stand Lucius Malfoy, as
much as she enjoyed the memory of punching Draco, she knewthey loved each
other, that Lucius would never torturehis son. She wondered if that break in
tradition had started with Abraxas, or if the Abraxas from the other timeline
had been cruel to Lucius. It didn’t matter now, she supposed, though the nausea
in her stomach remained.
 
            “We won’t let them,” she said fiercely, and Patience hummed her
approval. “Just narrow the list to give us more time. We’ll think of
something.”
 
            “Look, there’s a unicorn,” Patience murmured into his ear. “They’re
good luck. Make a wish.”
 
            Abraxas laughed despite himself, closing his eyes to make the wish
Please, please let me stay with Hermione and Tom and Patience. He held onto the
thought for several seconds, trying to make it stronger, before he let it go,
opening his eyes to see Patience’s face over him. She was the last bond in his
circle, the water to his earth, and he knew that to bond with her would
solidify all the other bonds, amplify them, and quite likely, make him
ineligible for any pureblooded betrothal contracts. He had never wanted her
quite as much as he did at that moment – he needed her. She smiled at him in
that knowing, dreamy way.
 
            On his other side, curled against him like a cat, Hermione was all
barely contained energy, though she was quiet. She was lost in her mind, coming
up with a plan to save them all, he was sure. He had faith in Hermione like he
had faith in Tom, like he had faith in the existence of magic itself.
 
            The door opened, and Abraxas immediately began to sit up, though
Patience pushed her hand down on his stomach. “It’s Tom.”
 
            “Yes, it is,” Tom came to stand over them, tall, slender and so
handsome sometimes it hurt to look at him.
 
            Hermione stood, taking the hand Tom put out to her. Abraxas watched
them, amazed all over again that he was allowed to touch both of them. They
were so beautiful, especially when they were together. They practically glowed
with magic when they touched, and the waves of magic they emitted were powerful
– practically addictive. Abraxas was a junkie, he decided, always seeking the
high of touching Hermione and Tom, of simply being in the same room with them.
 
            They communicated, barely using words. “You’ve told them?” Tom
asked.
 
            “You know? From Mother?” Hermione replied.
 
            “I know quite a bit, little bird,” he answered, and Abraxas
shivered at Tom’s tone. Patience rubbed his hand, soothing him.
 
            The two locked eyes for a long minute. “What would that be, Tom?”
Hermione asked, a touch of defiance in her tone.
 
            That touch was all it took for Tom’s temper to flare. “You’re
adopted, Hermione. You know, even if Narcissa never said it out loud. You’ve
known for years, I’d wager, and you never told me. Have you so little faith in
me that you wouldn’t trust me to know that you’re an orphan, too? That you are
muggleborn?”
 
            Abraxas felt cold, as if ice water were running through his veins.
Muggleborn? He shrugged it away, pulling strength from the magic bond with
Hermione, a warmth that soothed him. His parents were already going to kill him
for disobeying. Did it really matter if they killed him a second time for
consorting with a muggleborn?
 
            Hermione’s lip quivered. Either she was about to cry or about to
scream. Abraxas hoped for anger. It broke his heart when she cried.
 
            She squared her shoulders, looking up at Tom with a fierce
expression, though Abraxas noted she had not dropped Tom’s hand. “I wasn’t
sure. I thought I wasn’t hers, but I wasn’t sure, and she didn’t want to talk
about it, and I trustmy mother, and it doesn’t matter who I was born to –
Narcissa is my mother, so I didn’t pursue it.”
 
            For once, Tom didn’t seem angry. He continued to hold her hand and
brought his other hand up to first pull at one of her wild curls, then to
gently tuck it behind her ear. “Astarte could tell you were muggleborn – some
kind of magic density, she said. It doesn’t matter, you know. You’re still
magic, just like any other witch –betterthan any other, because you’re mine,”
he glanced down at Patience. “I’m including your pet in that statement, so
don’t get huffy.”
 
            “Your mother told me to be honest. Patience told me to be honest.
Maybe they should have been telling you,Hermione,” Tom’s voice was silky, the
kind of silk that could form a noose around one’s neck while one was unaware,
reveling in the delight of the touch. “I need you to be honest with me. With
us. We are bound, and you are never escaping me, so you’d better learn some of
that trust you like to preach about, my hypocritical little bird.”
 
            Hermione’s brown eyes were wide with a combination of surprise and
anger, and Abraxas thought, arousal as well. “I would appreciate it if you
stopped calling me a hypocrite whenever I don’t do things according to your
master plan, Tom. Just because we are bound doesn’t mean that we don’t still
have boundaries,” she argued. “Healthy relationships need those.”
 
            “While we are being honest, let’s be honest about you. You are
possessive, extremely so. And while I know that all of us find that sexy in the
bedroom, it doesn’t always work outside of it. We are people, with a right to
privacy in our own minds. If you want me to trust you, start trusting me. I
know you’ve tried to use legilimency on me, that you haveused it on Patience
and Abraxas. That is not acceptable. If you want to know how I feel, askme. And
if I have personal issues about my past that I need to work out, trust me that
when the time comes to share and seek support, that I will turn to you, because
I love you and want to share these kinds of things with you, but maybe, just
maybe, I held back because I was scared – not rationally, but emotionally. I
know emotions are hard for you to understand, but I am an emotional person. You
have to accept that about me, just as I accept you aren’t.”
 
            Abraxas would have probably held his breath through this whole
exchange if Patience hadn’t whispered a reminder to do so in his ear. When
those two were angry, their magic crackled like electricity – fire in the air –
and it was hard to concentrate on anything else, even one’s basic functions.
 
            “Fine,” Tom said simply, the anger around him dissipating, his
handsome face stretching into an easy, devilish smile, and the other three
stared at him in shock. “What?” he asked, looking at each of them in turn. “I
can be reasonable. Besides, I understand negotiations. I give some and you give
some. I won’t use legilimency on any of the three of you, and you’ll help me
figure out how to get to France over the break.”
***** Abraxas is a Very Sweet Snake *****
Chapter Summary
     Patience takes Abraxas to the Room of Requirement for some wet, wet
     fun.
Chapter Notes
     If you thought that Tom was a bit too fast to agree in our last
     chapter, you aren't the only one. That will be explored in further
     chapters, but I had to round out our elemental bonding with my two
     favorite blondes. This chapter is a bit shorter, but still fun, I
     think. These two make me grin like a fool. Love to you all.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
             
 
            Abraxas walked the hall, Patience’s cool hand in his warm one. He
was following her, letting her lead the way to wherever. That was helpful,
really, because he was lost in thought. For the first time in his life, Abraxas
was purposely and completely going to disobey his parents, to turn his back on
everything that he had been raised to believe was true. As much as he wanted to
be with Hermione, he hadn’t believed that it could really happen. He had
resigned himself to enjoying what was left of his freedom before he was married
off to someone like his mother, a woman perfect and cold who he’d dutifully try
to impregnate at least twice a month to continue the Malfoy name.
 
            It had been a bleak future, but one he had accepted as inevitable.
Then, he’d kissed Hermione on the train, and Tom had kissed him, and they’d
found the Chamber and shared their magic, and Abraxas had fallen in love not
simply with Hermione, but with all of them, with their togetherness, and the
passion and the power and the sheer joyhe’d felt were something he couldn’t
give up. He couldn’t know that he was capable of that kind of love, of sharing
it with others, then settle for a future that was devoid of those qualities.
 
            Still, Abraxas wasn’t sorted into Slytherin only for his last name.
He was excellent at hiding his feelings and able to read others well. He could
adjust his views and attitudes according to the needs of his company, and as
required for his survival. Abraxas believed in the power of Tom and Hermione,
of the quartet they were making, and that was where he was placing his
loyalties. Eventually, this would come to light and his parents and the rest of
Wizarding society would discover exactly what they were to one another, but the
Malfoy heir was perfectly able and willing to lie his arse off in the meantime.
           
            He would send replies to his parents, listing all his objections to
the candidates, carefully crafted to play on all their worst worries. For his
mother, that would be social awkwardness, lack of manners, and general idiocy.
For his father, it would be the hint that particular witches were lusty, that
they would be “slutty” wives who would attempt to pass off bastards as
Malfoys.   He would even make a goodwill gesture of taking a name off the list
occasionally. It would not be difficult to be difficult. Though he was not a
particularly spoiled child, certainly not by pureblooded standards, the Malfoy
men (as their children were always boys, due to an ancient spell) were
notoriously picky about their brides, and tended to marry a bit later than the
average pureblood. His own father hadn’t married until he was almost twenty-
one, so putting off his choice, if done skillfully, was possible.
 
            Patience was humming quietly, and he glanced around. They had gone
up more stairs and crossed halls while Abraxas had been preoccupied. He didn’t
recognize this section of the castle, but then, Hogwarts was endless,
impossible to explore fully. She had pulled him out of the room when Hermione
and Tom’s argument over his ability to confront Grindlewald’s men had started
to reach a dangerous level of anger. He left eagerly. When their magic began to
snarl at one another, it was difficult to watch, to endure. They were highly
combustible, and as sensitive as Tom was to anyone exposing his weakness, which
was Hermione and his feelings for her, it was only a matter of time before they
engulfed that room in flames, metaphorically, and perhaps literally as well.
Abraxas had no desire to be there, because he was sure Tom would be looking for
a handy person to punish to work out his frustrations.
           
            Tom’s easy agreement to not using legilimency was so much of a
shock that Abraxas was instantly suspicious. Of course he was lying. Deep down,
they all knew it. He would keep using it on Abraxas as a way to gage his skill
level, and Abraxas would let him, because he didn’t actually have anything to
hide. His love for Hermione had been his one secret, and it was gone now.
Abraxas didn’t honestly mind the legilimency. Tom would need to be a master at
it, to do the things he wanted to, to achieve greatness, especially in a
society where so many Slytherins were in positions of power. As much as he
loved and adored Hermione, he was much more realistic in his expectations of
Tom than she was. Somewhere in her heart, that amazingly loving heart, she
still thought she could change Tom, make him kinder. Abraxas knew better, but
he liked Tom just the way he was. Perhaps he was a masochist, but it was true.
Raw power like Tom was never uncomplicated and rarely good. At best, it was
neutral, but always chaotic. Around Tom, Abraxas was continuously on a bit of
an edge, and it was thrilling, like riding at breakneck speeds on his broom
with his eyes closed. It would be insane to think he wouldn’t suffer, but he
was willing to pay the price for the ride itself.
 
            “Come in,” Patience was saying, and Abraxas entered a large oak
door with iron fittings.
 
            Inside was a gorgeous bathing chamber, with a pond-sized pool,
covered in tiny silver and blue opalescent tiles that sparkled when the light
caught them. The light came from hundreds of silver floating candles, high
above them. A set of stairs gradually disappeared into the water, which softly
bubbled. The smell of fresh, clean, spring rain filled the air, a smell that
made him think of running in the hedge maze in a light rain when he was five,
one of this earliest memories, being chased playfully by his nanny elf, Sebby,
who always let him win.
 
            “Let’s swim!” Patience was already pulling off her clothes, leaving
them in a pile at her feet.
 
            Abraxas paused, enjoying the sight of the miles of pale, perfect
skin that were suddenly visible. Patience’s form was nearly an exact opposite
of Hermione’s. His favorite little swot was just that – small, short even among
the other girls, yet, she was curvy, with wide hips and thighs and a generous
bust for her frame. Her bottom was delightfully rounded, though Abraxas spent
most of his time staring at her beautiful face, those fine, amber eyes with
their dark lash fringe, surrounded by that wild mass of cinnamon curls.
 
            The water in their quartet, by contrast, was only an inch or so
below his own height, with long, slender limbs, narrow hips, and small breasts.
All the curves in her body were concentrated in one place – her lovely arse,
which was the most beautiful arse Abraxas had ever seen, a perfectly shaped
upside down heart. She was shaking her hair out of its braid, and the silky
strands fell down to her waist, making a white blonde cloud around her. Abraxas
thought, not for the first time, that Patience must have some fairy or veela
blood in her ancestry, because the way her skin glowed, the way she moved, the
look in her eyes, as if she could see through and beyond him, wasn’t quite
human.  
 
            He waved his wand, disrobing in one motion. Abraxas knew he was
handsome and fit, and he’d never been shy. Lowering himself into the water,
which was warm enough to relax his muscles, but not hot enough to sting, he
watched Patience splash and swim and wondered if it were possible for humans to
mingle with merfolk. Patience was definitely attuned to her water magic, and
she moved like a creature of the sea, graceful and easy.
 
            A smile tugged at his mouth as she began to sing, some made-up tune
about birds and snakes cuddling. Patience was endlessly entertaining, and she
made him laugh every time he was around her. He’d nearly died from trying to
keep a straight face last month when she told stuffy old Professor Binns that
according to the ghosts of goblins she’d spoken to in her dreams, his account
of the Goblin Revolt was completely inaccurate, and she therefore couldn’t
complete the assigned three feet of parchment on the causes of said revolt
without further dreams on the matter. When Binns said that she’d receive a
‘Troll’ on her assignment if she made up lies, she had asked him sweetly how
he’d managed to pass his own OWLs, then. He’d promptly assigned her to three
weeks of detention, which had only lasted three days, because apparently
Professor Binns couldn’t handle that much time in Patience’s company. He’d also
docked points from Ravenclaw, which Hermione had obsessively made up for in
their other classes by answering every single question, before the professor
had even finished asking them, to his amusement and Tom’s annoyance.
 
            He’d also seen her subtly cast low-level jinxes at Marguerite
several times when no one else was looking, usually after she’d glared at
Hermione or said something rude. She’d even winkedat him once when he saw her
throw a stumbling jinx on Marguerite right before the dark-haired Slytherin had
bent over a tray of stinging nettles in Herbology. Marguerite had fallen face-
first into the plants, and spent the rest of the class in the Hospital Wing.
Most of the students at Hogwarts might think that Patience was an odd girl who
didn’t really belong in Ravenclaw, but Abraxas knew she was powerful and loyal
and special and…a treasure, really. As a Malfoy, Abraxas knew not to let go of
power and treasure once it was in his grasp.
 
            Patience glided through the water to him, placing one hand on
either side of the tiled pool walls behind him. “Your eyes look like a storm,
like the steel of a sword. Smile so I can see the sweetness underneath.”
 
            Abraxas’s wide mouth immediately moved into a grin. He’d long since
stopped trying to hide the fact of how amused Patience made him. “I’m sweet?”
 
            “Mmm-hmmm,” Patience hummed, linking her arms around his neck, her
body flush with his now, their naked skin not even separated by the water. “The
sweetest snake I’ve ever seen. You just want to hug and squeeze with your
coils, not kill.”
 
            It was on the tip of his tongue to reply that he hoped he’d never
have to kill, but he was Tom’s man, and that was an unrealistic expectation,
especially with Tom itching to embroil himself in the Grindelwald mess. There
was no doubt they would be taking a darker turn soon. Tom would not fight to
disarm, nor would he tolerate Abraxas doing so. How that would intersect with
Hermione’s desire to play nice, he didn’t care to hazard a guess.
 
            “I would kill to protect what is mine,” Abraxas answered finally.
“Not out of cruelty.”
 
            Patience leaned in, pressing her forehead and nose to his own. It
was a tender, loving gesture. He felt at peace with her, even when they were
discussing violence. How odd, he thought distantly. “I know. I would too. And
so would Hermione, though she’ll never say so. Tom would kill because he liked
it, though.”
 
            “Let’s hope he doesn’t like it that much, then,” Abraxas joked,
trying to lighten the mood.
 
            “Oh, but he will,” Patience said solemnly. “Tom loves blood. It’s
our job to help him balance that desire, to be the conscience he doesn’t have.”
 
            Abraxas barked out a laugh. “We can’t make Tom do anything,” he
began.
 
            “No, but we can ask him, reason with him, convince him,” Patience
responded, her lips brushing his as she spoke. “He wants to keep us happy, even
if he won’t admit it. And now that he wants to be a hero, our job is much
easier. Heroes have rules, have morals. Tom needs us more than ever to keep him
on the path to the top of the world.”
 
            “What can we possibly do?” he breathed against her.
 
            “Our magic is already doing it,” she said, a mysterious tilt to her
smile. Abraxas knew she could see more than she shared. “Let’s complete our
connection.”
 
            Abraxas’s lower half was already there, he thought, and had been
since Patience had gotten naked, since she’d smiled at him in the classroom
earlier this evening. She was beautiful, and her presence always calmed him,
made him feel energized in a peaceful way, not like drinking too much strong
tea or pepper up potions. They touched each other all the time, holding hands
and rubbing their feet against each other under desks. She had a tendency to
trace runes on his arms when she was bored in class, her cool, thin fingers
slyly creeping over his wrist with a feather-light caress, making all the hairs
on his arm, along with his cock, stand up. He’d had to stay at his desk after
class more than once due to Patience’s fingertips, though the two times the
four of them had actually been naked in the Chamber bedroom, she had remained
on the sidelines, offering tangential touches and strokes rather than more
centered participation. Touching her directly felt new and exciting, a
deepening of their friendship into something else that was not definable.
 
            Hermione had spent at least half an hour explaining what her mother
had said about elemental quartets, about the permanency of the bonds, of how
they would affect their future lives, wanting to make sure they understood the
consequences with continuing. Abraxas might be concerned about his parents’
reaction, but he was committed, and with this bonding with Patience, the
quartet would be complete, all the links solidified, irreversible.
 
            He wrapped his arms around her, sliding his hands down to cup that
fantastic arse, her legs wrapping around his waist instantly. He whispered the
spell, a forgotten word speaking of ancient, underwater caves, and she echoed
it, and kissed him, letting go of the ledge, sending them sinking into the
water, their lips and tongues still tangled. When the need to breathe finally
reminded him to surface, Abraxas felt light-headed, magic vibrating in them, in
the water around them. They swam to the steps, and Patience charmed the tile to
feel like cushions against their knees and elbows and backs as they rolled over
each other in the water, kissing and touching at an unhurried pace.
 
            Patience was straddling him, her nipples pebbled and hard against
his chest, her hair brushing his shoulders and back when she leaned forward to
kiss him, her hips rocking against his. She lifted her head after a kiss that
must have lasted a full five minutes. “Your lips are magic,” she murmured,
“Just like Hermione said.”
 
            Abraxas laughed, their noses bumping gently. He ran his fingers
down her spine, tracing the line of her vertebrae, his hands flaring out to
grasp her hips when he reached the bottom. “You girls talk about me?”
            “You are our lover,” Patience explained carefully, as if teaching a
child. “We talk a lot about you, about Tom, about all of us.”
 
            “Well, yes,” Abraxas said, “but you talk about the kissing?” The
thought of Hermione and Patience discussing his abilities as a lover was both
flattering and frightening.
 
            Patience nodded. “And so much more. Hermione likes your shoulders,”
she ran her eyes over that body part as she spoke, her fingers caressing the
muscles he’d built up from years of Quidditch. “And your hands, how they are a
little rough over her sensitive bits, but I like this spot.”
 
            Abraxas sucked in his breath in a gasp. Patience’s hand had moved
to his hipbones, to the line of muscle that made a ‘v’ shape down to his groin,
and she was following that stretch of skin to his very rigid, very ready to
explode cock, those cool fingers wrapping around him in a firm grip that he
felt through his whole body. “My hips?” he breathed. “Well, they’re yours.”
 
            Her laugh was a pleasant, throaty sound. “I know,” the words were
spoken without a trace of arrogance, just Patience’s trademark, dreamy yet
matter-of-fact tone.  “Don’t worry, it’s a mutual claiming.”
 
            “Excellent,” he murmured, bringing her body up in the water so that
she was floating in front of him, her pale form mostly above the waterline. He
explored her slowly, standing beside her, fingertips teasing across her legs
and arms and chest. She was loud, more vocal than he had ever heard, full of
little moans of encouragement and hums of approval, as well as filthy
commentary that sounded like it could have come from Tom Riddle. She was bold
as brass, and Abraxas found he liked that very much.
 
            When he pressed his fingers to her cunt, then followed them with
his mouth, she lifted up, her head dipping under the water as her hips canted
toward his lips and tongue. Her hair spread out in a white blonde halo and her
breath came out in a flurry of bubbles. Abraxas thought she was the strangest,
most lovely creature he’d ever come across. She tasted like the water, like the
rain that he sometimes opened his mouth to catch during stormy quidditch
practices. He put a hand under her arse, ran it up her back, pulling her upper
half back above the water. She didn’t splutter or snort, just laughed joyfully,
then moaned at his continued ministrations at her cunt.
 
            Abraxas was aware he had an oral fixation. He almost always had
something in his mouth – a hard candy discreetly tucked into his cheek during
class when he couldn’t use his endless supply of sugar quills, a magically
enhanced quidditch mouth guard that tasted like oranges and chocolate when he
bit down on it during games or practice. But, in the area of sex, Abraxas found
his truest oral delights. He simply loved going down on his partners, and he
could have happily drowned in the wetness between Patience’s thighs, with
tracing the delicate folds of her skin with his tongue, then moving up to suck
on the nub of her clit, then back down to thrust his tongue inside her, a
variation of sensations that was making her pull rather aggressively on his
hair, which he also liked. He was sure she was about to come, the way she was
tightening around his fingers, when she suddenly pulled away, righting herself.
Abraxas hardly had time to protest the lack of contact before she had him up
against the stairs, twirling them around in the water so that she was on top of
him, and she traced her spread hand down his face, his throat, his chest,
leaving magical traces that set his nerve endings abuzz.
 
           “Are you ready to fuck me, my sweet snake?” Her body flush with his,
but not giving him the touch he wanted most.
 
            From anyone else’s mouth, the endearment would have been
ridiculous, but from Patience, in that throaty voice she was using, it was
filthy and adorable all at once. Every part of Abraxas approved, most of all
his cock, which gave a noticeable twitch at her words.
 
            “Ask me for it nicely,” she commanded, the heat of her cunt
hovering over the tip of him, a taunt and a promise.
 
            Abraxas didn’t attempt any type of prideful response. “Please,
please, Patience, let me fuck you, darling,” he spoke with his eyes closed,
afraid he might come just from the look of lust in her eyes. He was so far
gone, he could barely think.
 
            “Do you love me?” she asked, sinking a tiny bit, taking an inch of
him inside, just enough to torture him further.
 
            He opened his eyes, looked directly into her pale blue-green eyes.
“Yes,” he answered honestly. “Though it seemed to happen without me noticing,
all of the sudden.”
 
            “Love is the most powerful type of magic,” she smiled, and quickly
brought her hips down the rest of way, encasing him in her tight, silky warmth
to the root. He sighed out in blissful relief, the need to be inside her
temporarily achieved, his head resting on her shoulder, kissing softly as he
reveled in how good she felt, in the magic that was pooling around them,
soaking through their skin.
 
             Then, the urge to move built up and she must have felt it, too,
because he was thrusting against her, and she had her knees on the step on
either of his hips, moving up and down in sync with him, meeting each other
like the crash of the waves on the shore, and she was speaking while she rode
him, praising him, telling him how loved he was, how sweet and special he was,
and he came, astounded by how her words affected him, how good it felt to be
wrapped in her arms, this weird waif who’d somehow found her way into his
heart. She came shortly after, tightening around him, sending aftershocks
through his body, and they lay panting, the water lapping at their skin from
all the waves they’d created, magic covering them.
 
              As the pleasure subsided, the magic rose, and Abraxas could feel
his connection to Hermione, to Tom, to Patience, and all the interconnections,
an extension of his own magical field. It was like fine lines running through
space, a spider’s thread of magic that could funnel energy and feelings between
them. He could feel a great flaring of magic from the combination of Tom and
Hermione, and he suspected that they were still fighting or fucking, or knowing
them, probably both. Gently retreating, he reached out to Patience, and felt
her magic, calm and cool and deep and mysterious, like the ocean. She twisted
in the water, and he faced her, kissing her lips, tucking a strand of wet hair
behind her ear.
 
              Their kissing led to other things, and they ended up in the
reverse position, Abraxas pushing Patience into the stairs, her fingers digging
into the spot on his hips that she liked best, leaving marks there and on his
shoulder, where she sucked and kissed as he slid into her slowly over and over,
blatantly ignoring when she asked him to speed up, until she switched to dirty
talk in that commanding tone and all attempts at teasing her melted away as he
gave her exactly what she asked for. They came quickly, still high on their
magic, and then they floated in the water, holding hands, sending joined spells
into the air, making little runes and fireworks and a light breeze and a gentle
rainfall. It was so natural, so easy, that Abraxas wondered if he was dreaming.
 
              With Tom, all sex was a power play, edgy and dark, with only
grudging and unspoken affection that was buried deeply. With Hermione, it was
love-making, a worshipping of her, and a gratitude that she returned his
feelings. What happened with their bodies was almost incidental because he was
in love with her, not her body. And now, with Patience, he had a fusion of
those two things, love and affection, but sexy play as well. How had he
possibly found these people? How had he gotten so lucky that they wanted him,
too? Not for the Malfoy name or fortune, though he knew Tom did like those
aspects, but because they loved him, in their various ways, according to their
capabilities? It felt miraculous. Magical. And though Abraxas Malfoy had grown
up in a magical world, had always been told he was entitled to all that the
world had to offer, he had never felt as magical as he did in that moment.
Chapter End Notes
     Music Selections for this pairing:
     "The Church of Hot Addiction" - Cobra Starship
     "Do You Wanna Touch Me?" - Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
     "Team" - Lorde
     "Take Me to Church" - Hozier
***** Tom Tries A Little Tenderness...It Doesn't Last Long *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione and Tom argue (what else is new?). During some alone time,
     they feel the effects of the finalized elemental bond, and Tom gets
     as close to tender as he's capable. Then...they fight some more, lol.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry about the dry spell. The end of summer has been super busy.
     This chapter is short, but I wanted to get something up before this
     month disappeared. I'm still at work with ideas, just not bringing
     them to life as fast, lol. I'll try to get a chapter up at least once
     a month, and hopefully more as long as the muse cooperates. Love you
     all!
  
 
              Hermione and Tom didn’t speak to each other much leading up to
the winter break. He was stubbornly insisting on getting to some place in
France or Germany that Grindlewald was occupying, and he was determined to
throw himself (and whoever went with him) into a full-blown battle, just to
test his skills. Tom Riddle had decided that it was his new mission to work up
to defeating Grindlewald, and nothing was going to change his mind.
 
            They had yelled at each other on the fifth floor for what felt like
hours, and neither of them was giving an inch on the matter. Well, Hermione
didn’t begin with yelling. She had started out calmly, with all the logical
reasons they couldn’t possibly go to France.
 
            “Tom, think. Even if we could get to over there without using
magic, we couldn’t use ourmagic to fight if we ran into anyone. We all have the
trace on us until we’re
seventeen,” she had argued, even though she knew the trace probably did not
work on her, as she was long past seventeen, and even if it had been reapplied
on the Hogwart’s express every year, according to the persistent student rumor,
it wasn’t likely to take or hold on her. Still, even if she was ninety percent
sure, she didn’t want to have to test that if she didn’t have to – the
consequences were too dire.
 
            “It’s not a concern,” Tom smirked, all smug superiority. “I have
been using magic for as long as I can remember, and no Ministry official
descended upon Wool’s to punish me. I know the Ministry likes to use the
supposedly secret trace charm as a sword over our heads, but I think it is
patchy and inconsistent. It doesn’t work at all at Hogwarts, and only seems to
indicate magic was performed around minors, not who performed it. If we are
amidst adults who are using magic, our magic can only be traced through our
wands, which is why we’ve been working so hard at wandless magic.”
 
            Hermione had to agree about the dismal record of the trace. In her
own pre-Hogwarts childhood, she had performed several small spells that should
have alerted the Ministry, and there had been the case of the previous timeline
of Tom himself, who had killed his father and grandparents, in a muggle
village, at the age of sixteen, with no one the wiser for years. “The
unreliability of the trace is not a guarantee, Tom. Just because it doesn’t
always work doesn’t mean it won’t work during your grand plan.”
 
            “That’s why I have a backup plan, dearest,” Tom moved closer,
reached up to pull on one of her curls. He did those things, invading her
space, touching her, speaking in that low tone, when he wanted to bend her to
his will, to win her over. It was infuriatingly sexy, and he knew it. “I found
a potion recipe in one of Slytherin’s journals, one that he claims will cloak
the use of the drinker’s magic.”
 
            “Of course Slytherin had such a potion,” Hermione muttered, trying
not to lean into his hand as it came up to cup her cheek. “Did you brew it yet?
It might not even work, you know, or work in an unexpected way.”
 
            Tom kissed behind her ear, then spoke into it. “I thought we could
brew it together. You’re very good at potions.”
 
            Hermione flushed. Praise was a weak spot for her, especially
concerning her magical skills. Tom knew that, damn him, but what he didn’t know
was that Hermione’s potion-making skills were hard-won, that potions had always
been a challenge for her, and her second time around at Hogwarts had made vast
improvements in her abilities. To be complimented on potions by Tom, who seemed
to understand the subject effortlessly, was quite a stroke to her ego. She
tried to push her pleasure to the side.
 
            “Brewing a thousand year old recipe for a potion obviously intended
for hiding dark magic?” Hermione breathed as Tom began to kiss down her neck.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
 
            “It was only an invitation,” Tom spoke crisply, though he continued
to kiss her, now at clavicle, toying with the collar of her shirt, undoing the
top button. “I’ll brew it with or without you, dearest.”
 
            She knew that, so she simply pressed on to the next logical
argument, hoping something would take root in Tom’s mind, pierce through his
arrogance to the common sense he barely used.   “Fine. Even if you have the
potion, you will have your wands, as you pointed out, and you cannotrely on
solely wandless magic! You are brilliant and powerful, but wandless magic is
draining and trying to go through a life and death fight with adult wizards
without relying on the ease and focus your wand provides is practically
suicide, Tom.”
 
            He was frowning, but still unbuttoning her shirt, his fingers
moving quickly, roughly. He was clearly choosing his words, and Hermione’s
heart sank. She wished she could share her experience, to tell him she knew
exactlywhat happened when a bunch of fifth-year students faced off against a
group of highly-trained dark wizards. If the Order hadn’t shown up, they
wouldn’t have escaped the Ministry alive. And even then, they had lost Sirius.
 
            “Hermione, if I were a weaker person, I’d be hurt by your lack of
faith,” he finally said, his hands slipping into her open shirt, settling at
her waist, then lifting her. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, and
he walked them over to the sofa, sat down with her on top of him.
 
            “It isn’t about faith, Tom,” she sighed. He was so handsome, even
when his eyes were angry, even when the curve of his mouth was sulky. “You are
amazing, but we are still young, still learning magic. Raw talent and
intelligence doesn’t always beat experience. Grindlewald’s fighters have years
on us, and several of those years have been spent doing practical magic,
probably dark spells. Those spells aren’t even a thought to them – they’re in
their muscle memory, cast before you can blink. And you may be the king of the
school, of all the duels here, but that isn’t the same.”
 
            Tom’s hands were holding her hips, tightly enough to leave marks.
“You don’t think I can defeat any obstacle in my path?” his voice was a hiss, a
cornered snake.
 
            Hermione looked into his eyes. Despite his temperament, despite
what she knew of one of his futures, despite everything, she loved him. She
loved him completely and senselessly, beyond volition, into a simple state of
being. She thought of all she had read of Grindlewald, of what she knew of
Dumbledore. Genius was a difficult thing to compare – there were so many
complications, so many variances. However, she’d had five years to watch Tom,
to see and feel Tom’s magic, and it was so powerful, she could hardly credit it
came from one person. “I believe you can do anything, Tom, but I don’t want you
to get hurt in the process. I love you.”
 
            His face softened greatly. When they were alone, completely alone,
and she told him that she loved him, his face came close to mirroring her own.
She felt his pleasure at her words, a warmth that he normally lacked. Snakes
needed outside sources of heat, after all. “Dearest,” he began, but then kissed
her instead of speaking further.
 
            Their kiss was long and so distracting that Hermione’s thoughts of
trying to convince him to do anything except pull off the rest of her clothes
were abandoned. He was doing that, anyway, reaching behind her to unfasten her
bra, tugging at the buttons on her skirt, pushing down her stockings and
knickers, and since she was doing the same to him, they were both naked in
short order.
 
            They were lying on the couch, half-on, half-off, tangled in each
other, and it was messy and urgent and became more so as they continued.
Hermione had sweet with Patience, a feeling of love and safety. She had
worshipful with Abraxas, feeling cherished and adored. But with Tom, she was
consumed. He wouldn’t stop until he had her at his mercy, until she was
writhing in submission, and she wanted to give him that, because she understood
that was the closest he could get to expressing love, that for him to take her
in, to feel that he owned her, was him saying that she was as precious to him
as himself, as his own magic.
 
            When they tumbled to the floor, neither bothered with cushioning
spells. Knees and shoulder blades and hips pressed into hard wood, and Tom held
her hands above her head, as he had the first time. She let him because it felt
good to let go, in this aspect, to have him press into her hard and fast, as he
liked.   Her busy mind stopped pondering all the possibilities of disaster for
a while, and that was nearly as blissful as the sex itself.
 
            It was surprising, then, that halfway through a gloriously rough
and tumble fuck, Tom stilled, pulling back to look in her eyes. “Come with me,
little bird. I can do anything on my own, but I wantto do everything with you.”
 
            Hermione’s heart skipped and other parts clenched tightly. She
wondered if it were possible to fall more in love him, because, if so, that was
happening. He was binding her more tightly….no, it wasn’t just him…Patience and
Abraxas must have completed their binding, because she could feel them, too,
stronger than ever, and Tom…oh, his magic was so present in her that it was
overwhelming.
 
            He felt it as well, she could see his realization in the widening
of his eyes, in the slow, almost gentle thrust of his hips. Tom lowered his
head and kissed her, but it wasn’t tongue and teeth. His lips moved over her
face reverently, in a way they never had before.
 
            “You are so beautiful,” he murmured against the hollow of her
throat. “Your magic is so strong, so vibrant. I can feel it inme, not just at
the edges, and I can sense Patience and Abraxas, too. My God, Hermione, we are
unstoppable. How can you doubt that?”
 
            Before she could answer, he was moving again, and she was screaming
because he was hitting just the right spot with every thrust and the effects of
the final link in their elemental binding, along with their soul mate magic
prevented her from rational thought. She gave into the sensations, and grabbed
Tom’s arm tightly, stroking her words on his arm with her thumb, rubbing over
and over, and it was a small, lovely victory to see him lose all control and
come spectacularly, that gorgeous face lined in ecstasy, which was enough to
push her over the edge herself, especially when he reached between their bodies
and covered her stomach, his words, with those warm, rough fingers, and she
vibrated with pleasure, body and soul and magic, everything both tangible and
ephemeral about her whole being.
 
            He rolled, and they lay panting side by side, her head tucked onto
his shoulder. It was relaxing, more relaxed than she anticipated, given their
earlier disagreement. Tom smiled down at her.
 
            “No one has what we do, Hermione. Not in this century, probably not
in a thousand years,” he spoke quietly, but fiercely. “You can’t deny it. Our
magic can do anything, defeat anyone.”
 
            “I’m not denying we are powerful, and that we will become more so.
We are all very intelligent, and magically talented. Together, our magic is
definitely a strong force, yes. But that doesn’t mean we should run out and put
ourselves in danger.”
 
            The argument had continued and rose in pitch until Tom, in his
anger, set fire to Hermione’s sweater, which he had picked up from the floor.
It flared and became ash in between his hands, and Hermione realized just how
much elemental fire magic he had been practicing on his own. That began another
argument about his use of untested, ancient spells with no regard for what side
effects they might have, and Hermione had left, the door banging shut behind
her so hard that it came off its hinges. She didn’t stop to fix it – Tom could
deal with that, or set fucking fire to it, for all she cared at the moment.
 
            For the next two weeks, they had been perfectly polite to one
another in public. Tom still took her hand, pulled at her curls, wrapped a
casual arm around her in the library or at the evening study group, kissed her
cheek when they separated between classes or at night.   Hermione allowed all
these touches, but she kept a tight grip on her magic, and when they took the
group to the Chamber, she sat by herself, pouring over three or four books at a
time, but writing no notes or translations.
 
            She knew Tom noticed, as did Abraxas and Patience, though they both
seemed to think this was a problem Tom and Hermione needed to work out on their
own, so they didn’t interfere. And, in a move she hadn’t foreseen, Tom seemed
to be giving her space. Space to come to his conclusions, she was sure, but
nonetheless, it was respectful even in its arrogance and Hermione appreciated
it.
 
            She put the time to good use, finding and reading any tomes she
could get her hands on concerning elemental magic, particularly air, and also
on cloaking magic and enhancing casting speed and defensive barriers. At night,
in her room, when even Patience was breathing softly in the bed beside her
(Patience had started the habit of sleeping beside Hermione, and neither
Josephine nor Felicity had said a word about it) Hermione would cast a soft
lumosand practice tuning into her elemental magic. The books she’d read said
that air magic was especially strong when it came to levitation, floating, and
even flying, the thought of which made Hermione shudder. She thought back to
spells she done that were instinctual and strong. The attacking birds came to
mind, as did shattering the windows on the fifth floor and exploding the
Slytherin fireplace. When she’d attacked Sagitta, she’d summoned the wand and
she’d thrown the older girl against the wall. She did have an innate talent for
moving things and people through space – well, everyone except herself. If she
could get over her fear, she might be able to fly one day. She’d probably need
to, to be able to keep up with Tom.
 
            In the Chamber, she found another reference to the potion Tom had
found in Slytherin’s journal, this time in a Babylonian text, written on thinly
rolled animal skin, which was quite a pain to translate. From what she could
tell, though, it wasn’t a harmful potion, though there were the temporary side
effects of weakness and nausea when the potion wore off. It somehow disguised
the use of magic, which was such a powerful tool, Hermione understood why
someone as paranoid and greedy for magic as Slytherin seemed to be had kept it
to himself. Then, she saw the ingredients list and the instructions. The
finicky nature of the process put the draught of living death to shame, and
almost made her wish for footnotes from Snape.
 
            As the holiday break approached, Hermione continued to go back and
forth in her own mind about what to do. Tom would find a way to get to France,
she had no doubt. He had Abraxas to plot with at night, after all, and they
could use the floo at Malfoy Manor to go to one of the Malfoy properties in
France.   If that was a problem, they could use Abraxas’s seemingly endless
allowance to pay someone to make a portkey or even to apparate them to France.
Getting there wouldn’t be a problem.
 
            What happened after that was what had Hermione’s stomach in knots.
If she didn’t go, she wouldn’t be able to help protect Tom and Abraxas, who she
knew would do anything Tom asked. It was emotional blackmail because Tom knew
she cared too much to let them go without her, no matter how stupid and risky
the plan was. She was put in mind of Harry’s insistence that they had to save
Sirius, despite her protests. Why was it her fate to love stubborn boys who
rushed headlong into danger?
***** Galatea Gives Treats and Narcissa Gives Tricks *****
Chapter Summary
     Our teens continue their plotting, and our "responsible" adults react
     in different ways.
Chapter Notes
     So, yay! I got a little of my groove back, and here's the result. I
     focused a lot on Hermione, but there's some Tom at the end, as well
     as Galatea and Narcissa's very different parenting/mentoring styles.
     I'm working on the next chapter, where the group will actually
     (finally) make it to France. Enjoy, and Love to you all!
 
             She didn’t tell Tom that she would go with him. She didn’t need
to. Somehow, he just knew, and on the Friday before the break, he took her hand
after dinner and led her to the Chamber, Patience and Abraxas walking silently
behind them. In the library, Tom summoned all the ingredients and the
translated recipe for the magic cloaking potion. Hermione sighed, but nodded,
and the four of them worked well past curfew to make a large batch of the
potion, bottling it carefully in the early hours of the morning.
 
            The next morning, Tom and Hermione walked down to Hogsmeade, to the
little cottage Narcissa had purchased, along with Felicity, who like most of
the muggleborn students who lived in the larger cities, was staying with
friends in the magical world over the break because of the constant bombing.
Professor Merrythought had talked with Felicity’s parents, and they wanted
Felicity to stay safely out of Edinburgh, and since Hermione and Felicity were
dear friends and roommates, she was staying with them.
 
            Felicity was very quiet, not her normally laughing self, and
Hermione thought of how hard it had been to stay away from her own parents, to
know that if she went home, she would bring danger into their lives. Even if
the situation was reversed, with the muggle world holding more danger at the
moment, Felicity had to be upset about not seeing her family, especially since
it had already been months.
 
            She put an arm around Felicity’s shoulders, and showed her around
the cottage, leading her to the room they would share for the next few days
before heading to the Merrythought estate after Narcissa and Galatea finished
up loose ends with their duties at Hogwarts. As soon as the door was closed,
Felicity began to cry.
 
            Hermione hugged her. “I’m so sorry, Felicity. I know how scary war
is, worrying about your loved ones.”
 
            “It isn’t my parents as much. There are shelters and lots of solid
rock basements in Edinburgh, but my brother, Robbie, turned eighteen this
summer,” Felicity sobbed. “He joined the army right before I left for Hogwarts
this year.”
 
            There wasn’t much comfort to give to that, Hermione thought.
Soldiers were, by definition, in danger, especially during active wartime. “I’m
sure Robbie is clever, just like you, and he’s doing his best to stay safe and
come home when he can.”
 
            Felicity reached into her pocket and pulled out a dull yellow stone
fixed in a bronze setting. Runes were carved into the metal, and Hermione could
see that it was very old. The runes all mentioned finding, locating, knowing,
as well as protection from danger.
 
            “I bought this in Diagon Alley, when I went to get school supplies.
It’s meant to glow if Robbie is in serious danger, and to help me locate him. I
rubbed some blood from his shaving kit into the metal and did the spell as soon
as I got on the Hogwarts Express. I don’t know if it’s better or worse to have
this. I keep waiting for it to glow, and make myself sick knowing that even if
it does, I can’t do anything about it,” Felicity’s brown eyes were awash in her
tears.
 
            “Oh, Felicity,” Hermione sighed. What Felicity had done was at best
frowned upon, and probably technically illegal, but Hermione didn’t fault her
in the slightest. She was about to say this when Felicity’s expression shifted
rapidly from sadness to anger.
 
             “It’s wrong!” Felicity cried, though her voice remained quiet.
“Wrong that the magical world could help, and it won’t! Innocent people are
dying every day! My brother is off at war. He isn’t a soldier. Robbie loves
drawing, painting – he’s never shot a gun. He’s only two years older than me –
eighteen. He carried me on his back for three months when I was eight and I
broke my leg and had to wear a straight cast. He’s my brother, Hermione, and
he’s in danger, even if this damned thing isn’t glowing!” Her words took on a
strangled sound as she fought back tears. “My world is at war, and my other
world won’t help.”
 
            Felicity had no idea how sympathetic Hermione was to her pleas. One
of her biggest problems with the magical world was how it walled itself away,
how it refused to see how much the muggle world had changed since the need for
the Statute of Secrecy, how much the magical world would benefit by embracing
the times and abandoning its inbred tendencies that created a stagnant society
where deep prejudices flourished like algae overgrown in a mucky pond. Keeping
wizards from exposure to muggles dehumanized normal people, made them other and
expendable, easy to forget about. In her own time, Voldemort had occupied all
her attention, but here in the past? She knew what was happening all across
England, all across Europe, and she understood exactly how Felicity felt.
 
            She squeezed Felicity’s hand tightly. “If it glows, and we are in a
position to do something, we will.”
 
            Even though it was a promise that would likely be impossible to
keep, Felicity’s face showed her relief and gratitude. “You’re as dear to me as
any sister could be, Hermione.”
 
            Hermione smiled. “The feeling is mutual. I don’t consider myself an
only child these days. I have you and Josephine, and…” she couldn’t add
Patience to that list. Patience was not a sister to her; she was her lover, a
part of her very being.
 
            Felicity’s mouth quirked in an expression that was much closer to
her normal, happy self. “I’ve noticed that you and Patience have a…special
relationship. And then there’s Tom…and Abraxas. I honestly don’t know where the
four of you get the energy for…whatever it is that you do.”
 
            “Is it that obvious?” Hermione chewed her lip. She thought she was
rather discreet, that only her relationship with Tom was common knowledge.
 
            Felicity laughed loudly, her good humor restored completely, it
seemed. “The whole school talks about the four of you. You must know that.
Everyone knows that you and Tom are the smartest, most powerful students in
school, even counting the sixth and seventh years. All of Slytherin House
practically bows when he enters the room, and the rest of the school isn’t far
behind.”
 
            “Well,” Hermione flushed, “yes, but noticing our academic and
magical abilities isn’t the same as gossiping about our private lives.”
 
            “Private?” Felicity raised her eyebrows. “No such thing in
Hogwarts! Hermione, you are neverwithout Patience. And when Tom and Abraxas are
around, they are always touching you and each other. I’ve heard some people
wondering what Abraxas is going to do. He has to get engaged soon, you know,
and the Malfoys won’t accept anyone not on their list.”
 
            Hermione thought of Abraxas, returning to Malfoy Manor, and winced.
Rumors could be powerful, and even if no one knew about the elemental bonding,
it was still clear that the tangled, strong relationship between the four of
them had not gone without notice. “It’s…complicated,” she began.
 
            Felicity put up her hand. “I’m not judging. I love you, Hermione.
And I love Patience. I meant it when I said you were like sisters to me. I
think Abraxas is funny and sweet, and Tom…well, he’s gorgeous and powerful and,
honestly, he terrifies me, but if anyone can handle him, that person is you.
What the four of you do or don’t do is your business.”
 
            There was a knock on the door, and Hermione opened it to see the
terrifying boy (man…when had he become more of a man?) in question. Tom had
taken off his Hogwarts sweater, and only wore the white Oxford with his black
pants. The shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and she could see the shadow of
his collarbone. He was so handsome, Hermione felt distracted and flustered just
glancing at him.
 
            He must have felt her wave of affection and lust, because he gave
her a wide, smug smile and reached for her hand. Their magic buzzed between
them.
 
            “Do you want me to leave?” Felicity quipped, a sly smile on her
face.  Hadn't she just proven her point?
 
            “Not now,” Tom said easily, with his usual arrogance. “I came to
ask you ladies down for tea. Aunt Narcissa and Galatea are waiting.”
 
            The next hour was a study in how to conduct various levels of
conversation. What people knew, and who knew what created multiple
undercurrents and hidden meanings to nearly every statement. Narcissa had told
Hermione about her confession to Galatea, but Hermione and Galatea had not yet
had an opportunity to discuss her status as a time traveler, nor her hopes and
fears for Tom with the woman who was, as far as she was concerned, her
stepmother. Galatea had an idea of Tom’s possible darkness, but that didn’t
seem to surprise her – she was very observant, after all, and Tom was Tom.
Narcissa knew Tom was making plans, but he hadn’t told her what those plans
were, and something had kept Hermione from sharing the existence of the
cloaking potion and Tom’s desire to fight Grindelwald’s men. Felicity and
Narcissa knew about the Chamber, but Galatea did not. Everyone present had
different pieces, but no one except Hermione had the full picture (and even
that was questionable, giving Tom’s penchant for keeping secrets). She thought
of how Patience had said that she wanted to control others for their own good,
and wondered for the first time if that were true, and what that said about
her.
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            The next few days were peaceful, with the exception of the constant
coming and going of Jeeves, Odysseus, and Iris. Both Patience and Abraxas were
sending their owls nearly as often as Tom. Abraxas and Tom were plotting, but
Iris brought letters from Patience that were full of odd questions and comments
that didn’t make much sense, even to those who knew her well. They did manage
to plan a day of Christmas shopping in Diagon Alley at the beginning of next
week, and even though Tom hadn’t said so explicitly, Hermione was sure that was
the day he was planning to try to go to France.
 
            The day before the planned trip, Tom was buoyant, full of smiles
and a jaunty step whenever he came out of his room, which he kept locked. He
was carrying a book that looked like a plain journal, but Hermione knew it was
one of Slytherin’s journals, charmed. Hermione herself spent so much time
translating books she brought to the house that Felicity complained they
weren’t on break at all, though she still helped Hermione with the work.
 
            That night, she couldn’t sleep, and she went down to the kitchen,
intending to make some chamomile tea, not that she really believed that would
help. The lights were on in the kitchen, and Galatea was sitting at the small
table, two cups of tea steaming in front of her.
 
            “How did you know I was coming down?” Hermione asked, sitting in
the empty chair across from her.
 
            Galatea gave her a crooked smile. “I have excellent hearing, and
you have been restless all day. I thought you’d have trouble sleeping.”
 
            Hermione took a cup, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. It
was a nice, safe feeling, something small and normal she’d done thousands of
times in her life. “Why are you having trouble sleeping?”
 
            Suddenly, Galatea’s gaze became concentrated, like a bird of prey.
“I think pride is a dangerous thing, but false modesty is just as much a
pitfall. I know that I am an intelligent woman, more so than most. There was
always something about you and your mother that didn’t quite belong, and it
wasn’t about coming from France. It was obvious you two were keeping secrets,
but I didn’t pry. Narcissa is my soul mate, and I was confident she would share
when and if she was able to do so.”
 
            There was a pause while Galatea sipped her tea and Hermione
wondered what direction this conversation was headed. There were several
possibilities, many of them unpleasant.
 
            “Narcissa has shared your story, and I still love her, and I love
you – nothing can change that. But you have also put me in an impossible
position. The two of you are deliberately manipulating others to achieve what
you believe is the best possible outcome for the future, and-”
 
            Frustrated, Hermione couldn’t stop herself from cutting in. “People
do that all the time! That’s life! People are always trying to get the best
outcomes for themselves, for others they care about, for society!”
 
            “Yes,” Galatea allowed calmly, “but they don’t know the future,
they don’t have knowledge that can uniquely affect others.”
 
            “Both of us had soul mates in the past, so we were clearly meant to
come here,” Hermione’s fingers tapped on the cup impatiently, her defenses
rising. “The question comes down to whether or not you trust us to do the right
thing with the knowledge we have.”
 
            “Hermione, you are smarter than that,” Galatea gently chided. “You
know such a complex issue isn’t merely a matter of trust. I trust you both to
tryto do the right thing, but…” she trailed off, looking down into her tea.
 
            Hermione reached out her hand, upset by the sadness visible on
Galatea’s face. Like Felicity, Galatea was a happy presence, all smiles and wit
and hugs. To see her otherwise felt wrong, and it felt to Hermione that she had
caused it.
 
            Before she could speak, Galatea began again. “I’ve asked your
mother not to give me any further details about the future, and I would ask the
same of you. I know you both have already made many, many changes to Tom’s
life, to my life, to the life of several students, as well as made it
impossible for the two of you to ever see many of your original loved ones
again. I don’t believe you made the decision to come back in time lightly, and
I support you both, but even the smallest details you carry in your minds could
be dangerous, especially if anyone else knew. Already, I’ve inferred several
things simply from your behavior.”
 
            “What?” Hermione asked, curious, though she agreed with Galatea’s
decision not to learn more about a future that was being changed every day.
 
            “I know you are muggleborn,” Galatea smiled softly. “And that means
you would care greatly what is happening in the muggle world, as I do, as
Felicity does. But even though the muggle world is in the midst of the most
terrifying and wide-spread conflict it has ever seen, you aren’t worried about
it. I’ve witnessed you in the Ravenclaw common room, comforting other
muggleborn and half-blooded students who’ve received news from home about the
state of their towns, about the bombings and the rationing and the pervasive
fear, and you always reassure them, tell them everything will be alright. And
coming from you, that is the truth. Everything will be all right. Or you’d be a
lot more concerned about what is happening.”
 
            Hermione opened her mouth, but Galatea continued. “Don’t say
anything, dear. It’s fine. I’m just making the point that everything you do is
colored by your future knowledge, and having two of us in the family doing that
is more than enough. I also don’t want to be a liability, a weapon that can be
used against you. I’ve already put several spells in place on myself to prevent
my being able to tell anyone that you and Narcissa are from the future. I
wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything happened to the two of you because of
me.”
 
            Now, Hermione was out of her chair and hugging Galatea, who
returned the hug just as tightly and kissed the top of her hair.
 
           “It doesn’t feel like it did five years ago; it doesn’t feel like
changing the future; it just feels like my life,” Hermione whispered against
her stepmother’s silky house robe.
 
           “Oh, sweetheart, I know,” Galatea whispered back. “Just promise me
you’ll be careful. I know Tom has some plan for tomorrow, and I’m sure it’s
completely inappropriate, dangerous, and probably illegal.”
 
            Hermione hid her half-wince, half-smile against Galatea’s shoulder,
but her stepmother’s sigh indicated that she exactly what expression was on
Hermione’s face.   She pulled back and said, “Hold on.”
 
            There was the familiar sensation of apparating, and when Hermione
opened her eyes, she saw they were in Galatea’s study at the Merrythought
estate. She watched as Galatea went through drawers and looked on shelves and
steadily made a pile of objects on the middle of her desk.
 
             “Have you found the Chamber of Secrets yet?” Galatea asked.
 
             Hermione’s eyes widened dramatically. Galatea looked up and gave a
short laugh. “Okay, that’s a yes, but you can’t talk about it, some kind of
penalty is at stake. Clever – nothing less than I’d expect from the smartest
student I’ve ever had the pleasure to teach. Then you have access to many
spells, potions, and magical objects, untested and untried for hundreds of
years. Wonderful,” her voice had descended into something like sarcasm.
 
             It took a great bit of willpower not to discuss it all with
Galatea right there, and she bit her lip, hard. Hermione knew the Head of
Ravenclaw House would be full of insight on the things they’d found. She’d have
to get Galatea to sign the pact so she could talk with her in depth, perhaps
get her assistance in translation.
 
            “Later,” Galatea waved the topic away and turned back to the desk.
“These are the objects I own that are most likely to be of help to you, and
they are doing nothing on my shelves. Some of them are objects I’ve found in
exploring Hogwarts, some are my own inventions, or things I’ve bought at
various magical shops over the years.”
 
            Hermione stared at the assortment. There were amulets and orbs of
various materials – metal, glass, crystal, and precious stone, leather pouches
and small daggers, flasks and a heap of fabric that shimmered gently in a way
that reminded Hermione of Harry’s invisibility cloak, though she knew it wasn’t
the true Deathly Hallow, merely a clever copy. The desk was a treasure trove of
magical objects.
 
           Galatea cleared her throat, and when Hermione glanced up, she saw a
gleam of tears in Galatea’s eyes. “I’ve had many students I’ve been attached
to, many children I’ve loved greatly, but I’ve never had one I consider mine.
Hermione, you are like a daughter to me, and all my possessions are also yours,
especially anything that will keep you safe and out of trouble.”
 
           Hermione hugged her again, but this time Galatea only let it
continue for a few seconds before she began listing all the items and their
abilities. Hermione chose several – the cloak first, of course. Even if it
wasn’t as powerful as Harry’s, it was still a help and incredibly useful. Then,
she took one of the flasks, spelled to refill itself with the potion you last
put in it, so long as you left a few drops of the potion in the bottom. It
wouldn’t recreate difficult potions, Galatea warned, but she had tested it with
basic healing potions for head injuries and internal bleeding and burns.
 
          Though she wasn’t a fan of sharp objects, Galatea pressed one of the
daggers on her, giving her a leather sheath that strapped around her thigh to
carry it in. When Hermione protested that she didn’t need a knife, Galatea
immediately argued.
 
         “You do, and this isn’t a regular knife. Watch me hit the center of
diamond pattern on the wall,” she picked the dagger up and threw it across the
room, barely aiming, her throw wild. Yet, the dagger buried itself dead-center
in the diamond, then, after a second, flew back into Galatea’s waiting palm.
 
         Hermione studied the dagger with a new interest. “It works like a
boomerang? Do you have to state your target? Or is silent intent enough?”
 
         “Intent will do the trick,” Galatea took Hermione’s arm, the one she
had healed. “Do not let anyone hurt you. If you have to hurt them first, do it,
and do not hesitate.”
 
         Nodding, Hermione lifted her nightgown and strapped the dagger to her
thigh, getting a feel for how it fit there, how difficult it would be to reach
it beneath her skirt.
 
         “Is the trace on you?” Galatea asked quietly.
 
          “I don’t think so,” Hermione admitted. “But I can’t know for sure.”
 
          “Do a spell here, now, wandlessly,” Galatea spoke after a moment.
“The trace only indicates that magic was done in the vicinity of an under-aged
witch or wizard, not who performed the magic. I can do the same spell with my
wand and claim I did it.”
 
          Hermione licked her lips, still irrationally nervous at purposely
breaking a serious Ministry rule despite her long and glorious history of
breaking rules right and left over the past decade. “What should I do?”
 
         “Something powerful, something that wouldn’t be missed by the Ministry
if the trace was upon you,” Galatea answered, then added, “But do not destroy
my fireplace. I like it too much.”
 
          Galatea’s crooked smile, so much a part of all that was good about
Hermione’s life for the past five years, put her a bit more at ease. She
thought for a moment. The trace had been set off by Dobby in Harry’s aunt’s
house for something as simple as a moving cake, then again when Harry
involuntarily blew up his other aunt. She aimed for middle ground and did
something difficult, yet practical, rearranging all the books in the library by
color of spines instead of subject or title.
         “Oh, Hermione,” Galatea breathed, as she watched the books float
through the air, whizzing past each other to land on the shelves in order of
hue, creating a rainbow of spines across the wall. “Your magic is always so
graceful, so beautifully intuitive. And you did that wandlessly. You never
disappoint, do you?”
 
         Hermione’s cheeks flamed at the praise. “I’m always afraid I am
disappointing someone, actually,” she admitted.
 
         Galatea performed Hermione’s spell with her wand, carefully undoing
and redoing the spell, and as the books moved around them, she put her strong,
warm hands on Hermione’s shoulders. “Don’t you dare believe for a second,
anywhere inside, that you are less because you are muggleborn. If you do, they
win.” She gave another grin. “Try borrowing some of your soul mate’s infinite
self-confidence for a bit.”
 
        “You mean his arrogance?” Hermione laughingly corrected.
 
        “I was being polite,” Galatea answered dryly.
 
        They waited quietly for over an hour, but there was no letter, no angry
appearance by a Ministry official. After the clock had chimed the hour, Galatea
announced her opinion.
 
        “It isn’t absolute proof, because tracking in a magical household is
certainly more lax, but I’d bet a very large sum that you are trace-free,” she
gave Hermione a stern look. “Do not abuse that ability. Keep it for
emergencies.”
 
        Hermione nodded her agreement, and after she collected the items she
was taking with her, Galatea apparated them back to the Hogsmeade cottage. She
kissed Hermione once more on the top her head before she said goodnight and
left the kitchen.   Hermione went up the stairs on autopilot and slid into bed
with Felicity as quietly as she could. Sleep seemed impossible, but she
surprised herself and eventually drifted off.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
         Tom woke before the sun rose, as usual. He didn’t sleep much, never
had, even back in the orphanage. Sleep put one into a state of vulnerability,
and Tom hated vulnerability more than just about anything (which was a lofty
place, considering how many things he despised).  
 
            He rose and dressed in warm, durable clothing, wool trousers with
thick socks and boots, a flannel undershirt beneath his jumper. His wand was
tucked up his sleeve, and through the use of an extension charm he’d cast
yesterday morning while still at Hogwarts, there were several vials of the
cloaking potion stored in his pants pocket. He’d use those soon enough,
thankfully, because they felt awkward clinking against his leg.
 
            Narcissa was in sitting room, the only other person up at the
moment. When Tom came down the stairs, she motioned him over through the open
door. She was beautiful, perfectly put together as always, but Tom could see
she was tired and worried by the slight lines at the corner of her mouth and
the almost wistful look in her brown eyes.
 
            “Tom, I know you are planning on going,” she paused long enough to
convey her doubt effectively, “shopping today in Hogsmeade.”
 
            Tom nodded, but did not reply. Narcissa knew him disturbingly well,
so there was no need. He appreciated how subtle she was, how much she said
without saying anything. It was very…Slytherin.
 
            “Galatea and I both think of you as a son, our daughter’s soul
mate, an indispensible part of our family,” she began softly.
 
            Holding back a sigh of impatience, Tom nodded again. Why must
feelings always be brought into everything?
 
            Narcissa pursed her lips, as if she had heard the internal sigh. “I
understand and respect your ambition, Tom. You are talented and brilliant, and
you would be wasted following others, even if it were possible for you to
follow rather than lead.”
 
            Tom smiled, beatifically. He didn’t need praise, but it was still
nice to hear. That made it all the more surprising when Narcissa pulled out her
wand and cast an immobilizing spell before he could even react.
 
            Rage flooded his entire body, down to the smallest molecule, as
Narcissa bent over him, her own expression somehow fierce in its very blankness
as she whispered in his ear. “But you are in over your head, Tom, a novice. You
know nothing of battle, of fighting for your very life. The horrific pain you
felt in your first year from that botched burning curse was nothing to what a
talented wizard can do, Tom. Show me you can get free, now, or you will not be
taking my daughter with when you go.”
 
            He bristled at the challenge in her voice, the superiority. He
hadn’t needed her fucking prompting; all of Tom’s magic was already hard at
work, slithering around the spell that held him, finding its weakness,
infiltrating, changing the nature of the spell itself, because, as he had
learned from Galatea, all magic was, at its base, an act of transfiguration.
With a gasp, he ended the spell, and his wand was at Narcissa’s throat the next
instant.
 
            With a wave of her hand, he was back in the chair, bound with a
different spell, his wand on the floor. “Again,” she said, her voice completely
calm. “Faster.”
 
            It took noticeably less time for Tom to slip the spell, even though
he could feel that the second spell was stronger than the first. He reached for
his wand, but she kicked it away, gracefully, like a dancer sliding across a
floor. His magic began to crackle, and it built up inside him, ready to
explode.
 
            “How dare you!” Tom hissed. “Who do you think you are?”
 
            Narcissa swiped down through the air with her index finger, and he
was sitting in the fucking chair again. He couldn’t rise, but he tore at the
armrests. She fell to her knees in front of him, sinking to the floor, her
dress billowing around her, the scent of orchids filling the space around them.
Her face was no longer blank. It was impassioned, and that was an expression
he’d never seen on her face. He was too stunned to react for a moment.
 
            “Never doubt that I am your shield, Tom,” Narcissa’s hands were on
his own, holding them. “I keep you safe from adult interference. I give you
more than you know, more than you will acknowledge, but that doesn’t matter to
me. I am here to help save you, even if that means from yourself.”
             Tom had an excellent memory. He might not recall how pages of text
verbatim like Hermione could, but he remembered everything he deemed important.
And apparently, though he hadn’t realized it until that moment, he remembered
every time Narcissa had touched him. He remembered her cool hands on his back
or shoulder, on his brow in the Hospital Wing, fixing a non-existent problem
with his collar at home over the summer, and the three times she’d kissed his
brow.
 
             She was the closest to a mother he would ever have, and she was
the best he would ever have. If someone had told him to make a list of
qualities that he wanted in a mother figure, he couldn’t have made a woman
other than Narcissa. She was powerful in her own right; she respected his
desire not to be touched very frequently, yet still let him know that she cared
about him; she did not judge his attempt to use legilimency on her other than
to tell him to learn to be better at it; he was almost certain she knew about
the Chamber, but made no move to keep him from access to it; she talked to him
like he was an adult, and she believed in him. Though he was still angry, he
was able to see that she was doing yet another job that belonged to a mother:
she was preparing him for the world, showing him his weaknesses, teaching him
to be on his guard.  
 
            “All I ask is that you keep Hermione safe,” Narcissa continued,
still holding his hands, her fingers curled tightly over his.
 
            Tom found he could move, and he wasn’t sure which of them had
broken the spell. “Hermione’s safety isn’t a question,” he responded, surprised
at how not angry he sounded. “It never will be.”
 
            She rose, easily for a person who had been kneeling only a second
before. Tom stood as well, and put his hand out for his wand. He tucked it back
in his sleeve and considered his mother figure. Narcissa was impassive again,
cool, calm, and collected. They might have been discussing the weather, though
the sound of footsteps hurrying down the stairs and a frantic Hermione rushing
into the room raised the tension.
 
            “What’s wrong?” Hermione’s magic was reaching out to him, soothing
him, and Tom had to work to hide how pleased he was to see her, to know she was
always linked to him, that she would come if she felt any threat or
disturbance.
 
           Narcissa arched an eyebrow, part question, part challenge. Tom had
carefully catalogued her sins, and found her mostly guilty of wanting to
protect both Hermione and himself, and he didn’t feel inclined to punish her
for that, at least not now. One day, if she did such a thing again, perhaps,
but she had put him on his guard, and though he would not say so, Narcissa was
right. He had been sloppy. His easy mastery over fellow students at Hogwarts
had made him so, and that was precisely why he needed to go to France, today.  
 
          “Nothing, dearest,” Tom spoke to Hermione, but smiled at Narcissa,
and if that smile was a bit threatening, well, that was just in his nature.
***** Heroic Measures *****
Chapter Summary
     Our wayward teens finally make it to France. Tom is ready to be a
     hero. Hermione just wants everyone to make it out alive. They have a
     pretty good plan, but we all know what happens to the best laid
     plans.
Chapter Notes
     Things get a bit darker in this chapter, but I think that should be
     expected - they are heading into a town occupied by Grindelwald's
     forces (who are, by all accounts, earlier versions of Deatheaters,
     with only minor modifications in philosophy). So, be prepared for
     some violence, though I don't write graphic violence.
     Assume that conversations in France are mostly spoken in French if
     spoken with French people. Everyone in the group speaks French except
     Felicity. I have no knowledge of French (I took Spanish in school),
     so I didn't even attempt to translate the words.
 
             They used the floo to get to the Leaky Cauldron, where both
Abraxas and Patience were waiting for them. The group of five immediately made
their way to Knockturn Alley, where Abraxas had made arrangements to use an
unlicensed portkey that would take them to a wizarding village in France that
was known to be under Grindelwald’s control.
 
            “We aren’t going shopping, are we?” Felicity moaned quietly from
beside Hermione as they turned down the crooked alley, and then into another
one, even more narrow and sinister-looking, then into an apparently abandoned
shop where the only items in sight were a terribly battered table and a dented
iron poker propped against a cobweb filled fireplace.
 
            “No,” Patience replied cheerfully from Hermione’s other side, her
eyes managing to shine even in the dim light.
 
            “You can stay,” Hermione whispered back as they shuffled into the
small room. “Just go back to the Leaky Cauldron and wait for us.”
 
            Felicity shook her head. “I had a feeling this was happening. Tom’s
been talking about Grindelwald, and I know…I know his followers killed your
father, that they would kill my family without thinking. I would like to feel
useful in at least one of my worlds, doing something,” she paused, then added
lightly, “What are we doing exactly?”
 
            Hermione gave her a bitter smile. “That depends on whom you ask. I
think Tom would say that he wants battle experience, pure and simple. He wants
to know how he fares against adults. I would say that if we going to fight
Grindlewald’s men, then we have an obligation to make some kind of positive
difference beyond picking a fight.   We need to destroy as much as we can of
Grindelwald’s supplies or try to help anyone who is being held prisoner.”
 
            She caught Felicity’s arm. “Whatever you do, stay by me, and always
use defensive spells before attack. You’re stronger at defense.”
 
            The redhead nodded, then frowned. “What are we doing about the
trace?”
 
            They were all by the table now, and Tom heard that question. He
reached into his pocket and pulled out the vials, handing one to each of them.
“This is a potion that will cloak the source of our magic. It lasts for
approximately two hours, and that is all the longer we can spare. Abraxas, did
you bring the map?”
 
