Chapter Text
Hermione
She loses interest in how she got here a few weeks in.
It’s not that her curiosity ebbs— quite the opposite. The longer she spends in the past, the more she wants to know. Needs to. Lets the thirst for knowledge take over.
But two weeks in— long, arduous weeks, wherein Hermione thinks it might be easiest to just disappear completely— she notices it. Wants to investigate enough that she pulls away from her current project. Knows from experience that focusing on two things at once never ends well.
She lets go of her quest to understand how she’d ended up here. Finds a much more interesting puzzle.
Tom Riddle.
He’s not like what she learned about. Not how Harry described him from the Pensieve.
Harry had said he was put together. Neat hair, pressed uniform. Mask of indifference firmly in place, at all times.
She believes he’d even said he was charming. Yes, now that she thinks harder on it, that's exactly how he described him.
But the Tom Riddle here— he is none of those things.
The hair on top of his head is always curled in an artful mess. One day in History of Magic, she counted that he’d ran his fingers through it thirteen times.
His school uniform is never in the dress code. The front of his robes is always unbuttoned if worn at all. Oftentimes, especially during potions, he takes it off completely. Rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie. The percentage of ruined potions