            Abraxas took a piece of paper out of his cloak and unfolded it onto
the table, which creaked even from that slightest of weights. It was a magical
map of the village of Fontaine de Puissance and its surrounding countryside,
reminding Hermione of the Marauder’s Map, though this one simply gave a moving
number over the buildings and other areas to indicate how many people were in
each place, rather than names.
 
               “I’ve been studying this all morning,” Abraxas began pointing to
various spots on the map. “It seems from the concentration of numbers that most
of Grindelwald’s forces are in this tavern, which has lodging above, in the
local jail, where they are probably keeping prisoners, and in pairs patrolling
the perimeter of the town.”
 
            Tom nodded. “I’ve been listening to the wireless and talking to
Slughorn about his connections abroad and what’s happening that isn’t being
reported. Combine that with what Lord Malfoy has told Abraxas, and it seems
that Grindelwald is very keen on pushing further into France. Even if his base
of operations is the prison he’s building in Nuremguard, his trusted
lieutenants are moving steadily in all directions from there, taking over
magical towns as they go.”
 
            “My father says that Ministry spies have established a new pattern.
Grindelwald isn’t simply attacking blindly as he did at the beginning of the
war. He’s gotten much more organized. When Grindelwald’s followers come into a
town, they imprison or kill the best fighters, then round up family members as
hostages to force the town to swear loyalty to Grindelwald, and take most of
the fighters with them to add to Grindelwald’s numbers, leaving a few loyalists
behind to keep the civilians under threat and in check. If he is truly going to
take over the continent, he’s going to need an army, and he’s building it. The
Ministry estimates he already has almost a thousand,” Abraxas traced the
numbers on the map. “This town is small; it only has about twenty people who
are absolutely loyal to Grindelwald, and others who are fighting for him under
duress.”
 
            Hermione calmed her nerves the only way she knew how – by making a
plan. She leaned into Abraxas, comforted by his solid, warm presence, and
gestured to the map. “Where does the portkey land us?”
 
            “Here,” Abraxas circled a wooded area at the edge of the town. “It
has the best cover.”
 
            “How do we know that the information on the town and the portkey is
accurate?” Hermione was not about to trust an unknown person who was profiting
from making illegal portkeys.
 
            Tom raised an eyebrow at her. “We aren’t stupid, Hermione. Abraxas
and I are the Slytherins in this group, after all.”
 
               Abraxas gave her a sly grin, and Hermione wondered briefly how
many bad habits Abraxas was picking up from all his time with Tom. “The man who
made me the portkey has a vested interest in our success, Hermione. Jean is not
a crook or even someone who does illegal things regularly. He was a legitimate
businessman in France, an associate of my father’s. His sister is in the town,
and he has asked, in lieu of payment, that we bring her back with us.”
 
                Hermione was pleasantly shocked. “This is a rescue mission?”
 
                “Isn’t that what heroes do, dearest?” Tom smirked, then added,
“though she isn’t exactly a prisoner, not in a dungeon, anyway. According to
the information from Jean, his sister, Sophie, is simply living in the village.
She would like to leave, but Grindelwald has placed spells to prevent
apparition, disabled the Floo networks, and, of course, has men patrolling the
town. She managed to get facts about the men and this map to her brother
through a desk drawer that works like a vanishing cabinet.”
 
                He tapped a small house with a green cross over it, along with
the number one. “This is where Sophie lives.”
 
               Felicity gazed at the map. “Her house is in the middle of town.
It will be very difficult to get to without being noticed.”
 
              “Grindelwald’s people have been in this town for a while now.
They are not actively fighting at the moment, and they are at ease. Seeing as
how most of the men are stationedat the local tavern, I doubt they are
expecting any kind of resistance, let alone an attack,” Tom responded easily,
as if planning a surprise party.
 
              Patience pointed at one building near the edge of town where the
number read fifteen. “The nasty ones are here, torturing people.”
 
              Hermione shuddered, the image of Bellatrix on top of her flashing
through her mind before she could shut down that line of thought. Tom,
Patience, and Abraxas all immediately gave her looks of concern. She was at
once annoyed and grateful for their connection. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of
my last encounter with people who tortured others.”
 
             “No one will touch you again,” Tom said, his voice full of icy
determination. He turned to Patience. “Can you tell how many are the ‘nasty’
ones, pet?”
 
             The tall blonde’s eyes went glassy for a few seconds, even farther
away than normal. She was gripping Tom’s arm tightly, and Hermione could feel
that Patience was pulling on all four sources of magic in their quartet to
power her first attempt at consciously tapping into her abilities. Her brow
furrowed and her lips pursed. Concentration was not an expression often on
Patience’s features. Finally, she sighed and relaxed. “Mmm…maybe three. No more
than five.”
 
            “So, approximately ten to twelve prisoners,” Hermione murmured.
“Probably weak, no wands.”
 
            Tom gave her a pointed look. “We only have two hours, Hermione,
it’s unlikely we’ll be able to help everyone. We’ll go for the jail. I like our
odds. There are five of us, after all, six if we get Sophie first.” He traced a
route from the woods to Sophie’s house, then the jail with his wand, and the
mark remained, a glowing orange path on the map.
 
            “If these people are the ‘nasty’ ones, as Patience says, they won’t
hesitate to use dark magic,” Hermione looked at Tom, her eyes hard. “We’ll need
to disable them as soon as we come into the building. Surprise is our best
weapon. If we give them the chance, they will kill us.”
 
            She didn’t want him thinking that he could toy with these people as
he sometimes did with opponents during duels at school. Too much was at stake.
 
            Shockingly, he didn’t argue, but Hermione didn’t know if that meant
if he planned to listen to her. They spent the next fifteen minutes going over
the plan and the route. Hermione shared the items Galatea had given her, and
they agreed to let Felicity, who was the weakest at offense, wear the
invisibility cloak. Once they had Sophie, the two would share the cloak. Sophie
was the main goal, they agreed, and if they ran into trouble in the streets,
they would not attempt to breach the jail.
 
            Abraxas took out five pieces of what looked like flesh colored
silk. He handed one to each of them, and then pressed one to his face. It
molded to his skin, openings appearing for his eyes, nose, and mouth, but
otherwise leaving his features disturbingly blank and unrecognizable.
 
            Though it was clever and necessary, Hermione couldn’t help but
think of the Deatheater masks. Tom held his, staring down at the fabric. She
could tell he was torn between wanting to be able to claim his deeds and
wanting to be able to continue in secret until he reached a stronger fighting
position.
 
                With a grimace, he finally placed the mask on. “Even though we
are slipping the trace, the spells we use with our wands can still be tracked
if we are questioned by the Ministry. If you can do something wandlessly, do
so.”
 
                 They uncorked the vials, staring at one another gravely as
they drank. Hermione could feel their collective excitement and agitation
rising with their magic as they walked to the fireplace and lined their hands
up over the length of the iron poker. Abraxas counted down from three, and then
the familiar hook was pulling at her navel, propelling her through space.
 
                  She managed to remain standing, though her hand sought out a
support and found rough tree bark. The air here was colder, and Hermione was
glad they had all been dressed for the winter weather, all three girls wearing
thick wool tights under their skirts. She still wished for her denim, but
Narcissa was very particular about how a ‘lady’ dressed, and appearance was one
area in which she didn’t dare cross her mother.
 
                  The rest of the group was on their knees, breathing heavily
from the spatial transition. Tom recovered first, rising beside Hermione. She
could only see his eyes; the mask hid most of his mouth, though the magic made
it perfectly comfortable to wear. She’d forgotten about it until she looked at
him. Through their connection, she reached out, trying to get a sense of his
mood. He was intently focused, full of sheer will.   He returned the mental
touch, his magic stroking hers gently, like a rub along the arm. She knew he
could feel her fear because she wasn’t trying to hide it.
 
                  Patience came over, and her calm came into the connection,
shoring up Tom’s strong intention. Abraxas was behind her, and she could feel
his excitement, determination, and like her, a bit of fear. Were they really
doing this?
 
                 “Faith, my little bird,” Tom whispered in her ear.
 
                 She nodded, not trusting herself to speak at the moment, and
handed the invisibility cloak to Felicity, who covered herself quickly and
walked behind Hermione.
 
                The woods were slightly lower than the village, which was
visible on the rise of the hill. There was a sharp wind blowing through the
trees that made a lonely, haunting whistle, but otherwise, the day was quiet,
no sounds of a normal village on a Saturday morning close to Christmas. The sky
was overcast, and the whole feeling was rather dismal.
 
               They walked quickly and quietly, following the tree line, then
staying low until they reached the back of the first row of houses. Abraxas’s
map showed the patrolling pair at the opposite edge of town. Hermione could
feel a wave of magic in the air, like a wall.
 
              “There’s an invisible boundary here – an additional enchantment
to track those going in and out of the village,” Hermione whispered, putting
out her hand to trace the air just beyond it.
 
               Tom did the same and frowned. “The question is whether it will
set off a general alarm, or if it will alert a particular person or group.”
 
              Hermione was pondering that question when Patience pressed her
wand into Hermione’s hand along with her mask. “We need to step over together,
but one of us needs to remain behind. Come get me when you can,” she said
calmly, then stepped over the line.
 
              The others quickly followed, though Tom and Abraxas’s strong
grips, combined, pulled Hermione away Patience, who remained in the open space.
The answer to their question was immediately apparent, as a cater-walling alarm
went off, obliterating the quiet. Tom, Abraxas, and Felicity were all
whispering disillusionment and notice-me-not spells, dragging Hermione along
the shadows of the buildings as they watched two men running toward a seemingly
unbothered Patience.
 
              “You! Girl!” the taller man shouted in French that was marred by
a German accent. “Stop!”
 
              “I’m not going anywhere,” Patience responded airily, in much
better French. “How can I stop?”
 
              What they said in response was lost, because the group had turned
the corner, though Hermione was still fighting against Tom and Abraxas.
 
              “Hermione, if anyone can follow an intuitive leap and be fine,
that person is Patience,” Abraxas spoke into her hair, pushing her along. “We
would never leave her. The sooner we get to Sophie, the sooner we get back to
Patience.”
 
              Felicity made a low hum of agreement beneath her cloak, and Tom
nodded as well. Hermione forced herself to calm down, feeling across her bond
to Patience, who was still her normal, tranquil self. That feeling reassured
her a bit, though she was very frustrated. She expected rash behavior from Tom,
not from Patience. Her sense of control over the situation was unraveling, and
that was frightening.
 
              They made it to Sophie’s house without seeing another person.
Hermione assumed the villagers were all terrified by the knowledge that someone
had either tried to leave or enter their occupied town and were remaining
safely inside where they couldn’t be accused of breaking any of Grindelwald’s
rules.
 
              Several rapid knocks at Sophie’s door went unanswered, and Tom
finally used a powerful unlocking spell, causing the door to open wide with a
loud bang against the wall. They entered quickly, shutting and locking the door
behind them.
 
              A young woman in her twenties with messy brown hair and rumpled
clothing ran down the stairs, fear etched on her thin face. Her hands were out
and open in front of her, in a gesture of surrender. She either had no wand, or
it was well-hidden.
 
             “Sophie?” Abraxas spoke quickly, putting his lifetime of French
lessons to excellent use. “Your brother Jean sent us to bring you back to
England. He is very worried for your safety.”
 
             The woman nearly crumpled in relief. “Oh, thank God. Every day,
these men are bolder, taking more and more.”
 
            “Get under the cloak with Felicity,” Tom ordered, his French much
more accented than Abraxas’s, but still understandable. “Space will be tight –
you must stay close to her and remain silent. Do you have a wand?”
 
            Sophie shook her head. “Weber, the man in charge, had his men
collect everyone’s when the town surrendered,” anger twisted her mouth. “We
have been living practically as muggles. Only those who make an Unbreakable Vow
to follow Grindelwald get their wands.” At that, Sophie spit on the floor.
 
            Hermione thought that explained how cold the house was, with only
the weakest of fires in the hearth, an under-baked loaf of bread on the table.
Sophie herself looked disheveled, and the house in need of cleaning. It was
probably very difficult for a person raised in the magical world to suddenly go
about normal life without any magical assistance.
 
           “You can use this one for now,” Hermione handed Sophie Patience’s
wand and the mask. “Put this on as well.”
 
           “Thank you,” Sophie took the wand and the mask and tucked into the
cloak beside Felicity, who had stuck out her head.
 
           “Do you speak any English?” Felicity asked anxiously. “I don’t speak
French.”
 
           “Of course,” Sophie responded in English, linking her arm with
Felicity so they could hunch closer together.
 
            Felicity sighed in relief, then looked at the clock. “An hour and
fifteen minutes left of the potion.”
 
            “You two will have to move slowly,” Hermione watched Felicity and
Sophie adjusting the cloak around them. There was not much fabric to spare.
“You should head back to the edge of the town. Stay near the line. When we get
there with Patience, we’ll simply have to flat-out run back to the portkey.
That alarm prevents us from sneaking out.”
 
            Tom nodded his agreement. “Yes, ladies, go on. They’ve probably
taken Patience to the jail. We’ll start there, and meet you as soon as we can.”
 
            Sophie’s expression was hidden by the mask, but her voice was
tremulous. “Weber does horrible things in the jail. I hope your friend is not
there.”
 
            “Would there be any other place they would take her?” Abraxas
asked.
 
            “Perhaps the tavern, if she is not determined a threat,” Sophie
shrugged, then added. “Though, if she is young and pretty, the tavern may be
just as bad a place as the jail.”
 
            Hermione’s whole body tightened at Sophie’s words, her entire being
flooding with angry magic. Tom and Abraxas both turned toward her, but neither
needed to say a word. She could feel their responses as well, and their
combined rage was a heady mix between them, building to an unbearable need to
act.
 
             “We’ll meet you soon,” Tom bit out, and then they left, heading
back into the empty streets, taking the opposite direction from Felicity and
Sophie.
 
              They paused outside their destination, looking at the map. The
number above the jail now read twenty, and even if one of those additions was
Patience, there was still likely to be four more people with wands, bringing
the count of Grindelwald’s men up to seven or nine.
 
              “Can you feel her inside?” Tom asked Hermione, his fingers
clutched tightly over the yew wand.
 
              Hermione stared into his pale blue eyes. She could see worry
there, or at least the outrage that was Tom’s version of being worried. “Can
you? It will probably work best if we all try together.”
 
              The three of them concentrated, Tom and Abraxas’s hands on her
shoulders making a circle of their magic, and, yes, there was Patience, her
deep, calm magic pooled at the edges of their own, close by. Hermione pulled at
the connection, and felt Patience’s magic ripple in response. She also felt
something cold and unpleasant, something Patience was trying to hide at the
back of her mind.
 
               “They hurt her,” Hermione’s eyes snapped open, her hands shaking
in anger.
 
              “Don’t worry, dearest,” Tom smiled, and even through the mask, it
was chilling. “We’ll take our payment in blood.”
 
             There was no thought of disagreeing on this point. Hermione’s
adrenaline was pumping, her magic was crackling, and she knew she would do
whateverneeded to be done to get Patience back.
 
            “Blast in the door? Together?” Hermione asked. “I’m using my wand.
Tracking be damned.” She cast a silencing spell around the building, hoping
that it would work to muffle the blast. She’d never attempted such a thing
before.
 
             Her two Slytherins nodded. Tom looked at them, his eyes solemn.
“Wands, then, for Patience,” he caught Hermione’s gaze and added in a low,
rough voice, “Do not hesitate – they will not.”
 
             They pointed their wands at the door and spoke the blasting spell.
The result wasn’t so much that the door splintered as that the wall caved in,
stones and mortar flying through the air. The sound was much reduced, more like
the slamming of a door than a building being torn apart, and Hermione filed
that success away for later application. While the occupants ducked and tried
to orientate themselves to the source of the attack, the three climbed over the
rubble, Hermione and Abraxas casting the strongest, longest-lasting knock-out
spells they knew, Tom casting something much nastier, if the odd combination of
paralyzed faces and twitching bodies of his victims was any indication.
 
            Hermione counted as they moved forward, the first, larger room
narrowing to a short hallway lined with doors. Five people disabled for the
moment. That left at least two, maybe four, more, somewhere in the building.
They looked at each other and each took a door, blasting it in.
 
            Each of the rooms contained people chained to walls, and though Tom
immediately moved on, Hermione took the time to magically loosen the chains,
freeing them. She counted them as well, and came up with only five people left
in the building. The men and women called out a combination of thanks and
warnings in French, but Hermione couldn’t spare an extended response, only
telling them to gather their families and get out of town during this chaos. As
she came back into the hall, the last door opened, and a burly man whose face
sported a goatee and a malicious grin stepped out.
 
            “I knew our little lady wasn’t alone,” his tone was oily, and
Hermione bristled.
 
            “She is ours,” Hermione hissed, and her wand had swished through
the air before she’d consciously thought.
 
            “I think you took my line, dearest,” Tom said laughingly, adding to
Hermione’s spell.
 
            The man shielded himself, but the force of their spells still
knocked him back several steps.
 
            The three of them advanced, casting spell after spell, barely
pausing for breath. Another man came out, but the trio’s elemental magic was
performing beautifully, their spells casting so quickly that all the men’s
energy was completely caught up in maintaining their protective spells, and
when the two were pushed back past the door opening, Hermione ducked into the
room, leaving them to Tom and Abraxas without a second thought.
 
            A red flash of light hurtled toward her head, but Hermione ducked
it. She threw back a few stunning spells that went wide as she took in the
room. There were two men, one holding a wand to Patience, whose face was
covered in blood and swollen. At the very least, she had a busted lip and nose
and a black eye. It was possible her nose was broken. The other man stood a bit
to the side, and he had an air of authority, making Hermione sure she’d found
Weber.
 
            “Herr Weber?” she asked, her shield up.
 
            He nodded, unconcerned. “I’m not sure which resistance group you
are with, but this little display will not go unpunished, I assure you.
Grindelwald controls all this region, and you have nowhere to hide.”
 
            “I will have no need to hide,” Hermione waved her wand, sending
three spells in rapid succession; two at Weber, and one at the man holding
Patience. The man holding Patience groaned as a spell that simulated volts of
electricity coursing through the body hit him in the arm, and he fell senseless
to the ground, his unconscious body still twitching. Weber deflected both of
the spells she sent at him, and moved to grab Patience from the other man.
 
            “You are powerful little thing,” Weber threw several curses her
way, over Patience’s shoulder, one of them the cruciatus, she noted.
“Grindelwald wants as many strong fighters as he can get. What can I do to
convince you to stay on our side?”
 
            “Nothing!” Hermione replied, returning his fire with more jolting
and stinging curses. “Grindelwald is an insane megalomaniac.”
           
Weber laughed, a short, barking sound. He threw a few more curses and ran his
free hand back and forth over Patience’s ribs, rubbing her. “Grindelwald
doesn’t send pretty, young, wandless girls without a brain in their heads into
a town full of soldiers as a distraction. He attacks outright, like a man
should.”  
 
            Hermione sent several furious curses at him as she realized his
hand was bloody, the knuckles split, though there was more blood than that
could account for. The blood on his hand was from hitting Patience, from her
lip, her nose, the cut near her eyebrow.
 
            He sneered at Hermione as his fingers crept higher up Patience’s
chest. “We don’t sneak around in masks, either. We take what we are entitled
to, like the superior men we are.” His large, supremacist, blood-covered hand
closed over Patience’s breast and gave a vicious squeeze.   “Of course, if you
act like a muggle, we’ll beat you like one.”  
           
            Later, when she was thinking of what she had done, Hermione wished
she was able to say that she had acted instinctually, that her motions had been
without conscious thought. However, that was so blatant a lie, she could not
bring herself to even try to tell it. What actually went through her mind was
that this vile man had touched her dearest friend, her lover, her Patience, had
hurt her, and intended to do so again, to hurt all the people Hermione loved.  
 
            Hermione never forgot anything. Her memory was specific and nearly
photographic, and yes, she might get stressed and something might slip her mind
when she was panicked, or she might try to push away an unpleasant memory, but
she didn’t forget.
 
             When she stared down at the blood covering his hand, memories
flooded her like a breaking dam. She saw Ron’s face twisting in agony as she
fretfully applied healing spells and dittany, his blood soaking into her skin.
She saw the splatter of Buckbeak’s blood across the pumpkin patch. She saw
Cedric’s blank eyes, Neville’s broken nose, Luna’s busted lip, Harry’s I must
not tell lies, so angrily inflamed she could barely stand to look at his hand.
She saw Dumbledore’s broken body at the base of the Astronomy Tower, Snape and
the other Deatheaters fleeing into the night while Hagrid’s hut burned. She saw
herself, the girl who had been Hermione Granger, the girl who had limped into
the bathroom after waking up in the past to face herself, haggard, unkempt,
malnourished, a victim of torture, shaking and bloody, her arm mutilated with
dark magic, despite Narcissa’s attempts to clean and heal her while she slept.
 
            She was so tired of accepting pain, of being the ‘better’ person.
Years of careful control evaporated under the force of her rage, and she pulled
at the deep reserve of Patience’s magic, twining it with her own to cast a very
strong protective shield, one that she knew would keep her safe for the
precious seconds she needed for her next, absolutely premeditated act.
 
            Weber had clearly been expecting an attack, and he paused for a
second, staring at the visible shield. “Getting scared, little girl? You should
be. When I’m done with your pretty, mad friend, you’ll be next. Grindelwald is
the future, and if you aren’t with us, you’re expendable.”
 
            He was casting the cruciatus again, but it bounced off the glowing,
golden shield. Hermione lifted her skirt, which caught his eye and produced
another disgusting leer. What violently lecherous remark he would have made,
however, was cut off by the dagger Hermione threw that buried itself to the
hilt in the center of his forehead, vibrating there for a few seconds before
flying back to Hermione’s palm, blood spraying through the air as the dagger
spun hilt over blade.
 
            “That was an excellent aim,” Patience said, her voice was as light
and calm as ever as Weber collapsed to the floor behind her. Whether she was
smiling was not clear due to the injuries to her face.
 
            Hermione couldn’t process what she’d done, not now. She could only
run across the room and hold Patience, moving her wand and whispering spells of
healing in a rush of words and magic. Instantly, Patience’s face, though still
covered in blood, looked much less swollen, and her serene smile was visible,
allowing both Hermione’s heart rate and anger to lessen considerably.
 
            “Don’t do that ever again, Patience!” Hermione half-scolded, half-
pleaded as she kissed Patience’s bloody face.
 
            Patience lifted a hand to stroke Hermione’s cheek through the mask.
“I knew you’d save me, Hermione. You’ve saved the whole world. I believe in
you, Hermione. More than anything else I’ve ever seen.”
 
            It took much strength of will not to burst into tears at the rush
of love and gratitude she felt at Patience’s words. “We need to go, now.”
 
            They had just turned back toward the door when the sounds of
fighting in hallway outside ceased and Tom and Abraxas rushed into the room.
Abraxas had a nasty burn mark covering most of the left half of his face, where
some of his flesh was visible through the damaged mask, and Tom was noticeably
limping.   Both stopped moving when they saw Patience and Hermione.
 
            “You have blood on your faces,” Tom observed with a cool tone that
only those in the room understood meant he would be looking to hurt someone
very badly in retaliation.
 
            Patience tugged Hermione’s hand and they walked toward the boys,
revealing the two bodies behind them.
 
            “Are they both dead?” Tom asked in the same voice.
 
            “Just the one that matters,” Hermione replied, taking his arm. “He
paid in blood, as requested.”
 
            Tom’s eyes met hers, and he looked incredibly pleased. “And the
blood on you?”
 
            “His and Patience’s, not mine,” she answered, gesturing with the
knife she was still holding, that was still covered in blood.   “I’m not hurt,
but we need to go, now,” she repeated. “Felicity and Sophie are out there
alone, and someone has to have noticed that half of the front of the jail is
missing.”
 
            “It’s unlikely they care,” Abraxas muttered, looping his arm
through Tom’s to help him move more quickly. Tom did not protest, which worried
Hermione. His leg must be rather badly hurt for him to accept help.
 
            Hermione was about to agree when the caterwauling alarm went off,
filling the air with aggressively ear-splitting noise. “I think,” she yelled,
“the people we released are taking advantage of the moment. It’s going to be
chaos in the streets.”
 
            Patience put her hand on Hermione’s wand hand, waving it through
the air and whispering disillusionment charms. Even though their magic was
linked, Hermione was still surprised that her wand so easily and fully
responded to Patience’s commands, watching the four of them fade like ghosts.
 
            Tom spoke, his voice seeming to come from the palest of shadows.
“Excellent work, pet, as usual. Let’s go.”
 
            As they cautiously made their way back out, Hermione saw her guess
was correct. People were running out of homes in family groups, heading for the
edges of town, past the line where they could apparate, which was possible
without a wand, though they were risking splinching. Some wizards, mostly in
brown and black uniforms with the Deathly Hallows symbol – Grindelwald’s
symbol, emblazoned on the chest, where firing spells at them, but so many
people were evacuating, running in all directions, it was impossible for the
men to stop them all. A few who had managed to get their wands somehow were
fighting with them in the streets, jets of light flying. The entire scene,
combined with the ongoing noise of the alarm, was overwhelmingly chaotic.
 
             The group moved as quickly as could, taking a more direct route
this time, and made it to the last row of houses where people rushing past the
boundary and apparating about half-way down the hill. A faint shimmer by a
dustbin indicated the cloak, and Hermione gently touched the cloth.
 
             “It’s us. We’re under a disillusionment charm, but it’s fading,”
Hermione whispered, watching her hand become more solid.
 
             Felicity sighed heavily with relief, and muttered, “Thank God!
We’ve been nearly trampled about a dozen times.”
 
            “The potion’s almost up,” Tom hissed. “We need to get down the hill
to the portkey.”
 
             Felicity handed the cloak to Sophie completely and Sophie handed
Patience her wand.
 
            “I’m glad they found you,” Sophie took off the mask and offered it
to Patience.
 
            Patience smiled, her teeth stained with red like the rest of her
face. “That’s alright. The blood is mask enough, I think.”
 
            Sophie shook her head in agreement quickly and disappeared under
the cloak.
 
            “We’re going straight down the hill, to the woods and the portkey.
Everyone run as fast as you can,” Hermione looked at Tom, who nodded.
 
            They ran over the line, though the alarm was still on-going.
Felicity, Sophie, and Patience were in front, then Abraxas half-supporting Tom,
and Hermione bringing up the rear. Some of Grindelwald’s men were on the hill,
taking shots at those trying to escape, and their larger group, now mostly
visible, caught their attention.
 
             Hermione threw curses over her shoulder as she ran, as did Tom.
Something hit her in the shoulder blades, and she screamed at the pain,
stumbling forward from the force, but kept running. At her scream, she felt Tom
gathering her magic and saw him send a wave of fire at the men who were chasing
them. It hit them, a wall of flames, and they fell shrieking to the ground,
rolling in the grass in an attempt to put themselves out.
 
            The wall of flames remained, and no one else attempted to pass it.
The group ran panting into the woods, to the large oak tree where they’d left
the portkey. They counted down and grasped the iron, and found themselves
coughing and gasping on the dusty floor of the abandoned store in Knockturn
Alley.
 
 
-oOo0oOo-
           
            Only a few moments after returning, Tom felt a roiling sensation in
his stomach, and was extremely thankful he hadn’t eaten in hours. His limbs
were heavy, in addition to the throbbing pain in his right leg.
 
            “The potion’s wearing off,” Abraxas observed with a groan, one arm
still wrapped around Tom.
 
            Sophie stood, putting the mask and the cloak on the table, which
wobbled dangerously. “I am so very grateful. I owe you my life, I’m sure. Can
you tell me where Jean is? I’m so anxious to see him.”
 
            Abraxas pulled a small envelope out of his coat pocket. “You can
meet him at this address. It’s only a few streets over.”
 
            Sophie gave them all kisses on the cheek through their masks and
said thank you about thirty more times before leaving.
 
            Once the door was closed, Hermione gave Tom a look that was clear
even through the mask. “What did you do to that piece of paper? There’s no way
you’d let her leave with all the knowledge she has of us, even with the masks.”
 
            He pulled off the mask and gave her a wink, which he knew she found
especially exasperating. “Abraxas and I spelled the paper to make her forget
the last few hours. She’ll still see the address to meet her brother, but she
won’t know what happened.”
 
            “But Jean will still know who we are, or who Abraxas is, at the
least,” she protested, tearing off her mask to reveal the exact look of
frustration he happened to find so oddly adorable on her. Why was it that he
found her so sexy when she was annoyed with him?
 
            Abraxas shifted beside him, still carefully supporting Tom, which
he didn’t need sitting down, but found he didn’t want to pull away from,
either.
 
            “No, I knew of Jean, but he doesn’t know me. All he knows is that
he created a portkey for his sister’s rescue, for a concerned group of
resistance fighters to use,” Abraxas reassured her. “Tom and I had been waiting
for Grindelwald to attack a town my father somehow had connections with, so we
could exploit them.”
 
            “I think I’m going to be sick,” Felicity moaned softly, rolling
onto her side and coughing.
 
            “It’s a side effect of the potion,” Hermione said. “It will pass in
the next half-hour or so.”
 
            She pulled herself up slowly, digging through her bag and taking
out a bottle. “Galatea gave me this potion replenishing bottle. It has a potion
for healing minor bodily trauma in it.”
 
            Hermione handed the bottle to Abraxas. “Drink it and then give it
to Tom. You’ll need something more specific for the burn, and Patience will
probably need a concussion potion, just to be safe.” She glanced over to
Felicity. “Were you hit at all?”
 
            “No,” Felicity managed between dry heaves. “I’m great.”
 
            Tom watched in amazement as she continued to go through the tiny
bag, pulling out bottles and salves. Her arm disappeared up to her elbow, and
he reminded himself to ask her what modifications to the extension charm she
had made.   The first potion eased the pain in his leg by only a small amount.
 
            “What kind of spell was it?” Hermione was touching his leg now,
rolling up his pants leg, and as always, her fingers felt lovely, even when he
was in pain.
 
            “I’m not sure,” he admitted, his tone annoyed. The two men in the
hall had fought fiercely, if not particularly skillfully. Once Hermione had
gone into the next room, the available magic had diminished because Hermione
was farther away and using her own magic at full power. He had felt the
strength of her casting, and knew he couldn’t use any of her magic – if she was
using that much, she had none to spare.
 
             He and Abraxas had held their own, and they had sent both men
crashing into the stone wall behind them, hopefully with bashed in brains, Tom
thought. But the experience had not been as satisfying to his ego as he had
hoped. This whole day had been a series of rude awakenings, and he vowed to
redouble his efforts to increase his skill, speed, and power, so that he could
handle anyone, on his own, if need be. Though the elemental magic was a boon,
it would not do to become dependent upon it.
 
            “Some kind of muscle-locking or spasm spell,” he grimaced as
Hermione ran her fingers over most painful area around his knee. “My leg keeps
wanting to bend, but I think if I let it, it will stay that way.”
 
            She chewed on her lip and pulled out more bottles, giving him
several disgusting potions to drink, and rubbing different salves into his leg,
which was actually pleasant. Eventually, his leg began to loosen, and the pain
subsided. The weakness and nausea were gone as well, so he stood gingerly and
walked around the room while Hermione moved onto treating Abraxas’s burn, and
then to Patience, cleaning her face gently with moist rags that somehow managed
to also be in that blasted bag.
 
            Within an hour’s time, they were all healthy and mostly clean,
though Patience’s coat did have some blood on it that couldn’t be removed
without magic, so she cheerfully took Tom’s grey wool scarf and covered the
spots with it. He didn’t even protest as she pulled the scarf from his neck,
her fingers dancing over his skin. He may have even smiled at her. Patience had
surprised him again today, and he would be having a conversation with her about
that, but at the moment, he was glad she was safe, and that the bastard who’d
touched her was dead.
 
            The fact that Hermione had murdered a man was another conversation
that would need to be had, but it would wait as well. They had achieved their
goals, he had gotten his first battle experience, and they were all in one
piece. That would have to do for now, though his desire to destroy everything
remotely related to Grindelwald had increased exponentially, and the sound of
Hermione screaming, the sight of Abraxas’s burned face, along with the horror
of Patience covered in blood, only added valuable fuel to the fire he would use
to burn his foe to ashes.
***** Tom Might Just Be Getting the Hang of Being a Soul Mate *****
Chapter Summary
     The aftermath of the battle in Fontaine de Pussiance from Tom's point
     of view. Galatea and Narcissa react to the partial news of what
     happened, and Hermione suffers some serious, previously unnoticed,
     side-effects of the curse she was caught with in battle. Tom takes
     additional risks to help her.
Chapter Notes
     You are all such clever readers! Many of you asked, "Didn't Hermione
     get hit with something?" Oh, yes, she did. And this chapter will deal
     with it. It also contains some magical theories, and it focuses on
     Tom's conflicted thoughts about his growing dependency on his group.
     Also, Tom is pretty sweet to Hermione in this chapter, but I hope
     I've made it clear by this point that he's at his most unguarded when
     the two of them are alone, and what he does privately with her, and
     even Abraxas and Patience, does not negate the fact that he is still
     capable of being a vicious bastard. I've been rather sick with a
     nasty case of bronchitis, so replies to comments have been slow, but
     I'm finally on the mend, so I'll get those sorted soon. As always,
     love to you all.
 
            The rest of the day felt bizarre to Tom, to say the least. Only a
few hours before, they’d been fighting for their lives, performing thrilling
and powerful spells, and now they were going in and out of shops, surrounded by
annoying, childish laughter, running into many fellow Hogwarts students who
were also buying holiday gifts.
            Tom pasted a genial, non-threatening smile on his face as he
greeted acquaintances and browsed through the stores, but he was frustrated,
eager to find out what had happened after they’d left Fontaine de Puissance.
Had Grindelwald been summoned? Had the rest of the people left for a safe
place? Tom hoped so, not because he particularly cared, but because the loss of
prisoners and townsfolk to hold hostage would certainly anger the man. It had
been a glorious slap in the face, an opening move that Tom planned on following
up with much, much more. How long would it take before news traveled? Would
Grindelwald work to keep it quiet?
 
             Slughorn cornered them in a candy shop, his arms full of boxes of
crystallized pineapple, asking inane questions about their holiday plans, and
Tom was grateful when Abraxas came over to distract their Head of House by
telling him about all the famous guests his parents would be inviting to their
Christmas ball, and to ask Slughorn if he’d received his invitation yet.
 
            As had become normal, all three of his quartet seemed to understand
he was agitated, though he was sure he gave no outward sign. He went through
the motions of buying a few books, and even a couple gifts, already longing for
his magic again. It was ridiculous that students couldn’t use magic at home,
especially if they lived in magical households. He understood that it would
have been a problem to run around muggle London performing spells, but whom did
it hurt for them to use magic in Diagon Alley, or in Hogsmeade?
 
            The potion to cloak their magic he’d brewed had many rare
ingredients, and they had used up most of them making a batch large enough for
five doses. It wouldn’t be possible to make the potion regularly, though he
could probably slowly order the missing ingredients over the course of the
school year, and have them by summer, or faster if he had Abraxas obtain half
of the needed supplies. He’d told Hermione he wasn’t concerned about the trace,
but that wasn’t entirely true. Yes, he’d used magic as a child, regularly, with
no interference, and yes, the students he’d asked about the trace seemed to
think it was a matter of luck whether or not one was caught, but it was there,
and Tom didn’t like to proceed without assured success. The situation called
for further research in the Chamber, in all its books and Slytherin’s journals.
They had barely scratched the surface of what it contained.
 
            He was so lost in his thoughts and plans, Tom hardly noticed they’d
returned to the Leaky Cauldron.
 
            “Tom?” Hermione was saying, her hand on his arm. “We have to go
back to Hogsmeade. Patience and Abraxas have to go home as well.”
 
            Tom looked at her, at the face he’d come to see in his dreams, in
all his plans. She was so lovely, all light and seeming innocence and kindness,
passionate about the rights of everyone. And today, she’d killed a man. The
weapon she’d used was strapped to her thigh, perhaps still containing traces of
blood. He was incredibly aroused simply thinking about it, about the amount of
darkness she contained under that airy surface, and she was his. He wanted to
kiss her, to strip her bare and run his hands up those thighs, but that would
have to wait.
 
            “We need to find a way to get back to Hogwarts sooner, or at least
get the group together again before the break is over,” Tom replied, looking at
Abraxas and Patience, who were standing by the fireplace, ready to floo to
their respective homes. He wanted his quartet – all of them, and he wanted to
do magic with them, to celebrate their triumph with magic and sex all night
long. Why should he be deprived of what belonged to him?
 
            “Come to the Malfoy Christmas ball,” Abraxas said to the group.
“I’m allowed to have a few guests of my own, and my parents already assumed I’d
be inviting you, Tom.”
 
            “I doubt your parents want you around a bunch of girls who aren’t
eligible, pureblood matches,” Felicity observed, just a hint of sting in her
voice.
 
            Abraxas gave her a reassuring smile. “My parents don’t know half
the people who show up to this party. The guest list is about ten feet long.
I’ll introduce you briefly as Hogwarts friends, they’ll smile and nod, and then
we’ll all take off to my rooms and spend the evening there.”
 
            “Your rooms, plural?” Felicity looked dazed.
 
            Tom laughed. “Yes, Abraxas forgets that not everyone has a whole
wing of a mansion to himself.”
 
            “It isn’t the whole wing,” Abraxas protested.
           
            “We’ll be there,” Hermione cut in. “Owl us with the details,” she
kissed his cheek, at the edge of his mouth, and his grey eyes briefly closed,
his hands tightening around hers. Tom could see he clearly fighting the urge to
kiss her properly.
            Tom was angry again, angry that they were being separated. Patience
was absently petting his hand, watching Hermione and Abraxas, and he leaned
close, hissing in her ear in parseltongue. She shivered, and her bracelet made
echoing hisses, its tiny silver-blue tongue flicking at the delicate skin on
her wrist.  
 
            “If you behave yourself for the next few days, I’ll tell you what I
said at the party,” he whispered into the curtain of her pale, silky hair. He
pulled back and ran his finger over his scarf, wrapped around her long, lovely
neck. Though it was unnecessary, since Patience was already his, he liked that
she was wearing proof. He wanted them all marked, and clearly.
 
             “Keep the scarf,” he tugged at the ends, pulling just enough to
tighten the scarf around her throat. “It suits your eyes.”
 
             “You meanIsuit your eyes,” Patience carelessly corrected, leaning
into him, not in the least concerned he could cut off her air with just a bit
more force.
 
             He was filled with the desire to spank her, then fuck her, then
run his fingers over her body for hours, tracing runes of possession into her
skin, but he managed not to rise to bait. She was such a devilish thing,
distracting him. “Yes, pet, you do,” he replied simply, and borrowing a page
from Abraxas’s playbook, he kissed her hand before half-escorting, half-pushing
her to the Floo.
 
              She and Hermione clutched each other, whispering things he
couldn’t hear, and Tom turned his gaze to Abraxas. He was more than relieved
that Abraxas’s handsome face was flawless once again, no trace of the burn left
behind thanks to Hermione’s forethought and skill at healing. Tom hadn’t really
thought much about healing spells and potions until today. Now, he was adding
them to his list of skills he wanted to be more than proficient in. If he was
going to be engaging in battle, he needed to know how counteract any damage
done to himself or his group.
 
              “Abraxas,” he said softly, having closed most of the distance
between them. He wanted to stroke the blonde’s pale cheek, but instead shook
his hand. After all, as Marguerite had mentioned, there were already rumors
about them throughout Slytherin House, and though Tom didn’t give a fuck what
his fellow students thought, it was important to keep any such rumors from
reaching the Malfoys’ ears and causing them to take a closer look at Abraxas’s
relationships.
 
               “Tom,” Abraxas replied, his head slightly bowed, his thumb
caressing Tom’s hand.
 
               To Tom, it was clear from Abraxas's posture and low tone that he
wanted to kiss him, and Tom felt the same, but he gave his best friend’s hand
another squeeze instead, and reminded himself that he was working toward a
future where he wouldn’t need caution, where he’d be able to announce the power
of his quartet to the wizarding world, to claim them as his in front of
everyone. “I’ll owl you tomorrow.”
 
 
            Abraxas and Patience left, then Tom, Hermione, and Felicity went
back to the cottage in Hogsmeade. They had a late supper with Narcissa and
Galatea, who watched them closely. Tom wondered how much they saw. Both women
were magically sensitive and very intelligent, and he suspected they were aware
of much more than they let on at any given moment.
 
            “We’ll be headed to Galatea’s house tomorrow, where we’ll spend the
rest of the break, so you will need to pack your things either tonight or in
the morning,” Narcissa announced. “I hope the shopping trip was a success?”
 
            Felicity made a choking sound, which she quickly covered by
drinking pumpkin juice, her cheeks nearly as red as her hair as she vigorously
nodded.  We need to work on her poker face, Tom thought sourly.
 
            “Yes,” Hermione cut in. “It was…” she paused.
 
            “Very instructive,” Tom finished, meeting eyes with Narcissa. It
was as close as he would come to telling her that she was right to put him on
his guard this morning.
           
            Her perfectly curved eyebrow arched and the edge of her mouth
quirked. “I trust you didn’t incur any injuries from the…crowds?”
 
            “Nothing that a few basic healing potions couldn’t fix,” Hermione
reassured her, though Tom noted Narcissa’s mouth remained tight at the corners.
 
            After dinner, they went to the study where Felicity and Hermione
played a card game by the fire, Narcissa magically knitted a blanket with
casual grace, and Galatea turned on the radio, a glass of elf wine in her hand.
 
            Tom sat on the couch beside Galatea, close to the radio, listening
eagerly for any news of what they had done. Galatea gave him a knowing look,
and he held back a scowl. It was annoying how easily the older women in his
life read his behavior, or at least, imagined they did.
 
            It didn’t take long for the news to turn to the topic of
Grindelwald and his activities on the continent, and then to mention that there
had been a shocking turn of events earlier today in one of the towns
Grindelwald had been occupying.
 
            As the reporter continued, Narcissa’s knitting needles fell to her
lap, and both Hermione and Felicity lost interest in their game. The reporter
was talking quickly, clearly excited, praising a small group of masked ‘freedom
fighters’ who had entered the town, attacked Grindelwald’s men, set prisoners
free, and created enough chaos with the soldiers that most of the townspeople
had been able to flee to safety.
 
            “This is the first time in a year that Grindelwald has lost, rather
than gained ground in France,” the reporter announced. “The survivors, along
with all of un-occupied France, are celebrating tonight. This victory, though
small, is symbolic.”
 
            Tom could barely contain his swelling pride. Without turning his
head, he could feel Hermione’s emotions were similar. She was happy that the
people had escaped, happy that they’d all made it out intact. He wanted to pull
her close, to celebrate as well, but for now, he settled for the pleasure of
her mental, magical touch, surrounding him as he listened.
 
            “Many of them have left France altogether, and have come to our
Ministry of Magic to petition for asylum,” the reporter continued. “Minister
Spencer-Moon declared earlier that he was willing to offer aid to magical
citizens fleeing from the violence in France and Germany. The minister also
denies that any knowledge of the masked fighters.”
 
            The voice of a very harried Minister filled the room. “No, you daft
man, for the umpteenth time, I did not send aurors or hitwizards to France!
And, according to witnesses, the group spoke in French the whole time. They are
most likely French wizards who are tired of Grindelwald taking over their
towns!”
 
            Quickly, the reporter pressed on, though the sounds of shuffling
could be heard. Most likely, the Minister was trying to get away from the
reporter and failing. “So you say, Minister, but many British wizarding folk
think it’s high time something was done to stop Grindelwald’s spread of power.
Just last week, the Wizengammot held a closed session on the matter,”
 
            “Who told you that?” Spencer-Moon snapped, and then there was a
crackling sound, that might have been a snap-dragon hex, followed by several
seconds of silence.
 
            When the sound returned, the reporter’s breath was coming in puffs,
as if he’d been running. “Well, folks, there you have it. Despite protestations
and disavowals, our Ministry might finally be doing something about the
Grindelwald problem. Tune in tomorrow, when I’ll be interviewing one of the
villagers who escaped Fontaine de Puissance. For now, I’m Jared Fletchley for
the Wizarding World News, signing off.”
 
            The program immediately following was a variety show, and big band
music filled the room, breaking an atmosphere that had gotten tenser the longer
Fletchley had spoken.
 
            Tom could see that both Galatea and Narcissa were upset by the
combination of their expressions and their actively crackling magic. Most
magical folk could feelstrong magic, which explained Tom’s tendency to quickly
clear a room when he was angry. Unlike Patience, whom Tom suspected from off-
handed comments could see all magic, all the time, Tom only saw magic when it
was coming from powerful witches or wizards, but he knew even that was
extremely rare, further proof of how special he was. And right now, he could
see the watery magic around Galatea, rising waves that were building to a
storm, and the bright, fiery magic of Narcissa, magic that honestly reminded
him a bit of his own. His motherfigure had depths of darkness she kept
carefully hidden most of the time, but he could feel it. Darkness always called
to him.
 
            Galatea did not have the darkness, but she did have plenty of
anger, and it seeped into her voice when she stood, setting her wine glass on
the low table, facing Tom. “I’m not sure words exist in any language to convey
how upset I am right now. The risks you took, the danger you put yourself and
others in,”
 
            “We helped innocent people! Grindelwald is evil, and someone should
be doing something to stop him!” Hermione protested, her indignation clear, and
Tom could feel the protective aspect of her magic folding around them both.
 
            “Do you imagine that nothing is being done about Grindelwald,
Hermione?” Galatea turned to her now. “It is the height of arrogance for you to
assume that those in power don’t have plans,”
 
            Hermione gave a dark, bitter laugh, not at all her normal sound.
“The Ministry of Magic is a fuckingjoke! They never do a damned thing about -”
 
            “Darling!” Narcissa cut in quickly, crossing the room and putting
her arms around Hermione. Something was happening here, something Tom didn’t
quite understand, and that was enough to set him on edge. “Galatea is simply
worried about you, as am I. We know you wanted to help, that you did help, but
the number of laws you broke, the fact that all of you could have been killed,
it is frightening to consider.”
 
            Galatea’s face had softened, and she nodded. “It is natural for
young people to want to right the wrongs in this world, and Grindelwald is
certainly responsible for many of the current wrongs, but it is also natural
for us, as your parents,” she glanced at Tom and Felicity, “and as your
teachers and mentors, to be gravely concerned when you take such serious
risks.”
 
            Tom had many, many things to say, but he was smart enough to know
that most of his arguments would not be well-received. It was all well and good
to claim that they were motivated by the desire to help others, but if he flat-
out said to Galatea that his true aim had been to gain battle experience, to
test himself, she would only get angrier and perhaps even try to restrict his
movements. He had to play the game of caring, of acting like a normalperson, at
least for the moment.
 
            “Of all people, Galatea,” Tom said softly, a careful touch of
accusation in his voice, “I would think you would understand how dangerous
Grindelwald is, how important it is to give people hope that he can be fought,
that he can be stopped. If he continues to sweep France, how long before he
comes to England?”
 
            “Grindelwald fears Dumbledore too much to step foot on English
soil,” Galatea responded quickly.
 
            “And what of all people, magical and non-magical alike, on the
continent? Grindelwald wants to abolish the Statute of Secrecy, to have wizards
rule over muggles. How well do you imagine muggles would be treated? Would it
not be similar to what Hitler is doing to those who oppose him or those he
hates, to the Jews, the Catholics, the…homosexuals?” Tom glanced from Galatea
to Narcissa and back again very pointedly. “How long before muggles are
enslaved, or simply wiped out completely? What defenses do they have against
magic that they don’t even know exists?”
 
            Galatea sucked in her breath at the small sob that escaped
Felicity. “I’m not arguing that Grindelwald doesn’t need to be stopped, Tom,”
she spoke slowly, as if holding back great emotion. “I’m saying that it is
notthe place of students to fight him.”
 
            “But who else will?” Hermione asked quietly. “How long should we
wait, when people are dying every day? That village was filled with terrified
people – children whose parents were being tortured, women being raped. Why
should we wait? How can we, if we call ourselves human beings with any sense of
moral responsibility?”
 
            Narcissa was still holding Hermione, and she gently stroked her
daughter’s hair. “You’ve made your point, darling. The news was simply…alarming
because we love you. I think everyone needs rest. We’ll discuss this further in
a few days. Give us time to adjust.”
 
            “And,” Galatea’s voice became hard, “in the meanwhile, no
adventures, please.”
 
            Tom didn’t like to be told what to do at the best of times, but as
he had no more magic cloaking potion at the moment, and his leg was still quite
sore, he had no plans for further immediate action. “Of course not,” he
murmured soothingly, his expression as innocent and calm as he could make it.
 
            Hermione and Felicity quickly echoed their assent, and everyone
made their way to the bedrooms, Galatea and Narcissa on the first floor, and
Hermione, Felicity, and Tom in gable, which had been divided into two bedrooms
and a shared bath.
 
            He was almost asleep when he felt pain tugging at his magic –
Hermione’s pain. It was tightly controlled, as though she was trying to keep
the worst of it back, but it had managed to seep through their bond. A pale
sliver of light shone from under the bathroom door, which had entrances from
both bedrooms. He opened the door and found Hermione sitting in the bathtub,
her shoulders shaking.
 
            On her back, in the center between her shoulder blades, was a
blackened circle of skin. It looked either badly burned or necrotic, and Tom
didn’t care for either of those possibilities.
 
            “What spell is it? Do you know?” he knelt beside the tub, his hand
reaching into the water for hers. Touch always made her feel better, he
reasoned, ignoring the whisper in his mind that it made him feel better as
well.
 
            She grasped at him tightly, shaking her head, and he felt quite a
bit more of the pain. It was not a sharp pain. Instead, it was a pain that rose
and fell in intensity, like a wave. He reached further along their bond. “Don’t
fight,” he whispered into her hair. “I want to know what it is. Let me help
you.”
 
            With a low, shaky exhale, Hermione’s head fell against his
shoulder, and she opened their bond as completely as he’d ever felt, as
intimate as any sexual touch they’d shared. He was in her magic, theirmagic,
and for an instant it was beautiful, until the wave of pain crested, and Tom
had to fight the urge to vomit. The pain felt like drowning, and it took
several seconds before he could catch his breath.
 
            “I don’t know what it is,” she gasped. “Some kind of dark spell
that needs time to take root – the perfect spell for a fleeing opponent.”
 
            He thought back to the moment when they’d been running toward the
portkey, when Hermione had screamed, but had kept running, had seemed fine.
Until now.
 
            “I’ll get Narcissa,” he started to rise, but Hermione clutched at
him.
 
            “No!” she closed her eyes against the pain, and he had to push back
intense anger, a desire to vanish into the night and find and torture that
soldier. “Mother and Galatea will support us, eventually, if we are cautious,
but not if we reveal how hurt we got.”
 
            Tom’s jaw tightened. He had to agree that if Galatea and Narcissa
had seen his group’s condition upon returning to Knockturn Alley, their
reaction would have been…volcanic. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t face an
eruption to ease Hermione’s suffering. Her pain was unbearable to him, and the
longer it continued, the less he would be able to hide that very troubling
fact.
 
            “Dearest,” he struggled to keep his tone light. “We must do
something. You are in pain.”
 
            She opened her eyes, and despite her discomfort, he could see a
touch of mocking humor in her gaze. “Oh, Tom, you do care,” she laughed weakly.
 
            Tom’s eyes narrowed as her shoulders began to shake against the
building pain. “Hermione, you are mine, and no one harms what is mine.” He
placed his hand against her back, just below the place where the spell had hit,
and spoke the few healing spells he knew – basic ones for healing burns and
cuts.
 
            “Tom! The trace!” she protested, though without much force, as she
was caught up in the crest of the pain.
 
            “No amount of aurors or dementors could take me away from you,
Hermione,” he spoke before he thought.
 
            She smiled at him, her eyes fluttering and then she lost
consciousness, and he felt…something besides anger. She was so deeply in him
now, so much a part of who he was, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect
her, and she knew that, he realized. That should have angered him, the
vulnerability of it, but right now, he didn’t care. The only thing that
mattered was counteracting this spell.
 
            He closed his eyes, concentrated on the elemental magical links to
Abraxas and Patience, drew upon their magic. They were both far away, but he
was still able to get a bit of power from them, a boost to his own magic. Then,
he pushed deeper into his soul mate bond with Hermione. He dove underneath the
pain, to her magic, which he could feel trapped under the curse, like an animal
caught in a net.
 
            “All magic is transformation,” he repeated to himself, allowing his
magic, combined with what he’d taken from the others, to twine in, over, and
through the curse, surrounding it. It hurt. This deep into his connection with
Hermione, he could feel quite a bit of her pain, and as Abraxas woke to what
Tom was doing, there was a vague sense of confusion and worry coming from his
fellow Slytherin. Patience was calm, and Tom felt her magic push hard toward
him, giving him additional strength. Abraxas did the same on Patience’s cue,
voluntarily giving Tom more magic than he had been able to simply take. Even as
he was focused on Hermione, Tom noted in the back of his mind that if his
quartet were willing, the amount of magic he could temporarily siphon was much
greater, perhaps nearly unlimited.
 
            If Hermione hadn’t been in such pain, Tom would have been euphoric.
The amount of magic coursing through him, from three powerful sources, was
astounding. He pulled at the curse, unraveling it like a loose loop of thread
in a jumper, marveling as he did so. He felt like a God, transforming the magic
at his will.
 
            Time was impossible to measure as he worked at the dark magic,
changing its very nature, shifting it from curse to a more compatible darkness,
something closer to his own magical signature, though it still rested heavily
on Hermione’s air magic, pushing it down. The magic needed to be moved out of
her, but so much energy, so much magic, neutral or not, expelled out into the
open would surely be noticed – by Narcissa and Galatea, surely, if not by the
Ministry and its infernal underage tracking system as well.
 
            Take it. It’s yours now. Patience’s soft, dreamy voice was in his
head, and though her obvious access to his mind was alarming, that wasn’t Tom’s
current priority.
 
            Instead, he asked, silently, How?
 
           He felt something like the mental equivalent of a shrug. Make it
your magic, absorb it into yourself.
 
            Since his first year at Hogwarts, Tom had considered the concept of
using the magic stored in cursed or spelled objects to add to his own magic. He
had even purchased cursed objects with the intent to do so. However, he quickly
discovered why Narcissa had told him that it was unlikely he would succeed.
First, it was very time-consuming and difficult to transform magic. The skill
with which Galatea had disarmed cursed objects came from great power and years
and years of specialized training and practice.
 
            Tom and Hermione had worked together over the last five years to
counteract several cursed objects, but even with their combined soul mate
magic, they had struggled to shift the magic of even the simplest curses. It
hadn’t been until this year, with the elemental binding, and the additional
information from Slytherin’s journals in the Chamber that Tom had been able to
really disarm cursed items, and even then, he’d needed to draw upon his
partners’ magic as well as his own. And that had been only to transform the
magic, not to absorb it into himself.
 
            From what he’d read in Slytherin’s writing and other texts, he
understood that one’s personal magic radiated outward from one’s core or soul.
The more powerful the individual, the wider his or her sphere of magic or
magical aura. Absorbing additional magic widened one’s magical boundaries,
giving the witch or wizard more reserve magic to draw upon. But, Slytherin had
written, the wider the sphere, the greater level of control the magician must
exert to keep that magic from escaping, bleeding into the neutral magic that
made up the magical world, that seemingly endless well of magic that all
witches and wizards drew upon to cast spells.
 
             Very few wizards had great personal reserves of magic – most magic
folk, whether they realized it or not, simply used their own core magic as a
kind of spark to connect to the free-flowing magic in the air, water, earth,
and fire around them.   If they were cut off from that source, their own magic
would be quite weak, like the people in Fointaine de Poissance who were
practically helpless without their wands to act as a conduit between the core
magic and the free magic.
           
            Slytherin had warned that if one absorbed too much magic without
the sufficient level of control, then the personal boundaries could break, and
the magician could potentially lose his or her core magic – hemorrhage it like
blood spilling out of severed artery. And once the core magic was gone, it was
impossible to replace. Slytherin had even theorized that squibs were children
whose core magic had been damaged in utero, or whose parents had been so
magically weak themselves that they hadn’t been able to pass on enough core
magic to their offspring to make the child magically viable.
 
            What if I can’t control it?Tom thought, not sure if Patience was
still listening, half-hoping she wasn’t.
 
            Laughter, soft and sweet, filled his head. Control is not something
you’ll ever need to worry about, Tom Riddle.
 
            Tom’s thoughts instantly went to a mental image of Patience over
his knees, a sure demonstration of his control. Her laughter turned to a purr,
and Tom had to fight to bring his focus back.
 
            He reached into the magic, scooping it up with his own magic
folding around it. The transformed magic was still in Hermione, but Tom’s magic
was inside her as well, and her own magic was cooperating fully and completely
with his, holding nothing back. The considerable depth of his soul mate’s magic
was at his disposal. He climbed into the tub behind her, his thin pajamas
instantly sticking to his skin as they were soaked through. Carefully, he
adjusted her unconscious form, bringing her back to his chest, her head to his
shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist, making sure that the words on his
bare forearm were flush against words on her exposed stomach. He needed to move
the neutralized magic from her body to his own seamlessly, without releasing
any of that magic outside of their bodies. Because she was wouldn’t remember
it, he allowed himself a brief kiss to her temple, and a murmured, “I’ve got
you, dearest.” Then, he tucked his legs over hers, so that their bodies were
touching from head to toe, and began pulling the magic out of her.
 
            The process was very slow going. The magic was not his magic, and
though he had shifted its signature, it was not the free-flowing, neutral magic
that anyone could simply use. It had been given a purpose when it was crafted
into that particular curse, and it was attempting to cling to that purpose. The
man who had cast the spell must have been a very strong wizard. But though the
magic was stubborn, but Tom was more so. As he tugged on it, he used the
borrowed magic from his quartet to work at it, surrounding small amounts of the
former curse with his own core magic, overwhelming the weaker magic until it
finally succumbed and became his. With each small victory, the process became
easier, and Tom felt his magic growing, widening, strengthening. It was a heady
experience, and by the time he was finished and Hermione was stirring against
him, Tom was glowing, his magic practically bursting from his skin
 
            He understood what Slytherin had meant by exercising control. There
was a natural equilibrium of core magic to external, aura magic in every witch
or wizard and Tom had flooded himself with additional magic, disturbing his
balance. He pushed outward, moving the extra magic to the edges of his own
aura, feeling it widen in spherical way around him. It took several minutes of
concentration and whispered runes of “stop” and “boundary” to feel comfortable
in the new, more spacious circle of his magic. The new magic wasn’t quite his
still – it tingled like raw skin under a scab, but he was confident in his
ability to use it.
 
            “What did you do?” Hermione’s voice was weak, and Tom frowned at
how small she sounded.
            He gently pushed her forward, shifted the wild curls he loved so
much over her thin shoulder.   Lightly, he ran his fingers over the space
between her shoulder blades, tracing the circle of skin, which, though no
longer blackened, was several shades darker than the rest of her, though it was
fading before his eyes.
 
            “I transfigured and removed the curse,” he said simply, overwhelmed
with relief that the spell had been handled, that she was alright.
 
            Hermione shook her shoulders, experimentally twisting the muscles
of her back. “The pain is gone. How did you transfigure,” she began.
 
            Tom sighed in frustration. “You need to rest, not spend the rest of
the night working out every aspect of magic we just performed. I’ll explain if
you’ll be a good little bird and lie back and close your eyes.”
 
            Hermione’s eyes flashed, but he tugged at her curls in warning and
she shifted, falling back onto his chest with only a mild huff of protest. “We
performed?” she asked against his wet nightshirt, her breath hot against his
cold, wet skin.
 
            Because he was in an excellent mood, he tapped playfully at her
lips. “Hush, dearest, or I won’t tell you a damn thing.”
 
            Hermione bit his finger, but it was more of a nibble, and he
couldn’t help but smirk. “Now, now, none of that. I think you might be picking
up nasty habits from your pet.”
 
            She laughed, and that sound, her normal, happy, sexy laugh was so
wonderful to hear, Tom couldn’t keep back his own laughter. He held her close
and told her how he’d been able to use her magic completely, since she’d let
him in completely, how Patience and Abraxas had leant him their magic as well,
and he’d used the basic practice Galatea had taught them so long ago,
transforming the magic to no longer be a curse.
 
             He thought, but did not admit, that the addition of five years of
challenging Transfiguration lessons with Dumbledore had pushed his own
understanding and abilities at that most useful of magical disciplines. Galatea
was not the only person who had said that Dumbledore was the sole reason
Grindelwald had not pushed further toward England, and Tom knew that despite
the old man’s harmless appearance and kind demeanor, he was shockingly,
casually powerful in a way that Tom aspired to be, though he’d never grow such
a ridiculous beard. If Dumbledore was as powerful as Tom thought, as everyone
thought, he wondered what was stopping him from confronting Grindelwald. After
all, Dumbledore professed to actually care about others, which should have been
a great motivator.
 
             “Did you absorb the magic?” her question held no accusation, and
her body stayed curled comfortably into his own as she spoke.
 
              Tom nodded, using her body as a blanket. She was always so much
warmer than he was, ironically, given that he was the one with fire magic. 
Apparently, his cold-blooded, snake's nature won out in that aspect.
 
              “How?” He could hear the curiosity and desire for knowledge in
her voice, but he could also feel how heavy her limbs were, and having felt
only part of her pain, he knew she had to be exhausted from fighting the curse.
He honestly couldn’t believe she hadn’t been screaming. She was incredibly
strong, his soul mate.
 
               “I promise I will tell you all about it, but not now,” he let
his voice be cold and stern as he stood, pulling her up with him, and then
wrapping her in a terrycloth robe and carrying her into the her bedroom.
 
                Felicity sat up in bed as he put Hermione down on the mattress
beside her. To her credit, she didn’t startle or ask any stupid questions,
only, “Is she okay? Do I need to do anything?”
 
               “She was suffering the after-effects of a curse from earlier
that wasn’t properly treated. She should be fine now, though,” Tom smiled at
Felicity, the charming smile that usually got him whatever he wanted. “You need
to make sure she stays in bed for the rest of the night, and the morning. We’ll
need to bring her a tray in bed and make sure she doesn’t try to pack half the
library to take to the other house,”
 
               “Shecan hear you,” Hermione protested, but her voice was slurred
with sleepiness. “And I have some books I need to take,”
 
                Tom cut her off. “I’ll pack the books myself. You go to sleep,
or I swear I will pour sleeping draught down your throat.”
 
                “Don’t worry,” Felicity assured him. “I won’t let her up until
we have to leave.”
 
                 “Excellent,” Tom gave the redhead another beatific grin for
good measure, then left his soul mate in her capable hands.
 
                 He returned to his room and after a few hours sleep, he was up
again, sending letters about the experience to Abraxas, who he knew was
worried. Tom didn’t bother writing to Patience. That girl knew too much of what
he thought already.   Then, he began work on further translation of a Slytherin
journal, searching carefully for key words that would indicate content of
particular interest, especially, cloaking, absorbing,and deadlyspells. Tom
could clearly recall the face of the soldier who had cursed Hermione, and he
was determined to create a lovely surprise for him when their paths crossed
again.
 
 
 
 
 
           
 
           
 
***** A Day in the Life of Abraxas Malfoy *****
Chapter Summary
     Some insight into Abraxas - his past, his family life, and why he is
     accepting of Tom's controlling nature. Tom comes to visit, and
     Abraxas offers even more of himself.
Chapter Notes
     I haven't really written much from Abraxas's p.o.v., but I devoted
     this chapter to him. I'm interested in his motivations, and why he is
     so loyal to Tom. I hope what I've written explains that. There is
     some mention of child abuse (in the past, and not graphically
     detailed). Love to you all! Next chapter will hopefully see us at the
     Malfoy party!
 
              Abraxas Malfoy hated the holidays. Or, more accurately, Abraxas
hated all the time he had to spend in his parents’ company over the holiday
break. Summers weren’t such a problem because his mother usually travelled with
friends, and he could spend most of his time outside, riding his broom, and
only dealing with his father a few evenings a week. During Winter Soltice and
Christmastime, however, his parents were always there, dragging him to one
social engagement after the next, culminating in the grand exhibition of
Pureblood culture and wealth that was the annual Malfoy Winter Solstice Ball,
held every December 21st .
 
              Once, Abraxas supposed, maybe fifty years ago when his great-
grandmother Malfoy had started the tradition, the ball had probably been a
smallish affair, with only close friends and family – all Pureblooded –
invited. Over the years, though, it had grown into an important social event
for all of the upper levels of wizarding society – the Minister of Magic, of
course, and all the department heads, the Wizengammot members, famous
entertainers and quidditch players, and not all of these people were
Pureblooded. He knew his mother found this a bit trying, but his father was a
firm believer in fostering all kinds of connections to influence and power,
regardless of their source.
 
               And, every year, for as long as Abraxas could remember, his
parents had the same passive-aggressive argument about the guest list over
breakfast leading up to the night of the ball.
 
             “You’ve invited practically the whole staff of Hogwarts,”
Evangeline Malfoy pursed her lips as she lifted her gold-rimmed, antique
Chinese tea cup that was rumored to have been made for the first emperor of the
Chinese magical world. The red and black dragons painted on the side moved
sinuously under her touch, flying in endless circles.
 
             "They are powerful wizards and witches, very talented, most of
them, and in charge of our new generation's learning," Gawain replied
smoothly.  "I think it's good to have some contact with them."
 
             “Really, Gawain? Some of them are so…raggedy,” she continued.
“That Kettleburn man managed to destroy three of my everlasting rosemary bushes
at last year’s party when he insisted on helping our elves set off the midnight
fireworks.”
 
            Abraxas kept his eyes on the dragons on his own cup, studiously
ignoring his parents.   He knew from experience that he should remain silent
and neutral for as long as possible.
 
             “Well, then, I do hope you had a word with the nursery that sold
you those bushes. Aren’t they supposed to withstand all manner of spells?” His
father lifted a pale eyebrow in a taunting fashion. He knew exactly how to
needle his wife.
 
            “Fiendfyreis not generally covered in that list,” his mother hissed
softly, then cleared her throat, returning her voice to its normal, bland
politeness. “And that history professor – what is his name, again, Abraxas?”
 
            “Binns,” Abraxas quickly supplied, then went back to eating his
toast.
 
            Evangeline gave a delicate shudder of distaste. “He simply talks,
non-stop, with no concept of when his audience is trying to get away from him.
Hester Longbottom actually had to discreetly hexthe man to end the five-hour
conversation he dragged her into three years ago. You know, she hasn’t come
back to our party since.”
 
           “Hester is a crotchety old bag,” Gawain smiled easily, because it
bothered his wife when he treated her complaints casually. “She was probably
thrilled for the excuse to use a hex.”  
 
           “Gawain,” Evangeline’s fingers were tapping on the handle of the
butter knife. “You must remember that I told you her granddaughter is one of
the candidates for our dear son’s fiancée. I’d like to have her here.”
 
           Abraxas’s head shot up at the mention of the fiancée list. “Do you
mean Josephine?”
 
           Both sets of parental eyes focused on him now. Abraxas struggled not
to squirm. They might secretly despise each other, but when his parents found a
cause that united them, they were a force to be reckoned with. Abraxas’s future
was one such cause.
 
           “So you are familiar with her?” Evangeline’s voice was syrupy sweet
now. “What kind of girl is she?”
 
           Abraxas swallowed the bite of toast he’d taken. It felt stuck in his
throat. “She’s a very nice girl – kind, smart, a Ravenclaw. She’s been in the
study group with Tom and me since our first year.”
 
           Gawain smiled again, closer to a genuine expression this time. “That
sounds promising. You’ve known her for a long while, and she’s nice. Is she
pretty?”
 
           Evangeline made a noise of disapproval. “Looks aren’t the main
concern, Gawain. Breeding is foremost.”
 
           “My lovely Lady Malfoy,” he gave her an icy grin as he swept his
gaze over her very attractive face, “I couldn’t very well ask my son to use
lower standards than I did. Your beauty was a major attraction.”
 
           The compliment was not intended as such, nor was it taken as such.
Evangeline nearly scowled, but caught herself at the last moment.
 
            Abraxas spoke to try to shift the tension. “Josephine is nice to
look at, but it doesn’t matter. I’m fairly certain she’s going to end up
engaged to Jacob Selwyn by the end of the year.”
 
            Gawain and Evangeline made mirrored looks of disappointment.
 
            “What about Marguerite Rosier? She’s in your year, and in your
House. I know you see her regularly,” his mother began. “And before you can say
a word, Gawain, the girl is very attractive, though a bit on the small side.
Her mother told me at a recent luncheon that Marguerite is near the top of her
class, very bright and talented.”
 
             “Yes, but the Rosier women are rather bold, though, aren’t they?”
Gawain asked. “Maxwell’s mother had all number of affairs, and wasn’t quiet
about it at all. It’s not even certain Max is truly a Rosier at all – he is a
third son, you know.”
 
             “I don’t think ancient and vicious gossip is appropriate
conversation for the breakfast table,” Evangeline sniffed. “And the Rosier
wards accepted Maxwell from birth, as you well know.”
 
             Gawain grinned. “Yes, old lady Rosier was always excellent at ward
charms, wasn’t she?”
 
             “Back to the topic of the party,” Evangeline turned away from her
husband, toward her son. “I know you already gave a list to the stationer’s for
the official invitations, but I told you I wanted to look it over. Do you have
the names for me?”
 
             Abraxas nodded. “Yes, mother,” he handed her the piece of
parchment he’d made that morning. “All of them are school mates, and many have
parents who are already invited as well.”
 
             Gawain used his fork to push on the edge of the parchment, forcing
his wife to lay it on the table between them. “Patience Foster. Is she related
to Wendell Foster, the inventor? I’ve been looking into purchasing some of his
patents.”
 
             “That crazy man who blew up his shop in Diagon Alley a few years
ago?” Evangeline tutted. “Gawain, I’m sure you have better sense than to throw
money after the work of a madman. Abraxas, if the girl is like her father,
please be sure to keep her away from anything combustible.”
 
              “Don’t worry about Patience, mother,” Abraxas kept his voice
even, careful not betray any of the affection he felt at the thought of
Patience. “Corvus and Thad are more likely to destroy something. Those two have
no coordination off of the Quidditch pitch.”
 
               “I see Tom on your list, of course,” Gawain observed. “That boy
has a brilliant future. Between Lestrange and myself, every department at the
Ministry would like to get their hands on this current crop of Slytherins in a
few years. Slughorn tells me how talented a group you are every time we meet,
and he never fails to lead with mention of Tom.”
 
               Evangeline’s eyes lost their focus for a few moments. “Tom is a
very…attractive boy.”
 
              “Oh, I’m sure he has all the ladies, young and old, throwing
themselves at him,” Gawain gave her a hard look.
 
              Abraxas was getting a headache, and was very grateful when a
giant owl swooped in through a high window left open especially for that
purpose. He recognized Jeeves at once, and so did his parents. Tom usually sent
him letters later in the evening, when they would be less likely to be received
in front of his parents.
 
             “Speak of the devil,” Gawain murmured. “What does Tom have to say
today? You two are practically joined at the hip this year.”
 
             He fed the bird a large piece of sausage and untied the letter.
Tom knew the hours kept at Malfoy Manor, and there couldn’t possibly be
anything suspect in the message.
 
             “He writes that the Merrythought estate has been overrun by
giggling girls preparing for the ball tomorrow, and that if we don’t let him
come and stay the night, he may lose his mind,” Abraxas smirked, toning down
the actual language used quite a bit.
 
              Gawain laughed, and even Evangeline smiled. They both liked Tom
so much, they were willing to overlook his blood status. After all, his parents
had reasoned when they first discussed inviting Tom for the summer five years
ago, the boy was a direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin, even if his father
had been a muggle, and now, his legal guardian was a pureblooded woman from a
wealthy and titled family, not to mention, as they discovered upon meeting him,
the boy reekedof magical power, something the two Slytherin parents could not
possibly resist.
 
              “Of course Tom can come,” Gawain said. “He can keep you out of
your mother’s way while she completes the last touches to the manor before the
party.”
 
              Abraxas had not been in the slightest danger of interfering with
his mother’s plans, and they all knew this, but it was the kind of statement
that parents made to children, and the Malfoys were well practiced at sounding
and looking like a functional family.
 
             “Have one of the elves connect the floo for him in the library,”
Evangeline nodded, adding, “Remind him to bring his dress robes for tomorrow,
dear.”
 
              Abraxas excused himself from the table, and Jeeves followed him
to the library, where he made his reply. It was hardly an hour later when Tom
arrived, looking like a man who had escaped a death sentence. He carried a few
bags, which the elves immediately took.
 
             “Firewhiskey?” Abraxas asked laughingly, his fingers dancing over
the decanter.
 
             “It’s only ten o’clock,” Tom raised an eyebrow and collapsed
gracefully into one of the armchairs.
 
              “I know, but you look like you need it,” he smiled unguardedly,
simply happy to see his best friend. He hadn’t expected their time apart would
be so difficult, but the change in the nature of their relationship had made
going without Tom and the girls much harder, especially when faced with the
lack of anything resembling affection in his home.
 
              Tom’s mouth twisted. “You try getting any work done in a house
where over a dozen women have converged to prepare for a ball.”
 
              “A dozen?” Abraxas echoed, confused. “Who is over there?”
 
              “Narcissa, Hermione, Felicity, Patience, Josephine, Vidhi,
Marguerite, Marguerite’s mother, plus several dressmakers and their assistants.
Galatea was the only one to show an ounce of wisdom. She left when I did.” Tom
answered.
 
              “Marguerite is there?” Abraxas wondered if she’d make it out
alive between Hermione and Patience.
 
               Tom ran a hand through his hair. “Narcissa and Orpha are
cousins, if distantly, and Orpha owled this morning to discuss dresses. She was
quite adamant that none of the young ladies wear dresses too similar, and I
don’t believe she was willing to take no for an answer. Orpha wants a fiancé
for Marguerite, and she thinks this ball is an excellent opportunity.”
 
               “My mother would love to hear that,” Abraxas muttered. “If her
party became some kind of Pureblood coming-out ball, she’d be thrilled.   She
mentioned Marguerite to me as a possible match this morning.”
 
                Tom’s eyes darkened. “We’ll need to make sure that Marguerite
understands you are not an option.”
 
               “Do you want to go flying? I had my father buy a new broom for
you to use.” Abraxas longed to change the subject and tried to think of ways to
stay far from his parents’ eyes.
 
                Tom shook his head slowly, and his blue eyes were hot for once,
not cool at all. Abraxas didn’t need the link to know what Tom was feeling at
the moment. He was feeling something quite similar.
 
                “This manor must have at least one room warded to prevent
anyone from knowing spells have been cast in it,” Tom finally spoke, his tone
low and seductive, though he made no move to touch Abraxas.
 
                “Only the dungeons, I think,” Abraxas replied. “They haven’t
been used for a few generations, at least, though the wards are ancient,
renewed with the birth of each new Malfoy.”
 
                Tom stood and walked to Abraxas. He kept the distance between
them a normal, friendly one, nothing that would be construed as too intimate.
But his eyes, Abraxas thought, and the curl of his lips, spoke volumes.
 
                “Don’t you miss your magic?” Tom asked softly.
 
                Abraxas nodded. “But I’ve missed you more.”
 
                Tom’s grin was wide and smug, and Abraxas was simply dying to
kiss him. “Show me the dungeons, please.”
 
                 Like most of Tom’s statements, it was a command, even with the
use of ‘please.’
 
                Abraxas lead him to the back of the house, to a long, dark hall
that seemed empty of any purpose, having no doors.   The tall blonde walked up
to the stonewall about half-way down and placed his hand against it. A doorway
appeared, with stairs barely lit, disappearing into darkness past the fifth
step down.  
 
                “Only someone who is Malfoy by blood or marriage can make the
entrance appear,” he explained quietly.
 
                 He started down the stairs, Tom following closely. As they
passed wall brackets, torches lit spontaneously, though the lighting was not
bright by any stretch of the word. After steps that must have equaled at least
two stories, they came to another hallway, though this one was lined with
wooden doors that had tiny barred windows at the tops and metal sliding slots
at the bottoms.
 
                 Tom stared, then began to open and close doors, looking over
everything, and Abraxas felt vaguely uncomfortable. His ancestors had obviously
had no problem imprisoning others, and the open area at the end of the hall
held a wide assortment of ‘furniture’ and devices that were clearly meant for
torture. Tom’s face was blank as he picked up thumb screws and allowed his hand
to hover over a row of nastily curved knives arranged by blade length.
 
                “Do you suppose they used the more physical implements on
muggles?” Tom asked, his voice unreadable.
 
                 He followed Tom’s gaze to the Iron Maiden in the corner. “My
father mentioned once, years ago, that there was a Malfoy about a century back
who collected muggle torture devices. I think this is just his idea of a
museum, one that no one has taken the time to dispose of.”
 
                Abraxas continued with brutal honesty, because he knew that was
what Tom expected. “I’m sure there have been muggles as well as wizards
tortured down here – probably house elves and other creatures, too. But I
imagine most of my ancestors would think of manual torture as below them. And
when you have the cruciatus, what else do you really need?”
 
                Tom turned at Abraxas’s tone, his dark brow furrowed in
thought. “Have you felt it?”
 
                Abraxas didn’t answer. He was looking down and away from Tom,
doing his best to close off the connection that had been, until now, wide open.
Some things were dangerous to share.
 
               “Abraxas,” Tom’s tone was a warning, and he was closer now, his
hand grasping Abraxas’s wrist. “Have you felt the cruciatus?”
 
               “I can’t,” Abraxas licked his lips. “I can’t talk about that.”
 
               “Fine,” Tom said softly, and pushed Abraxas’s chin up, locking
eyes with him as he hissed, “Legilimens.”
 
                It wasn’t a surprise, really. He knew Tom didn’t take ‘no’ for
an answer, not from him. He had sworn his loyalty, his obedience, and Tom would
hold him to that promise. This topic, though, was something so old, so
forbidden, that Abraxas couldn’t voice it. Tom’s intrusion into his mind was
almost a relief, because he wouldn’t need to speak it out loud.
 
                He was drawn into his memories, to the answer to the question
Tom had asked, to breaking things as a child, to making mistakes in his French
pronunciation, to protesting a favorite House elf’s punishment – all times when
one or the other of his parents had inflicted the cruciatuscurse on him, and
though they had used a weak casting and only a few seconds of cursing, Abraxas
would never forget an instant.   He knew Tom was seeing it all, and the flood
gates were thrown open, with no more hiding.
 
                Many Pureblooded families used dark magic on their children to
insure compliance and loyalty. Some parents used such magic as a means to
desensitize children to dark magic, to push their children to accept curses, to
somehow prove to them that even ones labeled “Unforgivable,” were open to them,
so long as they could be discreet. The Malfoys, Blacks, Rosiers, Lestranges –
it was probably faster to list the ones who didn’t rather than the ones who
did. Yet, no one spoke of it outside the walls of family estates. The practice
was illegal, of course, though no Pureblooded child had ever been removed due
to abuses. The heavy silence kept by all concerned prevented any such
interference, and with the intermarriage of Pureblooded families, the relatives
who might have taken someone in would likely follow the same practices.
 
                Neither Gawain nor Evangeline had used the cruciatuson their
son since his second year at Hogwarts. There was no need. Abraxas was gone most
of the year, and when he did come home, he presented himself as a model,
obedient, well-bred Pureblood son, a proud scion for the Malfoy bloodline.    
 
               Tom ended the spell, but he didn’t speak immediately. He simply
cupped Abraxas’s face in his hands, and kissed him. The kiss was much softer,
much sweeter, than any kiss Tom had previously given him, and Abraxas felt a
touch of anger.
 
               “That was years ago,” he tugged away from the gentleness. He
would have readily accepted it from Hermione or even Patience, but with Tom, it
felt wrong. “You don’t need to pity me, Tom,” he spoke to the wall.
 
                Harsh fingers dug into his shoulders, spinning him back around
to face Tom.  
 
                “I don’t pity you, Abraxas. Pity,” Tom spat the word, his
beautiful mouth twisting, “is a useless emotion, like most of them. I recognize
a debt, though. Your parents owe you their pain. And, since you are mine, the
debt is also owed to me. The collection of that debt will need to be in future,
perhaps years away, but I will not forget, and I will not forgive.”
 
                 Abraxas avoided Tom’s eyes, unsure of what he would see. Tom
was frightening when he was angry, and Abraxas almost pitied whatever future he
was planning for Lord and Lady Malfoy. Almost.   “You don’t have to pretend to
care, though,” he whispered.
 
                Tom tipped his face up again, more forcefully this time, a
finger hooked into the soft spot under his jaw. “With you, with Hermione and
Patience, I pretend nothing. You are mine, and I protect what is mine. I also
enjoy what is mine, and if I want to kiss you so softly you can barely feel my
touch, or so roughly your lips bleed, I will do as I please, and you will like
it, because I know you love being mine. You crave me. I’ve seen it in your
mind.”
 
                “Yes,” Abraxas nodded, letting his eyes meet Tom’s icy blue
ones. He shivered at the desire he saw there, and despite Tom’s forceful speech
and actions, he felt safe. Tom would make sure he wasn’t hurt again, and if he
was hurt, Tom would exact revenge.    
 
               He barely had time to smile at the thought before Tom was
kissing him again, still softly, and Abraxas felt wetness gathering in his
eyes. Those long fingers, thin but strong, were twined in his pale hair, and
Tom walked him back to the wall, pushing into the entire length of Abraxas’s
body.
 
            There were several moments of kissing, of frantic touches that
wouldn’t be permissible anywhere else in the manor. Tom was kissing him with
such need, a hunger that Abraxas hadn’t felt from his friend before. The Heir
of Slytherin had always been aggressive and demanding, but now, in a place of
pain and death, he was oddly tender.
            “I need to be able to use darker magic,” Tom spoke against
Abraxas’s flesh, his lips and tongue and teeth working at his collarbone, his
tone almost pleading.
 
            Abraxas was tugging at Tom’s shirt, pulling it from his pants. “I
know,” he panted.
 
            Tom bit at Abraxas’s shoulder as he slid his shirt down his arms.
“I cannot realize my ambitions, I cannot protect what is mine, if I do not have
the ability to truly hurt, to kill,if needed.”
 
            “I know,” Abraxas repeated, the words coming out in a low moan as
Tom raked his fingers down Abraxas’s exposed chest, scratching at the muscles.
 
            “I must have practice,” Tom paused, whispering a spell of undoing,
then, as Abraxas’s belt and trousers came open, slipped his hand into his
pants, bypassing his throbbing cock to squeeze his upper thigh, fingers
alternately ghosting over then kneading at that area so close yet so far from
where Abraxas wanted him to touch. “With the intention behind the
Unforgiveables. Do you trust me?”
 
            “I don’t think that matters, but I do anyway.” Abraxas looked into
Tom’s blue eyes. His pupils were dilated, and his pale cheeks a bit flushed,
his hair tousled. Abraxas could feel his heart thudding in his chest. Tom’s
beauty, his attention was overwhelming.
 
            Tom arched an eyebrow and kissed Abraxas’s cheek. “The fact you
tell me that your consent and trust doesn’t matter tells me just how much you
do trust me,” his voice sounded raw, not like Tom at all. “I do not take that
lightly. You are my right hand, Abraxas, an extension of my will and magic. As
I rise, so will you. You will need to practice as well.”
 
            “What about the girls? Hermione will never agree,” Abraxas said,
closing his eyes as Tom’s fingers inched toward his groin.
 
            He laughed, deeply, fingers digging into Abraxas's hip. “Oh,
Hermione, for all her talk of morality already contains all the viciousness
required, so long as she has the proper motivation. After all, she is the first
one of us to kill another person. If innocent lives are at stake, if our lives
are at stake, Hermione will level the world.”
 
            “And Patience?”
 
            “Abraxas,” Tom smiled condescendingly, running a hand through
Abraxas’s pale hair. “Haven’t you realized that our little pet is the most
dangerous of all? Sheknewwhat was going to happen when she stepped over that
boundary in France. Patience as good as gave that knife to Hermione, and guided
her hand as she threw. Patience is a force of time and nature. You need not
worry about the girls.”
 
            Abraxas thought the truth of the matter was much more complicated
than Tom was making it out to be, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue, not that
arguing with Tom was a viable option, anyhow. Instead, he mirrored Tom’s
action, leaving them both naked to the waist, with open trousers.
 
            “Eager, aren’t we?” Tom laughed, grabbing at Abraxas’s hands,
holding them at his sides, against the dungeon wall. The rough stone bit into
his flesh, but Abraxas didn’t flinch. “We’re going to be starting our lessons
with something pleasant,” Tom purred, a low, dangerous sound that wrapped
around all of Abraxas’s mind and body.
 
            “I wouldn’t call being crucioedpleasant,” Abraxas tried to keep the
fear out of his voice. He had promised Tom anything, everything, with his only
condition that Hermione not be hurt. And Tom, he knew, was of the firm opinion
that what Hermione didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
 
            Tom reared back, as if Abraxas had slapped him, and his expression
was the closest to shock Abraxas had ever seen. “Do you really think I could
use the cruciatuson you?”
 
            “But you said you needed to practice the Unforgiveables,” Abraxas
felt confused again, though that was a common experience around Tom.
 
            “I told you I needed to practice the intention behind them,” Tom
hissed, pulling on Abraxas’s hair, forcing his head back. “And I also told you
that you were a partof me. Do you think I throw words like that around,
Abraxas? I’ll be saving cruciopractice for those who actually merit it.”
 
             "For you,” He gave a wicked smile, all wide mouth and sharp, white
teeth, keeping one hand tangled in Abraxas’s hair, and using the other to
lightly trace Abraxas’s jawline, “Imperio.”
 
             Instantly, Abraxas felt lighter, further away from himself. He’d
never been a victim of the imperius, but he’d seen it used on house elves, and
once, his father had used it on his mother, to force her “hold her damned
tongue.” Evangeline had literally heldher tongue between her fingers for an
hour while her husband smiled and asked an eight-year-old Abraxas how his day
had been over tea and scones.
 
             “Don’t worry, my friend,” Tom kissed his ear as he spoke. “I won’t
command you to do anything you wouldn’t already do quite willingly. This is
simply to get a feel for the casting.”
 
            True to his word, Tom spent the next hour commanding Abraxas to do
several “tasks,” all of which were extremely pleasant for both of them,
involving the need to be naked and sweaty. Afterwards, they lay side by side on
their backs on the cold stone floor, arms and legs tangled together.
 
            Tom ran a finger over Abraxas’s hip, tracing a rune of possession
there. “How did it feel?”
 
            Abraxas laughed. “Bloody brilliant, as always,” he pressed his lips
to Tom’s shoulder.
 
            “No, not the sex,” Tom corrected with a smug smile. “The curse.”
 
            “Not much different than normal – I guess I felt a bit out of
myself, like my mind was further from my body, not as in control of it, but I
could still feel the pleasure,” Abraxas shrugged. “I suppose it would be quite
different if you asked me to do something I didn’t want to do, or that would
hurt.”
 
            Tom’s finger continued to circle over Abraxas’s flesh. “Would you
mind terribly if I hurt you, if I made you hurt yourself, so long as it was
brief?”
 
            “How?” Abraxas asked cautiously, though he didn’t see himself
denying Tom anything, even his pain.
 
           “I knowthat you are mine,” Tom spoke softly, in the voice that made
Abraxas’s knees so weak he was thankful he was already lying down. “Hermione is
already marked, with my words, but I want to mark you and Patience as mine, as
ours, permanently, on your skin. I want everyone to know to whom you belong.”
 
            “What kind of mark?” Abraxas was pleasantly surprised. Pain for the
purpose of marking was much better than pain for pain’s sake. And belonging to
Tom, to Hermione and Patience, their elemental quartet, gave him the greatest
sense of joy, of love and belonging, of purpose and power that he’d ever felt.
It was a feeling he never wanted to end.  
 
            “A magical brand of some sort,” Tom replied as he pulled Abraxas
closer into his side, one hand on his chest, the other still teasing at his
hip. “As much as I’d love to simply write my name all over you, I don’t think
that wise.  Hermione would protest, I'm sure. I asked Patience to make some
drawings for me, of symbols for our quartet. I haven’t seen them yet, though.”
 
            Abraxas relaxed further when he realized Tom wasn’t talking about
doing it today.
 
            Tom seemed to read his mind and gave a low laugh. “No, not today. I
want all four of us to do it, in the Chamber, together. I’m sure Hermione will
insist we all have them, not just you and Patience. She loves to pretend
equality exists, after all.”
 
            Abraxas smiled into Tom’s chest. For all of his Pureblood
childhood, Abraxas wasn’t nearly as cynical as Tom. He loved Hermione’s
stubborn insistence that people were basically good, that the world could be
made better, that love would win the day. It was one of the qualities that made
him love her so much.   And he knew, from five years of watching her win over
and gently coax one Slytherin after another in their classes and study groups,
that Hermione wasn’t all talk. There was something about her that made others
want to do better, and even Tom himself tried to please her, or, at least, not
upset her.
 
            Tom and Abraxas stayed in the dungeons for several hours more,
practicing various spells. Tom had brought a journal from the Chamber, and they
tested a few battle curses, aiming at the wall, simply to understand
pronunciation and casting strength. Quite a lot of stone rebounded at them,
signaling the power of the curses, and they both laughed with pleasure as they
threw up shields.
 
            Tom used legilimens several more times on Abraxas, but always non-
verbally. Tom had asked him to keep count of the number of times he felt Tom in
his mind.
 
            “I tried to use it on Narcissa, and she felt the intrusion. You
know me and the feel of my magic intimately. We are attuned, our magic mingled,
through our elemental binding. If I can slip into your mind without you being
aware, I will be on my way to mastering Legilimancy,” Tom explained.
 
             He was rather peeved that Abraxas had been able to feel him
immediately, each and every time, and his annoyance wasn’t improved until
Abraxas suggested more practice with the Imperius, which delighted Tom. During
this session, Tom told him to do neutral things – not things Abraxas would have
done on his own, but nothing objectionable. He commanded Abraxas to open and
close doors, lift objects, perform small spells of transfiguration or charms.
 
            Half-way through, Tom asked Abraxas to try to resist his commands.
It took several tries, but Abraxas did manage to delay and eventually ignore
the orders given. Then, Tom began to cast at a stronger level, and Abraxas
repeated the process, following the orders until Tom asked him to try
resisting, though once Tom began casting with firm intention, resistance was
not an option, nor even the hint of an option.
 
           “How do you feel now?” Tom asked, kneeling beside Abraxas, who had
been trying resist Tom’s command to lie flat on the floor.
 
           “Exhausted,” Abraxas answered honestly. “Like I’ve just played the
hardest, longest quidditch match of my life.”
 
            Tom gave him a look of interest. “So, the exhaustion is more
physical than magical? Can you do a spell at all at the moment?”
 
            Abraxas raised his wand and cast a weak lumos, one of the first
spells he had learned. “Ugh,” he groaned. “My magic is weak, too.”
 
            “Here,” Tom took his hand, and Abraxas felt magic flood into him.
 
            “What is that?” Abraxas breathed. He knew Tom’s magic, but this was
new, even stronger, and the fact Tom had willingly shared it was surprising.
 
             “It’s some of the magic I transformed from the curse on Hermione,”
Tom smiled. “It is quite something, eh?”
 
             Abraxas nodded, feeling more like himself, though his muscles were
still sore. He shifted to face Tom. He started to form a question, but Tom
looked into his eyes and pressed a finger to his lips. Abraxas felt Tom in his
mind, though his touch was definitely lighter than it had been earlier this
morning. He was amazed at how much progress Tom was able to make in such a
short time.
 
           “Thank you,” Tom smirked. “And, to answer your question, I want you
to resist because I don’t want anyone to be able to use that curse on you. I
want you to be able to throw off both theimperiusand thecruciatus. I want you
at no one’s mercy except mine, Abraxas Malfoy.”
 
            As dark and possessive as that sounded, Abraxas took it for the
statement of affection that it was, coming from Tom.  
 
 
oOo0oOo
 
            If Abraxas had any concerns that Tom would act differently around
his parents after having seen the memories of Abraxas’s childhood, those fears
proved unfounded at dinner. Tom was his usual, charming self, lightly flirting
with Lady Malfoy while simultaneously impressing Lord Malfoy with his
intelligence.
 
            He had known Tom was an excellent liar, that he could charm most
anyone, young or old, male or female, but he had also seen the anger in Tom,
had heard the rage in his voice in the dungeons, and the way that Tom was
clearly able to compartmentalize his desire for revenge, to hide it, was
absolutely frightening. Abraxas marveled at him, reaffirmed in his faith that
Tom Riddle could do anything.
 
            “So, Tom,” Evangeline smiled at her son’s guest in a way that would
have been vaguely predatory with any other not-quite-sixteen year old. “Tell us
about the girls Abraxas likes at school. He’s been dreadfully tight-lipped on
the subject.”
 
            Tom’s expression was a perfect impression of boyish embarrassment,
his long lashes fluttering downwards, his cheeks flushing at the attention of a
pretty, older woman. It took some effort for Abraxas not to choke on his
potatoes.
 
            “Abraxas is a bit of a ladies’ man, Lady Malfoy,” Tom allowed a
hint of a smirk to show, every movement of his face calculated to appease and
fool the Malfoy parents. “I’m sure he’s simply following the code of a
gentleman not to ‘kiss and tell’.”
 
            Gawain laughed and winked at his son. “Well, that’s fine. It’s good
for a young man to have some variety before he settles down.”
 
            Evangeline’s mouth twisted downwards. “Yes, Abraxas is a handsome
boy, of course the girls like him, but who does he like?” she persisted.
 
            Tom looked at Abraxas and raised an eyebrow. Both parents noticed.
“Lady Malfoy, your guess is as good as mine.”
 
            “Mother, there is no one in particular. Hogwarts is full of pretty
girls, but I really don’t have a favorite,” Abraxas protested lightly.
 
            His mother opened her mouth, but Gawain cut in. “Let’s leave it at
that for now, dear. He has two more years at Hogwarts before any decisions need
to be made. And, remember, I didn’t marry you until I was twenty-one.”
 
            “Yes, and your poor mother was in fits for three years. I’d rather
not suffer that myself,” Evangeline murmured sourly, but dropped the subject.
 
            After dinner, Tom and Abraxas went to the west wing. Abraxas’s
bedroom, personal library, and study were there. He also had a large game room
filled with various magical toys from over the years, as well as the run of a
long, wide corridor lined with paintings two stories high, that he used to fly
indoors on cold or rainy days.
 
            Since they couldn’t be sure of triggering the trace outside of the
boundaries of the dungeon, Tom sat quietly in the library, by the fire,
translating more of the journal, while Abraxas worked out his frustration over
his parents by dodging specially charmed bludgers in the painting corridor.
 
            He flew fiercely, testing his already sore muscles, trying to turn
off his overactive brain. Abraxas couldn’t wait to be out from under his
parents’ control, for Tom to achieve enough status and power that they could be
together, the four of them. He imagined their bond made public, recognized as
binding and valid as any marriage, of one day having a child with Hermione, a
Malfoy who would be publicly half-blooded, his parents unable to stop him from
living the life he wanted.
 
            When he came back into the library, Tom looked up and narrowed his
eyes. “You know, I don’t understand your desire to impregnate my soul mate.”
 
            Abraxas had felt the legilimancy, but barely. He didn’t look away,
because he had nothing to hide. “I love her. I think she would make an
excellent mother one day.”
 
            “And give the next generation of Malfoys the wonderful mum you
never had?” Tom’s voice had a taunting ring. “Hermione doesn’t want children
right now, and she doesn’t take kindly to being manipulated.”
 
            Abraxas couldn’t hold back his snort of amusement. “I’m well aware.
I’ve seen how she fights with you,” he smirked. “Just because I think of
something, Tom, doesn’t mean it is something I want immediately, but I think
Hermione will want children, one day, and I don’t think you’ll want to be a
father. The magical binding we’ve used lasts for our lifetimes. There’s no
rush.”
 
            Tom looked into the fire. “True, this is a long game, though I have
to admit that when we are finally able to reveal our relationship, I will
absolutely savor the look on your parents’ faces. Your mother wants to fuck me,
you know.”
 
            “I know,” Abraxas muttered, the quick flash of anger in his voice
fading to grudging acceptance. “Almost everyone wants to fuck you, Tom. You’re
gorgeous and brilliant and powerful, and that’s an irresistible combination.”
 
            “Irresistible, you say?” Tom reached out quickly and yanked Abraxas
toward him, kissing him for several minutes, his tongue reducing Abraxas to a
mess of hormones. “You taste like salt and sweat. We need to get you clean, you
filthy boy.”
 
            Abraxas shuddered. “Lead the way.”
 
            “Don’t I always?” he smirked, taking Abraxas’s hand and heading to
the bathroom.
 
***** The Ladies Play Dressup *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione and her friends prepare for the ball. Marguerite and
     Hermione form a tentative peace, and Hermione re-thinks her beliefs
     on right and wrong.
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is a bit shorter, but I have a lot of grading to do in
     the next few weeks, so I wanted to get something out to hold everyone
     over. I'm still excited about a lot of drama at the Malfoy Ball, but
     it will have to wait until the next chapter. Love to you all!
 
 
            Hermione was in hell. There were many kinds of torture, and
Hermione had endured a wide variety in her life, but the last twelve hours were
near the top. In her old life, as she thought of it, she had never particularly
liked dressing up, and preferred, if allowed, to wear jeans and t-shirts with a
well-broken-in pair of trainers. The Hogwarts uniform for girls had given her
plenty experience in wearing skirts, and her journey to the past had forced her
to wear skirts and dresses most of the time to fit in with peers.   Thankfully
though, in the last year, Galatea had noticed Hermione’s longing looks at
trousers, and had gotten her several pairs, tailored in the sleek, fashionable
style the Ravenclaw Head of House wore herself. Narcissa had protested lightly,
but so long as Hermione only wore the trousers around the house over the school
breaks, she let the matter drop.
 
            She didn’t deny that she had enjoyed the occasional ‘dolling up’
for parties, but those events were few and far between, and it was hard to get
excited about a ball held in the very house where she’d been literally
tortured, especially when she was preparing side-by-side with an ancestress of
the woman who’d tortured her, an ancestress who, one, looked very much like
Bellatrix, and two, who had fucked her soul mate.
 
            Hermione had done her best to get over her anger toward Marguerite.
Tom was right when he’d said Hermione hadn’t given him any signal up to that
point that she was interested in a sexual or romantic relationship, and even
when Tom had been sleeping with Marguerite, he had never once shown the slight
hint of preferring Marguerite’s company over hers. Hermione knew Tom well
enough to believe him when he said that having sex with Marguerite had been due
to proximity, curiosity, and a desire to have further control over a girl from
a wealthy and powerful family, nothing more.
 
            Marguerite was very clever, and Hermione imagined she understood
exactly how Tom had used her, but that she was either in love with him or in
love with the power he had (or both). It was a bit sad, really. Marguerite
didn’t know Tom had a soul mate, but Hermione’s relationship with Tom was
common knowledge across school now, and she knew she couldn’t have Tom in any
fashion. She was to be engaged as soon as possible, within weeks, if Orpha had
her way.
 
            As she stood on a stool in the large sitting room, staring at
Marguerite, who was also perched on a stool, both of them surrounded by
dressmakers with measuring tape and flying pins and shears, Hermione worked to
find empathy. The presence of Patience, Felicity, Josephine, and Vidhi helped.
The other four girls chatted lightly, having already had their own final
fittings, going through the selection of ribbons, hair clips and bands,
jewelry, and wraps the dressmakers had brought with them to help the girls
accessorize their gowns.
 
            Narcissa and Orpha were giving input to the dressmakers, and the
dressmakers were answering politely, yet firmly, trying to keep some control
over their actions.
 
           “I’d like the neckline to be lower by at least a half-inch,” Orpha
moved in and tugged at the black lace edging Marguerite’s wine colored gown.
The lace rose high over the underdress, which was strapless. It was an elegant
dress, with long sleeves and a full skirt that bloomed outward from
Marguerite’s very small waist.
 
            “Madam,” the frazzled dressmaker gently protested. “Your daughter’s
petite form doesn’t lend itself to an…expansive décolletage.”
 
            Marguerite’s face was absolutely blank as her mother argued and
pulled, and the whole room, filled with classmates, saw and heard how powerless
she was. Her form was, indeed, very petite. She’d always been small, and though
she had gained hips and breasts last year, they were slight curves. It was
clear she’d never have what would be termed a ‘womanly’ form. In contrast,
Hermione, though petite, was curvy, as well as a good four inches over
Marguerite’s scant five foot height.
 
            “Perhaps only lower it in the middle?” Narcissa attempted to make
peace. “Make the neckline more of a ‘V’?”
 
            The dressmaker shook her head gratefully. “Yes, that would work, I
think.”
 
            Orpha sniffed imperiously, but nodded her assent. She stepped back
and carried on her conversation with Narcissa. “Tom and Hermione have become
quite…close, I noticed.”
           
            Marguerite looked up, and Hermione caught her eye. Her nearly black
irises were glittering, like obsidian in the sun, and Hermione glanced down.
She didn’t want to make Marguerite more of an enemy by witnessing her weakness.
           
            Tom had left hours ago, entering the floo only a few minutes after
Marguerite and her mother had arrived, kissing Hermione briefly on the lips in
front of the entire group before ducking into the fireplace. She had not missed
the tiny flinch Marguerite had made.
 
            “Yes, they have been close for years,” Narcissa replied evenly.
“They are cousins.”
 
            “So are Tom and Marguerite, technically. It’s clearly more than
that now. He kissed her on the mouth,” Orpha frowned, not caring that the whole
room was watching. She was probably thrilled to be pointing out what she
perceived as Narcissa’s faults in front of an audience. “I know they are both
only half-blooded, but surely you’ve made sure they are at least properly
engaged? A girl’s virtue must be protected or her prospects will vanish.”
 
            No one in the room except Hermione recognized the signs of
Narcissa’s subtle anger. Hermione knew that being around Orpha was a trigger
for Narcissa, a reminder of the life she’d left behind, with its narrow-minded
beliefs and endless rules.
 
           “You needn’t worry, Orpha,” Narcissa spoke crisply, her posh voice
perfectly enunciating her words. “Hermione and Tom are bound by fate and magic.
I have no doubts about their intentions toward one another, nor do I feel the
need to police them.”
 
           Orpha smiled, taunting and cruel. “How…modern of you, Narcissa.”
 
           It was at that moment Galatea entered the room, in her customary
muggle men’s clothing, tapping her wand against her riding boots, looking for
all the world like the perfect representation of everything Orpha despised. She
strode right up to Narcissa, and kissed her hand, producing an instant, and
Hermione thought, lovely, flush across her mother’s cheeks.
 
          “Ladies,” Galatea announced loudly, her crooked grin broad with
mischievous amusement. “When you get tired of making yourselves more beautiful
than you already are, the elves have laid out an excellent lunch. Narcissa,
darling, I’ll be in my library if you need me.”
 
          She gave a saucy wink to Orpha, who scowled in return, and left the
room.
 
         “You could have remarried,” Orpha turned to Narcissa. “A pureblooded
woman has a duty to our culture. You could have pureblooded children.”
 
         Narcissa’s anger was visible now, though her tone was perfectly
controlled as she answered. “I did remarry. Galatea is my wife, and my soul
mate. Surely there is no greater calling in our magical destiny than to find
one’s soul mate? But you never found yours, did you, Orpha?”
 
         “I’m very hungry,” Hermione announced loudly, cutting into the rapidly
devolving conversation. Orpha looked ready to throw a curse.
 
         “So am I,” Marguerite echoed, twisting to scowl at the three
dressmakers surrounding her. “Are we done with the fitting? What use are
magical dressmakers if they take as long as muggles?”
 
         The dressmakers immediately began to make tutting noises of annoyance,
but unpinned the girls and let them step down. “The dresses will be finished by
the time you are done with lunch,” the head dressmaker said, looking as if she
were holding back a few curses of her own.
 
 
            After the luncheon, the six girls went back to the sitting room,
but this time, they viewed the dresses, displayed on enchanted dressmaker’s
dummies to float and turn. Josephine and Vidhi had already had their dresses,
but those were displayed as well, and the dressmakers had remade Patience’s
gown under Narcissa’s directions.
 
           Narcissa had told the girls that she would treat them to whichever
accessories they desired, so the six teens descended on the selection, holding
necklaces up to dresses, draping wraps and scarves, dangling bags and fans from
their wrists against the skirts, trying to find the perfect finishing pieces.  
 
           All the girls knew and liked Narcissa greatly. Over the course of
five years, they had each visited her in the Hospital Wing for various
illnesses or injuries, and though she was not effusive nurse, she was gentle
and non-judgmental. She helped treat everything from colds to cramps to acne
outbreaks to Felicity’s quidditch sprains and strains, as well as hexes gone
astray during dueling club or beauty charms applied incorrectly to disastrous
results. Madame Selwyn might be the official healer of Hogwarts, but Narcissa
was the students’ favorite, and more than one student thought of her as their
mother away from home.
 
           Even Marguerite murmured how nice it was of Narcissa, as she looked
at the necklaces. Hermione came to stand beside her, looking down at the
jewelry. She wanted to reassure Marguerite in some way, try to make it clear
that there were no grudges, that she was willing to let the past go, but
Slytherins were so difficult to read, and they rarely took anything said to
them at face value, even if the speaker meant what he or she said.
 
            “I don’t think you need a necklace,” Hermione said quietly. “The
lace edging on your dress is eye-catching enough. Maybe something sparkly to
clip back your hair?”
 
            Marguerite nodded. “I suppose the same is true for you. You have
Slytherin’s locket. You never wear anything else.”
 
            Out of habit, Hermione’s hand went to the place between her breasts
where the locket rested under her clothing. She very rarely wore the locket on
display at school, given house rivalries, but in the last few months, since
they’d started a physical relationship, Tom had begun a habit of pulling the
locket out in their shared classes and at the study group.
 
            Glancing over at Hermione’s gold and black gown, with its low
center neckline, Marguerite smirked. “You won’t be able to hide it tonight,
though why you hide it at all is beyond me. If Tom had given me precious family
heirloom that was a powerful magical object once belonging to Salazar
Slytherin, I would have worn it with pride.”
            “Do you love him, Marguerite, or just the power he has?” Hermione
was tired of dancing around the issue at hand.   “Or was it just about the
sex?”
 
            Marguerite’s eyes widened, and her shoulders stiffened. It was
probably more of a reaction than she meant to give. “His power iswho he is. If
I love Tom’s power, I love him. The sex,” those eyes, with irises so dark they
nearly matched the blackness of the pupils, glared at Hermione, “was sporadic,
and usually didn’t involve my pleasure at all. I hope, for your sake, that
he’s…improved in that regard.”
 
            The smaller girl’s anger was palpable, but Hermione understood, and
even thought it justified. She remembered how casually cruel Tom had in his
dismissal of his physical relationship with Marguerite. Hermione felt the
insane urge to hug the little Slytherin who was trying so desperately to hide
how wounded she was. Still, knowing that would be the absolute worst thing to
do, Hermione shrugged instead.
 
            “He’s fine. We’re fine. We...” she wasn’t sure how much to tell
Marguerite. Hermione had the innate desire to believe the best of others, but
life had taught her that desire often needed to be repressed for purposes of
self-preservation. “We will never be separate again,” she said finally, then
added, in a strong, yet non-accusatory tone, “Even if Tom uses sex to solidify
alliances, nothing can break us apart.”
 
            “Oh, I’m aware of that,” Marguerite responded blandly, moving a few
feet over to the hair accessories, her delicate, child-like hands lifting a
large black gold comb with colorless stones charmed to match the wearer’s
clothing. Fine wires extended from the base of the comb, each ending in a
jewel, giving the impression that the gems had exploded outward like
fireworks.  
 
            “Tom has made it clear that you are sacrosanct, that any affront to
you is an affront to him, that you are to be treated as an extension of
himself. He’d reduce any one who so much as looked at you cross-eyed to dust,”
Marguerite raised the comb to her hair, and the gems turned the precise shade
of blue of her current dress. “And his dragon, Abraxas, would finish any off
remnants.”
 
            “I don’t need Tom or Abraxas to protect me,” Hermione couldn’t stop
herself from making that point clear.
 
            Marguerite laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I’m well aware of that,
too, Hermione. I’ve been in your classes, watched you duel for five years. You
are as powerful as he is, maybe more so. I have a feeling you restrain
yourself, which, considering what happened in the hall in our first year, I
imagine is for everyone’s safety. I’ve also seen how the Malfoy heir watches
you both, like he wants to sandwiched between the two of you for the rest of
his life, and how Tom looks at him, and how you all look at Patience. Tom calls
her his pet all the time. I wouldn’t think you’d put up with that if you
weren’t intimatelyaware of the circumstances. Ironic, isn’t it, that Slytherin
girls are ones everyone makes dirty jokes about, when it’s really the Ravenclaw
ladies who are testing the boundaries?”
 
            “I think that comb would be lovely with your dress,” Hermione
ignored the bait, moving into Marguerite’s space, and lifting a section of her
dark, thick hair, holding it up as the comb would. “If you wore it up, here.”
 
            “I’m sure my mother will decide on my hairstyle, like everything
else,” Marguerite said, but she didn’t move away. She arched a dark eyebrow at
Hermione, her expression pure Slytherin guile. “Are we going to be friends
now?”
 
            Hermione let her skepticism show as she dropped Marguerite’s hair.
“I don’t think you’d allow anyone to be your friend, Marguerite, but so long as
we both believe in Tom and his future, we will be allies.”
 
            “And what is Tom’s future?” Marguerite asked. “Or, maybe whereis
the better question. How is northern France these days?”
 
            “I think you’re smart enough to figure that out,” Hermione picked
up a set of silver and gold barrettes, studded with diamonds and clear
yellowish tanzanite stones that would match the color of the locket.
 
            Marguerite took the clips from Hermione’s hand and opened them,
gently arranging Hermione’s curls on each side of her face and fastening the
clips. “Yes, I’m smart enough for a lot of things,” Marguerite murmured.
 
            “Too smart to be a trophy wife,” Hermione added. She hated the
thought of any woman, any girl barely out of childhood, being bartered away,
pushed into loveless arrangement.
 
            Marguerite froze for a moment, her face giving away nothing. When
she spoke, her tone was tightly controlled. “I won’t be any such thing,
Hermione Bonneau. Who do you think runs the Rosier household? My mother. Just
as I will run the household of whomever I marry.”
 
            “Tom and I want to change the rules, Marguerite, to allow more
freedom to everyone, to stop the insane pull of these ancient traditions – and
Pureblooded women will stand to benefit greatly. Wouldn’t you like to be free
of the expectations your family places on you?”
 
            “Tom wants power, Hermione. Your crusade for rights is simply a
convenient cover for his actions, an excuse that can be swallowed by the
public,” Marguerite hissed. “And no matter what he does, even if he were made
Minister tomorrow, with absolute power, he wouldn’t be able to free me. The
best I can hope for is a stupid, malleable husband who doesn’t find me
attractive enough to seek out sex after we’ve had a few children and doesn’t
interfere with how I run the household.”
 
            “That’s horrible,” Hermione wasn’t able to stop the words. “You
aren’t chattel to be bartered, Marguerite. This way of living is fucking
medieval!”
 
            “It is the situation, Hermione, and you can’t stop it,” Marguerite
replied, the emotion drained from her voice, leaning in to undo the clips and
handing them back to Hermione.
 
            As she spoke, Orpha entered the room, looking annoyed. “Come,
Marguerite, we need to get home. The ball is tomorrow, and there are still
preparations to be made.”
 
            Orpha glanced at the comb Marguerite had picked back up. “Is that
the hair clip you want? It might work. Go ahead and bring it. We’ll see what
Yeza and I can do with it.”
 
            Marguerite and her mother left, and the other four girls instantly
came over to Hermione. It was no secret that Vidhi and Marguerite did not get
along, and Hermione’s roommates hated Marguerite on principle.
 
            “What did you two talk about for so long?” Felicity asked.
 
            “I asked her about Tom,” Hermione replied honestly.
 
            Vidhi snorted, the tiny emerald stud on the side of her nose
twinkling at the movement. “And she didn’t hex you? That’s a bloody miracle.”
 
            “She said she knows Tom and I are together,” Hermione shook her
head. “I think we have a tentative peace.”
 
            “We’re going to need it,” Patience nodded solemnly. “Trust is
important for future ventures.”
 
            Josephine eyed Patience with half-affection, half-exasperation.
“You say the oddest things, Patience. I think you have the touch of a seer. Put
it to good use and tell me if Jacob’s going to be at the party.”
 
            The conversation quickly devolved back into giggles over potential
crushes. Felicity had her eye on a Gryffindor quidditch player, and Vidhi
firmly stated that she wasn’t interested in anything except her studies, though
her parents had mentioned a potential alliance with a magical family from her
grandmother’s village back in India after her graduation from Hogwarts.
 
            They modeled their gowns for one another, and chose the
accessories. Josephine’s gown had been her grandmother’s, and had been
carefully updated and fitted for her use by expert dressmakers. It was a
sapphire blue, with a high neckline that barely revealed her collarbones and
sleeves with enough fabric to make another dress. The blue velvet was overlaid
with a fine webbing of silver thread, creating a faint, shimmering diamond
pattern. She looked like a Ravenclaw princess in it.
 
             Narcissa had insisted on purchasing Felicity a gown, since she was
their guest for the holidays, and would be coming to the Malfoy ball with their
family. Felicity had requested something simple, with no frills or lace or
sparkles. The dressmaker had risen to the challenge, making a dress that was
still appropriate for a formal occasion, but without many adornments. Though
the dressmaker had tried to lobby for an emerald green against Felicity’s red
hair, Felicity had informed her tartly that she wouldn’t wear another House’s
colors. They settled on deep plum. The dress was made of at least twenty layers
of chiffon that gathered gently at the waist and flared to Felicity’s ankles.
It had long sleeves that fitted at the wrists, and keyhole slits on the upper
arms, with a keyhole slit in center of the neckline to match.
 
            Vidhi’s mother and father, who would both be attending to ball, due
to Vidhi’s father’s position in the ministry, and Vidhi’s mother’s fame as a
classical musician who specialized in magical instruments, had commissioned a
traditional Indian gown for their daughter. Vidhi had informed her friends, in
her normal, dry humor, that she was sure her parents had done so to mark her as
apart from her friends at Hogwarts. “They have plans for me, even if they
haven’t mentioned them yet.” The pale saffron underdress was a simple shift at
the top, with a flared skirt heavily beaded with green and red jewels. The
overdress was more of a jacket with its high standing collar and long, wide
sleeves, bright emerald with saffron embroidery and red beading. The dress was
beautiful and regal, but it was distinctly styled, and looked nothing like
those of the other girls.
 
            Patience, being her usual, ecletic self, had shown up with a gown
that looked like it had been haphazardly sewn by drunken trolls. “I made it
myself,” she’d announced to the room, holding it up with dreamy eyes. Narcissa
had quickly confiscated it and handed it to one of the dressmakers, who nearly
cried at the sight of it. Hermione had heard Narcissa promise the woman double
her usual rate if she could salvage a dress from the fabric. The woman had done
more than salvage, though. The dress she’d created for Patience was amazing,
and once on Patience’s tall, thin form, it hung perfectly. The gown was empire-
waisted, with only one shoulder covered, like a Grecian toga. The seafoam
colored fabric fell beautifully to the floor, and matched Patience’s pale eyes.
Patience asked Narcissa to temporarily charm her snake bracelet to match the
dress, which Narcissa did with good humor, actually laughing when Patience
informed her what the parseltongue phrase was.
 
            Although Hermione wasn’t usually too concerned about her outward
appearance, and went without makeup or any beauty routines beside washing
herself, attempting to tame her hair, and applying lotion to prevent dry skin,
she wasn’t about to be shown up at this ball. Most of the Slytherin families
would be there, and Sagitta Bulstrode, nee Black would definitely be in
attendance, as well as other potential antagonists. Hermione wanted to look
stunning. When Narcissa had looked over the gown design sketches, she had
raised an eyebrow. “Circe help us all when Tom sees you in this,” she’d
murmured.  
 
            The dress was a strapless black silk covered with golden embroidery
that made swirls across the bodice, tightly fitted to the tops of the thighs,
then flaring out in multiple layers of black tulle studded with flecks of gold
that shone with every move like fairy lights. The neckline was not especially
daring, but it did reveal the upper swells of Hermione’s breasts, and dipped
low between them for several inches, making Hermione glad that it was held up
by enchantments and sticking charms. Hermione had requested the special notch
in the neckline to allow for display of Tom’s locket. Even before Marguerite’s
comment, Hermione had planned on showing the entire Malfoy guest list not only
Tom’s power and inheritance, but also their mutual claim to one another. It
would help to lessen the sting of not being able to do the same with Abraxas
for the time-being. Hermione knew Patience was doing something similar by
wearing the snake bracelet. No one else would have jewelry that responded to
Parseltongue.
 
 
oOo0oOo
 
            Hemione woke in the night, gasping from a nightmare. It had been a
horrific tangle of images of past and future, ending with Harry and Tom both
dead, her crying over their bodies. The body of Grindelwald’s general had been
there, as well, the magical dagger stuck in his head.
 
            She knew that she had pushed aside dealing with the fact that she’d
killed someone. Between holiday and ball preparations, Hermione had been kept
busy, and she suspected that Narcissa had done that on purpose, taking her
shopping with Felicity, and sending both of them to muggle London with Galatea
to get a few small gifts for Felicity’s family. Tom had been there, but with
everyone else present, they hadn’t been able to speak privately.
 
            In her mind, though, the events of last week replayed vividly,
usually at night. What upset her the most was that she wasn’treally upset. She
didn’t regret her actions, just as she felt no guilt for leading Umbridge into
the company of the centaurs, or scarring Marietta Edgecomb for life. And that
was the crux of the problem. Hermione had always thought of herself as a
goodperson, a person with strong moral convictions who believed in the
betterment of society, of working to achieve equality and peace. However, as
Tom had pointed out more than once, when Hermione was faced with battle
situations, when she or her loved ones were threatened, she responded with
quick and deadly force, and she didn’t see that changing any time soon.
 
           Was it possible to expand her concept of goodto include someone who
killed others? Was it ever right to kill another? If she had been a better
person, would she have simply used a disabling curse? Had Tom’s soul mate
connection influenced her, made her…darker?
 
           She stared at the ceiling, and took deep breaths. Hermione was a
person who believed in self-awareness, in examining one’s motivations. When she
was young, when she had entered Hogwarts for the first time, she had been full
of naivety, firm in her conviction that the lines between good and evil were
clear, that she would never cross them. By her fifth year, though, her life had
changed drastically. She’d seen evil, and had known it couldn’t be fought with
simple little hexes that faded in seconds.
 
           No, none of Hermione’s research and experimentation with darker
magic had been due to her connection with Tom, which hadn’t even manifested at
that point – that had all been her own decision, her desire for knowledge, and,
if she was being honest, power. She had longed for the power to defeat everyone
who had threatened her and her friends, from petty tyrants like Umbridge, all
the way up to Bellatrix and Voldemort himself.
 
          But did taking the life of another person change her, fundamentally?
And if it didn’t, what did that say about her? Hermione had a feeling that Tom,
Abraxas, and Patience would all say she was over-thinking this issue. No, she
decided, being realistic, being pragmatic, and protecting herself and others
from a vicious, sadistic, supremacist didn’t make her less of a good person.
She was making peace with that, and with the fact that she might have to kill
again in her quest to create a better future.
 
            Marguerite had said that Tom was only interested in power, that he
was using Hermione’s desire for a more equal society as a smoke-screen for
amassing power. This was true, but only to an extent. Marguerite had no
knowledge of the elemental quartet they had created, and she had no idea how
much the access to three other people’s emotions had impacted and influenced
Tom. On his own, he felt very little positive emotion, but with Abraxas,
Patience, and herself, Tom was able to experience something closer to the
normal range of human feeling, and though he wasn’t going to change his core
nature, it was definitely changing how he thought about and pursued power. Tom
Riddle didn’t want to be the villain. He wanted to be the hero (or at least an
anti-hero), and Hermione considered that serious progress.
 
            “Do you want to talk?” Patience’s soft voice came from beside her.
She had spent the night, and though there were plenty of guest rooms at the
Merrythought estate, Patience had crawled into Hermione’s bed, cuddling up
against as she always did in their dorm at Hogwarts.
 
            Hermione turned in the bed to face her best friend, the person she
probably trusted most, besides Narcissa. The events in France had shaken her a
bit, though. “You knew I was going to kill someone when you let yourself be
captured, didn’t you?”
 
            Patience nodded, the moonlight coming from the window behind her
making her look even more ethereal than usual.
 
            “Why was it important for me to do that? Do you know?” Hermione was
wary of asking Patience too much of the future they were creating together. And
it wasn’t like Patience gave clear answers, anyway.
 
            “You are not evil, Hermione,” Patience stroked the wild curls
around Hermione’s face, twisting the tips around her long, slender fingers.
“The world is complicated. How can saving it be any less complicated? You need
to be comfortable with that.”
 
            Hermione put her head on Patience’s chest, the opposite of how they
normally embraced. She listened to the slow, steady beat of Patience’s heart
and let it relax her. “So the ends justify the means? Is that what you are
trying to say?”
 
            “I’m saying the means are simply what they are, and analyzing every
action you make can lead to paralyzing moments in the future. You need to be at
peace with yourself, to react freely in the moment, especially in the midst of
a fight. All you can do is strive to make the best decision in any given
situation. If you make a mistake, then you can attempt not to repeat it, but
sometimes, we need to make the same mistake many times before we can fix the
underlying cause,” Patience’s response was one of the longest Hermione had
heard from her friend.
 
            She thought for several seconds. “Did I make a mistake?”
 
            Patience kissed the top of her head. “No, love, you saved me, just
like I knew you would. And you saved a village full of people as well.”
 
            Hermione nodded, reassured, her lack of sleep suddenly catching up
with her. She snuggled into Patience, who held her tight and hummed that silly
ballad of hers until Hermione drifted off to more peaceful dreams.
***** Malfoy Manor Manners *****
Chapter Summary
     Our teens party at Malfoy Manor. There is love, anger, magic, roaming
     eyes and hands...what more could one ask for? Maybe less evil Malfoy
     parents?
Chapter Notes
     Well, I'm back...hopefully the various plagues that have descended
     upon my household will be cleared away with the New Year. Thank you
     to everyone who wrote and encouraged me. Between the election and
     various family illnesses, I haven't had the time or heart for much
     writing, but I was inspired by the kind thoughts and requests. Love
     to you, and a Happy New Year!
     And the information about Hermione's title is based on only a small
     bit of research about how French hereditary titles would work, so
     please forgive any mistakes. If I had been more faithful to the facts
     from the beginning, I would have made Narcissa a Viscountess, not a
     Lady, given that her husband was French, with a French title. As the
     only child of a non-entailed estate, Hermione would inherit her
     father's lands and titles upon reaching the age of majority, in this
     case, seventeen. Narcissa would still maintain the honorary title she
     received for marrying a vicomte, that of Viscountess Bonneau, but
     Hermione would be The Viscountess Bonneau, with the definite article
     before the title, if I'm understanding correctly.
 
            Hermione apparated side-along onto the steps of Malfoy Manor, her
hand resting on Narcissa’s arm. Galatea was behind them, Felicity and Patience
on either side.
 
            “Are you prepared to go in?” Narcissa asked gently, her voice
hardly carrying over the whipping winter wind.
 
            “Are you?” Hermione looked at her mother with concern, her face
hidden from those behind her by her hooded cloak. This manor had been
Narcissa’s home for most of her life and held innumerable memories, both
pleasant and painful.
 
            Narcissa drew a deep breath and patted Hermione’s hand. “I’ll be
fine, darling. This isn’t my life anymore. I have Galatea and two lovely homes,
and you and Tom, and my work at Hogwarts. Also, I have advantage of many happy
memories to outweigh the bad, even if they are bittersweet now. I’m worried you
will have an intense reaction, no matter how you’ve prepared yourself.”
 
            Hermione shook her head. “I’ll be fine, too. Those events don’t
even exist anymore, except in my memories. I give them any power they have, and
I’m determined not to feed them.”
 
            Narcissa nodded her approval. “Just remember to breathe. At least
the ballroom is on the other side of the manor.”
 
            They entered the manor, greeted by house elves who took cloaks and
pointed the way to the ballroom. Lord and Lady Malfoy stood by the wide doors,
greeting their guests.  
 
            Galatea and Narcissa were in front, and Hermione had linked elbows
with both Patience and Felicity. Lord and Lady Malfoy gave courteous greetings,
though Evangeline looked a bit scandalized at how clearly Galatea and Narcissa
presented themselves as a couple. Galatea grinned at her with obvious
amusement, then whisked Narcissa to the dance floor.
 
            “Ladies, you are all schoolmates of Abraxas, aren’t you?” Gawain
smiled at the trio of girls, ignoring his wife’s glares at Narcissa and
Galatea’s retreating forms. “I know Hermione, of course, being Tom’s cousin.”
 
            “Lord Malfoy,” Hermione nodded graciously. “Allow me to introduce
Patience Foster and Felicity Fraiser, both Ravenclaws in our year.”
 
            “Ah, yes, Miss Foster,” Gawain’s eyes lit up as he swept a glance
over Patience’s tall, slender form and loose, pale hair. The gaze was not an
innocent one, and Hermione had to force back a scowl, though Patience was
unperturbed, as always. “Your father is quite the inventor. I’m looking forward
to working with him more closely.”
 
            His eyes traveled down Patience’s bare arm, where her snake
bracelet rested, its tongue flicking out intermittently. He raised an eyebrow,
and Hermione saw a bit of Abraxas in the clear amusement on his face, though
Gawain’s was tinged with lechery. “That’s an interesting choice of jewelry for
a Ravenclaw.”
 
            “Oh, I love snakes,” Patience replied dreamily. “Hermione does,
too. She’s wearing Slytherin’s locket, after all.”
 
            Both Lord and Lady Malfoy’s attention snapped to Hermione’s
necklace, all inappropriate flirtation forgotten. Hermione groaned inwardly.
Sometimes, Patience’s revelations could be awkward, but Hermione had learned to
have faith that there was a point to them, so she kept calm.
 
            Evangeline leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Tom gave you that?”
She smiled, in a distinctly non-friendly kind of way. “He has mentioned his
direct descent from Slytherin through the Gaunt line, but he didn’t say he
still had such precious heirlooms. I’m surprised he didn’t save that for his
future wife.”
 
            The implication, being, of course, that Tom could do much better
than Hermione. Angry magic began to rise around her, and Hermione felt her
carefully coiffed curls escaping from the barrettes.
 
            Gawain frowned as well. “That is quite the powerful magical object,
with great meaning for many Pureblooded families. Its display will be taken as
a statement of…many things, Miss Bonneau.”
 
            “I’m not too worried, Lord Malfoy,” Hermione smiled with false
sweetness, pushing her anger into words rather than her tone. “After all, the
fact that Salazar Slytherin’s own magic has accepted me as worthy to wear the
locket is the ultimate seal of approval, isn’t it? Perhaps his issues with
blood purity were more about safety and security during a superstitious time,
and less about fascism.”
 
             Lady Malfoy appeared to be on verge of ripping the locket off
Hermione and spitting in her face, if her red cheeks and furious expression
were any indication, but Lord Malfoy was the consummate politician who knew how
and when to pick his battles, and he simply nodded tightly.
 
            “Indeed, Miss Bonneau. Abraxas should be close by, with Tom. I’m
sure he’ll be thrilled to see you. Ladies,” he gave a curt nod of his head.
 
            “Excellent. We’ll find them directly. Thank you again for the
invitation, Lord and Lady Malfoy,” Hermione said with perfect politeness. She
tugged on her friends’ arms and pulled them away before anything more could be
said.
 
            The ballroom was as large as the great hall in Hogwarts, and though
the ceiling wasn’t as high, it was charmed similarly, a dark sky made bright
with stars and, lower down, floating candles. The room was crowded with guests,
both on the dance floor and along the sides, talking and eating. Hermione noted
that more than one person stared at them as they passed. Most of the guests
were older, and most of the women much more conservatively dressed.            
 
            Tom and Abraxas were toward the back of the room, near the floor to
ceiling windows that overlooked the gardens set aglow, the snowy ground
reflecting the fairy lights twined through the hedges and trees. Most of their
study group from school was there as well, along with friends who had graduated
in the last few years. The majority of the students were Slytherin, but all the
houses were present, and Hermione felt another rush of accomplishment at the
level of inter-house cooperation she had helped to foster, something that had
not existed in her original time.  
 
             Tom was in the center of the group with Abraxas at his side, both
young men dressed in tuxedo robes, beautifully complimentary, one light and one
dark. Hermione’s heart sped up at the sight of them, and her magic tingled. She
felt the same from Patience, who squeezed her arm.
 
             Abraxas immediately crossed to them, kissing each of their hands
in turn.
 
            “I am shocked, truly,” Abraxas murmured. “I didn’t believe it
possible for you ladies to be more beautiful.”
 
            “Well, that’s magic for you,” Felicity answered saucily, then
glanced around the room, with its high ceilings. “Do you fly in here?”
 
            “No, but I do in the long hall upstairs; we’ll be up there later,
and I have a few extra brooms,” Abraxas began. Hermione rolled her eyes as the
two immediately launched into a detailed conversation. Once Abraxas and
Felicity got on the subject of quidditch, they would be lost to everyone else
for at least an hour.
 
            “Dearest, what am I to do with you?” Tom’s low, dark tone sounded
from over her shoulder, and she could feel him behind her. When had he moved?
 
            “Kiss us?” Patience supplied, turning to face him, and pulling
Hermione around with her. “Abraxas kissed our hands.”
 
            “But there’s so much flesh to choose from, so much of your flesh on
display,” Tom smiled, a touch of anger in his eyes which softened when his gaze
dropped to the locket nestled in the notch of Hermione’s neckline. “Though I do
appreciate how clearly you’ve marked yourself as mine.”
 
            Hermione gave him a devilish grin. “You don’t like the dress?”
 
            She expected a verbal response, as they were at a party, in full
view of classmates, teachers, and guardians, so Hermione was more than shocked
when Tom pulled her into his arms and kissed her cheek, slowly enough to be
sensual.
 
            As he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers. “You are
the most beautiful thing I’ve seen, wrapped in my magic, and my only complaint
is that I can’t ravish you here and now, dearest,” Tom’s hands ran down the
side of her neck, over her shoulders and down her arms.
 
           He held her wrists tightly, and squeezed. “That and the fact your
bare shoulders aren’t really meant for public consumption.” He glanced at
Patience, who was watching them with undisguised pleasure. His brow furrowed.
“Our pet is not wearing enough fabric, either.”
 
           Hermione laughed. “You should have seen the dress she first showed
up with. Trust me, this is an improvement. And I thought with your massive ego,
you’d love to have your thingson display, where everyone can look but not
touch.”
 
          “So you admit you’re mine,” Tom grinned, still holding her hands.
 
         “I admit that we are one another’s,” Hermione countered, but
playfully. She was determined to enjoy herself. It was the holidays, and they
didn’t have any battles to fight right now. Those would come soon enough.
 
         Tom dropped one of her hands and took Patience’s arm, bringing her in
to kiss her cheek, close to her ear. He murmured something Hermione couldn’t
hear, but she could guess the content from Patience’s pale flush. It took a lot
to make Patience flush.
 
        “Do you think they’d notice if we disappeared into a bedroom?” Tom
asked softly, nodding toward Felicity and Abraxas, who were arguing over which
player in the current league was the best.
 
         “Probably not,” Hermione allowed, her desire to be naked with Tom sky-
rocketing from the combination of his touch, his tuxedo, and his tone, then
sighed as she glanced over at the classmates watching them with various
combinations of delight, disgust, and desire. “Though the other guests surely
would.”
 
         Once again, Hermione was surprised that Tom didn’t pull away as they
walked back over to the others. He was usually allergic to displays of
affection in front of anyone, but he held Hermione’s hand tightly and let
Patience hold his arm as if he weren’t bothered at all by the physical contact.
 
        She wondered if he was deliberately distancing himself from Abraxas, to
avoid the spread of rumors. It was the smart thing to do, for now, and Tom was
nothing if not clever, but she could also feel his frustration, and it wasn’t
all sexual in nature. Tom wanted all his things clearly marked, and as much as
it pleased him to see Hermione wearing his locket and Patience wearing his
bracelet, he longed to have his entire set. Hermione could read those thoughts
with no trouble, so strongly was Tom thinking them.
 
        Marguerite was standing in the larger group, watching them approach
with a smirk. She came forward and gave Hermione a kiss on her cheek. “You look
lovely, Hermione. Those hair clips match your locket perfectly.”
 
        The entire group around them seemed to be holding its breath, and Tom
stiffened beside her, but Hermione sent her calm toward him and returned
Marguerite’s kiss as if they were sisters. “Thank you, Marguerite. I’m glad I
took your suggestion in picking them. You look beautiful, too.”
 
         “Yes, everyone cleans up well,” Tom muttered, looking a bit lost and a
lot annoyed at the odd truce between the ladies. He opened his mouth to
continue, but Professor Slughorn had appeared, with Vidhi, Dolohov, and
Sebastian Lestrange’s fathers.
 
         Any hopes of keeping the locket low-profile were lost as Slughorn made
introductions between his various star pupils and the Ministry officials. As
soon as Slughorn’s gaze fell upon her, he focused on the locket, his eyes
widening with undisguised delight.
 
        “Miss Bonneau,” Slughorn smiled broadly, and Hermione didn’t need any
magic to know he was calculating the necklace’s provenance and worth. “That
locket looks exactly like the one Salazar Slytherin wears in the portrait in my
office. I know your cousin is a descendant of Slytherin. Could it be?”
 
           Tom cut in. “Of course it is,” he bent over her and hissed a few
words in Parseltongue. The locket opened, revealing the densely engraved runes
inside, and all three Ministry officials suddenly became much more interested
in meeting this group of Slughorn’s ‘prodigies,’ talking with the assembled
study group for nearly a half-hour before singling out Tom to come with them to
meet others. He agreed, but never let go of Hermione’s hand.
 
            Hermione watched in amazement as Tom proceeded to charm what seemed
like everyone in the room. She had watched Tom do this at school for the last
five years, but the atmosphere here was different. Tom was not a student
speaking to teachers. Yes, Tom was young, had two more years of school, but he
was as tall as a full-grown man, and so handsome and witty and self-assured
that he easily controlled every conversation he entered. The subject didn’t
matter; Tom was well-versed in current topics, in politics, in history, and
thanks to the influence of Abraxas, Corvus, Thad, and Felicity, he could even
discuss the chances of the various quidditch teams for the next season.
 
            Slughorn smiled at Tom in the same way he had at Harry, and
Hermione had to fight back the urge to hex the man. The Potions Professor
wasn’t a badman, just greedy for attention and access to power, things most
humans wanted. Many of the guests, however, were the grandparents to those
she’d fought against, the generation that had given rise to two generations of
Deatheaters. Though Tom stood before them as proof of how baseless blood purity
was, with his muggle father’s name, making no apology for being half-blooded,
Hermione catalogued their expressions, the back-handed compliments, and veiled
insults. She memorized every flick of the eyes toward her locket, but
otherwise, remained mostly silent beside Tom, only occasionally answering a
question or offering an opinion.
 
            This was Tom’s moment to shine, his first widespread introduction
to the powerful people in magical society –to lawmakers and business owners and
wealthy potential future benefactors.   His pleasure at winning over the crowd
flooded their bond, and she smiled in true enjoyment. Maybe she didn’t feel the
need to impress the Pureblood supremacists, but she could appreciate that
winning them over was important to Tom, and to her overall mission of creating
a magical world with less prejudice. This was the right way, the less violent
way, to make change by securing connections with the Ministry, to perhaps join
the Ministry in some fashion in the future, and she was awed that Tom had
tempered himself so much.
 
            Tom held her hand, his fingers tracing over her knuckles, tickling
at her wrist. Everywhere they moved, he kept her by his side, their physical
closeness leaving no doubt as to their emotional closeness. Hermione could feel
that something in him had shifted. For so long, she knew he had viewed her as a
weakness, thinking that caring about her was a liability, but now, he was
announcing his attachment to her in a public setting beyond school, in front of
many adults who would view such behavior as serious. She thought of Orpha’s
earlier statements, and knew that Tom was branding her with his public touch,
as clearly as with the necklace, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind to whom she
belonged. Though their touches could potentially be dismissed as the affection
of close cousins raised in the same household, anyone with eyes could see the
tension between them.
 
            Honestly, though, it didn’t bother her. In an abstract sense, to
say that she was in a relationship with someone dangerous and possessive
sounded awful to her 21st century sensibilities – the kind of relationship she
would want to help another person escape, but in the concrete practice of her
life, she knew that it was different. He was her soul mate, her magical foil,
and they, along with Abraxas and Patience, made beautifully powerful and
balanced magic that would help create a better future than the one Hermione had
been living.
 
            After what felt like hours of talking, Tom finally excused them,
saying that he wanted to dance with ‘his lovely lady,’ a title that widened
some eyes, though Hermione, since the death of her ‘father’ was, through
Narcissa’s careful planning, The Viscountess of Bonneau because she was the
Vicomte’s only child and inherited his title and lands, even in her ‘exile’
from France, though she wouldn’t formally assume the title until she turned
seventeen, and not in truth until the war was over, and return to France was
possible.  
 
            Good to his word, Tom swept them onto the dance floor, and Hermione
thought back to dance lessons from her fourth year that was a lifetime ago in
more ways than one. Tom seemed completely at ease, leading her with the innate
grace and skill he displayed in most things he did.
 
            “When did you learn to dance?” Hermione asked softly.
 
            He smiled broadly, not answering for a few moments, knowing that
she hated not knowing things.   “Abraxas may have taught me a few things, at my
request.”
 
            She grinned back. “I’ll bet he did.”
 
            Tom’s face fell for an instant. “One day, we’ll all be together, in
public.”
 
            “I know,” she answered softly, and laid her head on his shoulder.
It was an intimate action, a sign of closeness and comfort – an ease of being
with one another that transcended a passionate kiss.
 
            He bent his head to her upturned ear and hissed something low that
curled around the base of her spine in manner both protective and arousing, the
sound sweeter than she’d ever heard from Parseltongue. Warmth spread through
her chest, emanating from the locket, traveling down her solar plexus to meet
the rising wave from her spine, crossing her chest and exploding like fireworks
through her entire body, a tingling like champagne bubbles bursting across her
flesh from her scalp to her toes. It was…powerful, but also gentle and
beautiful and very, very magical.
 
            Hermione had long ago come to terms with wearing the locket. In its
non-horcrux state, the enchanted object did very little. She could feel the
power resting in it, but it mostly stayed put, concentrated in the metal and
glass and stone. Now, whatever Tom had said seemed to make some magic leak out
of the locket, and the tingling sensation of powerful magic was filling her
body, pushing outwards.
 
            “What did you say?” she asked, her eyes wide, her magic open to
him, so that he could feel what she felt – love, awe, and thankfulness.
 
            His smirk was gone, but he didn’t answer. He held her closer,
pushing her into his chest, and she sensed he was scared, hesitant to admit the
depth of whatever he’d said, even though she could clearly feel his words. So
like Tom to say something emotional and profound in a language she would never
understand, but she would give him that last shred of emotional protection he
was clinging to. Pressing him would only make matters worse. She knew better
than to corner a snake.
 
            The song ended, and the next one was a fast, big band sound. She
held back a snort at the thought of Tom doing something like the Jitterbug. He
pulled on her hand, and they began walking back to their group. Halfway there,
he stopped suddenly, leaned in quickly and whispered in her ear, “I told the
locket that you are my soul mate, that everything mine is yours, including
Slytherin’s magic.”
 
            If Hermione had ever been happier in her life, her perfect memory
failed to record it. Tom was telling her that he loved her, in the only way he
could – by willingly giving her access to his magic, to his power, to his
legacy as the Heir of Slytherin. His beautiful blue eyes looked down at her,
his smile broad and genuine for once.
 
            “I love you, Tom,” she whispered back, and though the words were
simple, her emotions were not, and she pushed them at him again. The magic
between them curled and pulsed, and though she knew most of the room had
stopped to watch them, their unintentional exhibition of magic gathering nearly
every eye, she leaned up and kissed him, just a brief graze of her lips across
his jaw.
 
            There was a collective gasp, but it wasn’t until she and Tom had
pulled apart that Hermione realized that their combined magic had flared so
strongly that the candles floating directly above them had exploded into a mess
of fire and wax, though all the pieces rained down everywhere but on them, tiny
glowing embers falling like fiery snow, creating a perfect ring of fire around
Tom and Hermione’s feet.
 
            Professor Dumbledore appeared from the crowd, a mirthful smile on
his face, paired with appraising eyes behind the familiar half-moon spectacles
he’d started wearing this year.
 
            “Well, that was some impressive spontaneous magic. Good thing most
of the Department for the Restriction of Underage Magic is currently
congregated around the open bar, being distracted by an amusing tale of
Galatea’s.” He winked, and waved his wand, and Hermione felt his magic, air-
based like her own, create a gust of wind which swirled around them, lifting
the burning wax back to the height of the other candles, spinning the pieces
faster and faster, like a centrifuge, until the wax coalesced back into several
larger candles. Then, he nonchalantly snapped his fingers, setting the candles
alight once more.
 
            He looked from Hermione to Tom, then back again. “Perhaps my two
best fifth-year Transfiguration students should dance with others for a while?”
           
            “Of course,” Tom smiled, easily but she could feel his annoyance,
and was sure Professor Dumbledore could as well.
 
            “Thank you, Sir,” Hermione added, as the Deputy Headmaster nodded
and made his way back across the room. She kept her gaze forward as she and Tom
walked the rest of the way back to their school group.
 
            Abraxas was standing beside Marguerite, who had a casual arm looped
through his, having just returned from dancing together. Hermione felt her
annoyance meet and feed off of Tom’s, and struggled to keep all the magic still
loose around her in check.
 
            “You two don’t do anything by halves, do you?” Marguerite’s eyes
were opaque, giving away none of her thoughts.
 
            “It isn’t in the nature of brilliance to dim itself,” Tom replied,
his own gaze equally shuttered.
 
            Abraxas grinned. “No, apparently, it lends itself more toward
explosions,” he winked at Hermione. “Quite some air magic there, lo-” he
stopped short.
 
            Hermione knew he had been about to say “love.” It was his preferred
endearment for her, when they were with their quartet, or alone together. Those
moments were rare, but she cherished them.
 
            “Thank you, Abraxas. I’m sure you’re coming along nicely with the
earth magic as well. Have you been practicing?” She kept her tone in between
friendly and formal, giving the Malfoy heir the space to collect himself. A
slip like that in Malfoy Manor would be disastrous and wreck their timeline to
shreds.
 
            “Elemental magic?” Marguerite perked up. “I’d been interested in
exploring that. Is there much literature in,” she paused, choosing words that
wouldn’t trigger the secrecy clause, “the library about it?”
 
            “It’s in the restricted section,” Tom responded evenly, though a
smirk appeared on his lips. “You’ll have to get permission to access it.”
 
            Marguerite nodded her head submissively. “Of course.”
 
            That seemed to please Tom, though Hermione expected Marguerite was
only ever as docile as the situation called for, and she would turn quickly if
power ever changed hands. Hermione also thought that Marguerite would be
willing to risk Tom’s wrath if she was able to become the next Lady Malfoy. Her
hand had not moved from Abraxas, and it was no secret that those two families
were considering an alliance.
 
            Patience wandered over from the dance floor, Corvus Black at her
heels, watching her from behind, like most of the boys at Hogwarts did. She
came up and threaded her arm through Hermione’s, the three of them now facing
Abraxas, and all keenly feeling their lack of direct connection with him.
 
            “Is it time to leave the old people yet?” Patience asked brightly,
breaking the growing silence between the group.
 
            “Old? I should be insulted, but I suppose I’ll just have to have
some patience,” Gawain Malfoy drawled. He had emerged from the crowd, also
behind Patience, and gazed at her like a wolf does a lamb. He placed a hand on
her exposed shoulder, and Hermione felt a wave of anger from three directions.
 
            Patience smiled though, and took his offered hand. “You need to
lead a young woman of different magic for the Solstice Dance?”
 
            Gawain looked surprised that Patience knew that, but recovered
quickly. “Yes, if you would oblige me, Miss Foster?”
 
            They walked off together, Tom, Abraxas, and Hermione all trying not
to glare. When Lord Malfoy reached the band, they stopped playing, and he
magnified his voice, a long, sharp-looking wand pointed at his throat.
           
            “Good evening, lady witches and gentle wizards. I hope you are
enjoying the annual Malfoy Winter Solstice Ball. It is time to honor the old
tradition of dancing between the various elements on the longest night of the
year. Please pick a partner of a different magical type to help ensure a long,
magically fruitful year to come. Miss Foster, a lovely young Ravenclaw with
water magic will accompany me in starting the dance.”
 
            Gawain signaled to the band, and a low, haunting song began, closer
to “Danse Macbre” than “The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy.” He took Patience’s
hand, and began to spin her gracefully across the dance floor.   He was only a
few inches taller than she was, and they made a striking pale pair, much like
Patience and Abraxas. Though other couples began to fill the floor after the
first pass, Hermione noticed that Gawain was holding Patience closer than was
called for, his hand low on her hip.
 
           Hermione grabbed across to Abraxas before Marguerite could protest,
not about to let another of her magic mates be groped. “You’re both earth
magic,” she used her ‘it’s only logical’ tone, smiling blandly at Marguerite.
 
           A dark, approving smirk crossed Tom’s face as he offered his hand to
Marguerite, who accepted it with only the slightest of pouts. There was no way
Marguerite would attempt any unwelcome touches on Tom’s person, especially not
under her mother’s watchful gaze.
 
          The feeling of Abraxas’s warm, strong hand wrapped around her waist,
of his earth magic flooding their connection, was so wonderful, Hermione had to
bite back a sigh of relief. Abraxas was the member of her quartet she had the
least access to, and every touch counted twice as much because of that.
 
         “I missed you, too, love,” Abraxas whispered, drawing out the word he
hadn’t been able to say earlier. “You three are killing me tonight, all so
beautiful and so out of reach. My father is pawing Patience, and I can’t do a
damned thing about it.”
 
         Hermione shuddered slightly. “Don’t worry about Patience,” she
murmured, seeking to reassure herself as much as him. “She can more than hold
her own, though if your father’s hand moves much lower, I’m hexing him.”
 
         Abraxas laughed and spun her out, her tulle flying in a circle around
her legs, then pulled her back, breathless. She glanced up at him, shocked. He
was as graceful on the dance floor as on the quidditch field, leading her
through intricate moves with ease.
 
         “Don’t be so surprised,” he smiled down at her, his grin charming with
a hint of sexy, making her want to kiss him for hours. “I’ve had all kinds of
training in the proper graces, from selecting the correct wine for dinner to
dueling for my family’s honor.”
 
          “Your father had you trained in dueling?” The question was
rhetorical. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised, but Abraxas was so different
at school, so far removed from all she knew of Pureblooded behavior, that even
given his obvious Malfoy appearance, she often forgot where he came from. Here,
in the Manor, seeing him forced to be someone else entirely, she was reminded
of the childhood he had overcome to love her, something he had done without any
prompting. In fact, their attraction had been a major catalyst in the formation
of the quartet.
 
          A fierce, deep love rose in her, and she pushed it at him, through
their joined hands. She would not let him be a casualty of Pureblood tradition.
She would not let Marguerite or anyone like her have him. Abraxas was hers.
Hers and Tom’s. Like Patience. The four of them would not be separated.
 
          Abraxas’s slate grey eyes didn’t meet hers, but he squeezed her hand
and waist tighter. “One day,” he whispered softly, his head bent toward her
ear, but not so close it could be construed as inappropriate, his tone
reverent, like a man praying at an altar, “I’ll lead you across this floor as
my wife.”
 
          He had mentioned more than once his desire to marry her, but to hear
it in the ballroom of Malfoy Manor, spoken aloud, even if in a whisper, was
electrifying. Hermione fought a blush, her heart pounding. It felt so good to
be loved, to be wanted, especially at such a high cost. Abraxas Malfoy would
risk everything to have her, and that left her terribly humbled and heady all
at once. The amount of love being given her tonight was overwhelming.
 
         Tom was staring at them across the ballroom, and Hermione winked at
him. He scowled back, but in an oddly playful manner. Abraxas noticed and
grinned. “I think he’s finally coming around to the idea.”
 
         “We’ll see,” Hermione said carefully. “You know there’s no rush. We’re
already bound for life, Abraxas. I’m not going anywhere.”
 
         He nodded, the movement stiff with anger. “But my parents don’t know
that, and Tom has plans beyond school that require access to me, and to my
fortune.”
 
         The tall blond paused, as if on the verge of speaking heresy, then
spoke his next words in a great, low rush. “We will both be seventeen next
year, by the first few weeks of school. You are only half-blooded by the
strictest terms, as far as anyone outside our circle knows. On the records,
your mother and father were both magical. Your mother is from a respected
Pureblooded family, and your have land and titles from your father that are at
least half my own. No reasonable magical person would see it as an unequal
match. If we elope from school, apparate to Scotland and get married on a
weekend, there is nothing my parents can do. There are no other Malfoys. My
father is much, much too proud to let the estate and titles go to a distant
cousin. They would be furious, probably not speak to me for weeks, but their
hands would be tied in the end.”
 
         Hermione stared at him, doing her best to not let the shock she felt
be too obvious to anyone dancing by them. “Abraxas, that’s…” she searched for
words beside insane.
 
         “It makes more sense than coming forward with the magical quartet,”
Abraxas argued, having clearly thought this out. “My parents would fight that
much harder – it’s too controversial, being with another man publically,
especially one who is half-blooded by definition, no matter how powerful Tom
is. And if we’re already married, my parents won’t be doing any diagnostic
betrothal spells to see the bonds. Tom can keep those private for as long as he
likes. Our marriage would buy us precious time, and save me from any potential
betrothals. Have you seen the way Marguerite is looking at me? How the mothers
and grandmothers here are calculating my match with their girls?”
 
          “I,” she was still dumbfounded. The thought of being married at
seventeen, even though she was more like twenty-four in actually lived years,
was daunting, but it did make some sense, and it was true that a marriage
between them would be much less scandalous and attention-getting than the
announcement of a permanently bound elemental quartet. That was knowledge that
Tom would like to keep on a need-to-know basis. “We’ll have to discuss this
with Tom and Patience, and maybe my mother and Galatea as well.”
 
           Abraxas beamed at her, the happiness on his face melting her
resolve. “Great. We can discuss it back at school.”    
           
            The music was ending, and Hermione was left with mixed emotions.
Abraxas had been so transparent in his feelings while they had been touching,
but as soon as he escorted her off the floor, he was walled away again. That
was for the best, but it still hurt, like a limb suddenly removed.
 
            Tom and Marguerite had returned, and Lady Malfoy came over just as
Lord Malfoy brought Patience back. Evangeline’s eyes narrowed as she watched
her husband’s fingers glide down Patience’s bare arm before releasing her.
 
            “Abraxas, darling, I think it is time for you to escort your
younger guests to your rooms. The elves have placed refreshments in the long
hall.” She gave her son a piercing look. “All guests will need to use the Floo
out by two am, please, if they are not meeting their parents back down here.”
 
            Gawain smiled at Corvus, Thad, and Sebastian, who were all nearby
as well. “And if you boys fly in the hall, don’t break anything; it gives Lady
Malfoy vapors.”
 
            The only reaction Evangeline made to her husband’s statement was to
address Marguerite, who was standing between Tom and Abraxas. “Miss Rosier, do
try to keep an eye on this crowd?”
 
            “Of course, Lady Malfoy,” Marguerite bowed her head, but Hermione
saw her canary-eating grin. Evangeline’s acknowledgment made it clear who was
the favored guest, and whom Lady Malfoy considered appropriate opposite-sex
company for her son.
 
            A trip to Scotland was suddenly looking like a good idea, Hermione
thought with an internal grimace.  
 
            The group of Hogwarts students filed out the ballroom, up stairs,
across hallways, and up more stairs. A house elf was leading the way, Abraxas
having stayed behind for a few minutes at his parents’ request.
 
            “How big is this place, really?” Felicity asked with a laugh.
“Because I’m thinking, like Hampton Court Palace? It’s so hard to tell with
magical buildings.”
 
            The elf looked scandalized that Felicity insinuated there might be
a larger residence. “Hindie doesn’t know about any Hammy Palace, but Malfoy
Manor is being the greatest magical manor in all of England.”
 
            “Of course it is,” Felicity soothed, winking at Hermione, who
sighed, wondering if Dobby were here, and hoping that this generation of
Malfoys was nicer to their elves.
 
            They turned another corner, and the hall widened into an open space
that was about half the size of the ballroom below. Felicity whistled.
 
            “Where are the spare brooms?” she asked.
 
            Tom opened a hidden closet before the elf could point it out. He
handed them out, and watched as Corvus, Thad, and Felicity took off above.
 
            “I’ll never quite understand their passion for that sport,” he
murmured. “Though I do love to fly.”
 
            She thought of the air spells she was researching, of how they
could learn to fly without brooms. He would be a sight, flying through the sky.
“Maybe I’ll get over my fear of heights one day.”
 
            He put an arm around her waist, pulling her close, his face
nuzzling her hair. “You needn’t fear anything, dearest. And you are my little
bird. You were born to fly.”
 
            Patience had made her way over, all seafoam gauze and pale skin.
“Not all birds fly. There are ostriches. And penguins. And the magical version
of a duckbilled platypus, which is a duck that doesn’t fly.”
 
            Hermione laughed, for once not caring about doing a fact-check,
though she’d never heard of a magical version of a duckbilled platypus. She
leaned forward and took Patience’s arm. “How did you escape Lord Malfoy?”
 
            “Oh, I told him I’m sleeping with his son,” Patience smiled
dreamily. “And that it would be vaguely incestuous for me to sleep with him as
well.”
 
            “You didn’t!” Hermione was aghast, and even Tom looked stunned.
 
            “Honestly is usually the best policy,” Patience replied. “I told
him that we have no plans to get married, that we are just friends having fun.
I think Lord Malfoy approved. He told me to come see him once I graduated from
school. I thanked him, but told him I planned on advanced studies, so that was
unlikely.”
 
            Abraxas had entered the room, and made a beeline for them. His
expression matched Tom’s. “What did you say to my father, Patience?”
 
            “You really don’t want to hear the answer to that question,”
Hermione moaned, a hand over her eyes.
 
            Abraxas raised both pale eyebrows. “He wasn’t himself; he kept
patting me on the back, calling me ‘old boy,’ and ‘lucky bastard,’ telling me I
was making great sorts of friends at school, and to keep up the ‘good work.’ He
was making my mother quite nervous with his exuberance.”
 
            “Patience headed off his attentions by telling him that she’s been
warming your bed, with no strings attached,” Tom said, finally finding his
voice.
 
            “It was the path of least resistance,” Patience reached out and
stroked Abraxas’s cheek, using a long finger to gently close his gaping mouth.
“And everyone at Hogwarts already thinks that about us, anyways. We’re the two
usually touching in the halls and classrooms. It makes a good cover, a reason
for your distraction, and it convinces your father to give you some time to be
free before pressing a betrothal.”
 
            “But he propositioned you; he thinks you’re -” Abraxas protested,
his grey eyes stormy.
 
            Patience laughed, an unconcerned and light sound. “The people I
care about will care enough about me to know better. I’m not worried about what
anyone else thinks.”
 
            “Don’t worry, Lord Malfoy is simply adding to the debts he owes to
us,” Tom’s voice was the coldest it had sounded since the fight in France.
Hermione sensed that something had happened earlier between Tom and Abraxas
that she had yet to learn about. Given what she already knew of the Malfoy
parenting style, she had a few guesses as to what had angered Tom.
 
            “Malfoy! Get up here! I need someone who can actually throw a
decent quaffle my way!” Felicity yelled down from her broom.
 
            “Go,” Tom motioned upwards. “We can talk about this later.”
 
            It was almost one before most of the guests had left. The study
group played games, told stories of their holiday breaks so far, and flirted
heavily. Josephine and Jacob sat quietly in a window seat, talking in low tones
and holding hands all evening. Corvus and Sebastian tried to follow Felicity’s
demonstration of how to Charleston, to hilarious results. Marguerite seemed to
find any excuse she could to put a hand on Abraxas, asking for advice on her
chess match with Vidhi, or tripping over a broom to nearly land in his lap.
 
            Hermione could feel Tom’s anger, but she didn’t really think it
wise to complain at the moment. Her relationship with Tom had been on display
this evening, and that combined with Patience’s confession to Lord Malfoy, was
likely to assuage the Malfoy parents’ minds about any rumors concerning
Abraxas. If she and Tom started acting possessive over Abraxas, who was
considered the most eligible young Pureblooded catch of the decade, they would
raise both eyebrows and suspicions.   They would have to get used to the
uncomfortable sensation of biting their tongues, at least in the short term.
Hermione had a sinking feeling the new year coming was going to be bloody in
more than one way.
 
***** A Proper Luncheon with a Side of Intrigue *****
Chapter Summary
     Abraxas gets dragged to Paris by his mother, but he manages to make
     good use of his time, with Marguerite's help. Tom and Hermione
     discuss the future.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry about the delay - I've had back to back illnesses, and my
     children have been sick as well. As a fair warning to my lovely
     readers, I must be honest and say that there is not a definite end in
     sight for this story. My writing occurs in fits and starts, and I
     don't do very well with plotting out a story in advance. I have a
     general idea, but I make up most things as I go along. Thank you for
     your patience - I try to create interesting reading, though I know
     once we're at novel-length, the story could do with more careful
     trimming and plotting. I'll do my best to tighten it up as I go
     along. Love and hugs to you all.
 
            Despite the fairly innocuous title of the Sacred Ladies Annual
Winter Luncheon, the gathering of mothers from the pureblooded families with
children of an age for engagement contracts was, as always, a verbal and
emotional bloodbath. About a century ago, the tradition had occasionally
involved literal bloodshed, with mothers discretely removing rivals from their
children’s paths, but after one incident ending in three deaths, the luncheon
had been moved from private homes to more public, though still exclusive,
venues.
 
            This year, the mothers were making their alliances and trading
subtle barbs over the delectable selection of macaroons at Mozart’s, a
prohibitively expensive patisserie in the magical section of Paris. There were
tables arranged throughout the space, but most of the women were standing,
mingling gracefully with one another, pointing out or calling to their
children, who slumped in the seats or tried to disappear into the wallpaper.
The teens sat in small groups, awkwardly conversing while desperately avoiding
prolonged eye contact for fear of encouraging their mothers to declare a match.
 Most of the sons and daughters ranged in age from sixteen to eighteen, though
there were a few fifteen year olds, as well as some nineteen and twenty year
olds from the more liberal pureblood families who didn’t push for very early
engagements.
 
            Abraxas swallowed his third cup of tea, drawing upon years of self-
restraint to hide his boredom. He’d been dragged along with his mother to her
Parisian shopping trip, on the flimsy excuse that Evangeline wanted company.
She had barely gone to any stores, instead taking her son to this large
luncheon of other pureblooded mothers with marriageable children. He cursed
himself, realizing he should have known his mother would never actually simply
want his company.
 
            Still, he’d put on his best smile, charming them all with his
impeccable French and beautiful manners. Evangeline was pleased, though he knew
that she wished he showed more interest in the choices being paraded before
him. Several of the French and German magical families had homes in Paris’s
magical enclave, and it seemed all those families were at this tea, along with
the British mothers he already knew.          
 
            Perhaps sensing her son’s hidden restlessness, Evangeline turned to
Orpha Rosier, who had walked with her over to the table where Abraxas was
seated. “Maybe we should let the children explore the shops in this section of
town while we finish our tea?”
 
            Thad and Marguerite were at the table as well, and it was clear
from the way Evangeline and Orpha were eyeing them that both mothers thought an
alliance between the Rosier and Malfoy family ideal, even though Marguerite
wouldn’t be sixteen until the spring. Thad, who had recently turned seventeen,
had been betrothed only a few weeks earlier. His intended was Jessica Yaxley, a
sixteen year old who had never been to Hogwarts because her parents thought
girls were best served being homeschooled. They had only met in person twice,
but Thad didn’t seem to mind. With her older child’s future secure, Orpha could
turn her full attention to getting Marguerite engaged.
 
            “As long as you stay with your brother and Abraxas, Marguerite,”
Orpha nodded, watching with undisguised approval as Abraxas politely offered
Marguerite his arm. “Meet us back here in one hour.”
 
            Once the trio had exited the building, they all sighed in relief.
“Yes, let us explore the consolation of shopping while they decide our future,”
Marguerite mumbled, squeezing Abraxas’s arm.
 
            “It’s not so bad to be engaged, Margie,” Thad smiled broadly. “And
if you two end up together, it will be perfect – all our friends married to one
another. Our lives will be like Hogwarts forever!”
 
            Marguerite ignored her brother and addressed Abraxas. “You do
realize that our mothers intend to see us engaged in the next year?”
 
            Abraxas shrugged. “I told my parents I’m not interested in an early
engagement. My father supports that, and my mother, however much she dislikes
it, can’t make that decision on her own.”
 
            “How lovely that your parents are willing to take your feelings
into consideration,” Marguerite’s face took on a cruel expression. “It helps
that your father approves of your choice of bed-warming partners, doesn’t it?”
 
            “What?” Thad, as usual, was lost. He looked from his sister to his
friend. “Who’s warming whose bed?”
 
            “I’d be careful about the rumors you spread, Marguerite,” Abraxas
borrowed the tone Tom used when he was angry.
 
            Marguerite didn’t seem daunted. “I don’t need to spread anything,
Abraxas. All of Hogwarts had its suspicions, and Patience confirmed them
herself by announcing to your father that you two were sleeping together in a
crowded ballroom.”
 
            “You and Patience?” Thad stared at Abraxas, open-mouthed. “She’s
an…interesting choice…isn’t she part veela?” He looked intrigued at the
thought.
 
            Abraxas ignored Thad as well. “Why does it matter to you,
Marguerite? We’ve never been anything except distant cousins and classmates. We
barely talk. You have no love for me. Everyone knows you’re obsessed with Tom.”
 
            “And you have him, too, don’t you?” Marguerite snapped, her voice
low and hissing. “If you would make an alliance with me, both our parents would
leave us alone, and we could leave each other alone. I defy you to look at the
available choices and find a potential pureblooded wife who is smarter than I
am, more capable of running the vast Malfoy estates, and more willing to let
you have your freedom. We make sense, Abraxas. You must see that. I know you
are much more clever than you let most teachers or parents see. You aren’t just
a quidditch star with a handsome face. Tom would have no use for you if that
were the case.”
 
            Thad had given up trying to contribute to the conversation, and was
now several steps ahead, looking into a gaming store window, staring at the
marble and gold wizarding chess pieces and the various exploding snap and
gobstone sets.
            Abraxas stopped walking and turned to face Marguerite. She was
several inches shorter than he was, even smaller than Hermione, and though she
was frowning, her features were still objectively lovely. He’d never liked
Marguerite, but he’d always pitied her, in the way that he sympathized with
most other pureblooded children. He knew intimately what her upbringing had
been like. Marguerite was very, very intelligent, ranking in the top ten
students in their year in every subject, and undeniably a powerful witch. If he
hadn’t fallen in love with Hermione, and then Tom and Patience, if he hadn’t
become part of a quartet that completed him, he wouldn’t have any objection to
marrying her. She was a safe choice, a smart choice, but Abraxas had already
made his choice. The problem now was keeping that choice hidden until it could
be safely revealed.
 
            “Marguerite, we have time, at least the two more years until we
graduate from Hogwarts, before we need to worry about this,” Abraxas finally
said, because he had to say something, and the truth wasn’t an option. “I know
the pressure is strongest when we’re at home, but the holiday is over in
another week, and we’ll back at school. I simply am not going to let an early
engagement ruin my current level of freedom at school, and I honestly don’t
understand why you would want to, either.”
 
            “Was that a reference to my past activities with Tom?” Marguerite’s
face darkened, her brows drawing together in anger. “Just because you feel the
need to ‘sow your wild oats,’ doesn’t mean that everyone else feels the same.
Before you judge me, which you have no standing to do, you should know that I
slept with Tom because I loved him, and I knew that I’d never be able to have a
love match. I just wanted to be…” her voice trailed off and she looked away,
her eyes shining, the energy of a moment ago evaporated.
 
            “Oh, Marguerite,” Abraxas took her arm again and gently squeezed as
they began walking once more. “Tom’s power is seductive, I know, but he’s a
poor choice to experience affection. He has very little to give,”
 
            “And it’s all used up on Hermione, I know, with small bits thrown
to you and Patience,” Marguerite sniffed. “I wasted myself on him, I am well
aware.”
 
            Abraxas knew exactly how Tom could tie a person’s emotions into
knots. “I wouldn’t say wasted, Marguerite. Tom still thinks highly of you,
wants you in our inner circle.”
 
            “Really?” Marguerite’s mouth twisted into a deeper frown, making
her seem like a petulant child. “I wasn’t invited to your little war party
earlier this month.”
 
            “This isn’t the place to discuss that,” Abraxas tightened his grip
on her arm in a warning. “You would have been welcome, but there were logistics
to consider, and your mother barely lets you out of her sight when you are
home.”
 
            Marguerite made a small, fluttery sigh of defeated acceptance.
“That’s true, but I can contribute greatly, you know that! Other than Tom and
Hermione, I am the strongest at offensive spells!”
 
            Abraxas heard her speak, but his attention was fixed elsewhere. A
block ahead of them, at the corner where the street narrowed and twisted into
the Parisian version of Knockturn Alley, he saw the burly man with the goatee
he and Tom had fought in Fontaine de Puissance. Though he wasn’t wearing the
dark brown and black uniform of Grindelwald’s men, Abraxas knew his face well.
The man had put up a vicious fight, and Abraxas felt the echo of the pain from
the burn the man had left on his cheek.
 
            “What is it?” Marguerite, observant as she was, had followed
Abraxas’s gaze. “Who is he?”
 
            “One of Grindelwald’s men,” Abraxas answered quietly.
 
            Marguerite pulled on his arm. “Let’s follow him. Tom would want us
to.”
 
            That was true, and Abraxas had been thinking the same. “Fine, but
don’t,”
 
            “I don’t need you to direct my behavior,” she cut him off, and
Abraxas had to quicken his pace to keep up with her.
 
            Thad had gone into the game store, so they simply continued down
the street, trying to act casually, keeping the man in their line of sight. He
entered a shop with filthy windows and a battered sign that advertised magical
books in faded and flaking gold lettering.
 
            Abraxas paused, and Marguerite smirked. “Surely you aren’t afraid?”
 
            “Yes, and you would be as well if you weren’t insane,” Abraxas
replied caustically, though he pushed the door open and entered with her. His
face had been hidden when Abraxas had last seen the man, but that didn’t mean
Grindelwald’s flunky would take kindly to anyone who seemed too interested in
his activities.
 
            The interior of the store was terribly dim, and it was the work of
several seconds to allow their eyes to adjust enough to make out the shapes of
shelves and a long, high counter. A figure in a cloak with matted hair and a
lined face of indiscriminate gender stood behind the counter and met Abraxas’s
eyes, but made no move to approach or speak to them.
 
            Marguerite dropped his arm and went down a narrow aisle to their
left. Abraxas was unsure whether he should follow her. As he was debating, the
burly man came out from another aisle further back and walked up to the
counter. Abraxas crossed over to a glass case under the dirty window and
pretended to be interested in the text on display there. He recognized it as a
copy of a rare potions book from his father’s library, one Tom liked to read.
 
            The burly man was speaking to the clerk in low, rapid French. He
must have used a muffling spell of some kind, as his words were oddly garbled.
Abraxas thought he caught the word “Friday,” but that was only a guess. Though
he would have loved an opportunity to get the man alone, Abraxas knew there was
little he could with the active trace and no wand. His wandless magic was best
at blocking and defense, not attack.
 
            The figure behind the counter made a growling sound. Abraxas inched
closer, but apparently that was the end of the conversation because the burly
man left.
 
            Abraxas went down the far aisle the man had exited, and found
Marguerite pulling a book off the shelf.
 
            “This one was pulled out further than the rest. I think it was the
one he was reading,” she nodded at the leather-bound volume in her hands.
 
            “It could be spelled,” Abraxas cautioned, but leaned over her
shoulder to peer down at the pristine vellum pages.
 
            “Reveale,” Marguerite commanded sternly and though Abraxas was sure
her wandless magic was strong enough for that spell, the page remained empty.
They both sighed.
 
            A hacking cough sounded directly behind them. “Can I be of
assistance?” the aged clerk appeared even older and dirtier up close, but the
French was oddly formal and sounded well-educated. Abraxas only just managed to
keep his nose from wrinkling at the strong smell of sweat mixed with cheap fire
whiskey. Maybe a scholar fallen on hard times?
 
            While Abraxas was trying to think of the best response, Marguerite
answered in French that was at least grammatically correct, “We’d like to buy
this book.”   Her voice was cold and firm, and despite her poor pronunciation,
Marguerite had an air of power and privilege.
 
            “Why? You can’t possibly know what it holds,” the clerk cackled,
revealing teeth that were various shades of yellow and brown. “That book needs
a special password.”
 
            Since Marguerite had already committed them to a course of action,
Abraxas decided to provide support. He drew himself to his full height and
allowed his magic to rise to the surface of his skin, a technique Tom had
taught him. No magical being with an ounce of sensitivity would be able to
ignore the implied threat.
 
            “Then we’ll buy the password as well,” Abraxas replied, adopting
the verbal formality of the clerk and the arrogance of Marguerite.
 
            The cackle was louder this time, and transformed into a near death
rattle midway through. “Passwords are expensive,” the clerk raised a gnarled
finger with a blackened nail and wagged it in a prohibitive gesture.
 
            “Money is not an object,” Abraxas shrugged, then allowed his voice
to drop into a more threatening tone, as he continued, “though I am sure the
French Ministry would be happy to reward a person with knowledge of French
citizens colluding with Grindelwald.”
 
            Marguerite stepped forward, and Abraxas could feel her magic rising
as well. “I’m sure many of your neighbors would be disappointed, too,” she
added, glancing pointedly out the dirty front window to the shops across the
street.
 
            The clerk was unfazed. “Neighbors leave each other alone in this
part of town. And children without wands aren’t in much of a position to
frighten me, but I’m no friend to Grindelwald’s cause, only a humble shopkeeper
who needs to pay the rent.”
 
            “One hundred galleons, then?” Abraxas pulled out the magical wallet
he always carried. It did no good to be wealthy if that wealth was not
available at all times. The sum was exorbitant, but he started high to make it
clear to the clerk that he wasn’t lying when he’d said money didn’t matter.
 
            “Five hundred,” the clerk’s pale pink tongue darted out and licked
at a thin, cracked lip.
 
            Abraxas smiled in the way his father did whenever he had the upper
hand in an argument. “For five hundred, I’ll need you to throw in the potions
book in the glass case as well.” It didn’t do to appear too desperate, and he’d
like a copy to give to Tom for his birthday.
 
            The clerk nodded, putting out a palm smudged with what Abraxas
hoped was only ink and dust. Abraxas held the money above his hand, not
releasing it. “The password?”
 
            “The Deathly Hallows,” the clerk grinned in a way that made
Abraxas’s skin itch. How odd to have a children’s story title as a password.
 
            He glanced at Marguerite, who was still holding the open book. She
spoke the words, and smiled. He did as well when he saw the blank page fill
with a map of northern France. There were arrows and notes drawn on in a messy
hand.
 
            Abraxas sucked in his breath as he scanned the writing. The map
indicated which villages would be easy targets, which would pose a challenge,
and which would have to wait until more fighters were available. Marguerite
flipped the page, and on the next one, Abraxas saw a list of dates for possible
attacks.
 
            “Are there any spells or traces on this book?” he asked. “If you
lie, there will be unpleasant consequences, believe me.” He thought of Tom
raging through the store.
 
            The clerk made a snort. “No. They didn’t think there would be
anyone simultaneously clever and stupid enough to interfere with their plans.”
 
            Abraxas nodded, and careful not to actually touch either skin or
clothing, he dropped the money into the clerk’s hand. The clerk pulled out a
long, brittle looking ash wand and waved it at the glass case. The potions book
flew across the room, and Abraxas caught it easily.
 
            “Though,” the clerk rasped tauntingly, “removing the book isn’t all
that clever, really. It will only be about a week before the volume is missed,
and plans are changed, making it useless.”
 
            “Why are you telling us this?” Marguerite eyed him suspiciously,
her French worse when she tried to hurry her speech.
 
            “I wasn’t lying when I said I am no friend of their cause,” the
clerk replied simply, enunciating the words for ease of understanding, which
was clearly a jab at Marguerite’s poor language skills.
 
            Marguerite scowled and pulled another book off a nearby shelf,
without even reading the title. “How much to set a protean charm on the book,
and leave it where it is?”
 
            Abraxas admired his fellow Slytherin’s quick thinking, and took out
his wallet once again. “An untraceable protean charm, with no noticeable
magical signature on the book,” he added.
 
            “The book is already enchanted,” the clerk’s milky eyes were
focused on Abraxas’s wallet. “A protean charm will not be noticed, though I
would need to update the charm periodically, and the spell can be finicky…”
 
            Abraxas thanked all higher powers that he hadn’t spent much of his
allowance for several months. He took out the remaining five hundred galleons
he had and put it in the clerk’s hand.
 
            Marguerite pushed the book across the counter. The clerk took both
books and performed the spell. Abraxas watched the movements closely. Despite
the filth and shabbiness in appearance, the clerk’s magic was crisp and
competent. Marguerite examined the copy with a critical eye, but said nothing,
clearly unable to find a visible fault.
 
            “Thank you,” Abraxas added. It couldn’t hurt to be polite, and the
clerk was taking a risk, even if it had been a profitable one.
 
            The clerk’s grin was sly and knowing. “Our young freedom fighters
need to get their information somehow, don’t they? Many look forward to another
event such as the recent occurrence at Fontaine de Puissance.”
 
            Abraxas had no safe reply for that, so he only nodded and took
Marguerite’s arm as she tucked the copied book into the folds of her outer
cloak. They needed to put distance between themselves and this area of town
immediately. Regardless of any absence of spells, Grindelwald’s man could
return or be watching the store, and Abraxas didn’t want to linger, especially
if the clerk thought there was some link between them and the events in
Fontaine de Puissance.    
 
            They left quickly, heading back to the main road of the shopping
district. Abraxas could feel Marguerite’s magic tingling excitedly, and he knew
his was as well. Now, though, they had to find Thad and get back to the
luncheon before the hour was up.
 
            “Twenty galleons says Thad is in the quidditch supply shop,”
Marguerite read his thoughts, and steered him toward that store. It had one of
the most prominent facades on the street, with front windows two stories high
where several golden snitches darted about in a magically enclosed display,
chased by miniature versions of seekers from professional quidditch teams who
each performed their own signature moves as they sought the glittering balls.
 
            Thad was indeed there, and though he briefly complained about being
left alone, he seemed to think they had wanted time to ‘be romantic.’ Abraxas
considering setting him straight, but decided it would take too much effort.
Marguerite was apparently of the same opinion, as she said nothing about Thad’s
remarks.
 
            The three returned to the patisserie, and once Thad was off to the
dessert table, murmuring about honey and pistachio macaroons, Abraxas and
Marguerite found an empty table in an isolated corner.
 
            “What now?” Marguerite asked. “How are we going to get this
information to Tom?”
 
            Abraxas tapped his fingers absently against the lace tablecloth.
The fine fabric caught on his skin, calloused from quidditch and chopping
potion ingredients. “I’ll owl Tom when I get home and send him the book. His
birthday is in a few days – he’ll be having the usual gathering of our group at
Fortiscue’s. We can talk more then after he and Hermione have had a chance to
look the book over.”
 
            Marguerite slipped the volume from her cloak, handing it to Abraxas
under the table. He grasped the book, but she tugged back on it slightly for a
moment.  “Don’t leave me out this time, Abraxas,” to anyone who wasn’t used to
dealing with Tom, her tone would have been intimidating.
 
            Abraxas pulled harder, and she let go. “That isn’t my decision,
Marguerite, but I told you, Tom didn’t leave you out as punishment.”
 
            “Are you sure? Tom does love to punish,” Marguerite muttered, then
straightened and added, “At least make sure he knows of my contribution.”
 
            Continuing the conversation was not an option, as Evangeline and
Orpha had come over, both smiling widely at their children. “What are you two
doing in the corner, Abraxas?” his mother asked, a pleasant smile on her pretty
face.
 
            Abraxas knew his mother’s smiles were always dangerous. He put the
potions book on the table. “Talking about Tom’s birthday party. I found him a
gift.”
 
            Orpha’s face fell a bit, but she managed to keep a slight smile
pasted on. “Yes, Tom is a great friend of yours, I understand. Such a pity he’s
half-blooded.”
 
            “Tom is a prodigy,” Evangeline countered tartly. She had a well-
known soft spot for Tom. “He is the Heir of Slytherin, a direct descendant
through the Gaunt line. Salazar’s own locket responds to his commands. So long
as our bloodlines remain pure, I don’t see anything wrong with encouraging
powerful friendships. They will certainly be helpful in Abraxas’s future.”
 
            “Of course,” Orpha agreed, though her expression didn’t match her
words. “Narcissa is a cousin, after all, and her daughter and ward are always
welcome in our home. It’s simply that when we are working to make permanent
alliances between other pureblooded families, it is a good practice to limit
exposure to those not in our circle, at least until those alliances are
solidified.”
 
            “I don’t see any harm in a birthday party, especially when most of
the attendees, and all of the boys except Tom, are pureblooded,” Evangline
needled. “Unless you’re worried Marguerite is going to run away with Tom?”
 
            Marguerite’s face paled, and Abraxas laughed loudly, trying to draw
attention away from her. He might not like Marguerite, but he had a sense of
loyalty to anyone whose mother was so similar to his own. “Tom is going to
marry Hermione,” he lied as easily as breathing. “Surely you can’t doubt that
after seeing them together at the ball?”
 
              Evangeline didn’t comment, but Abraxas saw his mother’s mouth
twist in annoyance before returning to a smile.
 
              Orpha noted Evangeline’s reaction and looked pleased. “No, after
that display, I would consider the two engaged, though Circe knows that
Narcissa is a much more lenient parent than one would expect for a woman raised
in a pureblooded family.” She glanced at Abraxas and then to Marguerite. “I
would feel better, though, if Abraxas would promise to be Marguerite’s escort
to the party.”
 
             “Mother, it’s only at Fortiscue’s,” Marguerite raised her
eyebrows, “in the middle of the day, not a ball or even a formal dinner.”
 
             “Still,” Evangeline nodded her approval, realigning herself with
Orpha. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Abraxas, you don’t mind, do you?”
 
             There wasn’t much to say, and Abraxas knew it. “I’d be honored,”
he smiled broadly, even as his stomach dropped. Maybe he’d under-estimated the
combined powers of his mother and Orpha’s motivation.  
 
 
oOo0oOo
 
            Tom was working on translating one of Slytherin’s journals, sitting
at the desk in his room. Hermione was beside him, her curls brushing against
his cheek when she leaned over to look closer at a particular phrase or turn
the page. Since the Malfoy ball, when he’d told her what he’d said to the
locket, she’d been much freer with her smiles and touches, in the way she’d
been when they were younger. Her magic was completely open to him, and when
they sat close like this, it was impossible to tell where his ended and hers
began – their combined magic had no boundaries, and the sheer power filled him
with a euphoric sensation, a feeling of infinite possibility.
 
            Even four months ago, he would have considered the open affection
he’d displayed at the ball a weakness, but much had changed since the start of
the school year. He and Hermione had solidified their soulmate bond, they had
performed the elemental binding magic with Abraxas and Patience, and they had
opened the Chamber of Secrets. Tom had never felt so satisfied in his life. The
Malfoy ball had been a great success as far as making connections with powerful
adults outside of Hogwarts, and he had several ideas about plans for after
graduation.
 
            “I think this is a spell for flying,” Hermione was muttering, fully
distracted by the task of translating the journal first from Middle English,
and then from the deliberately obtuse wording Slytherin preferred to use.
 
            Tom looked at Hermione’s translation, his brow creasing.
“Fascinating, but this is advanced elemental air magic,” he noted as he read.
“Slytherin’s magic was water based.”
 
            “Yes, but Slytherin was in a bonded quartet, and he had access to
Rowena Ravenclaw’s air magic. Apparently, that link and his own high level of
skill was enough.” Hermione replied absently, still working on the rest of the
paragraph.
 
            “I’d love to fly with you, little bird,” he said, before he could
censor himself.
 
            She glanced up at that, her brown eyes warm though her smile was
nervous. “I don’t like heights, you know, but I might try it if you promise to
catch me.”
 
            “Always,” he promised, and kissed her temple. His hand absently
rubbed her back, and he thought of the spell that had hit her when they were
fleeing France, of that entire day’s events.   They hadn’t had a chance to
discuss the experience in detail, being at home with Narcissa and Galatea, and
having Felicity as a guest as well.
 
            Today, though, Galatea had taken Felicity to Edinburgh to visit her
family for the day, and Narcissa had gone for lunch with a friend in Hogsmeade.
They were alone except for the four house elves, who rarely visited Tom’s room.
 
            “How are you?” he asked her, taking the pen from her hand and
closing both books. “You killed a man, Hermione, and you haven’t said a word
about it. That’s not at all what I would expect from you.”
 
            “What would you expect?” she asked tartly. “Tears? Hysterics? That
definitely isn’t me.”
 
            Tom pulled her into his lap, and though her expression indicated
annoyance, she went willingly. The closer she was to him, the more they were
touching, the easier it was for him to feel her moods, the emotions behind her
words that often conveyed much more than the words themselves. “Dearest, you
know I support the decision you made, and I would have probably killed the man
myself if you hadn’t. What I am concerned about is that you have a…different
set of values than I do, and I want to make sure you aren’t torturing yourself
with that overactive morality of yours.”
 
            “We were in a battle,” she spoke after several seconds of silence.
“He was going to kill Patience, kill all of us. When we made the decision to
enter the village, I had already accepted that we would probably need to fight,
with serious magic. I threw that knife with deadly intent, and I don’t regret
it.”
 
            “Good.” He locked his hands at the base of her spine, pulling her
entire body close to his. Their foreheads touched, and their breath mingled.
“You were magnificent, and anyone who touches what is ours, or who is ours,
deserves to be met with deadly force.”
 
            Once, she might have protested such a statement, so Tom was pleased
when she simply kissed him instead. “Does that include Abraxas’s parents? I
could feel your restrained anger at the ball. What did they do?” She pulled
back and stared at him. “Beside the standard list of horrible things many
pureblooded parents do?”
 
            “They used the cruciatus on him, more than once, during his
childhood,” Tom hissed, his anger at the memory of the conversation coming to
the surface.
 
            Hermione went stiff in his arms when he named the curse, though she
tried to relax almost immediately. It was too late, though. He’d felt her panic
and pain ripple through their magic.
 
            “Dearest,” he asked, his voice carefully emptied of any emotion,
“has someone used that curse on you?”
 
            Her lack of an immediate answer was the only answer he needed. Tom
could feel the measured calm that she was trying to push at him through their
link, the way she was trying to soothe him, but he rejected it, allowing his
anger to overwhelm the peace. “It was the same man who marked your arm, wasn’t
it?”
 
            She paused, then nodded, her eyes falling to the newly healed place
on her arm. “Tom, don’t waste your energy on the past. I’m fine. I’m here with
you. Let’s enjoy this moment.”
 
            “Well, at least it isn’t anotherperson I need to kill, just a
longer amount of time to make him suffer,” Tom sighed, allowing Hermione’s calm
to enter just a bit. After all, it was a nice feeling, in moderation.
 
            “You can’t kill Abraxas’s parents,” Hermione’s eyes went wide and
her hands clutched at his.  
 
            Tom smirked. “Actually, I think you’ll find that I could, though
killing both of them would be awfully suspicious. Maybe I’ll lure them to the
Chamber and feed them to Astarte instead, let the world think they simply
disappeared.”
 
            “Now I know you are trying to get a rise out of me,” Hermione shook
her head, and Tom had to resist the impulse to pull at her curls. “I agree they
are horrible, but Grindelwald is our priority. Your revenge list will simply
have to wait.”
 
            He stroked the side of her cheek, letting his palm cup her jaw, his
thumb tracing that delicate line of bone. “It isn’t only their past deeds that
are the problem, dearest, though those are more than enough to merit a
response. Narcissa said the Malfoys would try to harm us if they found out
about the bond we’ve made with Abraxas. The situation might be on hold, but it
must be dealt with sooner rather than later. His parents won’t wait forever to
see him married off.”
 
            “True,” Hermione leaned into his touch for a moment, then pulled
back and stared into his eyes. “Abraxas has a potential solution for that, one
that doesn’t involve cold-blooded murder, which is something I believe we
should avoid.”
 
            “You’re the only one who has killed anyone, dearest,” Tom frowned.
He could feel disapproval and…hesitation coming from her. She was concerned she
was going to upset him, which usually meant that she would succeed. No one else
on the planet had the strange ability to both enrage and please him beyond
words.
 
            Hermione got up, and he knew that she was trying to get space.
“Killing someone in the heat of battle, when it is a matter of killing or being
killed, is not the same as killing someone who has upset you.”
 
            “I am not interested in revisiting our old debates of morality,”
Tom sighed. “So, let’s simply leave that point for the moment, since I’m not
actively plotting anyone’s death.”
 
            The surprise showed on her face and Tom laughed, though he knew she
could still feel the undercurrent of his anger. He was willing to accept her as
she was – why couldn’t she do the same for him? After all, he wasn’t proposing
to murder anyone who didn’t deserveto die. “Let’s discuss this plan of
Abraxas’s instead. I assume it involves his new favorite idea of marrying you.”
 
            Hermione stopped pacing and nodded. Her emotions were conflicted,
he could tell. “Logically, a quick elopement once we both turn seventeen does
make the most sense. If we announce the marriage publicly after the ceremony,
there isn’t much the Malfoys can do. There is a possibility that they would go
extreme and disown him, but continuing the Malfoy name will probably be the
stronger impulse. After all, I have a title, money, and powerful magic. The
only fault his parents could have with me is that I’m not pureblooded by their
extreme standards, and despite the protestations of the Sacred Twenty-Eight
families, there must have been multiple broad interpretations of what
constitutes pureblooded over the centuries, or these families would all be
extinct.”
 
            “You are not pureblooded at all,” Tom corrected, his tone icy. “You
are actually muggleborn,dearest. What if the Malfoys look closer, find that
out?”
 
            She flinched at the vehemence of his response. “My mother hid those
secrets well. No one will find out.”
 
            “And if they do?” Tom persisted. “If they corner you in the Malfoy
dungeons, torture you? Kill you?”
 
            “That won’t happen, Tom. The Malfoys don’t have a basilisk, and
despite the vehemence of pureblooded rhetoric, there isn’t a spell to test or
prove blood status.” Hermione went to put her hand on his arm, but he turned
away. Her emotions were strong enough without the boost of physical contact. “I
want to do what is best for our future, and our rash binding has put us into a
situation with imperfect solutions.”
 
            “By running away with Abraxas?” Tom’s voice sounded foreign to
himself. This anger, tangled tightly with jealousy, was intolerable, a horrific
feeling. It made him want to hurt her and kiss her at the same time.
 
            She didn’t get angry in response. Her calm was even more
infuriating. “No, Tom,” she answered softly. “I wouldn’t run anywhere without
you, and neither would Abraxas. Patience might, but she’d come back
eventually.”
 
            He refused to let laughter escape his lips, but his mood shifted,
lightened. “Just how do you imagine this would work?” he sighed.
 
            “I’m not sure,” she admitted, coming to take his hand.
 
            Tom sighed again, this time with satisfaction. When their hands
met, he knew the truth of her love. He could feel it, and though his intellect
might try to argue against emotions, the power of her affection was undeniable.
It was a drug he was becoming dependent upon, whether he liked it or not.
 
            “I wouldn’t, I just couldn’t live in Malfoy Manor, especially not
with Gawain and Evangeline.” Hermione’s fingers were entwined with his, their
magic thrumming between their joined hands. “My mother and Galatea would help
us find a place of our own, a place where all four of us could come and go from
our advanced studies and various jobs after school – a home base well protected
from the Malfoy’s influence.”
 
            He snorted. “Neither of Abraxas’s parents would be happy about
that.”
 
            “Well, I don’t care,” Hermione snapped and Tom enjoyed her flare of
rage. When his little bird got angry, her magic crackled in the most delightful
way, leaving filling him with a physical tingling sensation. “They may have
controlled Abraxas in the past, but after next year, they won’t be able to.
He’s ours now, and if the Malfoys have any sense of self-preservation, they’ll
recognize that.”
 
            Tom was about to voice his approval for that sentiment, and perhaps
tease Hermione about her earlier claim that killing the Malfoys wasn’t a good
idea, when Abraxas’s owl tapped at his window.
 
            He opened the small package while Hermione stroked the bird’s
feathers. “Abraxas was in Paris today,” he scanned their lover’s sloppy
handwriting on the enclosed note, “with Marguerite,”
 
            Hermione made a hissing sound, and came to read the letter beside
him. “We need to see this book,” she said, excitement in her voice now.
 
            “Yes, we do,” Tom agreed. He handed her the note as he opened the
book. “It says the password is ‘the deathly hallows’ – what is that?”
 
            A coldness flooded their bond, and he glanced over at her. Hermione
was fighting back strong emotion. He raised his eyebrow in question. “I thought
you weren’t trying to keep your emotions from me any longer.”
 
            “I’m not,” she took a deep breath and pushed reassurance at him.
“It’s a childish fear, that’s all, a silly one I’m not proud of.”
 
            “What is it?” he repeated, his patience thinning.
 
            Hermione spoke the words over the book, and they watched the pages
fill with maps and notes. “The Deathly Hallows is a children’s tale, from a
collection similar to the muggle Grimm’s fairy tales.”
 
            Tom was confused. “Grindelwald, the wizard the world fears, used
the equivalent of ‘Snow White’ or ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ for a password? How
supremely disappointing.”
 
            “Not exactly,” she laughed, but there was still nervousness in her
voice.  He waited for her to elaborate on her discomfort.
 
            “The tale used to scare me as a child,” Hermione finally admitted.
“I was afraid of the drawings of Death in the book we had, all cloaked, with
skeletal hands like a Dementor,” she shivered.
 
             He put an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve heard people say that
childhood fears are never rational,” Tom said, then added, in a low voice, “But
I saw a child die once, an orphan with a terrible fever. I was in the next bed,
sick as well. One moment, he was coughing, the next, he was silent, glassy eyes
staring vacantly at the ceiling. Death is a completely rational fear. ”
 
            Hermione relaxed under his touch; he felt her magic and emotions
return to their normal state. She straightened and pointed to the map. “It
looks like this is the next village on Grindelwald’s list.”
 
            Tom was glad of the reminder of the task at hand. The last few
days, with Hermione’s emotions ever-present, had him feelingin a way that
wasn’t entirely comfortable. Some violence and bloodshed seemed like an
excellent antidote, and no matter how well they planned, there would
undoubtedly be both the next time they interfered with Grindelwald’s plans.
***** Tom has the Feels, but Hermione pretends not to notice *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione helps Tom work through some *gasp* emotions. Narcissa helps
     Hermione and Tom deal with the new information from Grindelwald.
Chapter Notes
     It's been a busy month, but I finally got something done! *Throws
     confetti around self* I'm working on more plot, but be warned, there
     are sexy times in this chapter *wink, wink*
 
 
           Hermione thought she had done an admirable job of keeping herself
together at the mention of the Deathly Hallows. Grindelwald’s obsession, which
Tom didn’t share, yet, was a deep trigger – all those nights she’d spent
pouring over Dumbledore’s book, examining it backwards and forwards, parsing
every word for hidden meaning. Tom wouldn’t care about the story, but he would
care about the Elder wand as a powerful magical object, and Hermione wanted to
keep that knowledge off his radar for as long as possible. The only person the
long history of the Elder Wand had seemed unable to corrupt was Dumbledore, and
heaven knew that Tom wouldn’t need much corruption, more like a gentle nudge.
 
           However, she had sensed a change in him these last few days. He had
been calmer, more expressive, more human than she’d ever seen. As lovely as it
was, she knew it couldn’t last for extended periods – it was a soft underbelly
that wouldn’t allow itself to be exposed for long. Who Tom was able to be when
he was alone with her and their quartet was not the same as who Tom was able to
be in general. If she pushed too hard, he would close up, and possibly strike
out.
 
            In fact, annoying him would probably put him back into his comfort
zone, she thought. “You know we’re going to have to approach this much
differently than last time, don’t you?” she said.
 
           “Well, yes,” he replied testily, and she bit back a smile at his
expected display of annoyance. “We don’t have any more of the magic cloaking
potion brewed, nor do we have a portkey, but we must be able to do something.”
 
           “Nothing as direct as you’d like,” Hermione answered. “We can
establish anonymous connections in these towns, give them warning of when an
attack is likely to occur, giving them a chance to either fight back or flee,
but we’ll be back in school next week,”
 
            Tom smiled. “Yes, we’ll be back in the Chamber too, with the
ability to practice our magic freely. I know there is much more to be
discovered. Grindelwald would have easily fallen at Slytherin’s feet, and I am
his heir. It is only a matter of time, Hermione.”
 
            “Well, we must work with what we have right now, Tom,” she thumbed
through the other pages with writing. There were only four: the map, which took
up two pages, a list of dates, and a list of names. “And if these people and
places are the current targets, we need to warn them as soon as possible.”
 
            “Fine,” he conceded, and leaned over her shoulder to run a finger
down the list of names. “Especially since these people are probably the ones
he’d like most to press into service. We need to deprive him of the better
fighters, so that when we do go up against his forces, they won’t be as strong
as they’d like.”
 
            “And save innocent lives,” Hermione added, but without venom, and
began writing down notes of possible actions. Tom read over her shoulder and
offered suggestions for a moment, then started to pen a response to Abraxas.
She counted his willingness to warn others even if it didn’t give him immediate
benefit as a win, though she knew that now he’d been in an actual fight, he
would be impatient to do so again as soon as they were able.
 
            Later that evening, after dinner, Hermione sought out her mother in
the small greenhouse behind the main house. Narcissa was tending several of the
rare medicinal plants she grew at the Merrythought estate, trimming leaves,
spelling the soil to remain the perfect level of dampness, using the magical
gardening set Tom had purchased her for their first Christmas to harvest the
mature pieces with the correct types of blade – bone, various metals, or even
crystal.
 
            Hermione picked up a golden knife and began gently cutting away
ripe sloth mallow pods. Narcissa had taught her how to handle the extremely
delicate and slow-growing pods, the seeds of which were used in several repair
and growth potions, like skele-grow.
 
            “You’re confused,” Narcissa observed as she handed Hermione a glass
dish to place the pods in. “I am, too. How much can we change? How much should
we? Galatea is still very upset about your actions in France.”
 
            “And how do you feel?” Hermione took the dish with her free hand,
noticing that her mother looked very tired.
 
            Narcissa gave her a small smile. “You are alive and healthy. So is
Tom, and he’s not a vicious murderer intent on taking over the world. That
means our plans are working, doesn’t it?”
 
            “But?” Hermione prompted.
 
            “I don’t know, darling,” Narcissa sighed, brushing back a stray
lock of pale hair. “The idea that Tom wants to fight Grindelwald, to be the
hero of the magical world, that’s…lovely. Better than I could have hoped for.  
He actively wishes to do something good,”
 
               “Yes, but he’s more motivated by the desire for praise and
adulation than the desire to help others,” Hermione was relieved to be talking
about this to her mother, to get her hopes and fears out in the open.
 
              “Everyone desires praise and approval, especially an orphan who
went the first decade of his life without much of it,” Narcissa took the full
jar from her and magically sealed the lid. “At least he isn’t motivated by
sadism and the desire to instill fear and subjugate others. Your love, your
presence, has changed him for the better.”
 
                Hermione nodded. “I know that; I can feel the change in him,
but I also know that he still has a great potential for darkness, for abuse of
power. It is important to give him a plan, a way to channel his energies in a
positive way.”
 
                 “I agree,” Narcissa spoke slowly, as though carefully choosing
her words. “Grindelwald is dangerous, though. It took Dumbledore to defeat him
in the original timeline, and though I have my problems with the man, he is
undeniably a great wizard, with much more life experience than Tom currently
has.”
 
                “I know. I’ve been thinking about what to do,” Hermione quickly
explained the book Abraxas had sent them earlier. “And if we only engage from
afar, providing information to keep additional soldiers and villages out of
Grindelwald’s grasp, then I would expect the duel between Grindelwald and
Dumbledore to remain the most likely event for his defeat.”
 
                 Narcissa sat on the wooden bench beside the potting table.
“It’s as likely as anything else remaining the same, I suppose, but we’ve
changed so much, there’s no guarantee. And if it comes down to a duel between
Grindelwald and Tom,” she paused, and Hermione was surprised to see that her
mother looked close to tears.
 
                “He’s become more like a son to me than I would have ever
dreamed,” Narcissa continued after a moment. “And I wouldn’t like to see you
deprived of your soul mate, darling, or hurt yourself in a hopeless battle. The
experience and power differentials are simply too much to bridge this early in
his life, I fear.”
 
                “Maybe,” Hermione responded, thinking of Harry and Ron, of all
the dangerous situations they had found their way through, of the members of
Dumbledore’s Army, of how much fighting for a cause with friends seemed to
amplify one’s powers and abilities. Tom’s starting point, though, was much
higher than any of her future friends. “But he isn’t alone – he has an
elemental quartet, Slytherin’s locket, and his own amazing raw talent to draw
upon.”
 
                Waving her wand to produce a light mist over a tray of glowing
orchids on the table, Narcissa pursed her lips. “Yes, you’ve made him more
powerful at a younger age, though more temperate, with positive connections to
others. He’s still incredibly arrogant, and arrogance leads to mistakes. If we
can keep him on the sidelines of this fight, it would be for the best.”
 
                “To do that, we have to find a way that will give him an outlet
for his ego, actions he will be able to eventually take credit for, to earn
public approval from,” Hermione took her own wand out and formed a magical dome
over the orchids. The glowing of the petals intensified, the colors sparkling
in the millions of tiny prisms in the fine droplets of mist.
 
               “Yes,” Narcissa nodded. “I agree, but what?”
               Hermione stared at the orchids, the glow almost mesmerizing. How
nice would it be if she could simply be a student? Simply enjoy life and not
worry about life and death situations or fighting dangerous, megalomaniacal
wizards? She shook her head and focused again.
 
               “We need to think of what Tom did in the past, actions he was
taking, and alter them for these set of circumstances. By this point, he’d
created his band of knights. In this timeline, he has our inner group, loyal to
him. He has the Chamber at his disposal, but he isn’t obsessed with eternal
life, at least not now. I think encouraging him to formalize the group, giving
it a name and a purpose – disrupting Grindelwald – would focus him. If we could
find the base spell that he used to put the Dark Mark in the air, and use it
for some kind of warning sign over the villages that are being targeted, I
think Tom would be pleased. The mark would be unique, something only he and his
followers can create.”
 
                Narcissa’s brow furrowed, and Hermione had no doubt her mother
was reliving painful memories associated with the Dark Mark. Hermione had a few
of them herself.
 
               “That is a good idea,” Narcissa said finally, her voice
controlled. “But you’ll need to find a way to greatly amplify the range of the
spell. Originally, it could only be cast in the area the caster was physically
in, not across the Channel into another country. Distance spells are some of
the most difficult to perform.”
 
               “That’s perfect, though,” Hermione was caught up in the plans
unfolding rapidly in her mind. “Tom loves a challenge, loves proving that he
can perform magic that others cannot.”
 
               “What about the village next on the list? That spell will take
time to find and develop,” Narcissa pointed out.
 
                Hermione chewed on her lower lip. “I’m not sure. Maybe simply a
letter of warning for now?”
 
                “Will they listen to the word of anonymous strangers? Perhaps
they would be worried it was a trap, a trick to get them to abandon their
village,” Narcissa frowned.
 
                 “In his letter, Abraxas said the clerk in the bookstore
mentioned the young group of freedom fighters, that people are expecting more
action,” Hermione said, trying to switch tracks in her mind. “Even if a few
people listen, that’s still less of a victory for Grindelwald.”
 
                 Narcissa shook her head. “We need to help as many as possible,
be as convincing as possible. Do you still have the masks you wore?”
 
 
                To say that Tom was surprised when Narcissa and Hermione came
into his room wearing the masks Abraxas had procured was more than an
understatement. Hermione felt his shock, followed by the bright thrill that
went through his magic like an electrical current. It was a testament to how
much he trusted both women that he put on his own mask and took the arm
Narcissa offered him with no questions.
 
                She apparated them to the sleepy village of Auge, at the edge
of town. Darkness was falling, but people were still out, walking to and from
small shops and the local tavern in the light dusting of snow. As they moved
toward the town square, the appearance of three masked figures was enough to
send several people running for cover and make the braver of the townsfolk draw
their wands and strike defensive postures.
 
               “We mean you no harm,” Narcissa called out, using her wand to
slightly magnify her voice. “We have come to warn you that your village is an
intended target of Grindelwald. He will attack here soon.”
 
                A woman of about seventy with grey hair twisted into a severe
bun, and a man maybe twenty years younger in a heavy wool cloak both stepped
forward.
 
               “Why?” The man demanded. His nose was very red, and he sounded
like he had a bad cold. “This is a very small village of no consequence. We do
not have any great fighters, nor are we in a particularly advantageous
location.”
 
               Hermione listened, but the tingling of her magic, of it reaching
out toward other, older, deep magic somewhere nearby, distracted her. Through
their masks, she met eyes with Tom. He felt it as well.
 
               “You tell us,” Tom answered. “There is something magical here
that Grindelwald wants, and you need to move it, and yourselves, out of his
path.”
 
               The older woman cleared her throat, stopping the man from
responding. “You are the fighters from Fontaine de Puissance. My son and
granddaughter were trapped in that town. You saved them by standing up to
Grindelwald. How can you expect us to do less?”
 
                “If you know about an attack in advance, it only makes sense to
fight if you know you can win,” Hermione protested, still distracted by the
extra magic in the air. “This village has few defenses against an army. At the
very least, you should evacuate the children and weaker fighters, and relocate
whatever is putting out that magic. Grindelwald clearly wants it. Keeping it
from him is a form of resistance.”
 
               “It can’t be moved,” the woman’s lips drew into a tight line.
“There is a cavern of healing crystals under the town. This wouldn’t be the
first time in our history that armies have tried to take the town. It is the
perfect place to turn into a field hospital for this region. Those crystals are
healing on their own, giving longer life and strength to the villagers, but if
harvested and ground into potions, they give temporary invincibility. If we
abandon our village, I doubt we will ever get it back.”
 
               “Better to have your lives,” Narcissa observed. “You need to
leave the town, but before you do, you need to block access to the caverns.”
 
              “Or render the crystals unusable,” Tom added. “We could blast the
cavern, or use fiendfyre in it.”
 
               The red-nosed man gaped and made a choking sound. “You want to
use fiendfyre on the healing crystals?”
 
               “No, no,” Hermione interjected. She could feel Tom’s impatience,
and pushed calm at him. “What about cursing the cavern and any who enter it? We
could use a counter-curse later, when Grindelwald is finally defeated.”
 
               “We will not curse the healing crystals!” The woman protested
angrily.
 
               “Then you will be giving aid to your enemy. This is war – it is
full of difficult and painful decisions,” Hermione frowned.
 
               This supposedly “easy” warning mission was not going according
to plan. Hermione wondered if they shouldn’t just go. They had done their due
diligence, and they couldn’t force the townspeople to leave or do anything to
cavern. More people had come out to listen, and the feeling of the crowd wasn’t
as friendly as it had been. Tom was starting to lose patience, and if he let
out his temper, all the good will they’d obtained might evaporate.
 
               “What about dragonscale moss?” Narcissa said after a moment of
tense silence. “If we introduce even a small amount to the moist walls of the
cavern, it will spread rapidly, covering the entire area in a lichen so thick
it can’t be cut or blasted away. It can even withstand fire, but it won’t
damage the crystals underneath.”
 
               The woman narrowed her eyes. “I know of that plant. It is
incredibly invasive, and has destroyed many a town’s water supply over the
years. Using it would just be another form of cursing, without magic.”
 
              “But removing it is possible,” Narcissa continued. “It is a slow,
multi-step process, taking over a year, more time than Grindelwald would be
willing to invest, but I would come back and help you clear the cavern, I swear
it,” her voice had become passionate, more so than Naricissa’s normal tone.
“You cannot allow such a powerful resource to fall into Grindelwald’s hands,
nor should you risk your lives in a futile fight. Grindelwald has an army. You
have a handful of villagers.”
 
               After a brief fit of coughing, the man spoke again. “How do we
know you will keep your word?”
 
              “Why wouldn’t I?” Narcissa countered. “We are here because we
want to help you and fight against Grindelwald’s interests, not to gain
anything.”
 
               “I am mayor of this village,” the woman turned to the villagers
behind her and spoke to them. “I have been for several decades. Years ago, I
took a vow to protect the people and the crystals. There are safeguards against
average thieves, but I don’t doubt Grindelwald could undo them in seconds. We
do not know these visitors, but I believe what they say. We have had fear for
months that Grindelwald would come for our village. I ask you, people of Auge,
to raise your hand if you support using dragonscale moss on the cavern and
abandoning the village for now.”
 
              There was intense murmuring, which became arguing, but within a
few minutes, a majority of the villagers assembled outside had raised their
hands in the air. Hermione allowed herself to relax, and she felt Tom’s
satisfaction. Narcissa and the mayor made quick plans, then Narcissa apparated
them back to the Merrythought estate. They went to the greenhouses and gathered
the small sample of invasive moss, which Narcissa kept in a strong, magically
reinforced container.
 
              An hour later, the cavern, which had been a beautiful, glowing
space filled with the sparkling pale blue light of the crystals, was a dark,
dank pit smelling of dirt and iron. Hermione had known that dragonscale moss
spread quickly, but she’d never witnessed its use. Even though she knew this
was a necessary measure, watching the crystals disappear under the hard lichen
was depressing, and she saw the mayor wipe tears from her eyes as they climbed
out of the cavern, using only the light from Narcissa’s and the mayor’s lumos
spells.
 
              They left shortly afterward, apparating back into Tom’s bedroom.
Narcissa immediately pulled off her mask and handed it to Hermione, who had
done the same. Tom took his off, revealing an annoyed expression.
 
              “It would have been nice to harvest a few of those crystals,” he
remarked sourly. “Invincibility for the course of a fight would have been
incredibly useful.”
 
              “The purpose of the visit was to warn the villagers and disrupt
Grindelwald’s plans,” Hermione reminded him. “We succeeded on both accounts. We
may not have access to the crystals, but neither does he.”
 
             Tom scowled, but didn’t reply. Hermione told herself that was
simply Tom, never satisfied. She turned to Narcissa. “Thank you, Mother.”
 
             Narcissa kissed her forehead, then crossed to Tom and kissed his
cheek, since he was now taller than she was by several inches. He looked down
at her, and his expression softened slightly. “Yes, thank you, Aunt Narcissa.”
 
             “Don’t you think you could call me Mother as well by now?”
Narcissa asked. “I am the mother of your soul mate, and I consider you my son
in every way that matters to me.”
 
             His expression now was a rare one of dumbfounded. Hermione felt
his conflict – the desire to close himself away, warring with the pleasure at
being valued so highly by a woman he held in high esteem.
 
             “It’s no rush, Tom, and entirely your choice,” she smiled, a bit
sadly, and kissed his cheek once more before leaving the room.
 
             He turned to Hermione, his face completely blank. In future terms,
Hermione thought, Tom was having a meltdown.   Since the beginning of the
school year, Tom had been flooded with more feeling and emotion than he’d
probably experienced in his entire previous life. The magical quartet links,
the sexual relationships, the solidification of their soulmate bond, and now
Narcissa’s love, was too much for him to process.
 
            She reached out tentatively through their bond, but she already
knew he’d walled himself off. He needed space, and though she longed to comfort
him, he was not in the mood to receive it.
 
            “I’m going to go find Felicity,” Hermione announced in a neutral
tone. “I’m sure she and Galatea are back by now.”
 
            He nodded, and Hermione left the room, knowing she’d made the right
choice, even though she wanted nothing more than to pull Tom close and cover
him in her love.
 
 
            Tom remained almost entirely in his rooms for the next two days.
Hermione didn’t press the issue, and she could still feel his magic and moods,
so he hadn’t pulled away completely. She spent the time planting with Narcissa,
discussing advanced magical theory with Galatea, and walking and talking with
Felicity. On Tom’s birthday, Hermione woke up before dawn and quietly went to
Tom’s room.
 
            He was in the bed, though Hermione doubted he was sleeping. Tom
seemed to need less rest than most people, and she knew he still vividly
remembered the attack from his first year. Sleeping made him feel powerless,
which was a state Tom could not abide. She crossed to the canopied bed and slid
under the covers, moving to press her entire body against his.
 
           “Happy birthday,” she whispered, laying a hesitant arm over his
waist.
 
           “Thank you,” he replied evenly, turning to face her, wrapping his
arm around her waist in return.
 
           She felt his calm, and was relieved. Perhaps he had worked out his
concerns over the last few days. As much as she wanted to kiss him, she waited,
allowing him to make the first move to help him feel in control. He needed that
illusion more than she did, and she was happy to give it to him.
 
           “Emotion makes little sense to me,” he spoke into the near darkness.
“In most instances, they are weak, messy, and useless.”
 
            Hermione let the silence continue, knowing he had more to say.
 
           “But, I know it is important to you, to Abraxas, Patience, and
Narcissa, even Galatea,” his fingers tightened at her waist, digging in enough
to send a rush of desire through her. “I can accept that because you are people
I value, whom I want to keep in my life. I can even call Narcissa ‘mother’
because that is as much claiming her as her claiming me. But this is all I can
give; I’ve reached my limit. There is no secret well of emotion inside of me
that you can discover, Hermione. I will never ‘open’ up and be like other
people.”
 
            Slowly, she raised her hand and traced the line of his jaw,
bringing her fingers to rest in hushing motion over his lips. “I know, Tom. I
don’t need you to be anything, anyoneother than who you are.”
 
            In the dim light coming from the gap in the curtains, she saw his
dark brows arch. “Are you sure? Since I’ve known you, you’ve pushed and pulled
me toward emotions more and more. Our bond and the bonds with Abraxas and
Patience allow me to understand what I couldn’t on my own, but I can’t feel,
not in the way you can, not for people in general. This small circle is all I
can manage. I’ll never want to save the world.”
 
           “Tom,” she paused, thinking of the best words. “I know we’ve argued
in the past over this issue, but I won’t hold you to an impossible standard. I
love you as you are, Tom. Never doubt that.”
 
            His hand had slipped under her nightgown, and was now on her bare
skin. It felt like the fire he was. “I didn’t,” he said, as his lips went to
her throat, barely touching the now racing pulse there, his other hand
following the locket chain down to the space between her breasts.
 
            Hermione was not about to argue, though she knew he had, or they
wouldn’t have had the previous conversation. Tom sought power because he had
spent so much of his life without any, and though he might not experience
emotion in the way most people did, he still had doubts and fears. The fact
that he had spoken to Hermione about the topic at all was further proof of how
far he’d come, how much he’d grown and changed from the influence of people who
cared for him.   Now, it was vital to keep him from considering those changes
as weakness or manipulation that needed to be stamped out.
             “Good,” Hermione kissed the space under his jaw. “Because we are
meant for each other, and there is no room for doubt given the words on our
skin and the way our magic sings together.”
 
            Tom’s lips quirked. “You’re very poetic this morning,” he kissed
down the trail left by his fingers, then turned his ear to rest over her heart.
 
             Even though their bare flesh was touching, the way his cheek lay
against her breast was more tender than erotic. She pulled him closer, wrapping
both arms and legs around him, leaving no space between their bodies. Slowly,
after several seconds, he turned his head back and began to kiss her breast,
then gently pulled her nipple into his mouth, sucking harder and harder until
her hips bucked and she cried out.
 
            “Mmm,” he spoke against her, his breath making her nipple tighten
even more. “I do like the way you sing for me, little bird.”
 
             Her fingers were in his hair, twined in his curls, and she tried
to push his mouth back to her breast. He pulled away, grasping her wrists and
holding them down on the mattress. “It’s been far too long if you think you are
in control in this situation, dearest.”
 
             Hermione couldn’t stop the little huff that escaped her lips, and
Tom grinned widely. “How wonderful of you to give me the birthday present of
putting you in place.”
 
             She rolled her eyes, knowing that would set him off, and give him
a way to ignore the vulnerability of his earlier tenderness. “Do go ahead and
try, Tom.”
 
             “Mouthy, mouthy,” he murmured, then bit, hard, at the swell of her
breast. She swallowed a yelp, since there were no muffling spells on the room
and Galatea and Narcissa were just down the hall.
 
             He rolled, so that he was straddling her, and then grabbed at the
bed sheet, viciously tearing a strip off. “I might not be able to use my magic
right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t cage you, little bird.”
 
             Quickly, he wrapped the strip of cloth around her wrists, binding
them together, then to one of the bedposts. Hermione wiggled against him, as
part of the game, but they both knew how turned on she was – submitting to Tom
sexually was at the top of her desires. He pushed his erection against her and
she moaned louder than she’d intended.
 
             “Hush, or I’ll tear off another strip to put over your mouth,” Tom
smirked, pushing her nightgown up and over her head, but not her arms, so it
provided another layer of restraint.
 
             Moving so slowly it was a form of torture, Tom slid his hands down
her bared skin, over the side swells of her breasts and the spaces between her
ribs, stretched from the position of her arms, to the curve of her waist and
the lace of her knickers. She expected him to pull them off, but he just traced
over, rubbing her mound through the damp fabric while she fought the urge to
tilt her pelvis up to meet his touch.
 
             It wasn’t long before his fingers came back up to her navel,
tracing the words there, which were always so sensitive to his touch. He
lowered his mouth to them, but used his tongue to trace the letters, not his
lips. A high whine formed in the back of her throat, and part of it came out, a
short, sharp sound.
 
             His eyes seemed to darken as his pupils widened in pleasure at the
noise, and Hermione knew he was reveling in the love coming from her, and the
trappings of dominance and submission allowed him to do so without feeling
exposed. He kissed at his words, letting one hand drag its way back down her
hip, circling the bone there gently before inching past the scrap of soaked
lace to slide two fingers easily inside of her, rubbing the delicate ridges,
his thumb coming up to tease at her clitoris. His other hand splayed from her
collarbone to the curve of her shoulder, squeezing just slightly at the side of
her throat, not enough to interfere with her breathing, but enough to place a
steady pressure and give a sense of physical power.
 
             “Beg me for your release, dearest,” he whispered against her skin,
his lips and tongue sending shudders through her body.
 
             “Tom,” she whispered, her voice needy.  As much as giving him
control was something she knew he needed, giving up control was something she
needed, a freeing sense of letting go, of not having the weight of the world on
her shoulders for a few moments.
 
            “Those aren’t the right words,” he nipped sharply at her stomach in
warning. “You know what to say.”
 
            “My Lord,” she answered immediately. There was likely very little
time for games this morning, and she was unbearably aroused. “My Lord, let me
touch you.”
 
            Tom laughed, and began moving his fingers back and forth inside of
her with a rougher, faster touch. “You are so wet, Hermione,” he sighed into
her navel. “I could do this all day. It would be an amazing way to spend my
birthday. Or,” he lifted his head and grinned down at her, his thumb pressing
on her nub, then wiggling side to side over the delicate flesh, “I could stop
now, send you back to your room and make you wait until tonight to finish.  
Your pouty face all day long might be an even better present.”
 
            “Please don’t,” she gasped, her hips rising to meet his fingers.
 
            “Tell me you are mine,” he moved up, so that his face was beside
hers, his lips on hers.
 
             She kissed him, deeply, her neck straining to follow him as he
moved back. “I am yours, my Lord. Yours, always.”
 
             His eyes closed for only a second, but she saw and felt the
combination of relief and satisfaction flash across his face. His thumb pressed
in at the hollow of her throat as his fingers pushed inside her, curling at the
soft flesh, dragging over every sensitive spot that made her moan and bite her
lip. “That is right. We are Magic, dearest.”
 
            The echo of her words to him made her want to cry from the deep
emotions she felt, and she tried to keep them from flooding the bond, afraid
they would cause Tom to pull back.
 
             “No,” he ordered, his hand withdrawing to rip at her knickers.
“No, don’t hide your feelings – they are a part of you, and I want all of you,”
the lace came apart in his fingers, and he threw them on the floor. “I told you
I can’t feel more on my own, but I never want you to stop feeling. The way you
feel is…” he paused, his voice now barely a whisper, “magic itself, beautiful
and precious.”
 
              She felt tears at the corners of her eyes, ancient wounds of
feeling plain and unwanted suddenly open. No one in her old life had called her
beautiful. Harry had loved her as a sister, and she and Ron had had something
that was hard to define – a friendship that might have been more but for all
the layers of misunderstandings. She’d had friends and a cause she would give
her life for, but she’d never been cherished like she was here.
 
              “Tom,” she half-cried, half-begged. “Let me touch you.”
 
              He kissed at her tears, then pulled roughly at the ties, freeing
her wrists. She shrugged the rest of the way out of the nightgown and then
fumbled at the buttons on his nightshirt. Tom helped her, then took off his
pants.
 
             “Finally,” Hemione murmured appreciatively as she pressed her
naked body to his, her hands running over his shoulders and back, down to his
hips, then around to circle his cock. She squeezed and stroked, but only for a
moment before Tom shifted, pushing her wrist into the mattress once again and
sliding into her.
 
             They both sighed for a moment at the pleasure, and then Tom began
to move. His thrusts were harsh, as they almost always were, but Hermione got
sweet and tender from Patience and Abraxas. This frantic need was unique to
Tom, and she wanted it, craved the way he took her like he had to have, like
he’d perish if he didn’t.
 
             So she was startled, when they were both on the precipice, that
Tom didn’t order her to say that she was his, but instead, “Tell me you love
me! Tell me you love me above all others!” His voice was ragged with exertion,
dark with need so deep it was almost anguish.
 
            “I love you more than anything!” she cried out as she came, and
felt him do so as well. Their magic filled the air around them, heavy with
power. Every time they had sex, the magic seemed to intensify, and Hermione
wondered absently with the minimal part of her brain that continued to function
after such an amazing orgasm, whether they would start setting things on fire
in the near future.
            Tom could hardly imagine a better start to his birthday, unless
he’d been with Hermione in the Chamber, where they could have used their magic,
and if they’d been joined afterwards by their pet and Abraxas. He wanted them
all, and he wanted their magic mingling with and strengthening his own. He
wanted to defeat Grindelwald, be hailed a hero, and rule magical Britain with
Hermione, Abraxas, and Patience at his side. The ruling might not be in the
form of public office, but who wanted to spend all day in an office when one
could be exploring magic? Power wasn’t restricted to that role, and being the
person who made decisions behind the scenes was a possibility. That was in the
future, anyhow; he had Grindelwald to deal with first.
 
            He’d been annoyed at how Hermione had turned to Narcissa, Mother,
at first, but upon watching events unfold, he had to admit that his soul mate
had excellent judgment and a brilliant mind for making plans.
 
            He pulled her close and kissed her face, smelling her hair and
neck. She always carried the scent of the deep woods about her, like the smell
that crept out in the fog from the edges of the Forbidden forest. It was at
once light and airy, but also dark and mysterious. The contradiction of
Hermione was intoxicating. And she was his. She loved him, above all others.
 
            “I have to get back to my room,” he felt her smile against his
chest as she hugged him again. From anyone else, such constant affection would
be suffocating, but from her, he accepted it as the way it simply was between
them.
 
            “Yes,” he pulled gently at her curls, loving the way they were
rioting wildly around her face at the moment. He really needed to find a spell
to make her hair into temporary binding for sex, to join his two loves of
playing with her curls and tying her up. “Can’t have Mother and Galatea having
fits, can we?”
 
            Tom didn’t miss the way Hermione’s eyes lit up at the use of the
term “mother” for Narcissa, but she quickly twisted her expression into one of
annoyance as she picked up her torn nightgown. “I’m sure they are well aware of
what we do, but there’s no need to rub it in their faces.”
            He leaned over and kissed the bare shoulder where the nightgown had
ripped. “Then you’d better hurry, the house will be up soon. The elves are
probably already making breakfast.”
 
            She stood, and Tom swatted her backside. She shot him a dirty look
and left, though he noted the extra sway in her hips with a smile.
 
***** Tom's Sixteen (Don't Call It Sweet) *****
Chapter Summary
     The rest of Tom's birthday, which goes very well (only Patience
     misbehaves).
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is short, but I've been slammed with final papers and
     end of the semester grading. After this one, we'll head back to
     Hogwarts and march forward with plotty things. I'm still making this
     up as I go along, and I love and adore all the loyal readers who've
     signed up for this ride - kisses to you all!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
   
         The day continued to be excellent. When Tom went down for breakfast,
he found the elves had made beautifully airy crepes dusted with powdered sugar
and surrounded by a circle of bright raspberry sauce. Though he had never
stated this meal was a favorite of his, he knew the elves kept a close eye on
who eat what and how much. They were amazingly perceptive, drawing accurate
conclusions based on one’s daily activities and off-handed comments. For
instance, the blanket Tom preferred was always on the chair he used in the
library, draped over the back. When he called for tea, the biscuits he liked
best were on the tray. Though he had several pairs of nightclothes, the green
silk pants and matching buttoned top that fit just so was daily cleaned and
laid on the edge of the bed. After his first visit to the Merrythought estate,
when he’d complained in passing to Hermione that the soap in his bathroom
smelled like an old woman’s perfume, it had been replaced the next day with a
freshly milled bar scented with cedar and myrrh.
            Tom might have once found the elves annoying, but they didn’t
bother him any longer, and he appreciated the quiet, unobtrusive manner they
had. He wasn’t about to sit in the kitchen and chat with them like Hermione
did, but having the background of his life tended to so efficiently was a
pleasure. In the orphanage, very little was handed to him – two sets of itchy,
cheap clothes, an ill-fitting pair of boots, a threadbare coat. School books
were not his to keep, and even blankets and beds were not technically one’s own
– room assignments could be changed, and the winter blankets were switched out
for the summer weight blankets too early every year, resulting in three weeks
of shivering through the night. Food was plain and never enough. He’d had to
take every small thing he’d had.
             A breakfast like the one the elves had prepared would have been
beyond any expectation, and Tom hadn’t even had to request it. The elves simply
knew that Tom had a sweet tooth, and that this meal would be the perfect start
to his birthday. Because they had all smiled up at him adoringly, and because
Hermione had been in the room, he gave the four elves a polite, “Thank you,
this breakfast is perfect.” That declaration had practically made them cry in
gratitude (one of them cried literally, but he could never keep their names
straight), and brought a wave of affection from his soul mate.
 
            After breakfast, Galatea asked him to come into the library. She
usually gave him his birthday present earlier in the day, and it was always
something unique – often a magical object she’d found in her estate sale hunts
or her searches through Hogwarts.
 
           “I know you’ve discovered the Chamber of Secrets,” she said, once
she’d closed the door behind them.
 
           Tom went still, pulled in his magic to keep from giving away his
flare of anger. He couldn’t imagine that Hermione had told Galatea – there were
too many penalties, ones Hermione herself had devised. However, besides the
elves of Hogwarts, the crabby caretaker, and perhaps Dumbledore, Galatea was
probably the person most familiar with the castle and its grounds. She had
spent most of her life there, had transitioned from student to teacher quickly,
and had searched the place with Dumbledore on her free time, looking for cursed
objects, hidden passages, and other secrets. There was no denying that Galatea
was brilliant and magically powerful. Even if she couldn’t have opened the
Chamber, she would have known of its existence, and once it was opened, she
might have felt the shift in the magic, the power rising from beneath the
castle. He had a slight moment of panic, wondering how many other professors
would have noticed something – surely Dumbledore at the very least, maybe even
old Dippet. The man was physically frail, but still had a keen mind. Tom was
convinced the Headmaster’s strong magical aura was all that was keeping the
ancient man tethered to this plane.
 
            He gave no answer, which was an answer in itself. There was no use
denying it, and Galatea didn’t seem upset.
 
            “Yes, I’m sure you have all sorts of nasty punishments for
discussing the seat of Slytherin power,” Galatea continued, still more matter
of fact than angry. “The reason I bring it up is because I know that there is a
wealth of magic there, and not all of it is friendly or controllable. You are
brilliant, but you are arrogant,”
 
            Tom’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent. He didn’t trust
himself to respond yet. The angry magic was still pressing at his edges,
straining for release.
 
            “When you are a prodigy, when you spend much of your time around
others who can’t hold a candle to your power, it is easy to fall into the trap
of assuming that allothers are beneath you, that no onecan match you,” Galatea
didn’t break eye contact with Tom as she spoke, and he respected that about
her.
 
            “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I am being honest with
you, Tom.   You are not ready to face someone like Grindelwald. Magical battle
skill is a comprehensive talent – it isn’t simply raw talent – it is the
brain’s catalog of spells, the body’s memory of the spell movements, the
casting speed, the force and intention behind the spells, and a thousand other
factors including knowledge of one’s surroundings and one’s opponent.
Grindelwald has been fighting for years now.”
 
            Tom gazed back at her, unwilling to look away. “I know that,
Galatea. Between Narcissa and the fighting in France, I have recognized I have
some…deficits that I need to correct.”
 
            Galatea’s mouth, with its crooked tilt, twisted into a thoughtful
frown. “I suppose we can add more battle magic to dueling club practices. It
does seem likely, the longer this conflict continues, that it will spread to
our shores, and students with no knowledge of how to defend themselves are
vulnerable targets.”
 
            He felt a bit of surprise at how easily Galatea was agreeing to
help him, and waited for the cost to be announced. It wasn’t long in coming.
 
            “I would like you to bring any unknown spells or potions you find
in the Chamber to me for testing before you attempt to use them,” Galatea said,
her expression stern.
 
            Tom bristled, thinking of a way to discuss this without triggering
the spells from the agreement. “I am the Heir of Slytherin. What was
Slytherin’s is mine by right.”
 
            Galatea crossed to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He felt her
watery magic, cool and strong, brushing at the edges of his fiery boundaries.
There was something soothing about the older woman’s presence, and Tom relaxed
slightly despite himself.
 
            “I’m not asking as a professor, Tom,” she said, her eyes kind. “I’m
asking as the wife of your guardian, as a member of your family who is
concerned about you. You’ve spent two-thirds of your life essentially alone,
depending only on yourself, and I understand that doing so is comfortable to
you. You are strong, independent, and you chafe at answering to anyone, even to
an older, wiser person who has your best interests at heart. I understand,
truly. But like it or not, you arein a family now, Tom. Hermione, Narcissa, and
I all love you. I know you have Abraxas and Patience as well. That must seem
like too much at times, considering your background.”
 
            He didn’t answer, because putting those thoughts into words felt
dangerous. Tom would never, ever, be comfortable with discussing the mystery of
feelings.
 
            Galatea gave his shoulder a squeeze, then pulled back. “I’m only
asking you to let me see anything that you are unsure of, anything that gives
you pause – cursed objects and dark magic are my specialty, you know.  
Consider me another reference book, one that actively works to keep you and the
others safe. Please.”
 
            His eyes met hers again, and he saw the affection there, the truth
of what she was saying. “I’d have to know anything I brought you would be
treated confidently,” Tom responded slowly. “That other professors wouldn’t be
involved.”
 
            “Unless an object or spell presented an imminent danger to the
castle or the students, I would agree to keep silent,” Galatea held out her
hand. “Is it a deal?”
 
            Tom nodded. “Yes.” He turned to leave, but Galatea’s hand closed on
his arm again. He was surprised at how little it bothered him. A year ago, even
six months ago, this conversation would have enraged him, and his magic would
have struck out at Galatea’s touch.
 
            “It’s still your birthday, Tom,” Galatea’s crooked smile was back
in full force. “I have something for you.”
 
            She pointed her wand at her desk, and a drawer opened. Something
small, wrapped in white paper with a red bow floated toward him. Tom put out
his hand, and it landed heavily in his palm, weightier than he expected for its
size.
 
            “Generally, I look for practical gifts,” Galatea grinned, her eyes
now sparkling with anticipation. “But this was such a find, I couldn’t resist.”
 
            In his curiosity, Tom forgot himself and undid the bow and wrapping
magically, vanishing them in the blink of an eye. He glanced up, knowing he’d
broken the rule, but Galatea only winked and murmured, “We’ll let that one
slide.”
 
            Looking back down, he examined her present. It was a creamy marble
disc, carved deeply, then painted with the image of a man, painfully slender,
with snakelike features and long, dark hair parted sharply in the middle, but
swept over each half of his head, fanning out like the hood of a king cobra.
The style resembled the art on the walls of Egyptian tombs, though the lines of
the face were delicate and incredibly life-like. As Tom watched, the man’s eyes
blinked, a second lid sliding sideways over the pupil like some snake species.
 
            “Is this?” Tom began excitedly, hardly believing what was in his
hands.
 
            Galatea laughed and nodded. “It is a magical portrait, dating back
to the Middle Kingdom of Ancient Egypt, around 2000 B.C.. Rashad, a friend of
mine and fellow collector from Turkey, had the portrait for years, hoping the
man would speak to him, that he could gain ancient magical knowledge now lost,
but man painted is a parselmouth, and he won’t speak in anything but
Parseltongue. I asked Rashad about his progress a few months back, and he said
he was defeated and tired of listening to the man hissing in the corner of his
study, so Rashad agreed to sell it to me.”
 
            “I,” Tom began, unsure of what to say. Gratitude did not come
easily to him, but he was very aware of the lengths Galatea had gone to in
order to show him her affection through this gift – an object such as this was
nearly priceless. He settled on the simple approach. “Thank you,” he pushed his
magic toward hers, letting his edges brush hers in the friendly way he reserved
for so very few others.
           
            Galatea clearly understood the significance, because she swallowed,
emotion in her face. “I placed several strengthening and preservation spells on
the portrait when it first arrived, but it is still a very fragile object,” she
warned. “For some reason, spells don’t linger long on it – I’ve reapplied the
spells twice since early November.”  
 
            Tom nodded, staring at the man, who was now gazing back at him with
great interest. Though magical painted portraits on canvas were common in the
magical world, older versions on fragile wood or stone were not often found,
most having been lost to time. An ancient magical portrait alone would have
been an amazing gift, but one of a parselmouth? Tom’s magic tingled in
anticipation that was practically giddy.
 
            Greetings, Elder,Tom hissed at the man. Respect was second only to
power in the language of snakes.
 
            The man’s thin mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
His features were too snakelike for normal human expressions. It is good to
hear another voice. I thought our kind gone forever. We were few even in my
time.
 
            We are few still. I have never met another until now,Tom responded.
I am Tom.
 
            I am Apep, known by the foolishna-Hekaas the Eater of Souls, his
mouth was now pulled tightly, and his harsh rasping was angry, especially as he
spat out the one word in Egyptian.
 
            In translating some Egyptian texts, Tom had seen that phrase, na-
Heka – it literally translated as ‘no magic’ and seemed to be the ancient
Egyptian equivalent of the word ‘muggle.’ Given the love/hate relationship
Egyptians had with snakes and snake gods, Tom could see how a man who looked
and sound like Apep would be fearful to the general populace.
           
            Do they still fear us? Apep asked.
 
            They know nothing of us,Tom said. Our world is hidden to them. If
they encounter us, their minds are wiped afterwards.
 
           Apep nodded. This is good. Their small minds cannot understand
magic. He studied Tom’s features critically. You do not look like our kind.
This is a powerful camouflage, he sniffed, and added, I had none.
 
           Tom could see that was true. The man did not look entirely human,
and that visible difference must have made his life very difficult. I will take
you some place safe, some place that contains a basilisk and much powerful
parselmouth magic. I have many questions for you, Elder.
 
            That will be a blessed relief. The last man was practically na-
Heka, his magic was so weak. I will rest until you call upon me. Place me
somewhere warm now, youngling.
 
           The title ‘youngling’ in Parseltongue was one of respect, though Tom
still bristled at it a bit. He carefully placed Apep on the mantel where the
stone of his portrait would absorb the heat of the fireplace, then asked
Galatea politely to cast a temporary sticking spell to keep the stone safe. She
complied, and though Tom could see she was curious about what had been said,
she didn’t press him for details.
 
            “Come, we should get ready to leave for Diagon Alley. Your party
will start soon,” Galatea smiled, and they walked out together.
 
-oOo0oOo-
 
            Tom only just succeeded at not scowling when Abraxas entered
Fortiscue’s with Marguerite on his arm. Hermione did not. Most of the invited
study group had arrived, and though Abraxas had complained in his last owl
about having to escort Marguerite, the sight of Marguerite’s smug smile was
still infuriating. She looked like she already considered herself Lady Malfoy,
though Tom supposed that was possibly Marguerite’s natural arrogance, which was
in no short supply.  
 
            Patience, who was sitting beside a tense Hermione, lowly whispered,
“Don’t worry,” and immediately stood and walked over to them.
 
           “What is our pet up to?” Tom asked Hermione quietly, more out of
curiosity than concern.
 
            Hermione shook her head, though Tom could see a hint of amusement
around the corner of her mouth. “Nothing good, I’d wager.”
 
           Indeed, Patience seemed determined to throw a match onto the petrol-
soaked rumors from the Malfoy ball. She stopped in front of Abraxas, and
utterly ignoring Marguerite, raised both hands to lovingly cup his cheeks and
pulled him in for a long, slow kiss. Abraxas’s free hand came up and threaded
in her long, pale hair instinctively. It was not a kiss that could be
interpreted as anything except as one between established lovers, and Tom heard
more than one gasp.
 
             Tom was glad that all the parents were over enjoying drinks at the
Leaky Cauldron rather than watching this scene unfold in the ice cream parlor;
after all, he’d rather not have to murder the current Lady Malfoy and
Marguerite’s mother on his birthday. Hermione would frown on that.
 
            Marguerite’s face went from a pale white to a flushed red, and her
magic crackled. Her empty wand hand twitched at her side, Tom noted, and he
also felt Hermione’s magic push outwards protectively. He sighed, knowing this
was going to devolve quickly.
 
            “Pet, that’s enough,” Tom announced lazily, and for once, Patience
listened.
 
            She ended the kiss, a wide, ethereal smile on her face. “I missed
you,” she smiled at Abraxas.
 
            “Thanks, Patience,” Abraxas replied, slightly dazed. “I missed you,
too.”
 
            “It was nice of you to escort him in, Marguerite, but I can take
him from here,” Patience looped her arm through Abraxas’s and pulled him
sharply away, leaving Marguerite the two unpleasant choices of either dropping
Abraxas’s arm, or being tugged along like a rag doll. She dropped his arm,
though her face silently screamed her rage as she walked to the table alone.
 
            Sebastian Lestrange hastily stood and pulled out a chair for her,
and Marguerite sat, her composure mostly returned. It was no secret that
Sebastian was on Orpha Rosier’s list of approved suitors, and Marguerite, with
her strong magic and family money, was a catch herself.
 
            Abraxas and Patience came around to Tom’s side of the table,
Patience sitting on Hermione’s left, and Abraxas on Tom’s right. Their chairs
were closely spaced, and their sides and knees bumped. Tom could feel their
elemental bond surging through the contact chain. He had underestimated how
much he would miss not having them near him after completing the quartet
spells. Simply having them all assembled was a gift in itself.
 
            Hermione murmured something, and Tom felt the muffliatospell begin.
He smiled at how she anticipated his desires, as well as the way she was
willing to break rules for him. Tom glanced down the table, at the core study
group he’d led for the last five years. Mostly Slytherins, with a few
Ravenclaws, they were intelligent and talented (with the exception of Thad, who
made up for his lack of brains in absolute, unquestioning loyalty). The group
was already bound in their protection of the Chamber, and Tom thought it might
be time to create something even more formal, something with a purpose beyond
Hogwarts. He’d need to have a stern talk with Marguerite about not disrupting
the group dynamics once they were back at school.
 
            “Thank you all for coming,” Tom said, giving his most charming
smile and saying the words he knew they wanted to hear. “I know the holiday
break is a busy time, and yet all of you have managed to help me celebrate my
birthday for the last five years. In two short years, we’ll be out of school,
but I trust we’ll still be in close contact. Before we start the ice cream and
butter beer, I’d like to mention something serious – Grindlewald.”
 
            Several of the faces around the table looked uncomfortable at the
dark wizard’s name. Tom inwardly scoffed at the fear of a name, but continued.
“I know we are young, but I believe that we are all destined for great things.
Our magical talents prove this. I also believe that, together, we can disrupt
Grindlewald’s actions in Wizarding Europe, and I’d like you all to think about
how dedicated you could be to such a cause. I won’t ask for answers today.
We’ll discuss your thoughts once we are back in the Chamber, a week from today,
but please consider carefully how far we’ve come, what the Chamber can offer
us, and how we would feel if Grindlewald reached Britain’s shores.”
 
            “The group in the French town,” Josephine looked sharply at Tom and
Hermione. “Was that you?”
 
            “Let’s save those responses for a week from now,” Hermione
murmured, giving the whole table the answer to the question. Tom squeezed her
hand under the table. There was something arousing about her prim, circumspect
tone.  
 
          
           Now, the group wore expressions that ranged from impressed to
terrified. His request was not a simple one, and Tom understood that. He might
have trouble with most emotions, but fear was one he grasped. Though he’d
schooled himself since conscious memory to never show it, he’d certainly
experienced it – fear of hunger, fear of never getting out of Wool’s, fear of
dying like that boy, great, racking coughs consuming him. Until he’d met
Hermione, his fears had been basic, linked to pain or death. Since finding his
soul mate and his quartet (his family, as Galatea had put it), there were
other…not fears, but concerns regarding the people he’d allowed to become close
to him.  But he wasn’t dwelling on those (which probably weren’t his own,
anyway – the idea of worry had probably bled through from his connection to the
others); he had supreme confidence in himself and his quartet. And, he had
confidence in the group he would be leading. They would come around. He was
confident of that as well.
 
            Patience stood, lifting her butter beer. “To one of my favorite
snakes,”
 
           The tension broke as the others raised their various glasses and
bottles, smiling at Patience’s phrasing as usual.
 
           “I’m glad you were born,” she finished in a sweet, dreamy voice,
looking directly at Tom with those sea glass eyes. He gazed back, realizing
with an internal start that this was the first time anyone had spoken that
phrase to him. In fact, at Wool’s, the assumption was that no one was glad any
of the children there had been born, that they were all bothers, a drain on
society. It took a further few seconds to realize that she’d said the last bit
in his head, not aloud, and he once again appreciated Patience’s discretion
where he was concerned.  
 
           The others were adding their birthday congratulations, and the table
had filled with sundaes and a green and silver cake. His classmates were
smiling and laughing, the worries of a few seconds ago vanished as if by magic.
Tom was glad of the distraction, though he still struggled with the strong
waves of affection he felt coming from Hermione and Abraxas, as well as the
feeling of Patience in the back of his brain. As Galatea had suggested, it
almost felt like too much, especially in front of all the others. Yet, as soon
as his discomfort (which was the same thing as his anger) began to rise, all of
them fell back, giving him the space he needed to play the charming, detached
host of his birthday celebration.   They might just be the perfect quartet, he
thought with satisfaction. Tom’s spirits were further bolstered by the
knowledge that the holidays were nearly over, allowing for the return to
Hogwarts and the open use of his magic, the appropriate punishment of
Marguerite, and the formation of the group he would lead to great things,
including his own glory.  Nothing would stop him from getting everything he
wanted.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I watched Fantastic Beasts for the first time this past weekend, and
     I wrote the Egyptian "na-heka" before I heard the American phrase "no
     maj". I was a little thrilled my brain had gone someplace similar to
     Rowling's, even if it was an obvious place. And, lol, you have no
     idea how much time I wasted trying to find the pronunciation of the
     hieroglyph for magic.
***** The Parentage of Patience *****
Chapter Summary
     What it says in the title - how our lovely Patience came to be who
     she is. There are some familiar faces in her past, and familiar
     family names. Also, the beginning of tussle that could be serious
     trouble.
Chapter Notes
     Some background information on Patience that I simply couldn't get
     out of my head until I wrote it down. Everyone else has a backstory,
     so now my other favorite blonde gets one. I actually have about 2500
     words more written, but this seemed like a good stopping point to
     keep the final version of the chapter from being super long, and
     also, I wanted to update more regularly now that I have a bit more
     free time. My goal (how I laugh at myself as I type this) is to get
     this story completed by the end of summer.
     Also, coming up with names for children that are a) constellations,
     b) not already taken, or c) not ridiculous, is hard work, so, "c"
     might be a problem below, lol.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                   
            Patience Layla Foster was born outside of her body. The main reason
for this oddity could be traced back to her maternal great-grandmother, Isolde
Black.  Isolde was only a Black by marriage, having come from the much less
political, do-what-gets-you-furthest-in-life Ollivander family.   However, her
ambition caused her to embrace the Pureblood fanaticism of her new clan with a
vengeance. Her husband was a third son, with middling magical abilities, a
stable but non-influential job at the Ministry, and no chance of inheriting the
family estate. To cement her place in the cutthroat Black hierarchy, Isolde
immediately set to work on furthering the glorious Black line.
 
            Her first child, Cepheus, was an utter disappointment. The boy was
sickly from the beginning, and showed no early magical abilities. Isolde was
secretly relieved when he died of the Dragon Pox at the age of six. She had
much higher hopes for Gacrux, who had arrived eighteen months after Cepheus,
and even more for Ursa, who was born nine months after Gacrux. Ursa was a
lovely child, though her pale hair and eyes were clearly from the Ollivander
side of the family. She performed spontaneous magic by four, and the Black
family name, combined with her pretty face, made her a sought-after match even
before she had received her Hogwart’s letter. Flush with the successes of
children numbers two and three, Isolde had another, but, to her absolute
horror, Perseus was not only a squib, but was very intellectually slow, lacking
the good sense Cepheus had had to die young.
 
            Though Isolde tried to discourage it, Ursa loved Perseus, which
probably spared him in the early years of his life. When Ursa left for
Hogwart’s, Perseus fell and died trying to ride on Gacrux’s broom, which he
couldn’t control, according to Isolde’s version of events. Though Perseus died
in the late fall, neither of the Black children learned of their brother’s
death until they came home for the winter holiday. Ursa received her mother’s
message clearly: squib children were not to be tolerated.
 
            Isolde spent the next six years planning the perfect match for her
daughter. She would have preferred a Malfoy match, but the current Malfoy heir
was only three, and though they produced very powerful offspring, that family
seemed only capable of one child per generation. From the Pureblooded families
with male children in the correct age-range, the only one Isolde deemed ‘good’
enough in levels of magical ability and monetary value was Evan Longbottom. He
was three years older than Ursa, and a tad awkward, but Isolde took that as a
sign he would be a husband easily managed.
 
            Ursa’s sweet smile and soft voice did the trick, and Evan married
her as soon as she graduated from Hogwart’s. They were not soul mates, but they
cared for one another, and they probably would have been very content, if not
happy, except for the near-constant presence of Isolde.   She visited almost
daily, hounding Ursa with fertility potions designed to prevent squib births.
Evan laughed that Longbottoms didn’t produce squibs, but Ursa’s upbringing had
left her terrified at the mere thought. Her own magic was above-average, but
she was no genius. Her mother had stronger magic than Ursa, and two of her
siblings had still been squibs.
 
            A little over a year later the fertility potions more than did the
trick because Ursa had twins girls, both of whom were blessedly healthy. Isolde
watched her grandchildren closely, watching for signs (or lack thereof) of
magical ability. The oldest by a few minutes, Kitty, made her blocks float
around the age of three, and Isolde turned her attention to Emma.   In looks,
the girls were indistinguishable, slightly paler copies of their mother, with
the larger shape of the Longbottom eyes and the added Longbottom height. Their
magic was clearly different, though. Emma produced only very weak magic, and
only rarely. In Isolde’s eyes, this was as bad as being a squib. Evan was
fiercely protective of his youngest daughter, as were her Longbottom
grandparents, who assured Emma that Longbottoms who bloomed late ended up being
the most magical of all.
 
            Ursa was silent on the matter, not blaming Emma, but not providing
encouragement, either. She also showed a preference for spending time with
Kitty, whose magic seemed to grow daily. It wasn’t that Ursa didn’t love Emma,
it was more a matter of emotional self-preservation. Emma’s sweet, mostly non-
magical presence reminded Ursa, painfully so, of her brother. As the Hogwart’s
age approached, it became clearer that Emma didn’t have magic, certainly not
enough to receive a Hogwart’s letter. This was confirmed when only one owl
came, with only one invitation.
 
            The scene that occurred on the day her Hogwart’s letter arrived
shaped Kitty’s life, and by extension, that of Patience. When Isolde stepped
out of the fireplace, she looked for all the world like a dragon, dark cloak
billowing out like wings, a small cloud of embers in the air around her. Kitty
had no doubt her grandmother could breathe fire. Ursa told the children to go
to their room, but Isolde magically blocked the doors.
 
            “Is she a squib, Ursa?” Isolde’s haughty expression indicated she
already knew the answer. “The school is always right – its ancient magic simply
knows.”
 
            Ursa stubbornly shook her head. She was not going to give that
designation to her daughter, no matter how little magic Emma had. “No. We are
going to work with her at home until her magic develops enough for Hogwarts.”
 
            “She doesn’t have any magic, dear,” Isolde sneered. “That’s the
problem. I can’t believe after all the trouble I went to, procuring you a good
husband and spending thousands of galleons in squib prevention potions and
spells, that you still managed to produce one.”
 
            Emma was crying now, though her tears were silent. Kitty was
standing in front of her twin, her arms slightly out from her body in a
protective gesture. Ursa looked at her daughters, then at her mother. Something
gave way inside of her.
 
            “Emma is not a squib, but if she were, I’d love her still, like I
loved Perseus. You are only one who has produced squibs, mother, and not one,
but two,” Ursa snapped, her pale eyes narrowed and her lips tightened in anger.
 
            Isolde had never been one to spare the wand in disciplining her
children. Though her own parents had not been very strict, she saw that as a
fault. The rigorous training of children that the Blacks employed was much more
to her liking. The fact that Ursa was an adult didn’t stop Isolde from
punishing her daughter now. She threw a nasty curse that was a watered down
cousin of the Cruciatus, and Ursa crumpled to the floor, crying out in pain and
twitching helplessly.
 
            Kitty ran for the fireplace, dragging Emma behind her. Her
instincts told her that Emma was in more danger than their mother, and she
needed to get her sister safely to their father. She grabbed a handful of
powder from the box on the mantel, yelling out her father’s workplace in Diagon
Alley. Her other hand gripped tightly at Emma’s sleeve, but when she stepped
through to face her surprised father, she was alone.
 
            Her father apparated home immediately, yelling at Kitty to go into
the other room with his boss. Because she listened to her father, Kitty was
spared the sight that her father saw when he returned home. Between the
powerful Longbottom and Black families, and the mess bleeding over from the
first muggle world war, the incident was quietly swept under the rug. It was
tragic the child was dead, but it had been a terrible accident. The official
story became that Emma had tried to play with her grandmother’s wand, and it
had backfired a curse on her, sending her flying across the room and breaking
her neck. Isolde was put on a discreet yet non-negotiable house arrest, though
that only lasted three months before her house elves found her dead in her
parlor, with no known cause. Ursa withdrew into herself, leaving Evan and Kitty
with a family that shrunk to two, not three.
 
            Kitty managed to put the loss of her sister behind her over time,
mostly with the help of her Longbottom relatives and friends made at Hogwarts.
She was a Hufflepuff, loyal and kind, and thoroughly shunned by her Slytherin
Black cousins, though she didn’t care in the slightest, and ignored them right
back. She found her soul mate in John Foster, a charming Gryffindor who had no
problem hexing Slytherins on Kitty’s behalf.  Ursa quietly protested that John
was not a Pureblood, but Evan gave his daughter his full blessing.
 
            For the first five years of her marriage, Kitty was deliriously
happy. She and John had decided to wait for children, and they both worked on
further certifications instead, Kitty in enchantments and John in potions.
Though they weren’t master levels, it was enough to get them both good jobs,
and they saved enough for a snug little cottage in Hogsmeade. After that, John
began asking gently about children. Kitty found herself strangely reluctant.
Women in her line didn’t have good luck with children, she’d tell her husband.
We’ll make our own luck, he’d reply.
 
            Wanting to avoid past mistakes, Kitty went to her mother, to learn
more about Ursa’s childhood, about what Ursa had done when pregnant herself.
Ursa gave Kitty a very scant account, but emphasized her belief that women in
their family were cursed to have at least one squib child. As much as Kitty
didn’t want to believe her mother, those doubts crept in, slowly but surely.
She found herself wandering the back alleys of magical cities, collecting
charms and amulets for strong magical babies, creating a veritable shrine on
the desk in her tiny study.   Her husband tolerated this, knowing of his wife’s
painful childhood, but when they discovered that Kitty was pregnant, after
barely a few months of trying, the obsession grew.
 
            Despite reassurance from her grandparents, father, and husband,
Kitty spent long hours in every library she had access to, searching for a way
to ensure that her unborn child was born healthy and magical. She knew that the
magical world, her world, was cruel to any children with low magical abilities
and especially brutal to squibs, and after what had happened to Emma, she
simply couldn’t bear the thought of history repeating itself.   And that was
why, at nine months pregnant, only a few days before she was due to give birth,
Kitty snuck out at two in the morning to wade into an enchanted pool under the
full moon deep in the fairy forests of Ireland that was rumored to bless and
protect all things and people it came in contact with.
 
           What she would never have imagined was that, at that particular
moment, an ancient and powerful water spirit was also in the pool rejuvenating,
nearly invisible in the water, watching the human woman cry and pray aloud for
her baby. The spirit was moved and sent a formidable amount of her water magic
into the child in Kitty’s womb.   The baby was already magically strong, the
product of soul mates, and the infusion of non-human magic awoke the child’s
consciousness. Kitty had no idea whether the blessing had worked, but she did
realize the signs that her labor had begun, so she quickly returned home,
barely having time to whisper a drying spell on her clothes before waking her
husband.
 
            Though John immediately sent for the midwife, the baby was born
within minutes. “She has no patience,” he murmured as he gazed down at the
surprisingly alert and calm infant between his wife’s thighs.
 
            “We should name her that,” Kitty half-laughed, half-groaned,
exhausted and exhilarated as John lifted their daughter up to her chest.
 
            “What?” John was too enthralled with the baby to follow the
conversation.
 
             Kitty laughed again, softer this time. “Patience. We should name
her Patience.”
 
             As her parents stared lovingly at their new daughter and one
another, Patience herself was watching them, her consciousness not yet
completely tethered to her physical form because the water magic given to her
from the spirit had widened her magical boundaries so greatly, Patience’s tiny
body couldn’t contain it. Aware of her parents, yet free to float high above
them, Patience’s magical aura and consciousness connected with all the unbound
magic flowing around the earth, with Time itself, enabling her to see forwards
and backwards and across parallel possibilities. She lingered there until she
felt a sharp pull toward her distressed body. Her parents and the midwife were
panicking over the non-responsive baby, then all sighed in relief as Patience
let out a long, low gurgle, her skin turning a healthy pink.  
 
              Much of the details of the experience faded from Patience’s
memory, but the feeling of being connected to the universe remained. This,
coupled with the visions she started having from the age of four, gave Patience
an unusual level of confidence in herself. She knew the universe loved her, she
knew her life was blessed, she knew that all things would eventually turn out
as they should. Even as a toddler, Patience had a firm sense of self and her
place in the world, and was unfazed by…well, anything.
 
               Her parents were both delighted and bemused by their daughter,
who was nota normal child. The first clue was that Patience never cried, even
as a newborn. She waited for her parents to attend to her, and the fact that
she never cried probably made them check up on her more because they were first
time parents with no cues. The second clue was her intensely strong magic,
which was apparent from the first year of her life. Toys floated to her
outstretched hands, flowers parted when she crawled through the garden, and
mashed potatoes turned sunflower yellow in front of her. The third clue was
when a five year old Patience somehow managed to slip through the magical
barriers in the family’s yard in Hogsmeade, wander onto Hogwart’s grounds and
into the lake. A frantic search party found her a few hours later, cresting the
surface of the water, merfolk pushing her upwards.
 
               Several Hogwarts instructors and her parents watched in shock as
the child waved at the notoriously unfriendly creatures, then levitated herself
just above the water, walking on its surface as if it were frozen solid.
 
              “My goodness,” Headmaster Dippet said, as Patience stepped foot
onto the shore. He worked up a stern face quickly, though. “You are not allowed
on the grounds yet, little Miss.”
 
               Patience nodded solemnly, then glanced over at Professor
Kettleburn. “The merfolk say that trying to breed grindylows is a bad idea,
sir.”
 
               Professor Dumbledore tried to cover a snorted laugh while Dippet
scowled at Kettleburn. “I think we’ve all had enough excitement for today,
haven’t we, Miss Foster?” He waved his wand to dry Patience’s soaking dress,
but saw that it had already dried. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his mouth
quirked into a smile. “I look forward to another five years from now.”
 
                After her parents had profusely apologized and thanked the
staff, Patience was apparated home. John and Kitty were unsure of how to punish
their daughter. There was no ill intention on her part, and her magical power
was so strong and instinctive, they weren’t sure restricting her movement would
even be effective. The problem was solved when Patience came into the study,
her pale eyes solemn.
 
                “I’m sorry I worried you, but the merfolk wanted me to play
with them,” she said, her tone that disconcerting mix of matter-of-fact and
dreamy. “They’ve been asking me for weeks, and I thought it was rude to keep
saying no.”
 
                 John shook his head. “You can hear them from here? That’s at
least two miles away, Patience, not to mention underwater.”
 
                 “Their songs carry through the water in the ground. I hear
them when I take a bath. They make beautiful songs,” Patience smiled broadly.
 
                 Kitty sighed. She’d wanted a magically powerful child, and now
she was learning what a challenge it was to raise one. “Darling, I’m sure it is
beautiful. But, as smart as you are, surely you can see that leaving the yard
without telling us made us worry. We were afraid something might happen to
you.”
 
                 Patience’s eyes widened, and she placed a cool hand on her
mother’s arm, patting her lightly. “Don’t worry, mummy. I’m going to live to be
one hundred years old. I’ve seen it.”
 
                 “Oh, Patience,” Kitty felt tears in her eyes as she glanced
over to her husband.
 
                 “Sweetheart,” John began, wondering how such an ethereal being
had come even partially from such a practical person as himself. He’d barely
missed earning a ‘Troll’ in Divination studies. “We know you see things
sometimes, but that doesn’t mean those things will actually happen.”
 
            “I can tell the difference,” Patience persisted. “It looks
different – things that might happen glow silver. Things that will happen glow
bright yellow. The willow tree in the backyard is definitely going to be struck
by lightening tonight. We should put a shield around it – the branch will go
through the roof otherwise.”
 
            Her parents did place barriers around the tree, and extra
protection on the roof. A violent storm came through after dinner, and as
Patience was happily eating pudding and her parents were picking at their
plates, a deafening crack sounded from the backyard. John and Kitty shared
meaningful glances. They would need to research how to deal with an extremely
exceptional child.
 
            The rest of her childhood was mostly a whirlwind for Patience’s
parents. Their daughter was not disrespectful, cruel, or rowdy, but she had an
unerring knack for ending up in the most bizarre situations, often with magical
creatures. Kitty learned quickly that any trip to Diagon Alley meant at least
an extra hour dealing with whatever befell Patience – whether it was a niffler
hiding in Patience’s cloak after robbing a Gringott’s customer, an owlet
attempting to nest in her silky hair, or the time when Patience brought home a
dragon egg. Kitty was never completely sure where Patience had found the egg,
though the Department for Magical Creatures was happy to send the egg to a
mother dragon in Romania.
 
            Plants were attracted to Patience as well, and seemed to respond to
her touch, though nothing living surpassed Patience’s connection to water.
Whether it was in the bathtub, a lake, or the ocean, water loved Patience. She
floated in a way no human did, stayed underwater for unnaturally long times
(which gave Kitty no end of panic attacks), dove down impossibly far, and
occasionally walked on the surface. Kitty had even seen the water at the beach
part around Patience when she’d fallen asleep close to the water’s edge. The
waves swept up and around her, never getting her wet.   Temperature also didn’t
seem to be an issue – Patience would run into a lake even when ice floated on
its surface.  
 
            As much as they loved their daughter, and they did cherish her,
both John and Kitty were a bit relieved when Patience went off to Hogwarts.
Though Patience herself was calm, she was like the eye of a hurricane – the
beautiful sunny spot in the center of a swirling circle of chaos. Kitty
completed more projects in the first month after Patience went to school than
for the previous ten years combined, and she still had time to write her
daughter weekly letters, though Patience’s responses, in her typical stream of
consciousness style, took effort to decode.
 
            Kitty worried about Patience’s inconsistent grades, but every time
she started to fret, John would laughingly tell his wife that Patience would
end up ruling the world, and good grades weren’t necessary for that position.
John also sent all the marriage-minded half-blooded mothers who came to tea
asking about Patience as a possible match for their sons packing, telling them
firmly that Patience would marry for love, just as her parents did.
 
           
-oOo0oOo-
 
            The product of three generations’ intense fear of squibs wandered
the halls by the dungeon, heading slowly toward the Slytherin dormitory. As
usual, she had no particular plans, just a feeling that she should head that
way. It was difficult for Patience to imagine how hard Hermione worked,
formulating plans, calculating possibilities, charting out what she hoped would
be the best future. Patience’s life flowed, like the water magic that sustained
her, and it always went where it needed to go. She was a happy person, with a
life that, even in her short sixteen years, had been full of unusual and lovely
events. Still, she could not have anticipated how much happier she would become
once she’d found her quartet.
 
            Tom was the negative version of her, dark where she was light, all
tight control where she was free, and when they joined, they became more than
themselves. He wanted to control her as well, but that was impossible – she was
the water that slipped through his fingers, the steam that evaporated at his
touch. She very much enjoyed his attempts, though, and she played along because
she had seen Tom’s deep thoughts and desires. His confidence rivaled hers, not
because he was in connection with time and universal magic, but because he
believed, with no room for doubt, that he could and would make the world his
own. Of the time limes Patience had seen, this Tom was the best, and she wanted
to keep him that way.
 
             Abraxas filled her with love; Patience knew that no one else in
the quartet was as purely loving as he was, a miracle considering his
background. How wasted he would have been in the other timeline she’d seen, how
his love would have been trodden upon and twisted into a wounded creature,
chained deep in his chest; he only wanted to please others, to give love and be
loved. She was still waiting for Abraxas to realize that he was her soul mate,
but she understood his distraction. He probably thought the sense of good
feelings and connection they had was the product of their elemental binding.
Their quartet’s combined magic was so powerful, and the presence of Tom and
Hermione was a blinding light that drowned out everything else.
 
             Then there was Hermione herself.   Hermione was the love of
Patience’s life, her first loyalty, the girl who had jumped into time to put
right what had gone wrong, more than once. Patience had been seeing Hermione’s
amber eyes and wild chestnut curls in her dreams since she was four years old.
She’d watched the future Hermione, had seen her petrified by Astarte, call to
werewolves, sort out spells to save the day over and again, coordinate a run
from the darkest wizards who had decades on her magical experience, and suffer
torture rather than give away her mission and her friends.
 
              But even more than her actions, Patience loved Hermione for the
purpose she brought to her life. Patience had always known she’d do great
things, that she was important, but the details were hazy. This wasn’t
something she minded, but the instant clarity she had felt when Hermione
entered her life was a level of completion she hadn’t imagined. When they had
performed their quartet binding, Patience had found bliss for the first time in
her life, and she never wanted to stop feeling it. Like her elemental cross
corner, Tom, Patience was willing to do whatever needed to be done to preserve
it.
 
               She stopped in front of the dorms and dropped to the floor,
sitting cross-legged on the cold stone. Her bracelet hissed softly in warning,
but she already felt Marguerite’s magic at her back.
 
              “What are you doing down here? Do I really have to deal with you
on our first day back?” Marguerite’s dark hair was pulled into a severe braid
and the lines of her face were tight with anger. “I’d like to have just one
space in my life free of pesky birds.”
 
               “I was waiting to talk to you,” Patience said, her tone light
and dreamy, as usual.
 
               Marguerite snorted. “I have nothing to say to you.”
 
               “Tom is going to punish you,” Patience replied matter-of-factly,
no taunting or malice in her voice.
 
               Marguerite’s face blanched, her eyes widening, but she didn’t
say anything.
 
                Patience stood, gracefully rising on her long limbs to tower
over Marguerite. “I can stop him or I can join him.” Once again, her words were
stated as fact, not threat.
 
                “What?” Marguerite shook her head. “You are just insane as he
is. I could just go to Slughorn right now. I’m not anyone’s jinxing dummy.”
 
                  Instantly, with no outward effort, Patience pinned Marguerite
to the wall, pulling on some of Hermione’s air magic to lift Marguerite enough
off the floor to be level with her eyes. “I wouldn’t jinx you, Marguerite.
That’s just silly.”
 
                 “Put me down!” Marguerite’s facial expression indicated she
was trying to struggle, but her muscles didn’t respond. “What the hell do you
want from me?”
 
                  “I want you to know your place in the scheme of things,
Marguerite,” Patience answered, as if explaining a complicated concept to a
small child. “You keep trying to take the lead. You are not a leader in this
story.”
 
                  “Fuck you!” Marguerite spat, still trying to move. “I don’t
care whose pet you are, or who likes fucking you, you don’t order me around!”
 
                  Patience shook her head, but her face remained calm, as did
her tone. “I’m not giving you orders. I’m telling you the truth. You can be
respected, valued, placed in a position of power as a trusted follower who does
as she is told, when she is told, or you can be punished, cast out, and
eventually murdered. Look in my eyes and tell me that you doubt that Tom is
capable of killing you if you make him angry enough.”
 
                  Marguerite’s dark eyes glittered and she made a sound
somewhere between a gulp and a sniff. “I don’t doubt it,” she whispered.
 
                 “Then stop going after Abraxas,” Patience continued. “Get
engaged to Sebastian Lestrange. You will make an excellent pair, and your
mother will only be slightly disappointed.”
 
                  She released the spell, and Marguerite quickly threw a
slicing hex. Patience made no attempt to block it, allowing it to cut a fairly
deep line from the corner of her right cheekbone to the edge of her right eye.
She didn’t wince or pull back, either.
 
                  “Oh, Marguerite,” Patience sighed. “That was a mistake.”
Chapter End Notes
     I am using Pureblooded families here who marry some half-blooded
     people. As far as family lines, I think that the Longbottoms or the
     Blacks could still be considered "pureblooded" so long as there is at
     least one direct line that has not married (or at least hasn't
     admitted to doing so) outside the Pureblooded pool. For example,
     Narcissa and the other born Blacks are still considered Pureblooded
     even though Andromeda married a Muggle. So, I don't believe it
     unrealistic to have branches of Pureblooded families in Patience's
     past.
     Also, like the new Fantastic Beasts shows, sustained physical and
     emotional abuse comes out in weird and tragic ways, and the effects
     linger for generations.
***** We All Knew This Was Coming...Except Maybe Marguerite *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione is stressed and over-extends herself. Her quartet deals with
     the situation in a their typical fashion. Marguerite learns very
     quickly about consequences, and Tom enjoys himself thoroughly.
Chapter Notes
     Who loves you?
     I do!
     Because, although Marguerite deserves to be tortured (at least a
     little), my beloved readers definitely do not! Kisses!
     Also, extra kisses to the readers who find the line spoken by Alan
     Rickman when he played Sheriff of Nottingham.
Chapter 41
Two days earlier – Wednesday evening/Thursday morning
 
            Hermione had mixed emotions about being back at Hogwarts. She had
spent so much of her life in this place, the castle was home in many ways.
Living here, surrounded by centuries of concentrated knowledge and magic, was
comforting, and she enjoyed the routine of class and study schedules. Still,
she hated knowing that Grindelwald was out there, imprisoning and killing
people, and she was doing what felt like nothing. After only three days, she
was going stir-crazy. As hectic and frightening as being on the run with Harry
and Ron had been, she had been sustained by the knowledge that she was hunting
horcruxes, that she was taking steps to end Voldemort’s reign. Here, it was
like being trapped, especially fresh off the success of helping evacuate the
French village. Her old Gryffindor nature – the desire to run into and confront
danger, to be proactive – was rearing its head inconveniently.
 
           She and Narcissa had reasoned that Dumbledore’s defeat of
Grindelwald was still likely to happen, but there was no guarantee, given all
that they had already changed. To combat her feelings of helplessness, Hermione
did what she did best – she researched and planned. Since returning to school,
she’d poured over the book from France, studying the map and the name list, as
well as mentally reviewing all she knew about Grindelwald from the previous
timeline. During study periods, as well as before breakfast and after lunch,
she had pulled copies of all the major magical newspapers published in England,
Germany, and France since Grindelwald’s rise, taking notes on stories featuring
Grindlewald’s actions and movements.
 
         In the evenings, after curfew, she snuck out, going to the Chamber
with Tom, Patience, and Abraxas, and had located what she believed to be the
foundational spell for the Dark Mark. The quartet had modified it, and it would
be ready to use this Saturday, provided the group agreed (the issue of consent
had brought up a debate, as always, but Tom seemed to understand its
importance, at least in this particular instance). In the last three days,
Hermione had only managed about three hours of sleep, abusing Pepper-Up potions
and drinking so many cups of coffee and tea with so little effect that she
suspected the Hogwarts house elves had started to give her decaf.   Maybe
shutting her eyes for a moment wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
 
        “Dearest? I think you are drooling on Slytherin’s journal,” Tom’s voice
was slightly muffled through the haze of sleepiness. Hermione sat up, realizing
that she had fallen asleep over the book, and was, in fact, a bit wet around
the mouth. She hadn’t slept this deeply in days.
 
         She reached for the bottle of Pepper-Up, but it vanished before her
fingers could close around it. “I think that’s enough,” Tom leaned down to look
in her eyes and frowned. “You have been pushing yourself far too hard, and
although I admire your desire for excellence in all things, you seem especially
driven this week. I must ask, what is going on?”
 
         “I want to prepare for our next encounter with Grindlewald. I want to
find ways to keep him from hurting people, and to keep us safe,” Hermione
managed most of those words through a yawn.
 
          “And we will,” Tom replied, wiping absently at the corner of her
mouth. “But you won’t be much use to anyone if you fall over from exhaustion.
I’m all for pushing limits, but sleep seems to be a requirement, even for the
most magical of individuals.”
 
          Hermione huffed lightly. “You hardly sleep and you seem to do just
fine.”
 
         “You aren’t me. You don’t exist on sheer willpower and occasional
bouts of rage,” Tom grinned arrogantly. “Don’t worry, Dearest; you are special
in other ways.”
 
         She slapped at his hand, but not hard enough to keep him from pulling
her up and kissing her. “Go to bed,” he ordered. “And take our pet with you.”
 
         But she was more awake for the moment, and ready to argue. “Not yet.
We need to talk about how to present the binding marks to the group.”
 
        Tom gestured at Patience, who was asleep on the floor in front of the
fire, her pale hair spread like a fan over the marble tiles, curled up beside
an equally unconscious Abraxas. “She’s designing the mark, though she won’t
tell me what it is yet.”
 
       “The symbol doesn’t matter to the spell itself,” Hermione gave Tom a
mischievous look, “but rest assured, I vetoed her first choice of a unicorn,
and her second choice of a niffler.”
 
        He didn’t dignify that with a response. “I had planned, with your help,
to present the situation very much as I alluded to at my birthday party – we’ve
already grown so much magically as a group, and we’d like to continue to
explore magic and help rid the world of an evil tyrant at the same time. Let’s
not over-complicate it.”
 
        “Yes, the Ravenclaws will see that as sufficient reason to participate,
but the loyalty binding is a step further than some might be comfortable with,”
Hermione said, allowing her tired body to lean against his.
 
        “We aren’t asking them to sign over their souls in a Faustian pact,”
his arms tightened around her, and she felt their magic thread together, like
it was joining hands. There was nothing like that, and she sighed in pleasure,
her drowsiness returning full-force.  "The spell isn't imperio, it doesn't
negate free-will."
 
        Hermione could feel her eyes fluttering, and she struggled to gather
her thoughts.  "No, but it does bind the group to a common cause, and, to a
lesser extent, the orders we give - it feels very...militaristic."
 
         “It is, somewhat.  But that is for the best. The Slytherins are used
to obeying a person in power – you are well aware of how Pureblooded parents
treat their children. The fact that I’m offering them something in return for
their obedience will be a lovely novelty for them,” he assured her.  "The
promise of future power, respect, and acclaim is enough for them."
 
         “As for the other Ravenclaws, well, Josephine and Felicity are both
smart enough to understand that what we will be doing, what we have already
done in some cases, could get us expelled or even imprisoned,” Tom’s breath was
warm on the side of her face, and she felt him inhale against her hair.
Cuddling up for the night in the Chamber bedroom sounded like heaven. “Having
leadership built into the bond, with you and I in charge, creates a chain of
command for dangerous situations, which is a protective benefit for everyone,
and the marking will allow us to call to one another or warn each other. And
the permanent binding protects the anonymity of the group from retribution now
and in the future. I’m confident that they will see the logic in a magical
binding of the group, solidified with the mark.”
 
       “It is logical, but people aren’t always logical, Tom. There are petty
jealousies and thwarted desires and a thousand other messy emotions that come
into play when dealing with a group of teenagers,” Hermione yawned again,
turning into his arms, burying her face into his chest, smelling the hint of
copper and fire and sandalwood that always clung to him.   She was so tired,
and he felt and smelled so good.
 
       One moment, she was upright, the next, he’d swept her into his arms. He
called to Patience, who rose gracefully, as if she hadn’t been asleep at all,
and Abraxas, who came to with a start, and the four of them left the Chamber.
Tom didn’t put her down until they reached the hall with the stairs where their
paths parted. He kissed her forehead, and pushed her toward Patience’s arms.
 
      “Take care of her, pet,” he said quietly, meeting Patience’s eyes over
Hermione’s curls. “We have three more days until the full group can meet in the
Chamber on Saturday, and I don’t want to see her there before then. She needs
to catch up on her rest to be at her best for the group binding. It will take a
high level of magic from all of us. Dose her with sleeping draughts if you
must.”
 
      “I already put some in her butter beer tonight,” Patience’s sea glass
eyes sparkled in the moonlight filtering through the hall windows, making her
look more ethereal than usual. “Why do you think she’s so sleepy already?”
 
      “I can hear you,” Hermione mumbled against Patience’s chest, where the
taller girl was keeping her from falling over. “And I’m mad at both of you.
Just wait.”
 
      “I don’t care,” Tom replied with a grin, then turning to Abraxas.
“Besides, it is three against one, not two against two. You agree with that
plan, don’t you, Abraxas?”
 
      The future Lord Malfoy glanced over at Hermione, half-asleep on her feet,
her cheeks flushed and her hair wild, and smiled in amused affection. “Yes,
whole-heartedly. Our lady needs to sleep. I only wish I could be there to tuck
her in.”
 
      Tom smirked. “One day, Abraxas. This plan is a step in the right
direction. Now, let’s get to our dorms before Peeves or that ridiculous
Gryffindor ghost appears to tattle on us.”
 
      “He’s never forgiven us for accio’ing him five years ago, the pompous
git,” Hermione laughed sleepily as Patience drew upon some of her air magic to
float Hermione just enough off the ground to glide her forward and up the
stairs to Ravenclaw Tower. “I hope Peeves drops a dung bomb on all of you,
you…druggers,” she muttered, though still rested her head against Patience and
kissed her shoulder.
 
 
Now – Friday evening
 
       The entrance to the dormitories opened, and Tom stepped out, Abraxas
close behind him.
 
      “We thought you were staying with Hermione to make sure she slept this
evening,” Tom began, then he saw the cut. His tone shifted to a deadly calm.
“Pet, you are bleeding. Why?”
 
      Abraxas had crossed to her, and was waving his wand, murmuring a healing
spell he’d learned from Hermione. The bleeding stopped, though the mark
remained, a stark red against Patience’s pale skin. “I’d like to know as well,”
his tone was just as dangerous as Tom’s as he glared at Marguerite.
 
     “I have a right to defend myself,” Marguerite’s back was ramrod straight,
and her chin tilted defiantly. “Patience assaulted me.”
 
     “Irrelevant,” Tom replied quickly. “And you aren’t bleeding, so whatever
‘assault’ Patience conducted clearly wasn’t worth that title.”
 
     He quickly moved toward Marguerite, backing her against the wall. “I think
we need to continue this conversation in our special place.”
 
     “As if I’d go anywhere alone with you,” Marguerite retorted, two bright
spots of anger blooming on her pale cheeks.
 
     Tom leaned in closer, one arm stretched on the wall above her head, his
beautiful face inches from hers. “But Marguerite, you used to love being alone
with me.”
 
     “I was a fool,” Marguerite swallowed, clearly affected by Tom’s proximity
despite the danger.  
 
     Stretching out his hand, Tom traced a slow line from her ear to her chin
along her jaw. “Are you afraid now, Marguerite?”
 
     She nodded quickly.
 
     “Then you aren’t as foolish as you think,” he smiled, though there was no
comfort in that expression. His fingers came up to her temple. “Imperio.”
 
 
 
     Patience hummed her ballad softly as the four entered the Chamber library.
Her tune was immediately drowned out as Tom lifted the curse on Marguerite.
 
    “Who do you think you are?” Marguerite’s voice was shrill with rage,
bouncing in angry echoes off the walls.
 
     “That’s an excellent question,” Patience answered before Tom could, coming
to stand in between Tom and their small Slytherin captive. “But the better one
is who do you think Tom is?”
 
     Tom quirked an amused brow at Patience, then made a lazy ‘go ahead, help
yourself,’ gesture, seating himself in one of the chairs by the fire. Abraxas
watched quietly, standing behind Tom’s chair, not taking his eyes off of
Marguerite. Though he appeared calm, Patience knew he was actually angrier than
Tom was.
 
     Marguerite frowned, glancing toward Tom. “Is this my ‘punishment’? Letting
your brain-damaged petask me riddles?”
 
     “Your ‘punishment,’” Tom replied smoothly, “hasn’t yet begun, Marguerite.
You might as well enjoy the scream-free prelude.”
 
     Color drained from her face. Patience made a tutting sound at Tom and
patted Marguerite’s arm. Marguerite jerked back, clenching her hands and
jamming them into her pockets.
 
     “Oh, we have your wand,” Patience smiled. “I did tell you that this was
going to happen, Marguerite. I was trying to help you.”
 
     She gave a horrible, bitter laugh. “No one wants to help me. I have to
help myself.”
 
     “I’d say you’re failing at that,” Tom smirked.
 
      Patience ignored him, stepping nearer to Marguerite, her stance non-
threatening, the way one would approach a cornered animal. “There are some
lessons we must learn. Life will present them over and over until we do. The
only choice we get is whether we learn those lessons quickly and easily, or
slowly and painfully. You are poised at the edge, Marguerite.”
 
     “Don’t promise her there won’t be pain, pet,” Tom called, twirling his
wand between his fingers. “That would be a lie.”
 
     “You can’t just torture me at Hogwarts,” Marguerite protested.
 
     “We absolutely can, Marguerite,” Abraxas spoke for the first time since
arriving, his hand clenching and unclenching on the back of Tom’s chair. His
face was impassive, but there was anger in his voice.
 
      Her dark eyes flew to his, sparkling with held-back moisture. “Why?
Because I hexed your pet? Slytherins hex each other all the time. A splash of
dittany and her face will be fine. My own mother has done much worse to me, and
I know yours has, too Abraxas. I didn’t do anything to merit being dragged down
here under the Imperius. You are being unreasonable.”
 
      “This Slytherin habit of in-fighting is both boring and offensive,” Tom’s
tone was icy. “And Pureblooded parents who abuse their children and call it
discipline are not exactly the model for reasonable behavior. I demand loyalty,
not jealous back-stabbing.”
 
      “I’ve never sworn loyalty to you,” Marguerite scoffed. “I promised to
keep this place a secret like the others in the study group, but the only
person I’m loyal to is myself.”
 
       Patience smiled sadly. “That’s the problem, Marguerite. If you want the
rewards of being associated with the most powerful witches and wizards of this
age, the cost is unquestioning loyalty.”
 
      “The one and only lesson you could learn from your older brother,” Tom
observed dryly.
 
       Marguerite shifted uneasily. She wasa Slytherin, after all, and had no
use for brave gestures. She adjusted herself to the situation to achieve the
best outcome. “And if I swear loyalty, now?”
 
      “Well, there are several problems with that scenario, Marguerite,” Tom’s
voice was gleeful, and his lovely lips were stretched in a smile so broad it
revealed the dimple he detested. “Let me enumerate them for you. One, you
thought you could harm my pet. Two, you are under the mistaken impression that
you can bargain with me. Three, you believe I care whether or not you are in
the new group we will be creating.”
 
      “And you don’t?” Marguerite folded her arms.
 
      Tom stood, shrugging his shoulders casually. “I had hoped that you would
factor into my future plans, simply because I like having the best at my
disposal, and you are one of the smartest and most talented witches in the
school, behind only Hermione and our pet, really. Your knowledge of darker
magic, of hexes and curses, as well as your overall understanding of the
various magical disciplines makes you valuable. But not invaluable.”
 
      He had come to stand in front of her, his face blank except for the fire
in his eyes. “And I let you touch me, Marguerite. I gave you license to put
your hands on my person in very intimate ways, and I touched you in return,” he
gave her a mocking smile, his voice shifting into an affected affronted tone.
“I’m a bit hurt that you seem to have forgotten this. Very few people have been
afforded that privilege. I had assumed that you understood what an honor that
was, and that you would be a most trusted general in my future endeavors, but I
was apparently, and quite uncharacteristically, wrong.”
 
      There was no movement, no warning.   The only indication that any magic
had occurred was Marguerite’s soft gasp and the sudden appearance of a bloody
red line across her cheek that mirrored Patience’s perfectly, though it was
deeper and bleeding profusely, trailing down Marguerite’s jawline to drip on
her sweater.
 
      “You will not attempt to heal that if you have a single shred of self-
preservation,” he announced in a bored tone.
 
       Marguerite’s mouth curled into a snarl. “Can you hear yourself, or are
you so far gone on arrogance that you’ve lost touch with reality? I’ll tell you
what I see when I look at you. I see a sixteen year old who thinks he is the
next Grindelwald, playing at being a dark lord.”
 
       There was a muffled shrieking sound as Marguerite’s mouth was suddenly
sewn shut, metallic silver thread appearing across her lips, piercing the skin.
 
       “I am the solution to Grindelwald, and I play at nothing!” Tom hissed,
snakes rising out of the floor, a fluid version of the marble they had formed
from, to twine around Marguerite’s wrists and ankles, holding her still.
Summoning snakes from any surface was a nice little spell he’d learned from his
fellow parselmouth, Apep.
 
       “I will run the wizarding world one day, Marguerite, and that is simply
fact, not a delusion of grandeur or false arrogance. Look around this chamber.
I am the Heir of Slytherin,” he shoved up his sleeve, revealing the golden
letters there. “I am also half of the most powerful soul mate bond formed in
centuries, and I am one-quarter of an elemental bond to rival the Hogwarts
founders, and we will collectively destroy anything that stands in our way.
Recognize the truth of this, or you will pay the price,” Tom’s magic was
swirling around him furiously, strong enough that everyone in the Chamber could
feel it, like a static charge in the air, ready to spark and engulf them all.
 
        Marguerite’s brown eyes were wide with terror as he spoke, becoming
wider with every new revelation, as well as his palpable rage, and she nodded
furiously. Patience reached forward, running a long, pale finger across the
other girl’s lips. The silver threads evaporated at her touch. The snake on
Patience’s bracelet slid down her wrist and made threatening noises in
Marguerite’s face. The two stared at each other for a long moment.
 
       “I understand what I didn’t before. I’ll swear loyalty,” Marguerite said
quickly, the blood from her cheek mingling with the blood from her lips.
 
       Abraxas snorted. “For how long? For a day? Or until it suits you to
betray us?”
 
       “Yes, it is a pesky thing, trust,” Tom commented. “You know about
Grindlewald’s book, and you haven’t said anything, which is a good sign,” he
came to stand beside Patience, ghosting his fingers just above the cut on her
face.
 
       “But you have this bad habit of harassing my most valued associates –
Hermione, Patience, and, of course, your pursuit of Abraxas, which is non-
negotiable.”
 
      “Hermione and I get along fine,” Marguerite protested, even as her blood
dripped on the floor. “I can’t help it if your pet attacked me, and as for
Abraxas,” she straightened, her jaw jutting out in defiance, “I won’t
apologize. I have to get engaged, and so does he. Both of our parents smile
upon the match. Why must you get everything?”
 
      Tom smiled widely. “Because I deserve everything. And let me be clear,
Marguerite. Once I have claimed something, it is mine.” At those words, his
magic flared around him, pushing outwards with great force. Marguerite probably
would have gone flying across the room had she not been secured in place by the
snakes.
 
      “I,” Marguerite started, then stopped, her breath in gasps. “I will
cooperate.”
 
      “She is telling the truth. She’s ready to cooperate,” Patience announced,
turning to Tom and Abraxas with a smile.
 
        Tom smirked, looping an arm around Patience’s waist and pulling her
close to his side. “See, Marguerite? This is what trust looks like. My pet
tells me something, I believe her, and trust her to be correct. And aren’t you
lucky that I do?”
 
        Marguerite was silent, only nodding in response.   Her lips were lined
with small, bloody circles, dark and raw against her chalky skin.
 
       “And though I do trust my dear pet,” Tom continued, clearly reveling in
Marguerite’s fear as he leaned forward to brush back a lock of dark hair that
had come loose from her braid. Marguerite gave the tiniest of shudders. “I am a
firm believer in being thorough. If you don’t cooperate, you will be sorry.”
 
       “I made the design,” Patience smiled, waving her wand, a symbol erupting
in a fiery outline in the air. It was an ouroboros, the ancient symbol of power
and rebirth and eternity – a snake swallowing its tail to create a perfect,
never-ending circle.
 
            Tom nodded his approval. “Excellent, pet. You never disappoint.
Shall we test it?”
 
           “What?” Marguerite finally spoke, her question coming out in a near
squeak. “What are you going to do to me?”
 
            Abraxas looked from Patience to Tom, his brows raised. “Yes, what
are we doing?”
 
            “We are going to test the efficacy of the group binding spell right
now, on Marguerite,” Tom said.
 
            “Hermione will not be happy about this,” Abraxas noted. “She
detests anything coercive, and Marguerite is clearly not in a position of free
will here.”
 
            Tom and Patience smiled in unison, a beautiful and frightening
sight to behold. “Marguerite has a choice. The spell must be entered willingly,
or it won’t take.” Tom turned to the tiny Slytherin who was practically
vibrating with fear.
 
            “What is the choice?” Marguerite asked, licking nervously at her
bloodied lips, then wincing.
 
            “Join us,” Patience answered in a low voice, “join us or die.” She
waited for a few seconds before she threw her head back and laughed, a
strangely musical and not at all human sound. “Not really. We aren’t going to
kill you.”
 
            Tom looked at Abraxas with an expression of immense amusement
tinged with pride. “I told you she was the vicious one.”
 
            Marguerite was silent, unable to move as the marble snakes still
ensnared her. Her face spoke volumes though – a mix of fear and rage and
helplessness.
 
            Patience stretched out a long arm, running her fingers down the
other girl’s face. “You are very smart, Marguerite, very talented. We want you
with us. I see in your heart that power is the most important thing to you,
greater than your pride, greater than thoughts of love. You will never find the
power we can offer you on your own. Swear your loyalty and you will be
rewarded.”
 
            “Why should I trust you?” Marguerite whispered, her eyes flicking
to the mark across Patience’s cheek. “You hate me.”
 
            “I don’t hate you, Marguerite. I don’t lie. I really did come to
speak with you to prevent this, but I should have known that you would require
a more…intense persuasion. Snakes are so stubborn.” Patience replied. “And you
don’t have to trust me – look for yourself.”
 
She pushed a vision into Marguerite’s mind, the sight of an older Marguerite
sitting in a grand office at the Ministry, at the head of the table, all the
people in the room looking at her in deference. With the mental image came a
feeling of supreme satisfaction.
 
            Marguerite closed her eyes, soaking in the sensation of her dreams
being fulfilled. Finally, she nodded slowly. “Fine. What must we do?”
 
            Tom waved his hand and the snakes released her, melting back into
the floor. He produced Marguerite’s wand from the air and held it out to her.
She reached for it, grasping the handle gingerly, then immediately slipped it
into her pocket, making no attempt to either attack or heal herself.
 
            “First test passed,” Patience drew her own wand, healing
Marguerite’s lips. “So long as you serve our interests, your own will be served
as well.”
 
            “You are, I hope, aware of how lucky you are that Patience
intervened on your behalf?” Tom spoke harshly. “I had planned on doing things
that would have made Hermione mad at me for months.”
 
            Though Marguerite looked like she wanted to argue over how ‘lucky’
she felt, she remained quiet. She watched disbelievingly as Patience wound her
arm through Tom’s with a careless ease.
 
            “That’s why I’m helping,” Patience smiled at him.
 
            “But you are depriving me of such fun,” Tom scowled at her, though
without much venom. “I could do with less help, pet.”
 
            “Not true,” Patience replied in a sing-song voice, then released
Tom and took Marguerite’s arm. “Which side is your dominant one?”
 
            “Left,” Marguerite frowned as Patience pushed up the left sleeve of
her sweater and unbuttoned her Oxford’s cuff, rolling it up as well to expose
the pale, thin arm underneath.
 
            “Kneel,” Tom commanded.
 
            Marguerite did so, her knees slipping slightly in the slick blood
that had fallen from her face onto the floor. The wound on her cheek still
bleed freely.
 
            “Your binding will be stronger than the others, because I trust you
less,” Tom tipped up her chin, tracing the wounded side of her face with his
wand. “This could have been so much easier, so much more pleasant, Marguerite,
but you have chosen the difficult path, as well as offended me by injuring my
pet, so I’ll make sure it hurts.”
 
            “I’m not afraid of pain,” Marguerite answered coolly, her left arm
raised up to Tom.
 
            “No,” Tom smiled down at her, bringing his wand to her forearm.
“But you are afraid of insignificance, of powerlessness. If you will simply
follow me, follow Hermione, then you won’t ever have to fear those things
again. Take out your wand.”
 
            She fumbled slightly with her right hand, but managed to get her
wand out of her left pocket.
 
            “Do you know the process for an Unbreakable Vow?” Tom asked.
“That’s part of the basis for the spell.”
 
            “In theory,” Marguerite replied, her eyes widening. “If you break
that vow,”
 
            “You die,” Patience supplied. “Or at least lose your magical
abilities.”
 
            Marguerite was shaking now. “I…”
 
            Abraxas shook his head. “I knew she wouldn’t. We should heal her
and obliviate her. She’s too much of a risk.”
 
            “Remember the vision, Marguerite,” Patience murmured, placing a
hand on Marguerite’s shoulder. She leaned down, whispering in the Slytherin’s
ear, “do you want to bound to an estate, to a husband, to producing Pureblooded
children, or do you want to be bound to Greatness? This is the place were the
decision is made.”
 
            “Well?” Tom snapped, annoyed with the delay. “You must give an
answer. I wasn’t lying when I said the spell won’t take unless it is undertaken
voluntarily.”
 
            Marguerite drew a deep breath, then exhaled. “Yes.”
 
            Long, fiery threads, the blinding color of white-hot flames,
erupted from Tom’s wand, winding themselves over Marguerite’s arm and encasing
her wand as well.
 
            “Do you, Marguerite Emmeline Rosier, swear loyalty to me, Tom
Marvolo Riddle, Heir of Slytherin, and to my magical extensions, my soulmate
and bound air magic mate, Hermione Jean Bonneau, my bound water magic mate,
Patience Layla Foster, and my bound earth magic mate, Abraxas Charles Malfoy,
for the rest of your life?”
 
            “I do,” Marguerite swallowed, clearly understanding fully the
nature of the quartet’s bond for the first time. The fire around her arm and
wand grew brighter, and Marguerite grimaced.
 
            Tom noticed and gave a satisfied smile, and followed with several
additional questions. “Do you promise to faithfully follow all orders from
myself and my magical extensions, for the greater good of our group? Do you
swear to keep the secrets of the group and to protect others in the group to
the best of your ability through word, deed, and up to the shedding of your own
blood? Do you promise to refrain from harming anyone in our group, with the
exception of an event of betrayal? If a betrayal is committed, do you swear to
execute the punishment if called upon? Do you promise to devote yourself to
destroying any and all enemies of our group, starting with Grindelwald and his
allies?”
 
            As Marguerite answered each question in the affirmative, the fiery
threads grew brighter and hotter, moving up her arm and across her torso,
crawling like a drunken spider over her entire body. She bit her lip against
what was clearly pain, but didn’t cry out. Though the web of light covered her
from head to toe, the most intense spot was concentrated on her inner left arm
and wand hand.
 
            Tom looked on approvingly. “In return, I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir
of Slytherin, pledge to protect you with my magic, and that of my magical
extensions, so long as you remain loyal to all your oaths. I pledge the use of
my influence and power to further your goals, so long as they are not in
conflict with my own and that of the group.”
 
            At these words, the light retracted, the threads pulled toward
Marguerite’s elbow, like a rubber band snapping back into place. There was a
sound of sizzling flesh, and Marguerite did scream at this, loudly. Tom,
Abraxas, and Patience stared down at her exposed arm, now decorated with an
ourboros the size of a galleon coin, and the same bright golden color.
           
            He put down a hand, and Marguerite took it after only a second of
hesitation. With another few waves of his wand, he vanished the blood from her
face and clothing, and healed the cut enough to stop the bleeding.
 
            “Thank you,” she murmured, looking at him questioningly.
 
            “Don’t bother to try to heal it further,” he warned. “I cursed the
wound – it won’t respond to healing spells or dittany, and will only get worse
if you try to treat it. I want you to be reminded of your foolishness every
time you look in the mirror, so you’ll know better than to repeat it.”
 
            Marguerite nodded, slowly rolling her sleeve back down. She stood
stock still as Patience buttoned her cuff, then hugged her. “See? That wasn’t
so bad,” Patience said in her sing-song voice. “You’re still alive and in one
piece.”
 
            Abraxas made a choking sound that might have been laughter. Tom
smirked. “Why don’t you head back to the dorms, Marguerite? I think you’ll want
extra rest tonight.”
 
            She was gone quickly, out of the room at an unnatural speed.
           
            “You scared her,” Patience sighed, looking at Tom.
 
            Tom snorted. “I think you might have scared her more, pet.”
 
            “You are both terrifying,” Abraxas said, then added in a mutter,
“but not nearly as frightening as Hermione will be when she finds out about
this.”
 

 
***** Circle of Friends *****
Chapter Summary
     The larger group undergoes a binding ceremony and Hermione confronts
     Tom concerning Marguerite.
Chapter Notes
     So...yeah, I need to stop making plans completely. I had assumed
     summer vacation would bring more free time for, but in the words of
     Samuel L. Jackson, from the kitschy, yet horribly underappreciated
     movie, /The Long Kiss Goodnight/, "Everybody knows when you make an
     assumption, you make an ass of out you and -umption." But, I finally
     got something out, with a little action and a little smut. Hugs and
     kisses!
     
 
Hermione stared up at her scarlet Gryffindor canopy, a perfect replica down to
the tiny splatter stains from when Lavender had handed her a butter beer that
had been dropped on the floor. It had exploded in a mess of fizz when Hermione
had opened it, and though she’d cleaned herself and the bed, she’d missed the
canopy spots, only noticing the slightly darker circles weeks later. Though it
seemed silly, the stains were comforting, some kind of proof that her future
that no longer existed could still be manifested, at least temporarily, in the
Room of Requirement. She half-expected Ginny to burst in asking for advice on a
homework assignment, to hear Pavarti’s laugh, or smell the obnoxiously cloying
rose-scented perfume Lavender insisted on spraying all over herself.  
 
She’d fled here for refuge from the last week, and all the memories and
emotions that had flown at her, like hornets from a kicked nest. First, there
had been the physical exhaustion, which had reached a point where her brain and
her magic had started to suffer. Even though she was aware this was counter-
productive, she’d been unable to stop herself. Books and research were safety,
a wall of words and knowledge that had always protected her.  The parallels
between fighting Death Eaters and hunting Horcruxes and trying to undermine
Grindelwald and eventually bring him down were clear, and her wartime mindset
had been activated. Hogwarts, and even England, were safe from Grindelwald and
his forces in a way that they had never been from Voldemort, but that didn’t
stop the feelings of fear, of waking up from barely thirty minutes sleep in a
cold sweat. Having once been in constant danger, Hermione could never un-know
the hyper-alert state it brought, and when those feelings were triggered,
survival mode took over.
 
She could forgive Patience and the others for the sleeping draught. Really. It
wasn’t ideal to be drugged, but Hermione could recognize she’d gone overboard,
and that reeling her in through logic would have been difficult. Also, the
version of sleeping draught Patience had given her was harmless, and Hermione
had absolutely needed to have her brain shut off in a long, dreamless rest.
What she was not so ready to forgive was what had happened with her quartet and
Marguerite while she’d been passed out. She kept drawing lines with Tom, then
watching him cross them. How could she keep her soul intact, her sense of
morality, when Tom kept pushing and pulling her beyond the limits of what she
found acceptable, what she found right?
 
Hermione had woken up late on Saturday afternoon to an empty room, concerned
about the group bonding, but committed to creating it. The group, so different
from the Death Eaters, would give Tom focus and a sense of accomplishment,
which could only be good thing, she reassured herself. She showered and
dressed, reveling in the sense of feeling rested for the first time in a week.
As her mind came fully awake, something new sparked at the edges of her magical
boundaries, another connection – a dark, earthy magic that she had access to,
if she wanted it.
 
But she wasn’t sure she did, at least not without an explanation and careful
exploration. Tom and the others had bound someone to them, before the group
spell that was supposed to take place later today, and Hermione knew exactly
whom that someone was. Marguerite’s magic was wickedly sharp, like the jagged
edges of a rocky cliff with few safe handholds. Her power was there, but
Hermione had a feeling it was not fully willing, and perhaps littered with
booby traps. Marguerite had not been the President of Tom’s Fan Club for quite
a few months now. Hermione had even considered that they might need to
obliviate her after offering the group bond, because Hermione honestly thought
she would refuse. What could have changed her mind?
 
After grabbing a quick bite in the Great Hall, she’d felt Patience in her head,
gently leading her toward the bathroom entrance to the Chamber. As she walked
the corridors, Hermione felt her anger growing, even as Patience tried to
soothe her. When she’d entered the room, Patience was wisely silent, using her
snake bracelet to reveal the path to the Chamber.
 
The whole study group was in the Chamber library, and Hermione was well aware
that this was not the time for airing her grievances. She stood beside Tom,
with Patience and Abraxas bracketing them, and did her best to look supportive
while Tom shared his plans and offered the group the bonding ritual. Though her
facial muscles didn’t move, she was infuriated by how smooth and convincing Tom
was, how he presented the group bond as a gift, as an opportunity that no one
in his or her right mind would pass up. He answered every question, assuaged
every fear, all with a broad, beatific smile on his face that insanely put her
in the mind of the Grinch explaining to little Cindy Lou Who that he needed to
take her Christmas tree to fix its broken light. Marguerite even stood at his
prompting, showing the others her mark, with something that might have been a
smile on another, softer, girl’s face.
 
Spending the last week lost in memories of her past (the future she was
rewriting), there had been plenty of moments pondering just how horrible
Voldemort and his followers had been, how much pain they had caused. She didn’t
want to list all the casualties, though Harry’s parents, Neville’s parents’
sanity, Sirius, and Cedric came quickly to mind. Her Tom, and how odd she knew
that was, that he was her Tom, was perfectly capable of such cruelty, of such
evil, if she didn’t provide him with balance, with an alternative outlet for
his need for control. Hermione had even proposed this plan to Narcissa, but
that didn’t mean that she didn’t have some reservations about giving Tom’s ego
such a banquet.
 
And, oh, how he feasted. Corvus Black had been first, and Hermione was forced
to hide her shock when Tom had ‘outed’ their soul mate bond andtheir elemental
bond with Patience and Abraxas. Of course, the group loyalty vow made their
secret safe, and the announcement certainly had shock value, and impressed upon
the group just how powerful Tom was. As he had predicted, that was plenty of
incentive for the Slytherins. One by one, they knelt, and their inner arms were
marked with a small, golden ouroboros. With each member of the study group who
knelt before them and pledged loyalty, she felt Tom’s pleasure expand, until
she was almost giddy herself with the shared sensation.
 
It had been an additional shock when, as Josephine stepped forward, Tom stepped
back slightly, and motioned for her to kneel in front of Hermione, not him.
Hermione had told him that the Ravenclaws had different motives than the
Slytherins, and apparently he had paid more attention than she’d realized.
Having Josephine and Felicity swear their loyalty to her rather than Tom made
no real difference in the spell, especially given how entangled her magic was
with that of her soul mate, but symbolically, it was significant. Her roommates
were like sisters to her, and their trust for her was much deeper and more
instinctive than what they felt for Tom. Hermione also knew that by having her
perform the spell for part of the group, Tom was proving a point, making her
just as responsible for their actions as he was. He could feel the anger she
had been tamping down, and now he was poking it. She pushed it down even
further and continued the spell, repeating Tom’s words.
 
When Josephine and Felicity had gone, Patience and Abraxas knelt
simultaneously, Patience before her and Abraxas in front of Tom. They had
spoken earlier in the week about this, though Hermione had been incredibly
sleep-deprived at the time. She remembered vaguely arguing with Tom that
everyone in the group needed to be marked with the symbol, or the group would
feel unequal. Tom had tartly responded that the members wereunequal, and that
they, and by extension their elemental quartet, were the leaders, placing them
above the others. Hermione hadn’t given up, telling him that of course the
group would realize that; they were swearing loyalty to him, after all, but
that the best leaders fostered a sense of oneness and camaraderie with their
followers, and that having all of them marked would strengthen the group
identity and morale.
 
Due to the strong elemental bonds already present, the vows felt much more
intense, and Hermione wasn’t at all surprised to see that inside the circular
symbols on Patience and Abraxas’s inner arms were smaller, runic symbols for
water and earth, respectively. When they were finished, Hermione and Tom turned
to face another, sleeves rolled up, wands crossing to connect with each other’s
inner arms, Tom’s without her words, and hers without the remnant scar. As they
spoke the vow, their magic rose around them, filling the Chamber. There were
several gasps, and Hermione glanced away from Tom long enough to see that their
magic had become visible, and was surrounding them in swirls, Hermione’s a
bright white-gold, and Tom’s a dark black with hints of a silvery sheen. It
dispersed into threads, wrapping around each other and weaving into a domed net
around them, then, as they finished the spell, diving into their arms, knocking
them both to their knees.
 
“What a pair we make, little bird,” Tom whispered, running his finger over her
inner arm, where the ouroboros shone a brilliant gold with the symbol for air
glittering in the middle.
 
Hermione didn’t respond. She felt too overwhelmed by his touch on the mark on
her arm, which produced a sensation very similar to the way her body felt when
he traced the words on her stomach. Instead, she brushed her own fingers over
his mark, which included the fire symbol, and was pleased to see him shudder
slightly.
 
“Let’s finish this,” she managed to murmur, as they used each other’s forearms
as leverage to rise up from the floor. “We still need to perform the entire
group bond.”
 
Tom nodded and ordered the group to come forward. There was more than one
hesitation, after the display of power they’d witnessed, but the group formed a
tight circle, each member stretching out his or her newly marked arm into the
center, and touching wand ends.
 
“Go ahead, Dearest,” Tom spoke, his voice ringing through the Chamber, “Bind us
all. You’ve done the most research into this.”
 
Once again, Hermione wondered what he was playing at, but she didn’t have time
to go down that rabbit hole, or snake hole, more accurately, and he was still
immensely pleased, his euphoria flooding her so strongly that it was difficult
to concentrate. She gathered some of his magic, which felt nearly
indistinguishable from her own at this point, then at Patience and Abraxas, who
were also closer than before. That combined magic made her body vibrate, and it
was all she could do to keep her wand hand from shaking.   Slowly, giving
herself time between each one, Hermione collected magic from the eight new
sources now available to her.
 
The unique signature of each person’s magic was fascinating, and Hermione’s
love of compiling and cataloguing information battled fiercely with the
performance of the spell. She reminded herself that she was making a permanent
bond, and that she would have plenty of time to explore these magical
connections in the years to come. Still, she couldn’t help making mental notes
about the members, how Vidhi’s magic crackled like a hearth fire just barely
contained, how Josephine’s curled around her in warm waves, like the water on a
tropical beach, how Felicity’s air magic buzzed and darted, like Felicity
herself did when she played Quidditch. Even the others, who were all earth
magic, felt wildly different from one another, and Hermione thought their
magical signatures were linked to their personalities or perhaps vice versa.
Corvus was a lonely mountaintop, Jacob a forest clearing, Sebastian was a wide,
open plain littered with dangerous bogs, Dolohov was a tar pit, and Thad a
meadow, filled with daisies.   Marguerite, of course, was the rocky cliff side,
a nearly sheer face with several dark cave entrances that one wouldn’t dare to
take refuge in.
 
 
Forcing herself to focus, Hermione turned away from the study of the group’s
magical signatures and back to the spell. She connected with each member in
turn, using her wand to draw a wispy thread from each person’s mark, like
picking a stitch from a woven blanket. The threads rose up in a slanted line
above the circle to meet in the center in a single, braided thread. Hermione
thought it beautiful, really, a lovely spell that focused on loyalty and
interdependence, not simply submission and dominance like the earlier vow had.
She had lobbied Tom hard for this addition, and she was glad she had. Every
member of the group looked reassured by the spell.
 
As the joined, multi-colored thread twisted back to the marks, so that each
person had two threads over his or her arm, creating a loop that disappeared
into the mark, Hermione spoke the accompanying words, “In each other, we find
our strength. In our joined magic, we will create the world we would have. Our
loyalty is not simply to One, but to All who give the One the strength to
lead.”  
 
There was a burst of energy, and then the loops of magic absorbed back into the
marks, leaving everyone in the group with a link to every other member. It was
strong magic, but subtle, and though it wouldn’t interfere with day-to-day
activities, if one member of the group was in danger, the others would be able
to trace back the entwined thread to determine who needed help.
 
Hermione looked around the circle, and saw the expected expressions of shock
from strong magic, residual wariness from having made such a deep commitment,
and a matching giddiness from having been reckless teenagers who had thrown
caution to the winds, creating bonds to circumvent grown-ups and save the world
(or amass power, depending on the group member). They needed an outlet for all
their conflicting feelings and restless energy.
 
This wouldn’t occur to Tom, but Patience and Abraxas understood, and before
Hermione could say anything, Abraxas was pulling down the enchanted goblet and
Patience was tuning the wireless to an upbeat big band song, and the group
seemed to make a collective sigh. Jacob and Josephine ended up in a pair of the
armchairs, holding hands and talking quietly. Abraxas and Corvus began a game
of wizarding chess, arguing over who was winning from the first move. Felicity,
Vidhi, Sebastian, and Dolohov went to the dueling mats and started practicing
the list of attack and defense spells that would be in the practical portion of
the OWLs later this year, occasionally throwing in ridiculous hexes that did
things like making ears sprout wings or hands turn to flippers. Patience danced
to the music in an odd circle, not at all to the rhythm of the music. Tom
leaned against a bookshelf, watching the room, still riding the high of magical
bliss, Hermione knew, because she was as well. He smirked at her, and she
looked away. It really wouldn’t be good for the newly bound group to have mom
and dad fighting so soon.
 
So, she went to Marguerite instead, who was sitting in one of the green chairs
on the other side of the room, staring at the empty, dark fireplace. Hermione
pointed her wand at the hearth and it sprang to life with hot, orange flames.
It was a spell she had done many times, but she noted that since this school
year, fire magic had come to her more and more easily, and now, after tonight?
Casting that spell felt like pulling Tom into her arms, having his magic caress
her. And she knew he felt it, too. What would it feel like when she cast a
water or earth spell? Or, Circe forbid, one that combined all the elements?
These emotions were running riot through her ordered mind.
 
“Marguerite,” Hermione said softly, resting on the edge of the chair opposite
the small Slytherin whom she used to hate. “Are you alright?”
 
“What do you think?” Marguerite turned her head, pushing back the line of dark
hair that had obscured the side of her face. Hermione had thought it odd that
Marguerite’s hair was down, loose around her face – she never wore it that way,
not once in the five years Hermione had known her.  
 
A cold chill ran through Hermione as she viewed the raw red line on
Marguerite’s cheekbone. It reminded her of the wound the future Dolohov had
given her at the Ministry, the one that had bisected her chest in a painful,
angry line until Narcissa had finally managed to heal it four years ago. “May
I?” she leaned forward, her hands tentatively reaching out.
 
“You can’t heal it; that will only make it worse,” Marguerite warned, but
didn’t draw back. “He cursed it. He wants the scar to show.”
 
Of course he does, Hermione thought. Visible marks of his power meant a great
deal to Tom. And though she supported the voluntary binding just performed, she
could not condone this. Marking others in anger, through torture, was the
beginning of a dark road. She knew there was a story there, but she was sure
that whatever Marguerite had done, it couldn’t have merited permanently
scarring her face.
 
“What happened?” Hermione asked as she ran a hand over the cut, not quite
touching it, to feel the dark magic inside of it. It was Tom’s magic, and like
all of Tom’s magic, it called to her, even if it was hissing angrily.
 
Marguerite shook her head, leaning back in her chair. “Your soul mate, our
self-appointed Lord and Master, was simply reminding me that I am never, ever,
to touch his things.”
 
Hermione knew her expression was one of exasperation. “Just speak plainly,
Marguerite. I thought we had come to respect one another enough to be honest.”
 
“I suppose I do, though I really hate you, so it will have to be brutal
honesty,” Marguerite gave her a smile that was pure Slytherin, then related the
events of the night before.
 
“The spell isn’t supposed to work if you aren’t willing, but I am sure Tom
could have modified it,” Hermione chewed her lip. “Do you want to be here,
Marguerite? To be a part of this group? Because if you are under duress, truly,
I will find a way to undo the spell.”
 
She frowned. “My life hasn’t been full of many choices. No Pureblood’s is. But
I know how to fight, and if I had really wanted to resist Tom, I could have
done a better job. I probably wouldn’t have won, but I could have given him a
few marks of my own. I did take the vow freely. Your pet might be insane, but I
do think she can see the future, at least some of it, and she showed me a path
I’d like to follow.”
 
“And that path requires following Tom as well?” Hermione asked.
 
Marguerite nodded, unconsciously tucking her hair behind her ear, revealing the
scar again. “And, after tonight’s display, I would be insane myself to pass up
a connection to such power.” Her mouth twisted into a self-deprecating smirk as
she inclined her head in a small gesture of fealty. “Consider me at your
service.”
 
“I will get that cut healed,” Hermione ground her teeth.
 
Her defensive magic was rising at the mere sight of Marguerite’s face. The vow
that she had made to the group meant something to her. It hadn’t been a one-way
spell. Hermione had pledged to help protect this group, and that included
Marguerite. Yes, she had attacked Patience, but Hermione had to agree that
Tom’s revenge had been disproportionate. After all, Patience’s mark was
completely healed, with no trace left behind. Salazar Slytherin had been
obsessive in his collection of knowledge of the Dark Arts, and that included
information about how to heal wounds inflicted with dark magic, as well as
countering and absorbing even powerful curses. Between the Chamber and her
mothers’ knowledge, Hermione was confident she could heal the mark on
Marguerite’s cheek eventually. Of course, that would require head-to-head
combat with Tom, but after the last week, she had to admit she was raring for a
fight.
 
 
The group stayed as long as their curfews would allow, and Hermione lingered to
speak to Tom after Patience had taken Abraxas’s arm with a knowing smile and
led him away.
 
“Do you have a new list of grievances, Dearest? Or is going to be a revisiting
of the classics?” Tom’s tone was smug and his smirk matched it in arrogance.
“Shall I get us started? I’m too angry, too dark, too violent, too possessive,
and the worst of all, too unfeeling.”
 
Hermione drew in a shaky breath. “I know all those things about you, Tom.
Whenever we fight, it’s always about you. It’s about me accepting you. You say
I need to let you be who you are. But who we are is defined by what we do. You
can have impulses to do something cruel, yet resist them. You simply choose not
to. And you need to accept that I will not stand by and allow needless
cruelty.  Accept me, too.”
 
Tom stepped closer, and their magic, still energized from the rituals and the
biofeedback loop of each other’s presence, sang. A wave of euphoria swept over
her, attempting to carry away her anger. She clung to it. “We cannot simply go
back and forth, yelling for the other to change. If you want to be a hero, if
you want to rise to power and not be hated behind your back, with
insubordinates plotting to take you down, you must lead with respect, not
fear.”
 
“Leaders need to keep followers in line, and Slytherins respect displays of
power,” Tom replied tersely. “Marguerite is lucky-”
 
“No!” Hermione cut off. “You over-reacted. Marguerite is still two months from
turning sixteen. She’s being pressured to get engaged, and the top choice is
being held off-limits by the person who took her virginity and then treated her
like nothing. She was angry and scared and she lashed out. The slicing hex to
Patience wasn’t anything half as bad as what the older Slytherins did to us in
our first year, or even what some students do to each other in the halls before
a Quidditch match. You wanted to punish her not because she truly deserved it,
but because you felt like it, because you enjoyedit.”
 
Tom smiled, but it was all teeth – more of a snarl. “You do know me so well.
And I have no need to lie to you. I enjoyed making Marguerite scream and seeing
the blood flow from her cheek. Just like you enjoyed killing that man in
France. If we are comparing bloodlust, Dearest, I think come up short next to
you.”
 
“There is a difference between a battle situation and cold-blooded torture,
Tom, and you know it,” Hermione had always suspected he’d felt her pleasure,
the vicious satisfaction that had flooded her body and magical aura when she’d
thrown that knife. He had never taunted her with it, though, and had even
reassured her that she did the right thing. But what did it mean when Tom
Riddle thought you were doing the right thing?
 
She drew herself up, looking into his eyes. “I’m not going to argue with you,
Tom. You are my first priority. I love you, and I want you to be successful. I
want you to reach the heights you are striving for, and I understand that
violence will sometimes be necessary. But this wasn’t. Acting out like this
will only hurt our cause. I am going to heal Marguerite’s face, and I’m telling
you right now that if you try to ‘punish’ anyone else in our group for an
unjust reason, I will not stand by.”
 
“Will you fight me, little bird?” he whispered, his hands coming up to cup the
back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her face close
to his.
 
Hermione leaned in and kissed him. When he was so near, she couldn’t resist the
desire to touch him. “Only if you make me,” she spoke against his lips as she
pulled back for a moment. “Please don’t make me. You can be a great leader
without everyone being terrified of you.”
 
Tom’s hands dropped lower, resting on her waist, his thumbs making circles over
her hipbones. “But I like the terror,” his teeth grazed the side of her neck,
gently biting and sucking.
 
“The love and respect you’ll gather will feel just as good,” she moaned. “Even
better, because it will produce true loyalty. Just give my way a chance. You
made your point with Marguerite.”
 
“Fine, for now,” Tom had lifted her now, and her legs wrapped around his waist
instinctively. “But if she touches any of you again, I won’t let even you stop
me from teaching her an even more permanent lesson.”
 
“She won’t,” Hermione managed to get out, though she was very distracted by the
long fingers brushing past the waistband of her knickers. “The oath bound us
all. And she wants a future where she’s free. Can’t you understand that?”
 
Tom slid two fingers over her clit, circling and tapping in the way he knew put
her immediately on the edge. “Why are we still talking about Marguerite?”
 
“Because if we are going to change wizarding society, we must include people
like Marguerite. Purebloods can be just as much a victims of their traditions
as Muggleborns,” she panted.
 
“My seduction techniques must be slipping,” he hummed against her throat.
 
“Or I’m just that stubborn,” she said between kisses, her hips rising to meet
his touches.
 
He laughed darkly, plunging a finger into her. “I’ve never doubted that,
Dearest. Without your fire, your brilliance, you wouldn’t be my soul mate.”
 
She pushed one hand down into his pants, took his hard length in her hand. His
head fell against her shoulder, his breath heavy on her collarbone. “Just try
it my way, Tom, don’t be afraid of being loved. I won’t let anyone hurt you.
Ever.”
 
“That’s my line,” Tom bit his lip.
 
“Say yes,” Hermione used her nails to lightly scratch at the sensitive skin
along the underside of his cock. “Say yes. If someone truly betrays us, I swear
I’ll help you kill them.”
 
Tom’s eyes met hers. She could feel his love, his frustration, and his magic,
all wrapped around her. He wanted to be respected, adored, even if he wouldn’t
admit it. He was going to give in, she could feel it, but he would make her pay
for it in submission. She shivered around his fingers, her cunt clenching.
 
“Fine,” he bit at her collarbone, sucking hard at the skin. There would be a
deep bruise when he was done, but Hermione was only aroused further at that
thought.  “Now, try very hard to be a good girl for just a few minutes and do
as you are told.”
 
“Yes, my Lord,” she murmured, watching his eyes light up as she spoke.
 
He put her down, withdrawing his hands long enough to whisper disrobing and
incarceration spells. In an instant, she was naked, spread over one of long
library tables, her arms and legs bound by writhing snakes that had sprouted
from the oak surface.
 
Hissing in Parseltongue, his mouth hovered over her skin, his lips barely
grazing the fine hairs on her arm as he began to kiss her from head to toe. It
was painfully arousing, slow, and teasing. She couldn’t understand his words,
but his tone and his emotions were clear. He was channeling all the need for
control into this moment, and he was telling her that she was his, that she
would always be his, along with whatever filthy endearments existed in a
reptilian language.
 
Once every inch of her front was on fire with his touch, he used magic to flip
her over, conjuring a wedged pillow to lift her hips off the table and thrust
her arse into the air. Between the two of them, the rising excitement was
unbearable. She squirmed restlessly against the snakes, which twisted smoothly
around her wrists, circling over and over her pulse points in an oddly erotic
fashion.
 
“What we have,” Tom finally spoke in English again, his mouth over the small of
her back as he licked the length of her spine, “is not something I ever
imagined was possible. And I treasure you, Hermione, along with Abraxas and
that blasted pet of ours, but I will make you keep your word, and that if
anyone touches what is mine, death will be a blessing to them, and you will
help me.”
 
She didn’t say anything, because that wasn’t what he needed right now. He was
feeling out of control, she could sense that pouring into her through his
touch, through his magic. There was the sound of something whistling through
the air, and she knew he wouldn’t be using his hand like he had on Patience.
That thought had barely registered before there was a sharp sting and
blossoming warmth radiating across her posterior.
 
“My little bird, do not doubt I will be the Lord of all we see, and you will be
my Lady, elevated higher than any other,” Tom stroked her softly now, with his
large palms cool over her burning flesh. “But you are still mine, and right
now, I feel the need to remind you of that.”
 
The hits continued, and the burn built along with her arousal, pain and
pleasure mingled. Hermione opened herself up to him, and he responded and they
both felt the heady mix. His thoughts were in her mind, and she whispered
something, an echo that floated past. It was only as the snakes disappeared
back into the table that she realized she had phonetically spoken the
Parseltongue spell he’d thought, releasing herself from the bonds.
 
His eyes widened, then immediately narrowed. She distracted him by turning and
pulling him into her, aligning their hips so that he slid perfectly inside her.
It was another delicious, burning stretch, and all thoughts were gone for
several minutes.
 
Curfew, Patience’s voice warned in her head, rousing her from the sleepy stupor
that had settled over her after she and Tom had come together. Every time they
had sex, it felt more intense than the last. And now she was hearing Tom’s
thoughts? Were they progressing toward the final stage of the soul mate bond,
the complete unification?Tom would want to explore the fact that she had heard
his thoughts, even if only fleetingly, and Hermione would also need to redouble
her occlumency efforts.   He could never, ever, be allowed to read her
thoughts. The world depended on it.
            “We need to go,” Hermione stood, summoning her clothes and rapidly
dressing.
 
            Tom rose, doing the same, and nodded. He wasn’t ready to question
her yet, she could tell, but when he was, there would be a very dangerous
conversation to be had.  Hermione ran from the room, away from Ravenclaw Tower,
and to the Room of Requirement.  She needed a place to be alone, to find a
moment in time when the world's weight wasn't on her shoulders.
 
 
 
***** Conversations of Soul Mates, Friends, and Snakes *****
Chapter Summary
     Abraxas figures out just who Patience is, Galatea pushes Dumbledore's
     button, and Tom talks to snakes. One out of three satisfied
     conversations isn't so bad, right?
Chapter Notes
     Oh, my. All I can say is life. It get me every time. But I'm back on
     track, hopefully. Love to all my readers, and I'm sorry for the
     absence.
February, 1943
 
Abraxas stared at the letter from his mother, the third this month. To most
anyone else, Lady Malfoy’s words would have seemed cordial, perhaps gently
chiding, but nothing a mother who was concerned for her son’s future wouldn’t
write. Abraxas knew better. Evangeline was very angry about the late January
announcement of Marguerite Rosier’s engagement to Sebastian Lestrange. With the
additional announcement of Josephine Longbottom’s betrothal to Jacob Selwyn
only a week past, the number of potential Pureblooded brides of suitable age
range and fortune who were more distant than second cousins was dwindling.   He
could read the threats between the lines, the veiled references to eliminating
‘distractions,’ which he knew referred to Patience. The missive ended with a
warning that Evangeline was ready to make arrangements without his involvement
if he didn’t put forth any effort. She had enclosed another list, this one with
only five names, and had instructed him to rate the list in order of
preference.
 
Of those listed, Abraxas had only met two: Hortentia Slughorn, Professor
Slughorn’s niece, who was just a second year, and Iris Burke, a third cousin of
his mother’s who was unmarried at twenty-three because she was notoriously
disagreeable, even for a Burke. Iris had a habit of hexing anyone who sat near
her at any family functions, and usually managed to get a corner table all to
herself.   The other three he knew by name: Olive Travers was not at Hogwarts
yet – being only nine; Jesepa Crouch was in her fourth year at Beauxbatons
because her parents considered women who graduated from Hogwarts not good wife
material; and, finally, Maryanne Fawley, a twenty-five year old who’d gone into
seclusion at seventeen when she’d caught a bad case of Dragon Pox and been
scarred so badly that she refused to go out in public. His mother had wryly
noted beside the last name that scars did not transfer to children.
 
Abraxas quickly composed two letters – a short, non-committal response to his
mother that avoided the list altogether and a longer letter to his father
asking for more time, reminding him subtly of his father’s own delay in getting
engaged, and his approval at the Winter Solstice Ball of Abraxas’s ‘sowing of
his wild oats.’ Though he hated to refer to his relationship to Patience in
such a way, Gawain was a notorious womanizer, and there was no doubt he would
be pleased to think of his son following in his self-styled Casanova footsteps.
He immediately went up to the Owlery, trying to ignore the knots forming in his
stomach.
 
He was worried that his mother would wear his father down, remind Gawain of
their son’s duty to continue the Malfoy line one too many times, and then?
Well, then there would be trouble on a massive scale. Once any type of
engagement spell was performed (some of which could be started without his
presence), his parents would find out about the bonds he’d made and try to
break them, one way or another. He didn’t put it past his parents to try to
have his bond mates killed, nor did he doubt for an instant that Tom would
retaliate with equally deadly force. Abraxas was the happiest he’d ever been in
his life, and he wanted to keep it that way. He was a worrier by virtue of his
childhood, though, and he couldn’t shake the dread that was filling him.
 
Suddenly, as he rounded the last curve of the staircase that opened into the
tower housing the owls, he felt lighter, buoyed by an odd joyfulness, a
peaceful calm. It was only a few seconds later that the sensation intensified
and he found himself face to face with Patience. She was standing in the middle
of the room, absolutely still, her eyes closed. Despite the strong chill, she
was without a robe, the early morning winter sun shining through the edges of
her thin Oxford button-down, and the breeze blew the fine strands of her hair
out in a halo around her face and shoulders. She looked like a Goddess, and
Abraxas couldn’t imagine not worshipping her.
 
Since their initial bonding in September and the more intense bondings in
November and December, he had been aware that being in the company of Patience
was like taking calming draughts and Pepper-Up potions all at once. The closer
she was, the more his skin felt abuzz, and his magic felt alive. Unlike with
Tom, they were rarely alone – he never had much time with either Hermione or
Patience without others around. His bond with the individual members of the
group was usually drowned out by the collective, but right now, a door
previously locked was opening in his mind, and Abraxas knew a truth he hadn’t
before.
 
“We’re soulmates,” he breathed quietly, the words coming out in white puffs in
the frozen air.
 
Her eyes opened and her mouth widened into a smile that was somehow innocent
and knowing at once. “Of course we are.”
 
“How long have you known?” he asked, reaching out to pull her into his arms.
She was soft and smelled like the ocean. The comfort increased exponentially.
He could hardly breathe. Did he need to breathe if everything was perfect?
Would it break the moment?
 
She leaned into him, her magic seemingly bottomless in the way it rolled over
him, pulled him in, bathed him in love. “Forever.”
 
Abraxas didn’t scoff at that statement, or question it. Even Tom, perhaps one
of the most skeptical people alive, didn’t doubt Patience. He held her closer,
and simply drank her in. Their embrace was not sexual, it was deeper – a
recognition of a part of one’s self in another. As long as he was in her arms,
as long as he had her, Tom, and Hermione, he didn’t need to worry, he realized.
What could stand against their love? Or against Fate itself, which had clearly
brought two pairs of soul mates together to make a quartet of unbelievable
power?
 
“You need to send your letters,” she spoke against his ear after several
minutes of embracing. “Your mother will be angry, but your father will laugh.”
 
“How did I even come from them?” he pondered aloud, not really expecting an
answer, as he tied his letters to Odysseus’s leg.
 
Patience turned as she tied a letter to her small grey owl, Iris. “It doesn’t
matter who we are born to – we make ourselves.”
 
“Easy to say when your parents are perfectly lovely,” Abraxas’s mouth only
formed half of a smile.
 
“They are wonderful, yes,” Patience agreed, coming to take his hand again. They
watched their birds fly away. “They will want to meet you soon.”
 
“You haven’t told them that we…?” He couldn’t imagine meeting Patience’s
parents if they had even the slightest inkling of the things what he had done
with their daughter. After she’d point-blank told his father that they were
sleeping together, he took nothing for granted with Patience.
 
She shook her head and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“But I did tell them that I’d found my soul mate. My parents are soul mates,
too. They have always wanted that for me – the happiness they have.”
 
Abraxas’s chest tightened painfully. Patience’s hand immediately came up to
cover his heart. “Don’t worry. They aren’t going to call on your parents to
plan our wedding. My grandmother was a Black before she married a Longbottom.”
 
“A Black?” Abraxas raised his eyebrow. He couldn’t imagine Patience coming from
the same bloodline as Sagitta, no matter how far removed, nor had he realized
how close Patience was to being Pureblooded.
 
“Yes,” she nodded. “So I know all about angry Pureblooded relatives.” She
brought her other hand down and threaded her fingers through his. “And my
mother knows even more. Just because they are loving doesn’t mean that their
lives have been easy.”
 
Abraxas flushed. “I didn’t mean-” What was it about Patience that made him
practically incoherent?
 
“I know,” she hushed him with a soft, sweet kiss, barely a whisper of her lips
against his. “Let’s get breakfast.”
 
 
 
Galatea was enjoying the quiet of an empty staff room, sipping lemon ginger tea
by a roaring fire. Even though she’d mastered temperature spells decades ago,
there was something about being soothed by a fire on a chilly winter morning
that couldn’t be replicated with a warming charm. She was an early riser by
nature, and on the mornings when Narcissa was occupied in the hospital wing,
she usually reviewed lesson plans in the staff room.
 
The door opened and Professor Dumbledore entered, floating a brown-paper
wrapped package the size and shape of an enormous book in front of him. He
lowered it gently to the table, which groaned softly under the weight.
 
“Good morning, Galatea,” Dumbledore wore his usual bemused smile.
 
Galatea returned the expression with her lopsided grin. “Good morning, Albus.
What in the world do you have there? It looks to be about a dozen copies of the
unabridged version of Hogwarts, A History.”
 
“It’s actually yours, Galatea, or more accurately, your daughter’s,” he peered
at her over his half-moon spectacles. “The ministry sent it poorly marked. The
main addressee was simply Hogwarts, and it took both a cleansing and magnifying
spell to read the ‘care of’ line. Apparently Miss Bonneau is doing a project on
the history of marriage and bonding spells and laws?”
 
Though she had a very practiced ability to hide her emotions, Galatea knew that
such an effort would be useless with Albus. They had highly compatible magic,
and were tuned into one another from years of performing spells together as
they broke curses and disenchanted objects. More than that, though, he was her
best friend at Hogwarts, a person she’d spent countless hours exploring the
castle with, and equally countless hours drinking butter beer (or fire whiskey,
on bad nights) while sharing her latest disappointment in love. Being a gay man
in a world that didn’t welcome homosexual relationships, Albus had his own
disappointments to share, and they had a strong bond. She was one of the few
people who knew Albus had been in love with Gelwart Grindelwald in their youth,
and though he didn’t talk extensively about his past, Galatea knew he felt
deeply affected by how evil his former lover had become.
 
However, Galatea also knew that this ‘research’ project of Hermione’s was a
cover for learning more about the permanent elemental quartet her adopted
daughter had, in Galatea’s opinion, rushed headlong into at an inappropriately
young age. The resulting bonds were a secret at the moment, and they were
connected to other, much more dangerous secrets: the discovery of the Chamber,
the creation of some kind of group that followed Tom and Hermione, that group’s
mission to undermine Grindelwald, and the deepest secret, Hermione and
Narcissa’s status as time-travelers.
 
She was certain Albus, who had always had an uncanny ability to know what
students were up to, had already discerned part or all of many of these
secrets, but she still had a sworn obligation, as well as several magical
interventions placed on herself, to keep those secrets.
 
“You know Hermione, Albus,” she said lightly. “Her thirst for knowledge cannot
be contained to the Hogwarts library.”
 
“Yes,” he hummed in reply, catching Galatea in an uncharacteristically sharp
glance. “She won’t be contained at all, I think – not by her youth, school
rules, the expectations of ingrained Pureblooded culture, the borders of
countries, or even by international magical law.”
 
“Hermione is a brilliant young woman,” she held his gaze. “I don’t doubt she
will leave her mark on our world for the better. Sometimes, that means thinking
outside the bounds of common behavior. You and I are outside ‘common behavior’
in many ways, ourselves.”
 
For an instant, Albus’s expression lost its usual guard. “Galatea, I care about
you and your family. Hermione and Tom are the brightest students I’ve seen, but
they are acquiring followers and power at a rate that will only be matched by
the enemies they will soon have.   I fear their plans may be beyond their
current level of skill, and that the consequences of their rash behavior could
be…catastrophic.”
 
“When we see our students being bullied over blood purity and pushed into
betrothals still as children, isn’t it time to challenge the status quo? To do
something about all the injustice and bad behavior on display?” Galatea asked,
letting out some of the anger Hermione’s speech over the break had awakened in
her.
 
She felt her anger grow as she continued. “When our world is in danger, and
seems on the verge of burning down around us, isn’t that the time for the brave
and capable to act, even when the odds of failure or loss are stacked against
us? It isn’t only the adults who feel the price of all the war, both magical
and muggle engulfing us right now, Albus. There is a muggle saying about the
sins of the fathers being visited upon the children. But these children aren’t
us. They are smarter and braver, and we can’t expect that they will follow our
example and do nothing.”
 
Albus flinched, as if she had struck him.   He didn’t speak for several tense
seconds, then answered quietly. “These particular sins have nothing to do with
these children, but I think you are right. It is time for the brave and capable
to act, especially those who bear some of the weight of Grindelwald’s actions.”
 
Galatea felt her face soften as she reached out a hand, touching her friend’s
shoulder. “Albus, Grindelwald’s beliefs and actions are his own, no matter what
mistakes were made in your youth. All we are responsible for is whether or not
we allow him to continue destroying our world unchecked.”
 
“I’ve avoided the problem for years now,” Albus sighed. “Our whole country has.
The Wizengamot has been mute on the pain and suffering we’ve seen, but the
people are turning against the silence. I suppose it was naïve of me to imagine
that our students wouldn’t hear and respond with the brash bravery of youth.
Since the liberation of Fontaine du Puissance, and the escalation of this
second muggle ‘world war’, there has been a growing call for action. Perhaps I
must shake the sand from my ears and set to work.”
 
He exited the room, looking lost in his thoughts. Galatea felt slightly bad
about triggering the guilt she knew he carried over his past with Grindelwald,
but only slightly. Everything she had said was true, and his rumination over
the need to act was a temporary distraction from his sharp mind examining the
actions of Hermione and Tom and their followers.
 
She’d protested to Hermione that the Ministry was doing something about
Grindelwald’s behavior on the continent, but when she’d begun to make discreet
inquiries with her friends and former students in the defensive and
international departments at the Ministry, she’d been shocked to find out that
little to nothing was happening, that the policy was still ‘wait and see,’ over
three years into all-out war just across the English Channel.   Galatea didn’t
want to see Hermione hurt, but she wasn’t about to stop her from trying to make
the world a better place.
 
Turning back to the table, she stared at the bundle of papers. She’d need to
brush up on her librarian skills charms to search efficiently through the
thousands of pages there, but she was the Head of Ravenclaw House for a reason,
and research was more delightful than daunting. With Narcissa and Hermione’s
help, she had no doubt they’d have their answers, good or bad, within a few
days.
 
 
 
In a change from the normal way of things, Tom had avoided Hermione,
specifically being alone in her company, for nearly a week. They worked side by
side in classes, and went over Grindlewald’s movements and potential plans for
their next mission in the Chamber, but he rarely touched her other than to pass
ingredients or a text.
 
This change by omission was noticed by everyone, but no one mentioned it,
especially since Hermione didn’t seem to be bothered. She smiled at him the
same amount as usual, wore her Slytherin locket in full view, and participated
fully in all spells and discussions. Tom did not return her smiles, however,
and his expression was strangely bland toward everyone, as if he were wearing a
handsome, but immoveable mask.
 
Even when Abraxas had excitedly announced to the group, now that the bond kept
all secrets safe, that he and Patience were soul mates, Tom had barely reacted.
He murmured something about that being wonderful for the strength of their
quartet, and went back to translating a spell for enhancing disillusionment
charms, occasionally hissing with Apep’s portrait, as the spell was written in
Egyptian hieroglyphics.
 
The past two evenings, after the group had dispersed, Tom had remained in the
Chamber, and had even slept there. He did so again this evening, hanging back
as Hermione and Patience linked arms with Abraxas and went up the tunnel path
toward the greenhouses. He wasn’t truly alone, because Damballa was curled up
in front of the fire, Apep watched him from his secure location on the mantle,
and even Astarte had poked her enormous head through the door to the library
area. Snake, human, or somewhere in between, they all had comments on Tom’s
current mood.
 
Damballa was unapologetically pro-Hermione. Your bond with your mate is
stronger, but you are upset. You are foolish.
 
You know nothing,Tom dismissed him, still focusing on the faded spell etched on
papyrus.
 
The bright one is right,Astarte hissed, using her nickname for the nearly neon
tropical snake. Your magic mate is too entwined with your soul, with your magic
to cut her out. Why are you trying?
 
She isn’t one of us,Apep managed to both sniff haughtily and hiss all at once.
Are you sure she is your true magic mate? Why would fate give you one who
doesn’t match your skill?
 
At that, the veneer of calm Tom had been cultivating vanished. The papyrus was
set ablaze in his hands, turned to ash in seconds, and he stood, advancing with
a furious expression toward the fireplace. How dare you! She is mine, and has
more magic than you have ever dreamed of.   Disrespect towards her is
disrespect to me. I don’t value your input so much that I wouldn’t dash you
into a million pieces if you speak about her in such a way again.
 
If a snake could smirk, Astarte would have been doing so. You defend her, as
you should. She is a part of you. So why do you fear her?
 
Go away, Astarte. Find some dinner.Tom didn’t look her way, even though her
clouded eyes posed no danger. He stared down at the remnants of the spell he
had been very interested in and cursed loudly.
 
Apep was silent, his face turned sideways, though he kept darting glances
toward Tom, clearly unsettled by his threats.
 
Damballa was not put off though. He’d been Tom’s familiar for five years, but
he’d also lived many months of those years in Hermione’s company. In the
summers, he often slept in her room, curled up at her feet, especially since
she was more comfortable with touch and closeness than Tom was. She would cast
warming spells on him on chilly nights and spray down his scales with mist on
hot days. Tom’s magic mate, and even her stupid, fluffy fur ball of a familiar,
were precious to him.
 
The Queen Snake speaks true,Damballa wound around and through Tom’s ankles.
Trying to ignore your mate will only hurt you.
 
Perhaps because he was not relaying his thoughts in English, Tom felt safer,
but he still surprised himself when he abruptly hissed, She read my mind, my
thoughts. Before, she could only sense my moods, not pluck the words from my
head. This is unacceptable.
 
That is indeed grave,Apep finally spoke again.
 
Stupid snake-man,Damballa’s hisses were more like snarls, and if Apep had been
flesh before him, it was clear the snake would have bitten him. You reek of
fear. No wonder the humans hated you so. Weak things are disgusting. Master’s
mate is not a threat; she is his strength.
 
I would make you into bindings for my books,Apep glared down. You know nothing
of life for a Parselmouth. The young one is right to be concerned another is in
his mind.
 
Enough!The sound of Tom’s voice carried through the room, bouncing off the
tiled walls. IF I have need of your council, I will inform you.
 
Master, Heir of the Greatest Magical Bloodline,Astarte soothed, her deep, low
hisses more of a song than speech. Know that your mate does not violate your
mind. Over time, the soul mate bond naturally deepens to this point. Your
ancestor, Salazar, shared thoughts with Godric, and even with the other
founders in his elemental quartet. He was angry with it as well, and it was one
of the reasons he left. Think of all he could have accomplished if he had
stayed. Nothing should control one as powerful as you, especially not fear.
 
Tom didn’t respond. He left the room instead, slamming the door to the
bedchamber, and throwing himself on the canopied bed. Snakes were considered
lone animals by the world, not social. How surprised most people would be to
learn just how nosy snakes were, Tom thought bitterly. As annoyed as he was at
their interference, he knew at the level of logic and intellect that Damballa
and Astarte were right. On the level of emotion, of his deeply ingrained need
to protect himself, he was more aligned with Apep.
 
He didn’t look like a snake, didn’t have Apep’s clearly non-human features, but
at the orphanage, in his early years in the muggle world, Tom had felt apart,
clearly different, and the word ‘freak’ had been bandied about more than once,
before he’d had enough control over his magic to defend himself. There had been
older boys who had tormented him, and that feeling of being weak, of being the
prey, not the predator, was not something he would ever allow again.
 
Hermione was not a tormentor, of course, but she had invaded his mind, whether
it had been intentional or not. She’d heard the spell in Parseltongue he had
been about to say, and had repeated it aloud. Tom had become used to sharing
his magic, to telling Hermione and Abraxas and Patience that he valued them, to
acknowledging that they were a part of him, indispensible. But his mind was the
last bastion – the last place that was his alone, except for the occasional
moments when Patience spoke in his mind.
 
Patience’s skills were different, though. She didn’t read his mind or share his
thoughts regularly. Her abilities seemed clearly part of her Seer abilities,
not those of a natural-born legilimens. She went into people’s minds when she
was connecting with the stream of time, either past or future. And because that
information was a weapon Tom wished to possess, he tolerated this sporadic
talent of his pet.
 
In contrast, Hermione had simply entered his mind, or his had entered hers,
with no prompting beyond their regular touch and passion for one another. As
lovely and powerful as the sex had been, it hadn’t been unusual for them. Tom
feared that meant what Astarte had mentioned – that sharing thoughts was a
natural extension of a strong soul mate bond. Hermione struggled with his
darkness so much already. What would happen if she could share all of his
thoughts? Since the quartet had finalized their bonds, Tom’s violent urges had
softened somewhat, but they had not disappeared, nor would they. He wasn’t
ready for constant company inside his mind, and he didn’t believe his soul mate
was either, both due to her love of ‘healthy boundaries’ and the stark reality
of his darkness fully exposed to her.
***** Feelings Are Not Tom's Forte *****
Chapter Summary
     More of Grindelwald's plans get foiled, people get saved, Hermione
     does research, Patience helps, Tom pouts and plots, Marguerite asks a
     favor, Tom gets in touch with his feelings, and Hermione gets in
     touch with her elemental magic. It's over 10K of plotty fun.
Chapter Notes
     Thanks for all the well wishes. I popped a rib out of place and was
     confined to bed for a few days, so here's my gift to you, my lovely
     readers.
Early March, 1943
 
“You are safe now,” Narcissa’s calm tone was reassuring, and her French was
impeccable. She was readjusting the wards on her cottage in Hogsmeade for the
thirteen people who had just arrived from various areas across France.
 
These particular people, a wandmaker and her apprentice, a renowned healer, a
master potion maker, and a natural born legilimens (along with spouses and
children in some cases), had all been listed in the book Abraxas and Marguerite
had ‘liberated’ over the break. Grindelwald wanted their talents, and the
group, with the help of Galatea and Narcissa, had sent warnings of the danger
coming their way, along with an invitation to Hogsmeade, where a safe house
would be made available to any who chose to leave.    
 
All five had responded immediately, and Narcissa, Hermione, and Galatea had
spent last night and the early morning casting protective wards around the
property, and had enlisted a bemused but supportive Professor Beery (who was
outspoken on his opinion of Grindelwald, and the need to stop him) as the
secret keeper for the safe house.
 
“Safe is relative at best,” Francine, the wandmaker, a woman who looked hale
and hearty, even for someone in her magical nineties, frowned. “This country is
under attack, too, you know. Muggle bullets and bombs can pierce magical wards.
My apprentice, Jacques, came from a wizarding village in Northern France that
was completely destroyed from being too close to a muggle village that is also
rubble now.”
 
Jacques nodded quietly beside his mentor. He was thin and reedy, like the wands
he was studying to create, and he’d brought his parents, a quiet middle-aged
couple who looked as though they still hadn’t processed what was happening.
“The English are bombed most of all. Between Grindelwald and the Nazis, I don’t
know if there is such a thing as safe.”
 
“Hogsmeade has excellent village-wide protections in place, and this area
hasn’t been the focus of muggle air raids,” Narcissa tried to soothe the
clearly frazzled nerves of the people before her. “In addition, this property
has been given fresh, extended wards from a Master of Defense Against the Dark
Arts.”
 
“But this is only temporary, isn’t it?” Henri, the healer, asked as he
nervously stroked at his dark beard. His wife and their three children stood in
a cluster just behind him.
 
“You are hoping your Ministry will help us, aren’t you?” Paul cut in. “They
should. We are a talented group. I’d think they would offer us asylum and jobs.
I am a Master at Potions,” he sniffed, adding in a level of sarcasm that could
only be truly conveyed in the French language, “we don’t grow on trees, after
all.”
 
His wife, who looked as smug as her husband, nodded in agreement, rubbing her
pregnant belly, and holding the hand of a small child.
 
Alison, the youngest in the group, barely twenty, with a round, innocent face
that belied her inherent ability to read other’s minds, gave a nervous giggle.
Paul turned to glare at her. She quickly looked at the floor, clearly used to
people being uncomfortable in her presence.  
 
“Yes, I am certain that Galatea will be returning soon with news from the
Ministry. After Fontaine de Puissance, the government has extended asylum to
those fleeing from Grindelwald. There simply isn’t a good system in place for
handling the process yet, and we wanted to get you out of danger as soon as
possible. I’m confident that we’ll have permanent places for you to go within
two weeks.”
 
Narcissa led the group into the sitting room, noting gratefully that Hermione
had transfigured the coffee tables into additional settees. “I’m sure everyone
could do with some coffee or tea. Make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll be
right back.”
 
Though she could have called for one or more of the Merrythought elves,
Narcissa welcomed the chance to be alone for a moment. She walked to the
kitchen and set water to boiling magically, levitating cups and small snacks
onto a large tray.
 
When Hermione had come to her and Galatea two nights ago with the list of
names, the three women had immediately sat down to create a sustainable plan.
They all recognized the need to get Grindelwald’s targets out of France, both
for their own safety and to keep their powers from being used, but they had to
find a way to do so that wouldn’t identify themselves as specific threats that
would draw Grindelwald’s attention. They decided on a plan of anonymous
letters, signed ‘your friends from England,’ with instructions for meeting in
the town square of Hogsmeade. Rented owls were used, along with common
parchment and ink.
 
By themselves, the letters might have been dismissed as a hoax, or even a trap,
but combined with the recent, well-publicized events in Fontaine de Puissance
and Auge (whose population had decided to flee the village after all, leaving a
deserted town with no healing waters or crystals for Grindelwald to find), the
word had spread through occupied magical Europe that aid was arriving in
mysterious ways.
 
“May I help?” Alison’s voice came from the doorway. She hovered there until
Narcissa nodded.
 
“There isn’t a need, but if you’d like to,” Narcissa motioned to the cabinet
with the small plates.
 
Alison deftly floated the plates to the serving tray, her magic contained and
neat, the delicate china not making a single clink as it landed. “This room is
so quiet,” she sighed softly. “It’s such a relief to be in the company of a
natural occlumens.”
 
Narcissa raised a brow. She had worked hard her entire life to keep that secret
about herself, had allowed certain thoughts to be at the surface of her mind
for easy reading, to disguise her true skill. “I’m not,” she said flatly,
hoping to shut down the conversation.
 
“I won’t tell anyone,” Alison assured her with a broad, innocent smile. “But
you are. I know the difference between a thought and the projection of one.
It’s like your mind is a fortress, with a moat of fake thoughts floating
outside. Those fake thoughts don’t scream at me or crowd my mind like other
people’s real thoughts.”
 
There wasn’t much to say to that, and Narcissa reminded herself that Voldemort
didn’t exist in this timeline, nor did any of the other people who, in her old
life, had constantly tried to invade her mind. “It is a very good thing you are
here, safe from being used by Grindelwald,” Narcissa finally murmured.
 
“My talents are always in danger of being exploited,” Alison’s smooth brow
creased into a frown. “It’s why I live alone, and try to keep my ‘gift’ a
secret. I’m not even sure how Grindelwald found out.”
 
“How do you survive?” Narcissa allowed some of her curiosity out as she
prepared the pots of coffee and tea.
 
Alison got out the sugar and creamer, putting them on the tray. “I’ve always
had a talent for making and repairing clothes, and since I can usually tell
exactly how a person wants an outfit to look, it isn’t hard to please
customers. My parents both died fighting Grindelwald, and I’m an only child, so
I had a little inheritance that I invested in nice sewing materials,” her face
crumpled into a momentary look of despair. “I had to leave that all behind
though.”
 
Over five years of living in a stable, terror-free environment, in the company
of her soul mate and the new family she’d created, as well as many dear
friends, had softened Narcissa, or more accurately, had allowed her nurturing
instinct to flourish. In her past, all of her love and mothering had been
channeled into Draco and only him. Now, she was no longer conservative with her
affection, nor afraid to show that she cared.
 
Her arms embraced the younger woman, who gladly accepted the gesture. “I will
be happy to replace anything you need to start over, Alison.”
 
There was a soft pop, announcing Galatea’s return. Alison drew back, glancing
toward her. “You didn’t tell the Ministry about me,” she switched to heavily
accented English.
 
Galatea shook her head, crossing over to kiss Narcissa’s cheek in greeting.
“No, Alison. I admit I don’t fully trust any government, even my own, with
access to your considerable abilities. If the whole point of getting you here
was to keep you safe, I’d be doing a poor job if I exposed you.”
 
Alison looked at her for a long moment, her face wearing a shocked expression.
“You really mean that. You truly want me to be safe, and you don’t want to use
me for any advantage,” she spoke slowly, as though putting together a complex
idea in her mind. “You are a very, very good person. One of the best I’ve ever
met.”
 
Blushes didn’t often form on Galatea’s face, but she went positively scarlet at
the praise. “Yes, well, thank you. That’s a kind thing to say,” she looked down
at the tea tray and drew her wand from where she’d tucked it into the top of
her high riding boots. “Let’s get back to the others.”
 
Narcissa smiled as her soul mate hurried out of the room, levitating the tray
in front of her. Galatea struggled with receiving praise, and it was nice to
have the things Narcissa told her frequently to little effect confirmed by an
outside source. “Hogsmeade doesn’t have its own seamstress shop right now.
You’re welcome to stay here and use the front rooms for your business. We’ll be
at Hogwarts until the summer, and we can see if you’re ready for your own place
by then.”
 
Alison’s eyes shone with moisture. “The last few years have been so hard, so
terrifying. To have such help, such kind support all at once…I feel like I must
be dreaming.”
 
“Well, let’s step back into the parlor and you’ll know you’re not by the
barrage of thoughts,” Narcissa gently teased.
 
“I suppose we must,” Alison sighed, then gave a saucy grin. “Would you like to
know how many people in that room had wicked thoughts about you?”
 
“No,” Narcissa’s eyebrows shot up as she took Alison’s arm. “I most decidedly
would not.”
 
 
 
Hermione didn’t go back to the cottage after the group had arrived. She trusted
both her mothers to handle the situation, and she was reluctant to be in
Alison’s company. Hermione was fairly certain the woman was actually more of a
telepath than a natural legilimens. Where most born legilimens could chose when
and on whom to use their skill, Alison simply heard thoughts indiscriminately.
Hermione had too many secrets to keep, and she didn’t have Narcissa’s natural
defenses, nor Galatea’s magical ones.
 
More than once over the past five years, Hermione had considered using magical
interventions to protect her knowledge of the future, to spell herself in some
of the ways Galatea had, but had always decided against such actions. Those
kinds of strong, deep spells would leave a mark on her, a mark Tom would notice
in a heartbeat.
 
His rapidly increasing skill in legilimency was worrisome, and Hermione had
correspondingly increased her evening occulumency training sessions with
Narcissa.   Though she was under no illusion that her shields would ever rival
her mother’s, Hermione needed to make sure her ability to protect her mind
stayed just beyond Tom’s ability to invade it.
 
Not that Tom was coming near her at the moment. All her hard work at learning
the difficult art of occulumency might have been wasted, she knew, if their
soul mate bond strengthened to the point where their minds were open to one
another. She hadn’t heard the barest whisper of Tom’s thoughts since that night
in the Chamber, nor had she felt much from him. He had consciously pulled away
from their bond, and even though that was probably for the best right now, the
absence of his fiery magic, of his constant underlying appreciation and passion
for her, left Hermione feeling like a part of her had been ripped away.
 
She had been drawing harder on her connection with Patience to fill the empty
space, and she knew Tom was drawing on Abraxas. Their elemental bonds felt lop-
sided and unpleasant. This was not a good time to be pulling away from one
another, since Abraxas’s mother was pushing hard on the betrothal situation.
 
Hermione shook her head and concentrated on the stacks of Ministry documents in
front of her. She’d gone to Narcissa’s quarters, since Galatea had sorted the
documents there for privacy. Patience had accompanied her, but her ‘help’
seemed to be limited to changing the colors of the parchment and occasionally
playing with Hermione’s hair. The papers were in neat groups by century, then
in stacks by decade. Galatea had created several referencing and keyword spells
to help expedite the process, but there was still the need to simply invest the
time to thoroughly read large chunks of text.
 
Much of the paperwork pre-dated the Ministry, being merely copies of family
betrothal and bonding agreements that had been filed later with the Ministry
archives as proof in various legal disputes over the years involving everything
from blood status to property claims to fights over magical patents. She’d even
come across a twenty page document arguing that the Mirror of Erised belonged
by marriage to the Nott family, and that if and when the Mirror surfaced, the
Nott family’s claims to it would supersede any others. Hermione had shaken her
head, thinking that if only one Nott in several generations had bothered to
explore Hogwarts, they might have found it. In fact, it was in the castle right
now, though Hermione knew from Harry’s experience that it was a dangerous
object. The Notts were welcome to waste away in front of it, as far as she was
concerned.
 
Much of the other paperwork was similarly unhelpful, and Hermione’s head was
aching a few hours later. Though she loved research when it involved magic,
these documents were positively mundane – all legal terms and claims, no
interesting theories or spells. Also, she was enraged by the number of
documents that presented witches as chattel to be traded between fathers,
brothers, and husbands, with no reference to the power they possessed in their
own right. This was not the way she would have preferred to spend her Saturday,
and in the background of her mind, she amused herself by devising curses for
Evangeline Malfoy.
 
“I made some tea, and fetched a headache potion from your mother’s cabinet,”
Hermione looked up to see Patience standing above her, holding out a teacup and
a small vial.
 
“Thanks,” Hermione murmured, drinking the potion quickly, then taking the cup,
careful not to spill over the stacks of paper surrounding her.
 
Patience walked around the stacks, coming to sit behind Hermione, rubbing her
shoulders and neck gently. She was humming and between the loving touch and the
potion, Hermione felt herself relax.  
 
“This is harder than I thought it would be,” she finally admitted what she’d
been struggling against for two days.
 
Patience’s fingers moved up to make small circles at Hermione’s temples. “Oh, I
don’t know. I have a good feeling about chartreuse.”
 
“What?” Hermione blinked, looking over to where Patience had been ‘sorting’
papers from the 1600’s. They were no longer in any kind of recognizable stack.
Instead, they were a jumble of different colors and lengths – like Patience had
thrown them up into the air, cast a rainbow spell, and let them fall as they
may. As much as it pained Hermione to see messes, she had learned that
Patience’s messes were always special.
 
She leaned forward, crawling past a few stacks to reach the pile, digging
through violet, pink, brown, yellow and orange spotted, blue, and black and
white striped papers to find a thick sheath of pages tied together that could
only be described as chartreuse. The paper was actually vellum, likely deer or
cow skin cured and scraped to be nearly transparent. The ink was a startling
shade of bright blue, but whether that was original to the document or
Patience’s work, Hermione didn’t know.
 
“I can feel these papers are a center point, connected to many others,”
Patience had come to sit beside her again.
 
“Connected like other documents refer back to these ones?” Hermione asked
absently, though she didn’t expect Patience to answer. Her best friend’s help
was rarely straightforward.
 
Instead, she focused on the papers, reading intently while Patience braided her
hair. On the surface, it was a civil complaint for a breach of contract. George
and Marian Travers were suing Thomas and Jemima Fawley. The Travers’ son,
Mathias, was betrothed to marry the Fawleys’ daughter, Sybilla. The match had
been arranged when the children were five, with the understanding that
permanent betrothal bonds would be performed when the children turned
sixteen.   During the ten years of ‘understanding,’ the Travers claimed they
had spent much upon their daughter-in-law-to-be, paying for Sybilla to have
language and music lessons, and sending her elaborate and expensive gifts,
including a pet phoenix for her thirteenth birthday. According to their
account, Mathias was also quite in love with Sybilla, and gave her access to
several Travers’ family magical secrets that were invaluable.
 
The love had turned sour when the families attempted to perform the betrothal
spells and found that Sybilla’s magic rejected all bonds. When a specialist was
brought in, he announced that the Fawleys’ daughter was already bound to not
one other, but three other magical signatures. At this point, the Fawleys took
their daughter home to question her themselves, but the damage was done. The
Travers were enraged at the insult to their family honor, they sued, and the
case eventually went before the Wizengamot.  
 
The Fawleys made a response, of course. They claimed that the agreement was
never binding, and that it only would have been if the official betrothal had
taken place. Since it didn’t, they saw themselves in the clear. Sybilla, they
said, had not purposely done any wrong. She and three of her cousins with whom
she was raised quite closely had inadvertently and innocently formed a magical
elemental quartet over the summer of their fourteenth years while practicing to
make their magic stronger. The cousins were listed as Xandria Greengrass,
Jonathan Abbott, and Henry Rowle, and the Travers’ next response pulled those
families into the litigation, naming them as defendants as well.
 
As the case continued, the allegations became much nastier, especially since
each of the three cousins, being Purebloods, was also involved in some kind of
betrothal arrangement, and those families entered in complaints as well.
Threats of duels and family curses were made. Both Sybilla and Xandria were
required by the court to undergo examinations to prove they were still had
their ‘maidenhoods,’ and all four cousins were given Veritaserum and questioned
by the Wizengamot. They maintained that all spells used were from treatises on
making their magic stronger, that they had had no inappropriate relations with
one another, and that they had not intentionally created the permanent bonds.  
 
These responses satisfied the Wizengamot as far as proving that no malice had
been intended, nor had any of the cousins consciously tried to break their
understanding with any other family. They did lecture the parents on not
supervising the children’s magical efforts. Several of the families applied to
the Wizengamot for help in breaking the elemental bonds that had been formed,
but, though the court found no fault, they also maintained that the elemental
bonds were prime and permanent, and could not be broken without harming those
bonded. The final decision of the court was ten pages long, written in tiny,
cramped script that warned of the dangers of homeschooling children, of
allowing them unlimited access to magical texts, and of not performing
‘watching’ charms to ensure that children didn’t enter into any magical
contracts or bonds without parents’ knowledge. The decision also lamented the
decline of elemental bonds, labeling them as the ‘grandest of connections,
capable of increasing an individual’s magic many times over,’ and ‘almost
negating entirely the worry of low magic or squib offspring,’ and recommended
that the parents betroth the bonded children.
 
There were a few appeals, but none went far. Hermione went over to the stack
that held marriage records from the 1600s and found that after the case was
concluded, Xandria Greengrass was quietly married to Henry Rowle, and Sybilla
was married to Jonathan Abbott. The two couples had side by side estates, and
between the four of them, produced ten magical patents, five new charms, a
salve that helped greatly with the pain of Dragon Pox scars, and several
compositions on the fairy flute. They were clearly powerful and enlightened
couples who used their elemental bonds throughout their lives.
 
Though neither of the couples was involved in any other cases, the Travers v/
s Fawley case was referenced several times in the 17th and 18th centuries as
proof that some bonds did supersede betrothal agreements. Hermione used
Galatea’s spells to summon all documents that mentioned the case, and she found
that it was never contested, and there was even a small exception clause added
to the Ministry Laws on Marriage and Betrothal Contracts and Bindings that
permanent elemental bonds held precedence over other bonds, if performed prior
to any engagement contract. That footnote was added in 1758, and as far as
Hermione could find, nothing ever changed or weakened that ruling.
 
Hermione smiled broadly, neatly placing all the pertinent papers in a magically
expanding folder, then restacking and putting all the other documents on a
bookshelf in the corner. She turned to Patience, who was now on her back, using
her wand to make fire runes.
 
As she saw the flames cutting through the air, Hermione felt a pang of loss
again. “How is Tom?” she asked quietly, putting her folder away in her satchel
and lying down beside Patience. “Can you feel him at all? I’m cut off.”
 
“Lonely,” Patience responded, tracing the rune for ‘loss.’ “He doesn’t want to
admit that he came to rely on us, on how our emotions feed him, help him to be
more human. We’ve been slowly dismantling his defenses, and you breached the
inner walls. If it had been anyone else, he would have attacked. But it was
you, so he retreated.”
 
Without warning, tears streamed from Hermione’s eyes, running down her cheeks,
pooling in the hair at her temples and sliding over her ears. “I didn’t do it
on purpose. I respect the privacy of his mind – of everyone’s mind. Tom knows
that.”
 
Patience put out her arm, and Hermione cuddled into her side. It was a
comforting position, one that they used nearly every night. Hermione’s cheek
seemed to fit perfectly in the place just below Patience’s collarbone, and her
arm rested easily across the taller girl’s slender waist. “Tom knows a lot of
things, but he isn’t thinking clearly right now. He’s obsessed with defending
himself, cutting back connections that make him stronger. You need to go to
him.”
 
“And say what, exactly?” Hermione huffed. “He’s impossible when he gets into
this kind of mood. I think I need to wait it out, that he’ll come around after
his panic clears.”
 
Patience shook her head. “This is the kind of panic that settles in and takes
root. You have to be the breath of fresh air that clears it away. Abraxas has
been championing your cause, but you need to be your own champion right now.”
 
With a heavy sigh, Hermione twisted her face into Patience’s shirt. “Why do I
always have to be the grown-up?” she mumbled.
 
“Because you’re the oldest and the smartest and the best,” Patience kissed the
top of her head.
 
“Can we just pretend we didn’t have this conversation for at least another
hour? Can we just stay here by the fire and cuddle?” Hermione pleaded.
 
Patience pulled out her wand and transfigured two large, fluffy pillows. She
placed them under their heads, then pulled Hermione against her once more, a
wide smile on her face.
 
“I love you,” Hermione breathed as she kissed the line of Patience’s jaw.
“Thank you for all you do.”
 
“I’ll always be the respite you need, Hermione,” Patience answered. “Your care
is both my duty and my privilege.”
 
Hermione laughed and shook her head. “That makes you sound like a vassal to a
queen. We’re equals, Patience.”
 
“As people, yes,” Patience’s voice was grave now. “But as vital to the future
of the world of magic? You are my Lady. I will always serve you.”
 
“A leader is only as strong as those who choose to follow her,” Hermione
protested. “If it weren’t for your faith in me, for your strength added to
mine, I sometimes think I’d have given up and run away years ago.”
 
Now Patience laughed. “There’s no version of time where you don’t face your
fears, bravely. Dealing with Tom will be no different. But first, let me help
you relax all that tension.”
 
Patience’s hands were wandering to delightful places, and Hermione wisely
stopped talking.
 
 
After borrowing Patience’s bracelet and grabbing the small, charmed mirror
Narcissa had given her shortly after they’d arrived in the past, Hermione went
to the bathroom entrance to the Chamber and made her way down alone. The odds
were at least ninety percent that Astarte would be curled up asleep in the
outer chamber area since it was daylight, but Hermione still used the compact
mirror to navigate corners until she was sure.
 
Patience had told her that she was meeting Abraxas on the quidditch pitch to go
flying together, and that she was certain Tom would be in the chamber. Hermione
needed to spend some time in the chamber library anyhow. She was working on a
healing spell to counteract that cursed cut Tom had made on Marguerite’s cheek,
and she was sure something in one of the ancient Celtic texts would help.
 
As she approached the library, she cleared her mind, testing her mental
shields. She didn’t expect Tom to try legilimency on her, at least not today,
but Tom was never predictable, especially when he was angry, and his cold anger
was the worst.
 
When she entered, she was surprised to see Marguerite sitting at one of the
long tables beside Tom, the two of them pouring over the copy of Grindelwald’s
book. A flare of jealousy tried to catch fire inside of her at the sight of
them together, but Hermione snuffed it out with brutal efficiency.
 
“Hermione,” Marguerite looked up and motioned her over. “There is a bunch of
new information in the book. It showed up about two hours ago.”
 
Tom said nothing as she crossed over to Marguerite’s other side, leaning over
her shoulder to look down at the book. “Two hours ago. That would have given
Grindelwald’s people enough time to find out that the five people he listed
last week have gone missing.”
 
“Yes,” Marguerite nodded excitedly, her dark braid bouncing against her back.
“He’s accused his generals of harboring a saboteur. There’s a meeting called,”
she turned the page to the map and stabbed her finger against a red dot in what
looked like only forest in the border area between France and Germany.
 
Hermione squinted. “What is that place? It isn’t even labeled as a town or any
kind of landmark,” she thought back to her muggle geography and history
lessons. “It looks like the Ardennes mountain range.”
 
“That’s right, and after I pulled out a map,” Marguerite gestured to the paper
under the book, “we saw that this part is actually in Luxembourg, an area
completely controlled by Grindelwald at the moment.”
 
“But why have a meeting in the forest?” Hermione asked. “He has any number of
towns under his control. He even has a huge prison he could summon his
followers to.”
 
“There’s no mess to clean up out of doors,” Tom finally spoke, though he still
didn’t look at Hermione. “And a forest is an excellent place to bury bodies.”
 
“The date he gave for the meeting is two weeks away, on Ostara. Grindelwald is
known to revere the magical yearly cycles, and a Spring Equinox ceremony could
be used to boost power,” Marguerite mused.
 
Hermione picked up her unspoken thought. “And a magical sacrifice of a traitor
during that ceremony would let him absorb that person’s power.”
 
“But none of his generals have actually betrayed him. Well, at least not on
this matter,” Marguerite’s mouth curved into a smirk. “How are the new
arrivals?”
 
“Fine. My mother and Galatea are seeing to them. Hopefully, they’ll be moved on
to other, spread out places within a few weeks. They are safe for now, and out
of Grindelwald’s reach.”
 
Marguerite’s eyes flicked back to the writing in the book, which was scrawled,
clearly written in an angry rush. “That’s going to be quite a party.”
 
“There’s a week break around this time,” Tom added. “So that will be the
perfect cover for the group’s plans.”
 
“You want to try to go to the ceremony that Grindelwald is planning to use to
punish his followers, and probably kill some of them?” Marguerite asked calmly.
 
Hermione had been thinking the same, but she didn’t want to open the floodgates
of arguing with Tom until they were alone.
 
Tom glanced at her. “Is that a problem? You are supposed to be my lieutenant,
the most trusted in the group after my elemental quartet. That position carries
responsibilities.”
 
Watching the two Slytherins was like watching a play of masked performers. Both
of them wore bland expressions, with no emotion exposed.
 
“There are many potential problems with going, but none of them involve my
loyalty or willingness to put myself in danger to further our goals,”
Marguerite answered smoothly. Not for the first time, Hermione thought she’d
make an excellent politician.
 
“My mother is, however, planning my binding betrothal ceremony to Sebastian
over the break, and most members of the group and their families will be
invited. We’ll need to factor that into the timeline, or you’ll have to leave
Sebastian and myself behind.”
 
“Fine,” Tom made a brushing motion with his hand, as if discussing a small
substitution to a potion for class. “We have a few weeks to plan. Get me the
details about the betrothal party as soon as possible.”
 
“Of course, my Lord,” Marguerite bowed her head slightly, taking care to
reinforce her submission with the title she knew Tom craved, and rose from her
chair with an easy smile that didn’t make it to her eyes.  
 
She turned to Hermione. “It’s traditional to have a female relative close in
age stand up for one in the betrothal ceremony, similar to a bride’s maid at an
actual wedding. I know we are quite distant cousins, but the alternatives are
Sagitta, who hates me, or Josephine, who also hates me.”
 
“Won’t your mother protest? I’m not pureblooded,” Hermione was oddly touched by
Marguerite’s request.
 
“Your mother is, you come from a family even wealthier than mine, and you have
a title,” Marguerite shrugged. “I’m not pledging to marry you, so I think we’ll
be fine.”
 
“Then, yes, certainly, I will stand up with you.” Hermione wanted to smile, but
knew Marguerite would take that as a display of pity.
 
“Excellent, I can cross that off the list of 101 tasks my mother is having me
complete before the ceremony. You’ll have to wear a dress that matches mine in
color and cut, but if you could make yourself look as plain as possible, it
will exponentially decrease the likelihood that my mother will try to hex you,”
Marguerite sighed. “I’ll get you the information tomorrow.”
 
She didn’t wait for any further reply, and Hermione was still processing the
fact that Marguerite had asked her a favor, a favor one would only ask of close
family, when she heard the door to the bedroom slam.
 
Tom had left while she’d been staring after Marguerite. That did not bode well.
She considered Patience’s words about chasing after him, but decided she’d give
him at least a few minutes. She crossed over to the shelves and found a few
books that she was sure would help her heal Marguerite’s scar, a job that was
vital to get finished before Orpha saw her daughter over the break.
 
It took about a half-hour to take down the notes she needed and gather a few of
the more unusual salve ingredients from the magical stores the group kept
stocked down in the Chamber. Everyone in the group had brought something rare,
in addition to the common herbs and ingredients, and their shelves and drawers
were starting to look like a collection that Professor Snape himself would be
proud of.
 
Deciding that she’d delayed as long as she could or should, Hermione packed
away her notes and supplies in her bag, then walked to the bedroom. She put her
hand on the door and immediately yanked it back. The handle was burning hot,
and it took three repetitions of a cooling, healing spell to ease the blisters
on her hand.
 
Now, she was angry, and angry Hermione had a tendency to set aside logic, as
well as all thoughts of consequences. He was being a childish bastard. If he
wanted to fight with fire, she’d return the favor. She reached into their bond,
aggressively. Up until now, she had let him retreat, had not tested or prodded
at him. With the full force of her magic, she blasted through his walls,
grabbed hold of her link to his elemental magic, and promptly set the door
ablaze, reducing it to ash within seconds.
 
Tom was standing on the other side, watching her through the haze of smoke and
floating embers. His eyes reflected the fire, seemed to be on fire themselves.
 
“Why is it so hard for you to know when you’re not wanted?” he hissed.
 
And just like that, Hermione’s anger deflated, replaced by a hurt so deep she
felt raw, like all her faults and vulnerabilities were exposed. She turned and
ran, thinking that she’d made Patience into a liar. She wasn’t brave. She ran
up the ramp that came out near the greenhouses, blasting the entrance rock away
and haphazardly floating it back into place even as she continued to run. It
was early March, so dusk had already fallen, making the outline of Hogwarts
many roof levels and towers only slightly less menacing than the jagged tree
line of the Forbidden Forest. In her first version of Hogwarts, she would have
gone directly to Hagrid’s, would have cried in his enormous, wet dog and other
creature-smelling arms, while he patted her frizzy hair awkwardly and tried to
give her weak tea and rocks disguised as biscuits.
 
One of her greatest fears, perhaps the oldest and most deeply rooted in her
psyche, was that of being unwanted. Her parents loved her, gave her every
advantage they could, and yet, she knew she’d been an accident. She’d overheard
her mother speaking to a friend when she was little, and she’d never forget
those words.
 
“Aren’t you going to have another child?” the friend asked. “It’s best to keep
them close in age, and Hermione is already five.”
 
“No,” her mother laughed. “Hermione was an accident – a happy one – but
definitely not planned. Neither of us had a burning desire for children, so one
is plenty. And, she’s a little handful, all by herself. I’m glad she’s smart,
but all the questions! That child could wear out an entire panel of experts.”
 
After that, Hermione had done everything in her power to be the best daughter
who had ever lived. She did every chore without complaint. She kept her room in
impeccable order. Her clothes were never dirty or torn, like other children.
She excelled in every subject, won the praise of every adult she encountered.
Her one weak spot was cultivating friendships with other children. They didn’t
interest her much, and though she always took up for outcasts or those who were
bullied, Hermione didn’t have friends. Her mother would ask about play dates or
what she had done during recess, and Hermione felt the shame of having to give
an unsatisfactory report. No, she didn’t have a friend she’d like to take out
for ice cream. No, she hadn’t played with the others at recess, she’d been on
the swing by herself.
 
As she got older, the problem worsened. Her maturity created a gap between her
and other children that couldn’t be bridged. Add to that her growing incidences
of odd events (which was how she categorized her spontaneous magic before she
believed that magic existed), and she knew she functioned better alone, even if
that disappointed her parents.
When she’d received her Hogwarts letter, she had been filled with a thrill that
was practically electric. Hermione was sure that when she got to this new,
magical school that she’d be surrounded by exceptional children like herself,
that she’d have so many friends to write home about that her parents would
never doubt they wanted her, especially now, when they knew that was…not normal
– more not normal than she’d been before.
 
The night after Professor McGonagal’s visit, Hermione had overheard another
conversation. Her hearing was exceptional, and her parents’ door was ajar as
she’d headed toward the bathroom.
 
“Is she…do you think,” her father’s voice had been low and serious and
hesitant. “Do you think she’s fully human? Are these witches and wizards
different genetically?”
 
She had hoped her mother would rebuke her father, scold him soundly for the
question. That hadn’t happened, though.
 
“I don’t know. I…,” her hesitancy had matched her husband’s. “Do you think
something happened when I was pregnant? Did I get too close to the x-ray
machines at the dental office?”
 
Hermione had not stayed to hear the rest. She knew intellectually that her
parents were working out a huge life change, a revelation that was world-
altering, but the words hurt, still scraped a fresh layer of skin off the old
wound of not feeling completely wanted. With that pain still smarting, she’d
entered the world of magic, of Hogwarts, and had found not a place of love and
acceptance, but exclusion and prejudice. Hermione learned quickly that a
portion of her new world not only didn’t want her, it wanted to eradicate her.
She’d found many enemies and only a few friends. Harry had been the first
person to want her friendship, her love, fully. He was everything she imagined
a brother would be and more. She would have done anything for him – she would
have died for him, and she did give up her future for him.
 
And now? Her emotions were whipped into a frenzy, telling her that she was
stuck in the past with a soul mate who didn’t want her unless he could control
her, unless her power was muted just enough not to challenge him. Tom Riddle’s
mind was sacred ground, and she’d violated it. Please. Her anger grew, stoked
by all the years of not fitting in, all the instances of being rejected both
explicitly and implicitly. Fuck Tom Riddle’s mind! Yes, it was dark, it was
probably crazy, but she already knew that. She’d walked into his arms with
knowledge that should have had her pulling her wand and screaming, “Avada
kadava!” It was her mind that needed protected, for the future’s sake. She was
taking care of the world, as usual, and he was being a selfish dick, as usual.
 
Her rational mind, which was trying to claw its way back to the dominant part
of her thoughts, argued that Tom was damaged, too. If she, as a loved and cared
for child, could have such deep pain, then how could she possibly argue that
Tom’s pain wasn’t as bad, if not worse? He’d never known his parents, had been
given no affection, had felt isolated from everyone around him. His issues were
similar to Hermione’s own, with several complications that she did not have. He
was also a sixteen-year-old, full of hormones and emotions, and he was also
trying to save the world – maybe not for purely selfless reasons, but he was
not afraid to put himself in harm’s way, to risk his life to defeat
Grindelwald.   He owned nothing except his mind. And she had inadvertently come
into it, uninvited. She needed to be the bigger person – the mature one, and
help him.   It wasn’t as if he was good at expressing an emotion other than
anger – he needed her for that. What was it that Patience had said? That this
panic would take root? She had to make sure that didn’t happen, even if her
emotions were telling her to run away.
 
Hermione spun on her heel, taking stock of the landscape. She was in the front
lawn, closer to the lake than she’d realized. She adjusted her course, heading
for the main doors, since it wasn’t curfew yet, and that was the closest
entrance. Maybe she could catch Tom on his way to the Slytherin dormitories or
go back to the Chamber if she had to.
 
“There is a difference between not wanting a person’s presence at a particular
point in time versus not wanting the person at all,” Tom’s silky voice slid
through the darkness as his hand came out and closed around her wrist. “A
person as intelligent as yourself should know that.”
 
At his touch, she felt relief. His walls were not completely gone, but they
were greatly lowered, and his magic, dammed up for several days, rushed at
hers, and she soaked it in.
 
“And I keep telling you that emotions aren’t often dictated by intelligence. A
person as intelligent as yourself should remember that,” she replied, adding
softly, “when your soul mate shuts you out and says you are unwanted, logic can
be difficult to summon.”
 
“Hermione,” he tugged at her wrist, lifting her previously burned hand as he
spoke several healing spells.
 
His magic felt so good, even though she’d already healed her hand. It also felt
good that he wanted to heal her, because it meant he was sorry for what had
happened in the Chamber. She’d long since learned that Tom’s actions were a
much better indicator of his moods than his words, and that action was
repentant.
 
He kissed her fingertips, then pulled her into his chest. Their bodies were
touching in a solid line, and it was blissful, even despite the unresolved
anger. “I don’t wantyou. Want implies a desire for something not yet attained.
You are already mine. You are a part of me. Our magic is so entwined that not
feeling yours these past days has been like missing a limb.”
 
In the near darkness, she could only see the barest hint of light reflected in
his eyes, the suggestion of his sharp cheekbones, a warm puff of air from where
his lips were. She could feel his struggle to express himself, and also how he
was grateful for the darkness, a cover to help him feel less exposed. The fact
that he had come after her shocked and encouraged her. It would help, she
thought, to admit her own vulnerability.
 
“I’ve felt the same way, Tom,” she whispered. “I’ve been hurting, too. But I
never meant to,” she paused, not sure of the right words, afraid to trigger his
defenses.
 
His fingers came up to her lips, silencing her. “I know that,” he said simply.
“I could feel your sorrow, your regret over it.”
 
“Then why were you so angry?” she pressed on despite her fear, reminding
herself not to give power to words by leaving them unspoken. “What if I read
your mind again?”
 
“Patience has apparently been informing Abraxas on all the virtues and
potential powers of soul mates this last week, which he has in turn related to
me, and he mentioned such a thing is possible, that the soul mate bond can
strengthen to telepathy over time,” Tom’s voice was matter of fact. “I don’t
particularly like it, and I wouldn’t like you to do it on purpose, but if it
spontaneously occurs due to the power of our connection, then it can’t be
helped.”
 
“So, we’re...back to normal?” Hermione asked, not able to stop herself from
wrapping her arms around his waist. The night air was cold, and she burrowed
under his cloak.
 
“We are anything but normal, little bird,” Tom kissed her forehead. “But yes,
we’ll go back to our usual arguments over morality and acceptable human
behavior and feel all the glorious range of one another’s emotions.”
 
She glanced up at him, trying to see his expression in the dark. She could feel
humor seeping from him, with just a hint of self-deprecation, which wasn’t like
Tom at all. He was giving her something, admitting something. “You missed
feeling my feelings, didn’t you?”
 
“Of course not,” he replied too quickly. “That’s ridiculous. I certainly did
not miss the constant emotional whiplash of your daily highs and lows.”
 
“Of course not,” she echoed dryly, her hands finally finding the hem of his
shirt and diving under.
 
He tried to pull away, hissing, “Woman! Your hands are blocks of ice!”
 
“Tell me you missed me,” she wheedled, digging her fingers into the skin at his
waistband.
 
“This is extortion,” he grumbled, still trying to wiggle out of her grip.
 
Hermione laughed. “You’re the one with fire magic. Warm us up,” she taunted.
“Or just admit that you missed me and my feelings.”
 
Tom went very still, suddenly pressing into her instead of pulling back. His
body felt warmer under her hands, and she wondered if he was doing some type of
non-verbal heating spell. “Even when I pulled my magic away, I could feel how
hurt you were, and it made me angry at first. I thought of it as a weakness –
your sadness. But then, as the days passed, sometimes it just felt awful, and
the more I realized that I could stop it, that it was my pride making you hurt,
the worse it felt, but then I would be angry again, and the anger would be
greater. It was this horrible cycle of emotions –all negative and…not the way I
have been used to feeling lately. I feel different with you and our quartet,
and I like that way of feeling.”
 
He paused, but Hermione sensed he had more to say, so she simply kept her now-
warm hands pressed at his waist, her gaze slightly down and away, to give him
the space to say what didn’t come easily for him. “Clearly, when you came to
the Chamber, I was in the anger part of the cycle, and when you pushed at my
magic and incinerated the door, I was furious. But, then I spoke and your hurt
was so great and even after you ran away, I could feel it, follow it like a
trail. And Patience and Abraxas were both pushing anger at me for hurting you,
and I realized that no matter how angry I am, I don’t want you to hurt,
Hermione. Not from me.”
 
His honesty in admitting his anger and pride and fear (even if he didn’t name
it as such) was astounding. Hermione could hardly believe he had spoken these
words to her. It was such a human thing to do, such an evolved, self-reflective
humanthing to do – to share his hurt over having made her hurt. Her heart
seemed unable to process the joy, just as her mind was having trouble
processing the words.
 
Her joy spoke for itself though, filling their connection, sweeping through
them. Hermione felt incredibly light, as if her worries were floating away, and
her mouth widened into a smile that made her cheeks ache.
 
“Telling you I was angry makes you happy?” Tom laughed incredulously.
 
“You make me happy, Tom,” Hermione pulled him even closer, and the feeling of
lightness suffused her, surrounded them both. It was glorious, and Hermione
wondered if it were another benefit of the soul mate connection – some kind of
‘make up’ buzz.
 
“Little bird?” Tom spoke softly into her hair.
 
“What?” Hermione smiled up at him, the lightness almost like a cloud buffeting
her now.
 
“Don’t panic, or this might hurt,” he answered slowly, his arms circling tight
around her waist. “Remember, this is your element. Own it.”
 
“What?” she repeated, confused.
 
“You’re making us float, Dearest,” he replied.
 
She willed herself to be calm, and it was good that she was still riding high
on the wave of joy, because when Hermione looked down, she saw they were a good
six feet off the ground, floating in the air. “Bloody hell,” she murmured.
 
“It isn’t as far as it looks, just about my body’s height,” Tom reassured her.
“And we can cushion our fall with magic if we must, but wouldn’t you like to
test this, to see what you can do with your air magic?”
 
“Not in the dark in the cold,” Hermione protested, her normal fear of heights
somewhat muted by being unable to see very well beneath her. They wavered,
dropping a few feet.
 
She gave a little yelp, and they dropped again. Now they couldn’t be more than
two or three feet off the ground.
 
“You were happy,” he offered. “We started floating when you were happy. Perhaps
think happy thoughts?”
 
She gave him a look of disbelief. “Did you read Peter Pan?”
 
He shrugged, “I read everything I could get my hands on. The orphanage was a
boring place. But the point stands. I think elemental magic can be tied to
strong emotions – my fire magic seems to be most powerful when I’m angry or
aroused.”
 
“Aroused?” Hermione nearly choked. “What in the world are you and Abraxas doing
with that? Because I know you didn’t do it with me or Patience!”
 
“Jealous, dearest?” he purred into her ear. “I like to give you each a little
something of your own.”
 
She slapped playfully at his chest. “Now you think you’re Romeo,” she laughed.
 
“But it’s working,” he noted as they rose along with her laughter. “I wonder
what effect arousal would have on you,” he mused as he wrapped his hands in her
hair and kissed her.
 
Hermione had experienced many amazing and delightful magical events, as well as
several that were terrifying. It was a curious to feel those things combined.
Despite her air magic, she was still nervous about heights, but the sensation
of weightlessness was fascinating, almost enough to quell the fear, and Tom’s
kisses were distracting enough to do away with the rest of it. They continued
to kiss and rise into the air.
 
“You were born to fly, little bird,” Tom breathed against her lips. “Look at
what you’ve done. Look at how magnificent you are.”
 
She did look, and this time, they didn’t drop. They were as high as the
treetops along the edge of the forest, old-growth trees that reached up far
into the night sky. In her first time at Hogwarts, she hadn’t spent much time
studying elemental magic. It just hadn’t been on her radar. There was so much
basic information about magic to learn, and that was advanced. But, Tom was
right. Her magical signature was aligned with air elements, and she was born to
do this.
 
With a deep breath of cool air, Hermione centered herself, pulling on her magic
to focus it, and borrowing some of Tom’s as well. He gave it willingly, and
remained silent as she concentrated. Using Tom’s fire magic to set the door
ablaze had been an act of anger, of sheer will, but making objects levitate,
manipulating items in the air, that had always come easily to her. Much of her
early spontaneous magic had been floating books or toys or treats that were out
of her reach, or keeping her body from crashing too hard to the ground when
she’d let go of the swing too early on the playground. This was her natural
gift, an inherent part of her magic.
 
In seconds, she was moving them across the sky, and Hermione understood for the
first time the delight Harry would express about soaring on his broom. She
wasn’t at the mercy of a broom or an invisible thestral. She was in charge –
her own magic was supporting her, and Hermione was nothing if not good at self-
control.
 
Tom laughed delightedly in her ear, and he sounded boyish, innocently amused.
As horrible as the evening had begun, that’s how wonderful it had become.
Hermione held him as they flew, thinking what a miracle it was that they had
found each other, that they had found Patience and Abraxas, and formed this
connection that was transforming Tom from someone who cared only for power and
nothing for others into a person who struggled to feel, and who had told her he
didn’t want to hurt her. The progress was unbelievable.
 
Eventually, her nose and fingers and toes stopped having much feeling, and
Hermione floated them back to the ground. Tom did warming spells on both of
them and they walked to the castle, strangely exhausted and exhilarated all at
once.
 
“I found the law,” Hermione spoke quickly as she remembered the earlier victory
with Patience. “There’s a clause, an exception to betrothal contracts on the
Ministry books that says elemental bonds supersede betrothals.”
 
Tom smiled, raising her hand to his lips. “Excellent, though that won’t stop
the Malfoys from trying to kill us if they find out.”
 
“We still have some time, though Lady Malfoy is determined,” Hermione’s voice
had turned bitter. “Too bad we can’t just kill her.”
 
“We can,” Tom replied quickly, though she could see in the lights from the main
doors they were approaching that he was smiling.
 
“I am heartened by the fact that I think you are at least half-joking,”
Hermione squeezed his hand.
 
“Am I?” Tom lifted a brow. “The list of people I don’t want to hurt is a very
exclusive one. Evangeline Malfoy is not on it.”
 
Before she could reply, the door swung open and they were greeted by the sight
of the scowling caretaker. “Cutting it close, you two. Curfew’s in ten minutes.
Don’t linger.”
 
He made a shooing motion, and they headed to the main stair. Hermione stood on
the steps to give Tom a proper good night kiss, which ate up another five
minutes.
 
“Thank you for tonight,” Hermione smiled.
 
Tom frowned. “Why are you thanking me? You are the one who made us fly. I want
you to teach me, by the way. I can’t not experience that again. It was
fabulous.”
 
“I’m thanking you because, like in Peter Pan, I think I needed someone to
believe in me to help me believe in myself. You’ve given me so much Tom.” As
she spoke the words, she knew how true they were. Her magic had blossomed, had
increased beyond her wildest dreams since meeting Tom, and her love…well, that,
too, was incredible. She had never thought she’d be a person who loved so
passionately. In her future/past, she had imagined a quite, stable life with
Ron, but she knew now that would have never fulfilled her.
 
“I’ve given you heartache and pain,” he murmured, glancing away. “I amsorry
about these past days, Hermione. I don’t say that easily, but I do want you to
be happy, for our quartet to have a future together.”
 
She took his hand and slid it under her shirt, to rest on his words that
glittered around her navel. Then, she undid his cuff and slid her hand over her
words. Their magic immediately swirled around them, as if it were alive itself.
“Life is complicated, Tom. I don’t expect a fairy tale, nor do I want one. We
will spend our lives together, and we’ll hurt each other sometimes, through
misunderstandings or disagreements. I think that’s unavoidable for humans. But
I can feel the truth of your intention through our bond, that you don’t want to
hurt me, that you...” she paused, because he’d never said I love you, even
though she knew he felt them.
 
Tom jerked, like a frightened horse, but Hermione held tight to his arm, her
fingers caressing the words in a soothing motion. “It doesn’t matter, Tom.
That’s the point. The words are superfluous. I can feel you, and you can feel
me. Don’t be scared. No matter if we speak out of anger or fear, we’ll always
come back to this, to knowing that we are meant to be, that our souls and our
magic have combined to the point that we will not flourish properly apart. We
don’t want each other, we need each other.”
 
“But that’s the very definition of weakness,” he protested, his mouth set in a
stubborn line. “To not be self-sufficient, to need someone else.”
 
Hermione decided it was time for brutal honesty, to address his fears head on.
“Tom, you were not raised like a child should have been. You were placed in a
situation with no affection and only the barest of basic needs. I know that you
went hungry sometimes, that you were cold and lonely and that made you angry,
and your anger was the only thing that sustained you. It fed your magic, which
fed your anger and created a loop that helped you survive a horrible situation.
But all those years of anger and nothing else warped your thoughts on human
relationships and other emotions. Humans are social creatures –we are meant to
form relationships and bonds. It’s not weakness to need others; it’s being
human.”
“Even if that need fills you with the terror of what would happen if you ever
lost that person?” He slowly met her eyes, and she could see both fear and
sorrow there, and his willingness to let that show made her suck in her breath.
 
It was basic psychology that an orphan would have abandonment issues, but it
still broke Hermione’s heart. “Tom, everyone who loves others deeply worries
about potentially losing them. I worry about you and Patience and Abraxas. I
worry about my mothers. I worry about the nameless people dying and suffering
in both the magical and muggle wars that are happening right now. Caring brings
worry, but the worrying is outweighed by all the benefits.”
 
“Until the person actually dies, either through accident or murder or old age,”
Tom argued. “Then what is left?”
 
Allowing Tom to obsess over death was not an option. “Tom, worry and fear are
almost always directed to the future, and if you are focused on the future, you
are missing the now. Right now, this instant, we are safe and sound, standing
in a beautiful, magical castle, surrounded by our magic. Don’t let abstract
concerns over the future spoil the glory of the present.”
“Your future is going to be detention!” Pringle shouted as he came down the
hall. “I warned you two! Blatant disregard for my authority!”
 
“Let me obliviate him,” Tom murmured, not moving his hand from her stomach
though she was trying to wiggle away.
 
“Is his hand up your shirt?” Pringle sounded both scandalized and titillated.
It was creepy, Hermione decided.
 
“No,” she answered to both Tom and the caretaker, using a mild stinging hex to
get Tom’s hands off of her and turning to straighten her clothes.
 
“I’m not having detention,” Tom announced calmly as he shook his hand against
the burning sensation. “And you obliviated Myrtle earlier this year, so stop
getting on your high horse.”
 
She really didn’t want to have detention either, and she knew Pringle used
corporal punishment. The idea of him paddling her bottom was vaguely predatory
and thoroughly disgusting. Also, if Tom witnessed that, he’d probably kill the
man. Pringle had reached them, and Hermione sighed in acquiescence. “Fine.”
 
In seconds, Pringle was wondering toward the kitchens, suddenly ravenous for
pudding, and Hermione had to give a little laugh.
 
“What?” Tom raised an eyebrow.
 
“It’s just exactly as you said earlier. We’re back to bickering over acceptable
human behavior and morality. I don’t think we ever make it through a single day
without an argument,” Hermione shook her head, trying to remember if they ever
had.
 
Tom twirled his wand, using an entirely unnecessary summoning spell, and she
was in his arms. He lifted her, his hands under her bottom, and she
instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist. They were eye to eye, and she
could see his smug, seductive grin. “I think you are sexiest when you are
arguing with me. You get this little half-pout, and your curls stand up, and
you voice gets all indignant, and I just want to kiss you and spank you and
fuck you for hours.”
 
“So, the way to get what I want is to not give you what you want?” she teased,
moaning a little as his hand groped her arse.
 
“Oooooh, the pervy pupils are going to get in trouble!” Peeves swooped by,
cackling.
 
“Is there no privacy in this place?” Tom muttered angrily.
 
Hermione lowered herself to the floor and straightened her clothes, again. “We
are in the main hall, Tom. We might be the ones at fault.”
 
“Never admit fault, Dearest,” he replied as a fiery lasso erupted from his wand
and encircled Peeves, who immediately started yelling at the top of his…well,
not lungs.
 
“We should go. We are out after curfew, and we can’t obliviate ghosts or the
rest of the staff,” Hermione sighed.
 
It was Tom’s turn to wear a half-pout and Hermione had to admit it was
adorable.   She kissed the corner of his mouth and headed up the stairs. After
three steps, she turned and called out, “I love you, Tom Riddle.”
 
He glanced up from the lower staircase he was descending, and met her eye with
a brilliant smile, the full-on Tom Riddle charm that always left her
breathless. “And you are the Queen of my world, Hermione Bonneau.”
 
The words were barely past his lips before he continued down the stairs, but
Hermione felt what he’d truly meant. She wanted to linger and bask in the
feeling of his love, no matter what he called, but she could hear Peeves
screaming for help, and several of the portraits were making noise as well. She
had an insane amount of stairs to climb without getting caught, and detention
was looking to be in her future again until she remembered her newly acquired
skill.
 
After a few moments of concentrating, she felt herself rise about a foot off
the stairs, which was plenty for her, since she still needed to deal with her
fear of heights. Instead, she focused on moving herself up and forward, and
within minutes she was at the door to Ravenclaw Tower, answering the day’s
logic puzzle. She came into the common room out of breath. Flying or levitating
or whatever she was doing, wasn’t terribly taxing on her magic, but it did
speed up her heart rate and leave her flooded with adrenaline. How much of that
was from her residual fear of heights or from the excitement of learning a new
magical skill, she didn’t know, but she was more than willing to find out. Tom
was right; she was born to fly, and she planned on conquering her fear and
mastering this skill.
 
 
 
***** Have Fun Storming the Castle! *****
Chapter Summary
     Hermione convinces Tom of an alternate equinox plan. A full-out
     invasion ensues. Lots of action featuring our lovable gang of
     Ravenclaws and Slytherins and the first appearance of that other dark
     wizard.
Chapter Notes
     Lovely readers, I'm sorry for the long absence. My grandfather was
     ill, in and out of hospitals and the nursing home for the last few
     months until he passed away a few weeks before Christmas (on the day
     after my grandmother's birthday). I've been helping her with social
     security, health insurance, and other issues. There has been very
     little time for writing, but I do promise I will finish this story,
     even if updates are sporadic.
     I've also fallen far, far behind on responding to comments, but I
     will get those caught up today.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
Spring Equinox, 1943
 
“It’s an excellent thing that your mother’s arithmancy consultant said the best
day for the engagement was Sunday, and not the actual Spring Equinox,” Patience
smiled dreamily at Marguerite. “Otherwise, our plans would have been spoiled.”
 
“Yes, let’s send her a thank-you card,” Marguerite snapped.
 
Hermione made a tutting noise. “Please hold still, Marguerite. This is a very
delicate spell.”
 
“What does it matter if my face is blemish free? We’re all going to die
tonight,” Marguerite groused, though she barely moved her lips as she did so,
following Hermione’s instructions.
 
Patience laid a hand on Hermione’s, sending a boost of her magic as Hermione
performed the healing spell. The end of the sphinx-core wand glowed a lovely
turquoise color, and warmth spread from the wand across Marguerite’s cheek.
 
“Well, on the off chance we don’t perish,” Hermione moved the wand in a small
arc, covering the line of the cursed cut, watching with relief as Tom’s
handiwork slowly disappeared, “You’ll be presentable for your betrothal
ceremony.”
 
“I think it looks even better than before. The spell gives your skin a healthy
flush. If you spent a little time in the sun, you wouldn’t be so deathly pale,”
Patience noted with her trademark absence of tact.
 
Marguerite ignored Patience, as she usually did. She turned to face Hermione,
who pushed her head forward again to inspect the skin around where the cut had
been.   Marguerite huffed, but kept her head still. “Can you please remind me
why this is a better plan?”
 
“Because we aren’t ready to face Grindelwald directly,” Hermione sighed,
running her finger lightly across Marguerite’s cheek. The cut was completely
gone, and there was no remaining rough or uneven skin.
 
“Let’s go join the others,” Patience took Hermione’s hand. “They are having
this same argument.”
 
The three witches walked from the sitting area of the Chamber back toward the
center of the room, where Tom was indeed justifying the plan to the other group
members.
Hermione herself was still a bit surprised she had managed to convince Tom to
notgo to the forest. For the last two weeks, Tom had been going over plans,
researching spells, asking Abraxas to find another portkey for travel, as well
as several rare ingredients for potions he was experimenting with in the
Chamber. It wasn’t a stretch to say that Tom was bordering on obsession, going
through newspapers, compiling lists of Grindelwald’s known strengths, spell
usage, and recent movements.
 
Tom had also put the newly formed group bonds to the test, having the members
practice dueling and borrowing one another’s magic. In general, the Slytherins
had more trouble doing so than the Ravenclaws. They were not the sharing kind,
but a few of them, Jacob, Corvus, and Vidhi, were making good progress.
Marguerite was doing a great job solely due to her need to outperform others.
All of them could locate a fellow group member, and they could all recognize
when they were being called through the bond. That bond would be put to the
test in this mission.
 
“Are you both insane?” Dolohov looked ready to bolt, his eyes darting around
the room. “That place is Grindelwald’s stronghold, the best magically guarded
building outside of Gringott’s.”
 
Tom gave the oldest member of their group a withering stare. “Going to
Nurmenguard while Grindelwald and all his top generals are in the Ardennes
forest is the best opportunity to strike a strong blow against his cause. If we
can free his prisoners and destroy the prison, his base of power, his
stronghold, will be gone. He’ll be on the defensive instead of the offensive.”
 
“I didn’t join this group to be suicidal!” Dolohov complained bitterly.
 
“No,” Tom replied with an icy tone. “You joined to be connected to the power I
wield. The price for that connection is obedience.” Most of the group stepped
back as Tom’s magic crackled in the air.
 
Dolohov did not reply, but the displeasure on his face was clear.   The clock
over the fireplace chimed, and all eyes turned toward Hermione and Tom.
 
Hermione summoned the map they’d created from the far table while Abraxas
handed out the masks that had become their group’s signature. The information
for this mission was time sensitive, based on knowledge from the new arrivals
from France and Germany, as well as new notes in Grindelwald’s book about the
security at Nurmenguard during his absence, knowledge that would become
obsolete soon. “We need to leave in fifteen minutes. Let’s go over the plans
once more. It is vital everyone does his or her job correctly, and at the right
time.”
 
 
On paper and in her mind, the plan Hermione had convinced Tom to embrace had
seemed downright sensible in comparison to the idea of ambushing Grindelwald
and his generals in the forest. However, in person, the fortress prison of
Nurmenguard was beyond imposing. The very walls seemed to spring from the rocky
island, the water crashed in angry waves against the base cliffs, and sheets of
icy rain poured down on them. Every few minutes, fierce cracks of lightening
illuminated the walls looming high above the group, and Hermione could feel
multiple versions of anxiety and fear through the bonds.   As instructed, no
one spoke, and they split into five groups, spreading along the base of the
building.
 
Four of the groups were pairs: Hermione and Jacob, Tom and Patience, Felicity
and Sebastian, and Vidhi and Corvus. Each of these pairs had one person with
greater knowledge of muggle devices and science. Abraxas, Marguerite,
Josephine, Dolohov, and Thad were the fifth group, and they were to head for
the dungeon entrance, which was the least accessible, and the least guarded.
 
As Hermione knelt by the north corner, she focused on the delicate task at
hand. She had practiced this procedure with dummy parts several times, though
never in the pouring rain. Jacob handed her various wires and parts as she
motioned for them, and they worked in quick, efficient silence. The fortress
would be rigged with all manner of magical protections, but no spell yet
devised could withstand a powerful muggle bomb, and everyone was under strict
instructions to avoid using any magic until the last possible moment. Their
arrival by portkey in the small copse of trees on the far end of the island
hadn’t raised any alarms, and so far things were going to plan. Hermione hoped
that Tom, Felicity, and Vidhi had reviewed as much bomb-making as she had in
the last week. Each of them was responsible for placing a device at a corner of
the fortress, and then connecting smaller charges around the base.
 
She could feel Jacob’s concern for himself, and more strongly, his worry over
Josephine. Their betrothal, though a Pureblood arrangement, was one of strong
mutual affection, and Hermione had no doubt it would grow into love even though
they were not soul mates. At her outstretched hand, he raised an eyebrow,
unsure of what to do since all their charges were set. Hermione took his hand,
which was cold and clammy since they weren’t using any warming charms, and the
only water repellant spells they had were the ones embedded in their cloaks.
She squeezed it reassuringly, and though he temporarily stiffened, he quickly
relaxed and accepted the comfort she sent through the group bond.
 
A brief thrill of fear ran through her, at the reminder of how young and
inexperienced the group was. This outing was more treacherous than trying to
break into the Department of Mysteries, with less fighting experience for most
of the group, not that Dumbledore’s Army had been prepared in the least for a
battle against Death Eaters. She had taken a vow to protect these people, and
even though over two-thirds of them were Slytherins, she had come to care for
them. Except Dolohov. If she had to throw someone to the metaphorical wolves,
it would be him, and it didn’t bother her in the least to admit that to
herself. His sadistic streak was already firmly in place, and the way he
sometimes looked at Felicity had Hermione rethinking her policy on the
Cruciatus. She forced herself back into the present, and walked quickly with
Jacob, meeting up with Patience and Tom, then continuing to the dungeons to
meet the others. It was a sign of Tom’s emotional development and trust that he
didn’t even raise an eyebrow over the fact Jacob was clutching her hand.
 
Upon arrival just outside the dungeon gates, it was clear that Abraxas and
Marguerite had been successful in placing the ‘memory keepers’. These tiny
silver orbs found in the Chamber operated on a similar principle to a pensieve,
except they only held a single, short image from a memory, no more than a ten
or fifteen second loop. Also, instead of needing to immerse oneself in the
memory, the image was projected into the room at the push of a small button on
the orb. The image selected was an incredibly fresh one of Tom, Abraxas, Thad,
and Sebastian (the four largest members of the group) in their masks and dark
clothes, pacing back and forth at the sparse tree line. The group of five was
to place the keeper where it was visible from the dungeon gate. Once activated,
this image, carefully planned to look like a natural back and forth movement,
with no false jumps or starts like a taped loop, was designed to lure out the
guards posted in the dungeon.
 
Hermione stared down at six unconscious, bound, and wandless guards. “Well,
that was a success then,” she breathed in relief.
 
“Yes, it was surprisingly easy,” Josephine whispered from behind her mask, her
voice as cheerful as always, as if she were discussing a project in Charms,
adding, “And just a bit fun, I admit.”
 
Marguerite nodded her head. “We hardly had to work at all. Josephine knocked
out all six with an impressive sleeping spell,” her voice was tight with
grudging approval.
 
“No names,” Hermione reminded her softly. “We don’t know what spells are on the
castle. There could be some kind of memory recording that Grindelwald can
review later and we don’t want to give him any clues to our identity.”
 
“What are we chatting for?” Tom hissed. His magic was fidgeting, crackling to
get out, and Hermione knew they needed to get the rest of the plan completed as
soon as possible. Who knew how long Grindelwald would take to interrogate his
generals? It could be hours of crucio or seconds of the killing curse.
 
“Let’s just review for ten seconds, Tom,” Hermione hissed back. He was so
impatient, and impulse was not their friend on this mission. Sticking to the
plan was vital.
 
The group gathered, forming a tight circle around Hermione. “Our goal is to
enter through the dungeon, now unguarded, and move upward and outward, freeing
prisoners and disabling guards. Once we have cleared the building, we will blow
the charges we have set. Work as quickly as possible, moving in your assigned
group in your assigned path. Though we have maps, we do not know what spells
are on the castle itself or how many guards there are for sure, so once we
enter, we do not know how much time we have. If you come across guards you
cannot fight, a cell you cannot open, or if you are injured to the point you
cannot move on your own, let us know through the group link. Speak as little as
possible. If prisoners question you, identify yourself as the freedom fighters
from France and move on. If Grindlewald returns, consider the mission aborted.
Immediately leave the castle and go to the portkey point. Hide until everyone
is assembled. We are starting with the upper hand and we want to keep it.”
 
She spoke rapidly, but everyone nodded. Reaching into the bond, she sent out a
quick burst of reassurance, then turned toward the dungeon gate. The group
followed silently, Tom at her side, Patience and Abraxas just behind her, with
the others flanking outward. Hermione had a sense that this wasn’t quite real.
She’d been in battles before, had fought for her life and the lives of those
she loved, had broken into the Ministry and Gringotts, but this bold move felt
like a step into the unknown. She had no experience of Grindelwald or his
magic, but she knew he was at his prime, on the level of Dumbledore and
Voldemort, and that was terrifying. She only hoped the guards were of more
middling magical skill.
 
At the threshold, she paused for a second, wondering if there would be an ear-
splitting caterwalling charm or an invisible barrier, but she could sense no
additional magic, and she shook her head at the arrogance of dark wizards who
thought no one would dare challenge them in any significant way, though, in all
fairness, who would be insane enough to break into Nurmenguard? She and Tom
crossed over, and the others as well. The groups formed, heading up different
staircases or down halls.
 
Hermione had carefully planned the groupings, making sure that each pair or
trio had strong attack, defense, and someone with decent healing capabilities.
Tom had wanted to blast through the halls with her at his side, she knew, but
that was a waste of magical skill, and she’d put him with Vidhi, whose fire
magic worked better with his than with anyone else’s in the group. She’d also
worked hard to convince him that stealth and surprise were the best options
until they got to a point where outright dueling was necessary. Hermione had
put herself with Corvus, and she’d also taken Thad, who though he’d improved
under her constant tutoring, was still the weakest member of the group.
 
To be as efficient as possible, Hermione had assigned her own trio to take the
east staircase all the way to top of the fortress, and work down, with another
pair, Marguerite and Abraxas, working from the middle floor up. This would
hopefully maximize the chance of freeing all the prisoners in the fortress, not
simply the ones on the lower floors.
 
“It certainly fits the stereotype of a dark wizard’s prison, doesn’t it?”
Corvus whispered as they went up dimly lit spiral stairs that continued to be
slimy and damp well above the dungeon level. “Bloke just needs to add chains to
the wall, maybe a few rotting skeletons, and it would be perfect.”
 
“There probably are rotting skeletons in the cells,” Thad observed in his
matter of fact way. “Maybe chains, too.”
 
“You two need to be quiet,” Hermione sighed, feeling the burn in her calves
after several floors. “I know you haven’t done this before, but these guards
will likely use seriously damaging if not killing spells. Keep silent and
alert, and don’t hesitate to use the spell that will disable them the best.”
 
Hermione could feel strong magic on the tower door, locking spells that were
far beyond the limits of a simple alohomora. She pointed to Thad, “Stay near
me.” Then motioned to Corvus, “Get on the other side of the doorway.”
 
Since the night Tom had absorbed the power of the curse on her back into his
own magic, Hermione had worked to be able to do the same. She was naturally
competitive, but with Tom, there was no option of falling behind. It was
imperative for the world’s survival that she could do everything he could, at
the same rate of power. Galatea had provided her with several cursed objects,
and Hermione had practiced unraveling the spells until they were what she liked
to think of as neutral magical molecules, not light or dark magic, just the
potential for magic. Once she had the magic broken down, she could pull it into
her own aura. However, the absorption of the neutral magic was time-consuming,
since it required a slow, steady flow. Too much magic influx at once could
upset the natural balance of her inherent magic, causing it to leak outward and
be lost.
 
She worked quickly on the spells, but allowed the magic to dissipate rather
than attempt to take it in. Once the door was disarmed, they entered silently,
but there was no need. The top floor was clearly a living space, not a cell,
and no one was currently there. It was a sumptuous open area with a marble
fireplace, gleaming mahogany shelves full of ingredients and magical objects,
several potions tables, and even a small library area, with leather bound books
and invitingly overstuffed chairs. A door at the back probably led to a
sleeping chamber, Hermione guessed. Magic permeated the air, thick and full of
the element of earth. This was Grindelwald’s private space, and as much as
Hermione was tempted to raid the shelves, that wasn’t the aim of this mission.
 
“Let’s go,” she began, but was cut off by Thad’s shocked cry.
 
Turning, she saw that he had tried to lift a cup from a pedestal in the corner
near the door. The silver and gold chalice was still in his hand, but the floor
beneath him had turned to quicksand, and he had already sunk up to his thighs.
His arms and torso were flailing in a way that would have been comic if the
situation weren’t so serious.
 
Corvus stood frozen in mid-step by the threshold, afraid to put his foot down
on the floor. His balance and reflexes were honed by years of living and
breathing Quidditch, and he was always calm under pressure. “You’ve got to stop
moving. Be still,” he used a tone that a parent would with a panicked child.
 
Edging closer, Hermione saw the spell that transformed the floor was spreading
concentrically, and it was already blocking her path to the door.
 
“I can’t! It stings! Help me!” Thad cried, now buried up to his ribcage.
 
“Incarcerous!” Corvus murmured, and Thad was now bound and not sinking as
quickly. “Sorry, mate, but it will give us more time to figure this out.” He
looked up to Hermione.
 
“That was an excellent idea,” she applauded Corvus. She weighed several options
in her mind. The likeliest spell for success was one she never thought she
would use, and one, that in using before its inventor was born, created the
type of time paradox she used to sigh over in episodes of Doctor Who. Still,
her pragmatism won out, and she flicked her wand and cast the nonverbal
levicorpus, hoisting Thad out of the sand as well as turning him upside down.
 
Carefully, she floated Thad to the doorway, where Corvus had already taken a
few steps back over the threshold. She set him down upright and discontinued
the binding spell. He began to scratch and pull at every place the sand had
touched his body, whimpering.
 
“Use all the cleaning spells you know on his skin and clothes. That substance
could do lasting damage if we don’t get it off.”
 
Corvus immediately began to point his wand at Thad’s pants and arms.
 
“What about you?” Thad sounded just as terrified as he had been a minute ago.
“That stuff is going to reach you soon.”
 
“Don’t worry about me.” Hermione replied tersely. She had no doubt she could
fly over the quicksand, with plenty of time to spare, but now she was angry.
Angry that Thad was being hurt, that Grindelwald hoarded knowledge, that she
had spent what felt like her entire life fighting wizards who believed they
were better than everyone else. Even though the plan was to blow up the entire
fortress prison, now Hermione wanted to take things, Grindelwald’s prized
things, and use them against him in any and every way she could.
 
Clipped to her belt under her robes was her trusty beaded bag, which she had
magically reinforced over the years with spells suggested by her mothers and
Tom. The bag was a part of her now, something she would never leave behind,
even when heading to classes or a walk on the Merrythought estate. She took it
out, floated it in front of her, widened the mouth, and began accio’ing every
book and magical item in the room, even taking all the potion ingredients.
 
“Hermion-” Corvus stopped just short of saying her whole name. “The quicksand!
What are you doing? You’re going to be trapped!”
 
She looked down, but was too focused to respond. The substance was only about
an inch away. As she had emptied the room, she had backed toward the bedroom
door. Now, she used the reducto technique she’d picked up from Ginny, bringing
down the door and half the wall, exposing the inner room. It did have a bed,
along with a few more bookshelves. She collected all the items, including a
tattered scrapbook and a rather wicked-looking shaving razor.
 
“Should we get To-” Corvus’s elbow found its way to Thad’s rib, ending that
question.
 
“I’m coming now,” Hermione surveyed the room one last time, then levitated
herself across to the space beyond the threshold.
 
“Wow,” Thad’s jaw hung down. “I didn’t know you could fly! I thought you were
scared of heights.”
 
Hermione cast a few more cleansing charms on Thad’s clothes and body, though it
seemed like Corvus had done solid work. “I was, but I’ve faced that fear.”
 
“Nice trick,” Corvus grinned. “Can you teach me how to stop being afraid of my
mother and sister?”
 
A vision of Sagitta’s angry face flashed through Hermione’s mind. “That might
be beyond even my powers,” she admitted with a grin that mirrored his.
 
Noise on the spiral stairs below ruined the moment, and Hermione’s tension came
back full force. The footsteps were approaching, and she barely had time to
push her companions against the wall and disillusion all of them before two men
barreled past them, straight into Grindelwald’s tower, and the quicksand.  
 
“Expelliaramus!” she cried, wistful thoughts of Harry flitting through her mind
as she collected the two spare wands. “Let’s get going.”
 
She led the way, staying close to the inside of the stairwell. As they
descended, the smells of thick magic and the sounds of fighting met them. They
had taken much longer in the tower than anticipated, and apparently Abraxas and
Marguerite had started working upwards. As the stairs widened into the entrance
to the next floor, they could see the two Slytherins shooting spells from
behind an open cell door, three ragged prisoners huddled against the wall
behind them. Four guards were advancing on them.
 
“We get one shot each by surprise,” Hermione whispered. “Make it count.”
 
Corvus took her words to heart, throwing a stunning spell so strong that it
sent the closest man flying backwards into the far wall. Thad used a fairly
simple second year spell. The petrification was still effective, though, and a
second man fell over sideways, frozen in place. Hermione cast a variation of
the incarceration spell, drawing gently on Tom’s magic to make the ropes fiery.
Marguerite sent another stunner at the last man, and came out from behind the
door.
 
“Disarm them all,” Hermione instructed as Abraxas and the prisoners joined
them. She pulled on her magic to bring the bound guard to her, taking his wand,
and then asking, “Sprechren Sie Englisch? Französisch?” That was the extent of
her German.
 
The guard was silent until Hermione pulled the ropes tighter, and an audible
sizzle of flesh was heard along with a sharp scream. “Yes, I speak English!”
 
“How many guards are there total in the building?” she inquired, trying not to
think about the fact that she was torturing someone, even someone who probably
deserved it.
 
“I don’t know! I didn’t count them!” his voice was sharp, and his face was red
with sweat and contorted with pain. He looked at Hermione’s stern expression
and added, “Maybe one hundred or so prison guards. Most are on the lower
floors, where there are larger cells and more prisoners.”
 
She stopped the flames, and the guard’s face grew defiant. “He’ll kill you for
this. Slowly.”
 
“He’ll have to catch me first, and I’m excellent at running,” Hermione replied
grimly, sending a silent stunning spell directly into his chest, knocking him
unconscious to the floor.
 
Abraxas had moved behind her, and she briefly leaned against him, drawing
strength from his quiet support. He pressed a hand to her lower back, and she
felt his love. It was a boost she desperately needed. She longed for a hug, but
settled for squeezing his hand and sending her love back at him.
 
“Give the prisoners the wands we’ve confiscated. It’s their choice to
disapparate or fight with us, but we need to get down to the lower levels as
soon as possible. The others will need our help. They are seriously
outnumbered.”
 
Marguerite handed wands to the three prisoners already freed, then opened the
other cells on the floor. Thad passed out the rest of the wands. Some apparated
away, but five prisoners followed them down the stairs, stolen wands clutched
tightly.
 
On the next floor down, they found Felicity and Josephine, both with bloodied
faces, sending curses furiously from the western stairwell towards a cluster of
advancing guards in Grindelwald’s signature brown and gold uniforms. Three
other guards were unconscious on the floor, and the Ravenclaws were putting up
an excellent fight, but they were clearly in the retreat position. Hermione’s
group came up behind the seven guards, disabled them quickly, then freed the
prisoners.
 
“Oh, thank God! I thought we were done for!” Felicity ran at Hermione and
hugged her as she unlocked cells. Josephine joined them as well, throwing her
arms around both of them.
 
“Me, too,” she sobbed. “I take back what I said about this being fun.”
 
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to my sisters,” Hermione allowed herself a few
seconds to hug them back, then went back into command mode.
 
There were twenty prisoners on this floor, and not nearly enough wands to go
around. Those who wished to disapparate were given one wand to share for side-
along apparition. The others, fifteen of them, came along, the ones without
wands picking up chains or breaking chairs to create makeshift weapons.
 
The fourth floor, which widened out substantially, was strangely quiet. It had
over twice as many cells, about fifty, and they were arranged into inner and
outer squares of cells - one flanking the sidewalls, and one in the middle. The
guards were nowhere to be seen, but the central cells blocked the view of the
entire floor. Splitting into two, the group went down the walkways cautiously.
 
Hermione crept slowly, nonverbally unlocking cells as she went. Prisoners from
the previous floors spoke quietly with the newly freed, and by the time they
had reached the corner, there were several more wizards and witches behind her.
A low feeling of dread entered the group bond, and she felt for it, trying to
identify which member it was coming from. The magic was heavily restrained, but
she recognized Sebastian’s dark, earthy signature.
 
“Halt!” a deep voice rang out, rapidly followed by curses that grazed
Hermione’s face, sheering a stray curl that had escaped from her braid. It fell
to the flagstones at her feet. She pushed an intense wave of warning at
Abraxas, Marguerite, and Josephine, who had gone down the other hall, willing
them to use caution.
 
Conjuring a strong shield, Hermione stepped around the corner, and saw that the
man speaking had Sebastian kneeling at his feet, a wand pointed at his temple,
and another guard had Dolohov in a similar position. Five men flanked them, and
the rest, about fifteen or so, were clustered defensively in the back
stairwell, some with wands pointed upwards, others down.
 
She threw a blasting curse at the archway leading to the stairs, caving in the
wall, and cutting off the majority of the men.
 
The man spoke to her in German, then switched to French. “It matters not how
many of us you take out. You were imbeciles to come here. Grindelwald will
destroy you all. Your cause is lost, just as your lives will be, though that
loss will not come painlessly.”
 
He cast a nonverbal spell on Sebastian, and even before the distress reached
her through the bond, she knew it was the Cruciatus. She remembered all too
well what it felt like, the way the curse ripped through the body, making it
impossible to comprehend anything except the pain being inflicted.
 
A jet of light soared over Hermione’s shoulder, and the man holding Sebastian
fell to the ground, twitching in the same way Sebastian was. She glanced back
to see Marguerite, her wand outstretched, her face alight with vicious triumph.
 
“We’ll see who suffers most,” Marguerite muttered, coming to stand immediately
beside Hermione, while Abraxas came to her other side.
 
The three of them moved forward as a single unit, casting stunning and blasting
spells, along with Marguerite’s occasional much darker curses. Hermione cast a
shield over Sebastian who was still shaking on the floor from the after effects
of the curse. Josephine and Felicity ran forward and pulled him back behind the
corner, where the prisoners with wands were providing cover.   Now that they
were seriously outnumbered, the guards were disabled and unconscious within
seconds, and Dolohov rose to his feet, grabbing his and Sebastian’s wands back
from the guard who had been holding him.
 
“Bastard,” Dolohov kicked angrily at the unconscious man’s ribs, and Hermione
heard a sickening crunch.
 
“Come on,” she said sharply, taking Sebastian’s wand and giving it to
Marguerite for safe- keeping. “We need to go back to the other stairs and get
to the first floor. We’ve been here too long already. Every second we stay, the
chances of Grindelwald returning increase.”
 
Speaking his name seemed to motivate all the prisoners to move rapidly, and
they helped to free those still in cells on this floor. The group moved en
masse down the stairs, now almost eighty people, though less than half had
wands. A witch with a severely bruised face and a limp told them that their
wands were in a locked cabinet on the first floor.
 
The third floor was empty of all guards, and it was only a few minutes’ work to
release the prisoners. The second floor, on the other hand, was an active war
zone. The guards who had been trapped in the stairwell had made their way to
this floor, and were providing devastating cover for the remaining second floor
guards, as well as the third floor guards who had come down to investigate the
commotion.
 
Tom, Vidhi, and a small group of prisoners were in one corner, surrounded by a
protective ring of fire that the guards couldn’t breach physically, though they
were casting spells at them from all sides, and Tom and Vidhi were whirling
back to back to deflect them, completely on the defensive.   Jacob and Patience
were close by, with another set of prisoners, defending from behind a guard’s
desk, a group of guards steadily advancing on them. Both groups were
outnumbered by at least ten to one.
 
Everyone with a wand streamed in from the stairwell, rushing forward with any
spell or curse that came to mind. The guards fell back quickly, now at a
disadvantage, and Tom dropped his ring of fire, striding across the room
blasting guards off their feet five or six at a time, Vidhi close behind him,
stunning anyone left standing. Hermione took a second to appreciate how well
their magic worked together, pleased Tom was making further connections, and
especially with the other half-blooded member of the group.
 
He came back to her side in less than five minutes, and the core group made a
circle around them while the prisoners collected wands and freed others.
 
Tom’s hand came up to her cheek, gently fingering the spot where her hair had
been shorn off, leaving a small, reddened patch of skin. The hand he raised was
bleeding, and when Hermione surveyed the group, she saw several cuts, welts,
and bruises, though all were minor except for Sebastian, who was being mostly
supported by Abraxas, his body still wracked with spasms every few seconds.
 
“The first floor?” she asked breathlessly. The fighting had taken a lot out of
her.
 
“Cleared. The top floors are taken care of?” His voice was firm, but she felt
his hand tremble slightly against her temple.
 
Hermione nodded. “Done. We need to grab the prisoners’ wands on our way out,
and get the hell out of here.”
 
“Agreed,” Tom took her free hand and they walked down the stairs. His touch
brought a wild mix of rage and exhilaration, as well as a flood of their magic,
already at high levels from the fighting.   She could feel Patience’s
unflappable, cool magic as well, though most of the water magic was being
channeled as support to Abraxas, to help him with carrying Sebastian.
 
Their combined magic blasted the cabinet doors to shreds, and the prisoners
rushed forward, grabbing their rightful wands. From there, everyone went out
into the stormy night. Most of the prisoners apparated away immediately, though
five remained with the group. Hermione sent everyone except Tom to the portkey
site. The pair backed up as far as their magic would still travel, then began
to walk along the sides of the fortress, blasting the charges.
 
Hermione had experienced plenty of magical blasts, but never a muggle bomb. The
sounds were deafening, and her ears rang painfully as she triggered the last
charge. Tom came running toward her, and though she could see his mouth moving,
she couldn’t make out his words. The walls were falling down, crashing in bone-
jarring thuds against the rocky ground, and combined with the thunder and
lightening, Hermione thought she might have a good handle on what the
apocalypse was supposed to feel like. She was proud and shamed all at once. Any
guards inside would be dead, but they had dealt a devastating blow against
Grindelwald - more than any organized government ever had - more than
Dumbledore had done up to this point.
 
Grabbing Tom’s hand, she ran with him to the portkey point, where the others
were carefully linking hands and arranging positions to fit everyone onto the
rusted length of metal that was their only way off this island.
 
A loud cracking that wasn’t thunder filled the air. The lightening illuminated
the trees and brush, and Hermione saw five figures apparate and advance toward
the group. Other than Tom, Marguerite was the closest person to her.
 
“Use the portkey, now!” Hermione hissed to her. “Get everyone out.”
 
Marguerite usually bristled at any orders, but this time, she didn’t blink. She
counted down from three, linked hands, and the group vanished as Hermione
pulled Tom back.
 
“That was rather foolish,” a deep, silky voice rang out, magically magnified
through the air. “You should have run while you were able…Hermione.”
 
She tamped down the fission of fear that went through her as he spoke her name.
It had been a risk as soon as Corvus had spoken in the tower, but he only had
her first name. “It would only be foolish if I were afraid of you,” she replied
in French, using magic to bounce her voice as she pulled Tom further back into
the trees. He followed her, though she could feel his anger and confusion.
 
“Ah,” the voice continued, closer now. “So brave. But that accent is fooling no
one, dear. You’re probably a Gryffindor, aren’t you? Did Albus send one of his
little disciples after me? It would be so like him. So terrified of getting his
hands dirty.”
 
“I’m not,” Hermione still spoke in French, and continued to back them toward
the cliff, using rocks and trees as cover. Tom seethed silently beside her,
furious at being out of the loop.
 
He laughed, and it was a surprisingly pleasant sound, booming and full of life.
“Clearly. After tonight, your paws are filthy with blood and dirt, little
lioness. Care to reconsider and join me? I can sense you are powerful, but if
you continue, you will die tonight. I’m starting to think that might be more of
a waste than the loss of my fortress.”
 
Tom’s magic was buzzing, and Hermione hissed lowly, “Just stay with me to the
cliff. We’ll be gone soon. I had to give them time to get away. With all of us
in one cluster, it would have been a massacre.”
 
“My desire to kill this man is skyrocketing, Dearest,” Tom snarled back. “I
don’t like the way he talks to you.”
 
“I’m more concerned with his desire to rule the world than his impertinent
tone,” Hermione replied sourly, pushing her way through the underbrush, barely
aware of the dozens of scratching thorns against her legs and arms. “Once we’re
at the cliff, we need to jump off and I’ll fly us away.”
 
Tom stared at her, the whites of his widened eyes shining through the dark and
the rain. “That’s a very big risk. You’ve only just acquired that skill, and a
mistake would mean death.”
 
“Staying here will mean death,” she countered. “Trust me, Tom. I’ll never let
anything happen to you.”
 
“How sweet,” the voice was right beside her ear, and arms wrapped around her
out of nowhere, pulling her up and out of the thorns savagely, then hurling her
to the ground. The impact with the earth along her neck and back stunned her as
he causally accio’ed her mask. She managed to roll slightly, pushing her wand
under her hip, casting a few nonverbal spells, and tucking her face into her
shoulder to obscure his view. Tom was somewhere nearby, restrained and boiling
with rage. She sent calm over their bond. They didn’t have the power to fight
their way out of this. They would have to use their brains.
 
A finger was under her chin, lifting her face. “Let’s have a look at you,” his
voice was calm, though Hermione was not fooled. She glanced up and met his
eyes, though kept her mind tightly shielded. The history books, even with
magical pictures, hadn’t done Gellert Grindelwald justice - he was simply too
alive. Even though she knew sixty was basically forty for wizards, Grindelwald
didn’t look older than mid-thirties. His pale blonde hair tumbled over his
bright cornflower blue eyes, but it was his mischievous energy that was the
most compelling, bordering on mesmerizing. He was smiling down at her, the grin
on his face lively and genuine, as if he were truly delighted to meet her. It
was incredibly unnerving, especially as his smile widened further.
 
“My, my, you area little powerhouse, aren’t you?” he murmured. “That mind is a
beautiful steel trap. I wager I could spend days trying to get in there, in
horribly nasty ways, and you wouldn’t even crack. The raw magic on you, child!”
 
Using a body bind spell, he lifted her to her feet, coming behind her to take
her wand. He grasped at it, but it wouldn’t budge from her hand. His laughter
rang out louder than before. “Did you just use a nonverbal, permanent sticking
charm to keep your wand? You are a delight! I am definitely going to keep you.”
 
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Tom’s voice was close by, and Hermione allowed
herself an internal sigh of relief.
 
“Goodness, you and your boyfriend are such overachievers,” Grindelwald smiled,
but this one didn’t reach his eyes. “I expect you are somehow responsible for
the leak in my organization. I have a few generals who will be simply dying to
take that out of your hides.”
 
He grabbed her by the braid, placing her body in front of his like a shield,
his wand to her throat. It didn’t dig in like Bellatrix’s had, simply rested
casually on her flesh. She wasn’t sure if that was better or not. “Alright,
boyfriend, come out,” he sighed.
 
Tom emerged from the trees, and in the lightening, Hermione could see blood
splattered over his face and clothes. He was heavily shielded, but made no
attempt to attack.
 
Grindelwald’s jaw tightened, along with his grip on her braid. “I see boyfriend
has no problem with bloody hands, either. Aren’t you two just a bit too dark to
be freedom fighters?”
 
“Desperate times,” Hermione murmured.
 
“Oh, dear, you are preaching to the choir,” Grindelwald’s tone was light again.
“I’ve been saying that for ages. I knew you were one of my mine at heart.”
 
Tom growled, “Hermione is mine.”
 
She felt Grindelwald shrug. “What do they say? Finders keepers? I’m going to
need to replace those generals you just killed.”
 
“Hermione would never serve you,” Tom laughed coldly.
 
“That’s what the Imperius is for, dear boy. Shall we see how well it works?”
Grindelwald’s wand pressed into the hollow of her throat, and she heard him
whisper, “Imperio.”
 
Tom was yelling in the background, but her body and mind both felt deliciously
light, as if she were flying, completely weightless. The body bind was gone,
she was standing free in front of Grindelwald, and his voice was the whole
world. “Protect me, Hermione,” he said. “Kill your boyfriend.”
 
Her wand was pointed at Tom before she realized she’d moved her hand. The light
sensation was still there, but another, deeper, wave of energy was filling her.
Something that was in her, that was partof her. Her hand began to make
movements in the air, her wand drawing energy from the spell motions.
 
“Hermione!” Tom’s voice didn’t sound right. It wasn’t cold or calm or superior.
It was raw, pleading, full of emotion. “Don’t let him control you!”
 
“Feel free to do it in a painful way,” Grindelwald continued, that silky voice
buzzing in her mind, trying to take precedence over all other thought. “Perhaps
a flesh-eating curse? I could show you a few, though I have this feeling that
you have a whole library of dark spells committed to memory.”
 
“Tom, I love you, and I’m sorry,” her words carried on the wind, and she saw
Tom’s face fall, his own wand raise to point at her. She opened her mind, and
pushed a feeling of deep trust and the words run to me as hard as she could
over their bond to him.
 
Grindelwald was chuckling. “I should write this down. You two are excellent
melodrama.”
 
His laughter transformed to a shout of annoyance as Tom ran full pace at them.
“This is getting tiresome. Ava-”
 
Something snapped inside her, like a tether breaking free, and Hermione thrust
her hand behind her, stunning Grindelwald as hard as she could mid-syllable.
Unprepared, he flew backwards and she yelled, “Accio Elder Wand!”
 
It sailed neatly into her palm, and instantly, she felt the power flow through
it, old, dark, and intoxicating. Grindelwald, even stunned mostly unconscious,
managed to lift his head and scowl darkly at her. “You are more like me than
you know, dear.”
 
Tom wrapped his arms around her waist, and she quickly reconsidered flying them
away, the Elder Wand giving her sense of deep confidence in performing a skill
she hadn’t used in years. She loosened Tom’s grip, took his hand instead, and
turned sharply on the spot.
 
Chapter End Notes
     I have a conflict with the physical appearance of Johnny Depp as
     Grindelwald. In the books, Grindelwald is described as vivacious,
     with a twinkle in his eye - mischievous. The bleached, washed out
     coloring on Depp looks awful in my opinion. I thought about how I
     would cast Grindelwald if I had all of time and space at my disposal,
     and I decided the perfect fit (in my mind, anyhow) was a young Peter
     O'Toole. There's a link below that shows him looking how I imagine
     Grindelwald would.
     https://cloudpix.co/photo-peter-o-toole-984388.html
***** Tom Simmers with Quiet Rage *****
Chapter Summary
     Tom bides his time after the events at Nurmenguard. Hermione has a
     little PTSD and talks to Dumbledore. Patience has a vision. Abraxas
     charms some parents. Oh, and after such much plot, there's some porn,
     just in time for Valentine's Day.
Chapter Notes
     Hello readers, thank for you all the kind condolences - they mean
     quite a bit to me. Here's some plot and some porn (it's been far too
     long since I wrote a steamy sex scene, especially for the pair in
     this chapter). I have to give credit for the 'reducto' idea to my
     fourteen year old, who watches way too much "Deadliest Warrior," and
     always supplies me with gruesome ideas for battles.
     Also, on a funny side note, I finally made it over to the Pottermore
     website and took the House sorting and Patronus tests. My House
     result was Ravenclaw, which was completely expected, since I'm a
     nerd. However, my Patronus was a rattlesnake! I think writing from
     Tom's p.o.v. is permanently twisting me, lol.
     Enjoy!
The feeling of side-along apparition had not improved since he’d first felt it
at the age of ten. Tom despised the sensation, and though he managed to stay on
his feet, his stomach seemed to be rolling over itself, probably a combination
of the apparition and the magic masking potion they’d all taken before leaving.
This time, he had brewed it stronger to make it longer lasting, but now the
side effects were intensified as well. He hadn’t eaten in hours, but the nausea
and spinning were almost enough to make him retch.
 
“It might help to sit down for a moment,” Hermione’s voice sounded from
somewhere to his left, low and calm, and her hand slid in his, cool from the
brisk night. She didn’t seem to be affected.
 
He followed her lead silently, his rage mounting at how helpless his body felt,
and sat down on a stone bench. It was only then he realized they were in the
small, walled garden of Narcissa’s Hogsmeade cottage. Hermione had apparated
them across countries. She performed several spells, murmuring multiple
protective wards and cancelling the permanent sticking charm she’d previously
cast with ridiculous ease. Tom could have undone such a charm, but it would
have been the work of several long minutes of concentration, of delving into
the molecular magic. Hermione simply waved Grindelwald’s wand in her non-
dominant hand, and her wand was free. Once she had done this, Tom noted she
stowed the Elder wand in her tight inner sleeve, preferring to use her own
wand.  He had more than a few questions for his soul mate about tonight’s
events, but he could feel her frenzied energy, barely contained, along with the
old, raw power of that wand, even when not in use, and Tom decided to bide his
time.
 
They sat quietly, and the awful effects faded quickly, especially since
Hermione was whispering rejuvenating charms and cleansing spells at him while
rubbing his hand and back. He admitted to himself that this was pleasant. Her
touch was always a balm, even when he was angry.
 
“We need to get to Hogwarts,” Hermione stood. “Are you better now?”
 
He nodded and rose. They walked to the side gate in the garden wall, but were
stopped when a figure came out from the house.
 
“Hello?” The words were spoken in a soft, deeply accented English. “Is someone
out here?”
 
Hermione turned. “Allison, it’s just me, Hermione, and Tom. We’re leaving for
Hogwarts now.”
 
The moon was not quite full, but the night was clear of clouds, and Tom could
see the young Frenchwoman perfectly. He hadn’t met her, though he knew she was
part of the group of people Grindelwald had been interested in. She didn’t look
like a dark wizard’s choice of target - a young woman in simple but beautifully
cut robes with a sweet expression and a plump figure, but Tom could feel that
she had power of some kind.
 
Her gaze connected with his, and her dark eyes widened, her round mouth
dropping open. “Oh, I see,” she murmured, looking intohim, then stepping back
immediately. “You’ve had a very rough night. You’re a lot like him, only much
more sane. That might make you more dangerous.”
 
“Yes,” Hermione interrupted before Tom could question what the hell was going
on. “And we need to go. Don’t tell anyone we were here, ok?”
 
Allison nodded and went back into the house. Tom’s patience snapped. “What was
that? Did she read my mind? Did she compare me to Grindelwald?”
 
“Well, you can’t say you don’t have designs on ruling the magical world,”
Hermione replied tartly, already walking through the gate and toward the path
to Hogwarts. “And, yes, Allison can read minds. Most people with natural
legilimens skill can choose when to use it, but she can’t help it. I think
she’s closer to a telepath. She’s harmless, though; she only wants to be left
alone.”
 
“In the future, keep her away from me,” Tom followed her closely. “I have
enough women in my mind.”
 
“I doubt Allison will seek out your company. One peek into your thoughts
clearly terrified her.”
 
Tom nodded in approval. “As it should.”
 
“I’m simply grateful I’d already cleaned you off. Imagine her reading your mind
while you stood in front of her covered in blood,” Hermione paused on the path.
“Do I want to know how you managed to get that much blood on yourself?”
 
He grinned, his mouth a wicked slash in the moonlight. “I used reducto.”
 
“On a person?” Hermione sounded horrified. Tom considered reminding her that
she’d personally blown up several people with a muggle bomb only an hour
earlier, but decided against it. She could be so touchy about her darker side.
 
“Why not? It’s an explosive spell, and it works wonderfully on soft tissue. The
man went everywhere, and his flying viscera distracted and blinded the three
others, giving me time to get rid of them as well.” Tom wasn’t ashamed, and he
wasn’t afraid of Hermione’s rejection, not any longer. She’d broken through the
Imperius, cast by one of the most powerful wizards in the world to protect him.
He knew their bond superseded any and everything else.
 
There was a tense pause as they kept walking, and Tom knew Hermione was
struggling with whether or not she wanted to voice the question in her mind.
“I’ll save you the trouble of asking, Dearest. I avada’dthem. It was the
logical move. We were both in mortal peril, time was of the essence, and I
wasn’t about to simply stun them. It was kill or be killed, and I have no
intention of dying.”
 
He waited for the lecture to begin, was already preparing his caustic response,
when she quietly asked, “What did it feel like? Using that spell?  Did you
enjoy it?”
 
That was the crux of the matter.   His soul mate wasn’t necessarily opposed to
violence, or even killing; she would kill to protect others and herself, had
proven that tonight beyond a doubt, but it bothered her to think of reveling in
death, of deriving pleasure from it. He found that it bothered him that she
assumed he did.
 
“I know you love to think the worst of me,” his voice held a slight
admonishment, “but I was honestly too busy fighting to survive to ‘enjoy’ using
the spell. I was certainly relieved to be done with them, but my main concern
was getting back to you. I had no idea what Grindelwald was doing to you.”
 
Her hand came out, and he took it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was unfair.
There were just so many surprises tonight, so many boundaries crossed. This is
more about me than you.”
 
Tom nodded. She had a tendency to project her darkness onto him, because it
frightened her. “We’ll need to talk about it.” He was notgoing to be her
emotional whipping boy.
 
“Yes,” Hermione promised. “But first I have to get to Dumbledore.”
 
They were practically running, and had made it to the edge of Hogwarts, with
the greenhouses in view. Tom looked sideways at her in disbelief. “Dumbledore?
Why?”
 
“Because I need to give him this wand,” Hermione answered, not breaking her
stride.
 
“You can’t do that,” Tom protested, running faster to keep up. “He’ll know all
the things we did; we’ll be expelled.”
 
Hermione shook her head. “Somehow I doubt that. You had enough faith in me to
run toward me when I was under the Imperiuswith my wand pointed at your heart.
Trust me on this.”
 
“I think you might be soaking in too much Patience,” Tom snapped. “And I’m
really getting annoyed with only knowing half of the cosmic plan you ladies
seem to be tuned into.”
 
“Tom,” Hermione snapped back. “Sometimes events unfold at lightening speed. It
isn’t about willfully keeping you in the dark. I’ll explain everything, but
time is truly of the essence. We don’t know how long it will take Grindelwald
to regroup with his remaining followers - the ones stationed in villages he’s
taken over scattered across France and Germany.”
 
“Fine,” Tom allowed, but he was seething, and he didn’t bother to hide his
anger. He let it flood their bond, but she only ran faster, her feet now barely
touching the ground. He wondered if she knew she was half-floating.
 
They entered through the tunnel, going down into the Chamber, and found most of
the group sitting quietly. Abraxas was missing, along with Sebastian and
Marguerite. Tom saw the eyes light up as Hermione entered, watched as her
roommates and even the standoffish Vidhi ran at her to embrace her. Thad did as
well, hugging her back. She truly was the heart of this group.
 
“What happened?” Corvus asked.
 
“Was that Grindelwald who appeared as we left?” Jacob added.
 
“How did you get away?” This came simultaneously from Josephine and Felicity.
 
Tom was quiet, allowing Hermione to question them about the prisoners who’d
portkeyed with them to the field outside Hogsmeade (they’d all apparated away
from there) and give the answers to their questions, mostly because he wanted
to hear what she left out of the account. She stayed close to the truth, but
omitted the fact that she’d summoned Grindelwald’s wand. He’d expected that.
 
When they’d learned that Grindelwald’s password on the book was the Deathly
Hallows, and after seeing Hermione’s reaction to the phrase, Tom had found the
tale and read it over and over, searching for a deeper meaning. He’d also gone
through the Chamber’s books and the Hogwarts library. To begin with, he’d
dismissed the idea that these hallows existed in some form in the real world,
but now he reconsidered. If the wand was real, why not the others? He’d also
learned that supposed possession of that wand was steeped in blood, that no one
could maintain mastery of it without being a target of others. Was that why she
wanted to give it to Dumbledore? To protect herself? There were many answers
his soul mate owed him, and he was keeping track of them all.
 
After the group had been reassured and looked over, Hermione told them to go to
their rooms. “We’ll talk over breakfast,” she assured them. “Tom and I need to
go check on Sebastian.”
 
Patience had come over to him as Hermione spoke to the others, standing so
close her pale, fly-away hair brushed at his cheek, and she slid her arm
through his, her height making their shoulders nearly level. There was a
special kind of comfort in her deep, watery magic, a sense that he could simply
let go and fall into her, that she was strong enough to hold him, keep him
afloat. Not that he ever would let go like that. Never. But it was pleasant to
think he could.
 
“Is,” Tom began softly, reluctant to ask a question that hinted at his doubt
and vulnerability.
 
“Everything is happening the way it should,” Patience finished, her cool lips
touching his earlobe as she whispered.
A rush of satisfaction filled him, and he wrapped his arm around Patience’s
waist, turning her to face him and kissing her deeply, in full view of
everyone. He didn’t give a damn. When the group had been bound magically, he’d
announced his quartet’s elemental bond. Most of the group were Purebloods, and
knew that often meant a sexual bond. They knew that he and Hermione were soul
mates, and that Patience and Abraxas were as well. Tom was tired of hiding, and
with the secrecy pact, he didn’t need to, at least not in the Chamber. To the
group’s credit, Tom didn’t see a single raised eyebrow when he and Patience
finally separated, though there were several smirks.
 
They went up through the girls’ bathroom, and dispersed. Patience, Hermione,
and Tom went to the hospital wing, where they found Narcissa tending to
Sebastian.
 
“What in the world did you do?” Narcissa hissed as Hermione and Tom approached
her. She was gently spooning a bright orange potion between Sebastian’s lips, a
process made difficult by the frequent seizing of his entire body, and after
tremors and twitches.
 
“They wouldn’t tell me anything, other than Sebastian was a victim of the
Cruciatus, which is obvious,” she glanced bitterly at Marguerite, who held a
damp rag to Sebastian’s forehead. “You are lucky I have extensive experience
treating this curse, or he wouldn’t be able to attend your betrothal ceremony
tomorrow.”
 
Abraxas, who held the bottle of medicine Narcissa was using, came forward to
pour more into the spoon. “Only Tom and Hermione can discuss the business of
the group with people outside the group, Lady Bonneau. We told you that.”
 
“I am their mother! That comes with an exemption!” Narcissa insisted angrily,
and Tom found that her distress made him uncomfortable. It had taken Tom years
to adjust to how much Hermione confided in and depended upon Narcissa. And it
had taken the events of this year for Tom to completely embrace her as part of
his future plans, as an extension of the group, a mother figure - hismother
figure.
 
“We destroyed Nurmenguard,” Hermione answered simply.
 
Narcissa’s dark brows shot upwards. She glanced down as Hermione pulled
Grindelwald’s wand out of her sleeve. “Sweet Circe, what do you intend to do
with that?” She stared at the wand with loathing. Tom made a mental note of
that as well.
 
“I need to see Professor Dumbledore as soon as possible,” Hermione tucked the
wand back into her sleeve.
 
The look of distaste did not leave Narcissa’s face. Tom knew her general
animosity toward the Deputy Headmaster rivaled his own. Still, she summoned a
house elf and gave instructions for both Galatea and Dumbledore to be sent for.
Then, she gave Sebastian a large draught of sleeping potion and shooed everyone
except Marguerite to the side of the hospital wing with the desk and chairs,
away from the patient area.
 
Galatea arrived first, and her anger was palpable. She wore her silky men’s
pajamas, with a long velvet robe flowing behind her as she walked rapidly
towards them, stopping directly in front of Tom. He knew she was recalling the
agreement they’d made, that he would seek her counsel before acting. “I’ve had
messages from several people I know in the Ministry in the last hour. I could
hardly credit what I was hearing. They are saying the Freedom Fighters stormed
Nurmenguard, freed all the prisoners, then blew up the building.”
 
She was looking at Tom, clearly waiting for a response. He truly respected
Galatea - she was brilliant and powerful, but Tom’s sarcasm had been in check
for far too long tonight. He said the first thing that came to mind. “I’d think
we should come up with a better name for the group than the Freedom Fighters.
That’s terribly boring. We rushed headlong into danger, defying death. We
deserve something more stylish. What about,” he paused for a moment thinking of
the way the ourboros swallowed its tail, “the Death Eaters?”
 
It really wasn’t possible to gauge his guardian’s reaction to that because as
he spoke the words, every one of the hundreds of bottles and jars on the
shelves around them exploded, glass shattering and raining down. None of the
shards touched skin, though, because Dumbledore had walked in, and cast a wide
shield over the group.
 
The Professor was not wearing his over robes for once, only simple trousers and
a button down shirt. He managed to look both alert and exhausted, his eyes
bright as always, but with a deep weariness. “Although I doubt I was summoned
to help clean up the hospital wing, I am happy to offer my assistance.”
 
“I will gladly accept,” Narcissa answered, though her voice was strained and
she looked more shaken than Tom could ever recall.
 
Hermione, though, was simply gone. Her magic and her mental presence in his
bond had cut off sharply. He glanced over at her, and saw that she looked worse
than Narcissa. All her curls were on end, frizzing out in magical overload, her
hand was clenching and unclenching on her wand, her face, usually so
expressive, was completely blank, though there was no mistaking the terror in
her eyes. She had been the one to explode the jars, he knew. Her magic was his
as well, and he’d felt the swell of a magical tsunami about to hit.
 
The adults were already vanishing potions and glass at a rapid rate, and Tom
went to Hermione. She was still to the point of catatonic. Abraxas and Patience
had moved closer also, and all three of them touched her arms. She shook
herself, smiled, and Tom felt their bond open back up, as if nothing had
happened. He added this bizarre episode to the list of ‘Things We Need to
Discuss Later.’
 
Had his cavalier attitude toward their life and death situation triggered her
earlier fear and panic? He had heard of soldiers suffering from flashbacks to
battles, had seen old, ragged, homeless men from the first Great War in the
streets of London, around the poor area of the orphanage. They would be normal
one instant, then ducking from invisible mortars or fighting phantom enemies.
Had Hermione bottled up the intensity of the battle in a similar way, only for
it to come out now? He wanted answers. From the moment Grindelwald had
appeared, Tom had been on his back foot, struggling to catch up with events and
whatever plans his soul mate had, but was not disclosing. He was very angry
about this, but it was a cold anger, and he was in an oddly patient, ‘watch how
this plays out’ mood.
 
“Now,” Dumbledore looked around at the clean walls and floors, “what was the
original matter at hand?”
 
Tom rolled his eyes. Dumbledore loved to play stupid, annoyingly. The man was a
genius. He knew exactly what was happening. His contacts at the Ministry were
probably the same as Galatea’s, since the two were inexplicably close friends.
If she knew, then he certainly did.
 
“Albus,” Galatea’s tone was testy. Apparently, she was done with the innocent
act as well. “We need to discuss the night’s events.”
 
“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore’s eyes fell on Tom, Hermione, Abraxas, and Patience, who
were standing in a cluster to the side, then flicked to Marguerite, sitting at
Sebastian’s side across the room. “I thought, for the sake of certain school
rules and Ministry laws, we were notgoing to be straightforward.”
 
“There isn’t time to play games,” Hermione stepped forward. “We need to ask you
to keep our role in this matter confidential.”
 
Tom worked to hide his scowl. All the work they were doing, it was for an
ultimate goal - to gain prestige in the magical world, to show all the blood
purists that he and Hermione were just as powerful, more powerful, than any
Pureblood, that designations by blood status were meaningless. Even if he knew
logically now was not the time to make their role public, it still struck his
ego a vicious blow to think that others would gain the credit for their group’s
extraordinary magic and brilliant teamwork.
 
Dumbledore’s brow knitted. “I believe in…flexibility when dealing with
impetuous, talented youth thinking with their hearts, but this evening included
many deaths, from both muggle and magical means, veering close to murder.”
 
Narcissa made an angry scoffing sound. “Apparently, your level of flexibility
also includes homicidal megalomaniacs. How is stopping a man like Grindelwald
wrong, even if the means require hard choices?”
 
“Albus,” Galatea began softly, putting a hand on Narcissa’s shoulder. “We’ve
talked about this. You are not blind. Since these ‘youth’ have started taking a
stand, a more violent confrontation was inevitable. Grindelwald is no respecter
of age or ability. We did not stop them. We let them carry the weight of what
should have been our responsibility - now we must protect them.”
 
He didn’t immediately respond, though his face took on an incredibly sad
expression. Tom felt impatient. If Dumbledore wouldn’t support them, there
could be trouble. Hermione must have felt that as well, because her magic
reached out toward him, soothing and strong.
 
“Let’s bypass the arguments about morality. I get plenty of those with Tom,”
She stepped forward, and pulled Grindelwald’s wand from her sleeve, holding it
out to Dumbledore.
 
Since meeting Dumbledore five years ago, Tom had watched him closely. The man
was ridiculously smooth on the surface, always calm and kind, never ruffled by
the oddest student pranks or finding older students in empty classrooms in
compromising positions. He was implacable, and Tom grudgingly admitted he
admired this. However, that didn’t stop him from reveling as that calm façade
evaporated. He stared openly at the wand, as if it were an illusion, and made
no move to take it from Hermione.
 
Finally, after a few seconds tense silence, he cleared his throat. “How did you
get that wand?”
 
“I stunned Grindelwald and summoned it by its name, the Elder Wand,” Hermione
answered.
 
He looked back up at Hermione’s face, catching and holding her gaze as if he
had never seen her truly before. Perhaps he hadn’t. Tom’s soul mate was as rare
a creature as he was, and maybe even better at keeping her full power hidden.
 
She met his eyes, defiantly. She knew, just as everyone else in the room did,
that Dumbledore was attempting to use legilimency on her.
 
“He tried that, too,” Hermione’s smile was sharp, and she pushed the wand
further toward him. “Said my mind was a beautiful steel trap. He also asked
about you.”
 
“Did he?” The normal, detached Dumbledore was back, his tone cheerfully aloof.
“And why do you want to give me the wand?”
 
“Because I can’t beat him in a duel. We are a nuisance, a distraction, but you
are the main event. He has you in mind as his ‘test’ to prove his powers, his
dominance. Luck and surprise were on my side,” Hermione still held out the
wand, her arm steady.
 
Dumbledore shook his head. “I think carefully planning played a large part,
Miss Bonneau.”
 
“Yes, but that won’t defeat him. I know youcan. You don’t need the wand, but it
needs someone with more control than I have to wield it. You are one of the few
people I can imagine not being corrupted by its power.”
 
“That’s very high praise coming from someone who has clearly researched the
history of this wand,” Dumbledore took the wand from her hand. “And my history
as well, it seems,” he glanced over at Patience. “I suspect your Seer had
something to do with that.”
 
Hermione gave him a true smile, warm and broad. “I believe in you.”
 
He twirled the wand gently between his fingers, his expression nearly as
reverent as Narcissa’s had been loathing. “You also realize, of course, that by
simply giving me the wand, you will retain mastery over it.”
 
She bit her lip. “There’s nothing wrong with hedging our bets, is there? Just
in case something goes awry when you face him?”
 
Dumbledore hummed an absent assent, still examining the wand. He made an
elegant swirling motion with his hand and a protective barrier enclosed the
entire room. “It is all I imagined, even without ownership,” he said softly,
and Tom wondered just how long Dumbledore had thought about controlling this
wand.
 
As everyone’s attention was focused on Dumbledore and the wand, they almost
missed when Patience suddenly swayed on her feet. Abraxas caught her as she
fell sideways, his Keeper reflexes saving her a nasty bump on the head.
 
Her eyes were rolling upwards, her lashes fluttering rapidly. Her normal dreamy
expression was replaced with one of concentration, which seemed entirely out of
place with Patience’s countenance.
 
“She’s seeing something,” both Tom and Dumbledore spoke. Tom eyed him warily.
 
“That’s hardly news,” Narcissa murmured. “The girl is constantly making
premonitions. She comes into the infirmary at least once a week to let me know
some obscure potion or medicine I should stock up on, and within a day or two,
a student is in, needing that exact remedy.”
 
Hermione shook her head. “I know, but I think this is a bigger one.”
 
Patience’s whole body shuddered, then she locked eyes with Dumbledore. “Your
sister says you need to go back home, that your friend is on his way for a
visit.”
 
Although Tom had supposed he would enjoy seeing Dumbledore knocked down, the
sight of his professor’s ashen face and devastated expression was disturbing;
the pain there was too deep, too private to be on display.
 
Dumbledore recovered quickly, though. “Galatea, if you would contact our
likeminded friends and meet me at my home in Godric’s Hollow, I would be
grateful.”
 
“You think he’s coming here, now? He’s hardly had a moment to regroup from a
terrible blow to his forces,” Galatea argued.
 
“Gellwert is not a fan of defense. If it is ever an option, he will always
choose taking the offensive,” Dumbledore replied, looking down at the Elder
wand. “And he wants this back, badly.   I believe Miss Foster has a direct line
to forces that shape our actions, and I am ready to listen.”
 
Galatea pursed her lips, as though she were holding back a rebuttal. “Fine.
I’ll meet you there as soon as I can, with reinforcements,” she looked over at
Narcissa and her eyes softened. “I love you.”
 
“Stop that. This isn’t goodbye,” Narcissa’s eyes glistened. “I’m coming with
you.”
 
Dumbledore cleared his throat, “It would not be wise for all the adults who can
help cover for our wayward students’ actions to leave Hogwarts, and there may
be a separate offensive, by Grindelwald’s remaining generals. Lady Bonneau, it
would be better for you to remain here.”
 
Narcissa’s fire magic was practically crackling around her as she glared in
Dumbledore’s direction, but she glanced over at Hermione then gave a sharp nod
of her chin. “I will expect to hear from you as soon as this matter is
concluded,” she addressed this to Galatea.
 
Galatea kissed her wife’s cheek. “Of course.” Then, both she and Dumbledore
left the room.
 
Tom was filled with the odd desire to stop the waves of sadness coming off of
Narcissa, and he moved to her side before realizing it, putting an arm around
her thin shoulders. She leaned into him, and he simply allowed it. Hermione
came over as well, wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist and hugging her
tightly. The emotion coming from them was overwhelming, and Tom took a step
back. Narcissa caught and squeezed his hand briefly, then let him go. He
appreciated that.
 
“Well, that’s enough of that,” Narcissa pulled back from Hermione and
straightened her shoulders. “You four need to get to bed.”
 
“How can you possibly expect that we will sleep after tonight?” Tom scoffed.
 
Narcissa’s brow went up. “I expect that tonight was simply another evening at
school, no different than any other. Therefore, you should be in your beds,
sleeping.”
 
Tom felt his anger flare. He and Hermione had led a rescue, had fought a
battle, and now they were being ordered to bed like children? He opened his
mouth, but Hermione’s hand was on his arm.
 
“Mother will come and get us if anything happens,” her brown eyes were calm, as
was her magic. It wrapped around him like a blanket. “And whether or not you
admit it, you do need some sleep.”
 
“Tom,” Abraxas was at his other side. “You know she’s right. We accomplished
all our goals and then some tonight, but we are depleted. We need rest, and we
need to let people without restrictions on their magic finish this fight.”
 
Logically, he knew all this. His quartet could not go storming over to Godric’s
Hollow and battle Grindelwald, for many reasons, but Hermione still owed him
answers and he wasn’t at all interested in sleep.
 
“And you have the party tomorrow,” Patience added cheerily, her ‘not quite
here’ look firmly back on her face. “That’s a place to be seen and make
Ministry connections, and you want to be your best.”
 
Abraxas smiled broadly at his soul mate. “Yes, that’s true. The Rosiers and the
Lestranges will have invited all the power players to witness the betrothal,
Tom.   It’s an excellent opportunity.”
 
“There,” Narcissa said firmly. “That’s settled. Everyone to bed. I have to go
to that blasted betrothal, too, and I need to spend the rest of the night
making sure that Sebastian will be able to walk and talk for the event. Out,”
she shooed them with her hands, and the group left.
 
They walked quietly through the hall, having cast notice me not spells and
disillusions to ward off the notice of Peeves. At the stairs, they split, as
always, and Tom and Abraxas headed to the dungeons.
 
“Tomorrow will be a different kind of battle,” Abraxas’s voice was full of
weary resignation as they passed through the Slytherin common room. “My parents
throwing me at every pureblooded female present.”
 
Tom caught his wrist, pulling him back toward the settee in front of the
fireplace. No matter what the group said, he wasn’t ready to rest. The room was
empty and dark, only lit softly in the immediate glow of the dying fire. He put
a hand to Abraxas’s face, cupping his cheek.
 
“I will never let them give you away. You are mine, and I will kill them before
I allow them to touch our bonds,” all the unexplored anger from the evening
made its way into Tom’s voice, infusing it with deadly intention.
 
Abraxas closed the short distance between them and kissed Tom’s neck, his head
bowed submissively even as he made the first move. “I know,” he whispered, his
lips brushing against the pulse at the base of Tom’s throat. “And I love you
for that. My parents see me as a pawn, but you see me. I can’t explain how much
that matters.”
 
“You don’t need to,” Tom ran his fingers through Abraxas’s pale hair. It was
soft, though not as silky as Patience’s, and quite the opposite of Hermione’s
tight curls. He adored the variety in his quartet, all the ways they were
unique. The smell of strong magic lingered in his hair, on his skin, and Tom
noticed a few flecks of blood at his temple. “I can see it for myself,” he
murmured, using legilimency to enter Abraxas’s mind.
 
They had done this for months, and yet Tom never tired of it. Experiencing the
love Abraxas felt for him inside his own mind was simply amazing. Abraxas was
sure and steady in his affection, like an ancient oak, rooted in the earth so
deeply and firmly nothing could shake him. Tom basked in this, coiled around
him, kissing and biting and grabbing and holding. This was not a solution to
all the anger that had built up this evening, but it was an outlet for some of
it.
 
Half-falling, they spread over the settee, Abraxas muttering an enlarging spell
so that it was big enough to hold them. He was as frantic as Tom, pulling at
his shirt, buttons making soft clattering sounds as they flew off and landed on
the stone floor.
 
“You are so beautiful,” Abraxas spoke reverently, his fingers and lips moving
over Tom’s exposed chest.
 
Tom was feeling very generous, flush with Abraxas’s affection. “So are you,” he
replied, vanishing their remaining clothes. “You remind me of a marble statue
of Apollo,” he trailed his fingers down the defined muscles of Abraxas’s
shoulders and arms. “Such strength and grace.”
 
Even in the firelight, he could see Abraxas blush before ducking his head
further down. Tom appreciated the direction he was headed, but he still grabbed
his chin and forced Abraxas to meet his eyes. “Take my compliments. I would not
lie to you. As my bound earth magic mate, you are nothing less than
exceptional. You must believe that about yourself. There is no room for self-
doubt in the great magic we will do.”
 
His pale grey eyes glistened in the gleam of the fire. “You and Hermione and
Patience are the only ones who have believed in me for who I am, not for the
Malfoy name or bloodline. It’s hard to shrug away what I thought about myself
for the first ten years of my life, Tom.”
 
Unbidden, Tom’s mind flashed to his own ten year old self, to the angry, lonely
boy who knew in the marrow of his bones that no one loved him. That no one
would ever love him, that the only path to acceptance was through violence and
fear.
 
He threaded his hands through Abraxas’s hair, pulling him up the length of his
body until they were face to face. Then, he kissed him. It was slow, gentle,
and not at all their usual style. Tom didn’t actually want to be this
affectionate, but it was as if he had been taken over by something close to the
level of Hermione’s emotions (which was horrifying), and he simply couldn’t
stop himself.
 
They kissed for several minutes, nothing more than lips and tongues and hands
in hair and smoothing over faces. It was deeply erotic, and Tom could feel from
the press of Abraxas’s hips against his own that they were both on the verge of
orgasm only from this. He felt like he was unlocking something, removing an
invisible barrier that he had placed between himself and his best friend,
something that had kept him from completely connecting with Abraxas.
 
Tom felt wetness on his cheeks and lips, and tasted salt. Abraxas was crying,
silent, slow tears. He didn’t ask what was wrong because he knew nothing was
wrong. Abraxas was feeling what he was, their affection, their friendship,
their bond, going to another level.
 
“I love you,” he spoke against Tom’s lips. “I love you.”
 
There was no possible reply to that, not in words, so Tom whispered a
lubrication spell and pulled Abraxas astride him, sliding his cock inside what
felt like a deliciously hot glove. “Ride me,” he commanded, anxious to
reestablish control.
 
“Yes, my Lord,” Abraxas’s voice had gone deep with pleasure on the verge of
pain at the stretch of his body. He was practiced at hip movements, from years
of riding both brooms and horses. The muscles of his thighs flexed as he moved
up and down at a slow pace, drawing out the sensation of Tom’s shaft catching
along thousands of nerve endings inside of him.  
 
His lover looked far too smug for Tom’s liking, so he grasped Abraxas’s cock,
running his thumb over the wet tip, back and forth.
 
“Ahhh,” Abraxas cried out, his rhythm gone wild as he bucked into Tom’s hand.
 
“That’s it,” Tom hissed, gripping tighter, his forearm taut. “You come when I
say, don’t you?”
 
“Yes, my Lord,” Abraxas whined, leaning into Tom’s touch.
 
Tom let go immediately, bringing both hands to Abraxas’s hips, forcing him down
harder. “Mmm, but I didn’t say you could yet. Don’t you dare finish until I
say.”
 
Sweat was beading on Abraxas’s brow, and his face was a lovely mix of tortured
pleasure. Tom found it intoxicating. He was so close himself, but the control
he was exerting over Abraxas, the anticipation they were both feeling, that was
just as pleasurable as the orgasm in Tom’s mind. He wanted to delay it was much
as possible, to draw it out.
 
He pushed Abraxas off of his hips quickly. The blonde fell back, disoriented.
Tom used that moment of confusion to settle between his legs, and lowered his
mouth to Abraxas’s cock. He gripped it firmly at the base, allowing his ring
and pinky fingers to gently brush over the delicate sac below, and sucking
roughly at the overly sensitive tip, tasting the salty fluid freely leaking
out.
 
“I can’t, I can’t,” Abraxas was biting his lips, his pitch rising.
 
“Be quiet,” Tom lifted his head briefly. “We haven’t placed any silencing
spells. Show me that you can listen to my orders, no matter the temptation. Not
another sound from you.”
 
Blood welled against the surface of Abraxas’s lower lip as he bit harder. Tom
chuckled lowly and licked along the length of his lover’s shaft, going so
slowly that he could feel the pulse of the veins as his tongue moved over them.
He considered the member. As he had noted in the Chamber, he and Abraxas were
very similar in dimension, the blonde a fraction of inch shorter, perhaps, but
a small bit wider. The difference was negligible, and the weight and feel of
Abraxas in his hand was much like touching himself. He didn’t hold the mystery
of touching Hermione or Patience, but the familiarity of Abraxas made him very,
very easy to tease.
 
He rose up and kissed at the blood on Abraxas’s lip, his hand still moving up
and down. Tom rarely allowed Abraxas to fuck him, but he decided he was in the
mood for it, and it was yet another way to torture his dearest friend,
something he loved to do.
 
“Remember you must be silent, or I willpunish you, and not in a sexy way,” Tom
looked directly into his eyes. Abraxas nodded and Tom gave him an evil grin.
“Right then,” and he spoke the lubrication spell again, this time lowering
himself slowly on Abraxas’s cock, his knees on the settee, his hands gripping
Abraxas’s strong shoulders.
 
The stretch burned, but Tom liked that. He never used stretching spells with
either of them because the pain enhanced the pleasure, kept it from being too
pure, too saccharine. They were face to face, eye to eye, and Tom felt that
increased intimacy. There was no escaping it in this position. He distracted
himself by biting along Abraxas’s neck, sucking at the pale flesh until it
bloomed in bruises. His hips canted faster and faster, and he could feel
Abraxas shuddering beneath him, shaking through his entire body at the effort
of holding back both sound and orgasm. There were nearly silent gasps of air as
Abraxas threw back his head and dug his nails into Tom’s hips.
 
“You love this don’t you, being inside me?” Tom taunted. “I like it too, in
moderation. Your cock feels amazing.”
 
Abraxas was crying again, though Tom knew these were tears of frustration. He
kissed at his cheeks, licking up the moisture. “You’ve been so good. So good.
Get on your knees.” Abraxas flipped over faster than Tom would have thought
humanly possible. He laughed. “So eager to get fucked again, my, my.”
 
He didn’t immediately move, just enjoyed the view of Abraxas on his hands and
knees. This was his favorite position; he loved the dominance of it, and he
liked to use it with all of his quartet. Tom ran a light finger down Abraxas’s
spine, starting at his neck and tracing down to his arse. “You are a beautiful
creature. And you are mine.”
 
Abraxas nodded quickly. Tom spread his arse cheeks, holding him open. “Do you
need me to fuck you?”
 
He nodded again, his shoulders shaking. Tom smiled, lining himself with
Abraxas’s entrance, pushing forward just enough to cause a feeling of pressure.
The anticipation was so great, Tom himself almost came. He took a deep breath,
calming himself. Abraxas pushed back against, him. Tom smacked him, hard.
 
“I set the pace,” he snapped. The mark against Abraxas’s pale flesh was
arousing, so he spent the next several minutes making both sides red and warm
against Tom’s cock and hips, which he freely ground into Abraxas, knowing that
was destroying his composure.
 
Carefully and silently, he entered Abraxas’s mind again, and his cock jumped,
leaking fluid, at the arousing thoughts swirling in his friend’s mind. It was
all, ‘fuck, this feels so good,’ and ‘I can’t hold on,’ and ‘I love him,’ and
‘I’m going to die from this.’
 
Tom pushed his cock into Abraxas, with the force of his hips hard behind it.
“Come, Abraxas. Come for your Lord.”
 
The response was immediate, though soundless. Tom felt Abraxas’s entire body
shake, felt his arse clench around his cock. Tom couldn’t held back either, and
he came as well, spasms wracking both of them as their hips thrust mindlessly
and their muscles twitched like they’d been cruico’d.   They fell forward, and
Tom pulled Abraxas’s limp body around, turning them face to face again.
 
“You may speak to express your gratitude,” he said, a bit breathlessly.
 
Abraxas kissed his jaw. “Thank you, my Lord.”
 
Tom allowed him to snuggle into his side. “Just a reminder of to whom you
belong to get you through tomorrow,” he answered coolly, though he knew they
both realized that tonight had been something much more.
 
 
Abraxas’s skin felt too tight, itchy. He wanted to run far away, but no one
would have guessed his discomfort. Outwardly, he was near to perfect - a
dazzlingly handsome young man garbed in expertly tailored dress robes, with a
wide, winning smile and impeccable manners. The Malfoy heir moved through the
banquet room of the Lestrange estate with careless grace and seeming ease, as
if he didn’t know that more eyes were on him than on the betrothed couple this
party was meant to celebrate.
 
Pureblooded parents with any daughters ranging in age from nine to twenty-six
were watching him, calculating their chances.   He couldn’t make it five steps
in any direction without being stopped. The conversations went mostly like the
one he’d just had with Harold and Charlene Slughorn, while their daughter
Hortentia had done her best not to melt into the floor behind them.
 
“Abraxas, my boy!” Harold had caught his arm. “We haven’t seen you in ages.”
 
Charlene nodded vigorously, her overly tight brown curls bobbing around her
face. “It’s been since…” she paused, searching. She was not an observant woman.
 
“My parents’ Solstice Ball,” Abraxas supplied, the smile he used for charming
parents pasted across his face. “Though we didn’t get to speak much.”
 
“No, no,” Harold agreed affably. “But we hear of you so often from my brother,
Horace. He sings the praises of the Slytherins in your year, always bragging
that you are the most talented group of students he’s ever seen.”
 
Abraxas shook his head. “Professor Slughorn is an excellent instructor and Head
of House. If we are doing so well, it is due to his tutelage.”
 
“Yes, we’d rather hoped our Hortentia would be in his House. She’s a great
favorite of his, even named in his honor, but…” Charlene trailed off, her eyes
darting to the twelve year old standing behind her.
 
“Well, our loss was Hufflepuff’s gain; Hortentia is a fine young witch,”
Abraxas said smoothly.
 
He felt great sympathy for the shy girl. Though he hadn’t even known of her
existence before this year, since his mother had sent the list including
Hortentia’s name, Professor Slughorn had taken to mentioning his ‘lovely,
clever’ niece in class, and had kept Abraxas after lessons a few times to chat,
allowing time for the second years to arrive in the classroom, and then
Slughorn would call Hortentia up and try to engage the two of them in awkward
small talk.
 
All three Slughorns’ faces lit up at this compliment. Hortentia was still a
child, her body lightly padded with baby fat, no hint of puberty in sight. Her
round face was sweet and guileless, and from his limited interactions with her,
Abraxas knew she had been properly sorted. The girl was kind and eager to
please, though terribly shy. He didn’t have any desire to hurt her feelings,
but if he gave any indication of interest, or even acquiescence, towards a
match with this family, it would buy him at least three more years before any
move toward a betrothal ceremony like the one that had just been performed for
Marguerite and Sebastian.
 
“What a discerning young man you are, to see that,” Harold praised. “Our
Hortentia is shy, though many young ladies are at that age.”
 
Abraxas nodded, though he thought of Hermione and Patience, and even
Marguerite, Vidhi, and Felicity. At twelve, the only girl he’d known to be shy
was Josephine, who had indeed grown out of her shyness. Most of the ladies of
his acquaintance were nothing less than fierce.  
 
“Well, she needs time to grow into herself,” Abraxas smiled directly at
Hortentia, and the girl might have stopped breathing. “I’m sure the Rosiers
made the right choice allowing Marguerite to turn sixteen before going through
with betrothal.”
 
Charlene playfully tapped Abraxas’s arm. “Your sixteenth birthday has come and
gone.”
 
He gave her an even broader smile, allowed a hint of seduction to come into his
eyes. After all, like Tom, he was perfectly aware that a majority of witches,
young and old, found him attractive. “Yes, but my father wasn’t engaged until
his twenty-first birthday, and I’m interested in pursuing an advanced degree
after Hogwarts, which will take at least a few years of apprenticeship.
Marriage and apprenticeship don’t cooperate well.”
 
Charlene looked less than happy at this answer, but Harold considered Abraxas’s
words carefully. “Yes, there’s time, isn’t there? Another, say, five years?
That isn’t unmanageable, not at all.”
 
Hortentia’s eyes widened to the size of crystal balls when Abraxas bowed over
her hand and took his leave.
 
His conscience, mostly in the form of, ‘what would Hermione say?’ was yelling
at him for leading the poor child on, but he needed his mother off his back,
and he had no doubt that Charlene Slughorn would run to Evangeline within
minutes to recount the conversation they’d just had.
 
Seven steps later, he found himself in the grip of the Travers, who had the
nine year old Olive in tow. Abraxas felt ill. If Hortentia was still a child,
then Olive was practically a baby, a small, pale thing who seemed in desperate
need of both sunshine and affection. Her expression was painfully dour, and
Abraxas thought of himself at nine, not yet at Hogwarts, being ‘molded’ into
the perfect Pureblooded child by his parents through magical means that were
questionable at best and abuse at worst.
 
Thankfully, he’d hardly opened his mouth before Marguerite appeared at his
side. “Mr. and Mrs. Travers, I’m so sorry, but I must steal Abraxas. He stood
up for Sebastian, as you know, and there are a few documents still to sign.”
 
Once they were far enough away, Abraxas murmured his thanks. “Marguerite, I may
owe you a life debt for that.”
 
“Yes, the Travers are simply awful. No one ever taught them that humans do
occasionally smile,” Marguerite grinned.
 
“Why, Marguerite,” Abraxas was shocked. “Are you actually happy?”
 
Marguerite’s smiled widened. “I’m one step closer to being out from under the
rule of my mother, engaged to someone who is in our group, and who understands
that he is not nearly as powerful as I am. What isn’t there to be happy about?”
 
Abraxas glanced at her cheek. “And Hermione healed your scar,” he paused. “I’m
sorry we over-reacted.” Hermione had thoroughly scolded him, and though he
didn’t regret standing up for Patience, he could see how he’d allowed his anger
to overtake his reason.
 
She waved a hand dismissively. “That’s in the past. And your insane soul mate
has grown on me a bit. She’s…”
 
“Unique,” Abraxas laughed.
 
“Powerful, I was going to say,” Marguerite answered. “She can see into the
future, and for what she has shown me, I’m willing to forgive many things.”
 
“It would be nice if she’d see into the near future,” Abraxas allowed his voice
to trail off as they approached a long table where a Ministry official stood
with Sebastian, the Rosier and Lestrange parents, and Hermione. There had been
no further news about Grindelwald, no Ministry proclamations, nor even news in
this morning’s Daily Prophet. It seemed the Ministry and others in the know
were keeping the events of last night under wraps for now.
 
“Ah, young Malfoy,” the Ministry official was a cousin of his father’s, Alwyn
Rowle. “We need your signature as witness, and then the paperwork will be
concluded.”
 
“Of course,” Abraxas took the offered quill and signed his name in the perfect
penmanship his mother had taught him at wand point.
 
Rowle tapped the parchment, and it folded itself neatly. “We were afraid Miss
Rosier wouldn’t be able to extricate you from the marriage-minded mamas,” he
smirked. “I expect it won’t be much longer before I’m processing your own
engagement.”
 
Abraxas gave him a non-committal smile, but said nothing. He could feel
Hermione’s magic reaching out to soothe him, a warm breeze. It took a
monumental effort not to look at her, but this was not the place. Too many
Pureblooded eyes were glued to his every move. If he showed the slightest
partiality or even attention to Hermione, the scrutiny would be unbearable.
Already, Patience had been purposely left off the guest list, something he knew
his mother had orchestrated, since Mr. Foster’s many powerful patents made him
.
 
“You need to escort me into the dinner,” Hermione’s voice was soft at his side.
Abraxas shook himself from his thoughts.
 
It had probably galled Evangeline that Marguerite’s ‘second’ was Hermione, not
an eligible Pureblooded lady. “It will be my pleasure,” he offered his arm, and
felt a sense of pleasure and relief at her touch.
 
“Can we just run away?” he asked softly. “Disapparate to an island in the
Mediterranean? There’s a Malfoy beach house off the coast of Italy. The four of
us with no one else around?”
 
Hermione’s curls, free for once, brushed his cheek as she shook her head. “We’d
all be bored in a month. And there’s too much to do to run away.”
 
“How about for a night?” Abraxas persisted. “It’s been too long since we’ve all
been together, since I’ve touched you.” Last night with Tom had put his libido
into full gear. He was still sore, and yet desperate to do it again, this time
with Hermione and Patience there as well.
 
“You’re touching me right now,” she teased, though her smile didn’t last long.
“I know. I feel the same, but we’ll have to wait. I saw you with poor Hortentia
Slughorn. That girl was already mooning over you. Now, she’s going to be
drawing your name in hearts on all her notes.”
 
“She’ll be fine. And my heart is already taken, three times over,” he replied,
just managing to stop himself from turning to kiss her.  
 
Hermione’s pleasure and desire filled their bond as he pulled out her chair
then sat in the one beside her. Tom was seated across the table, and was
watching the two of them with a smirk. Abraxas held back his own grin. This
dinner was going to be a marathon of self-restraint. Luckily for Abraxas, he
was used to resisting all kinds of torture.
 
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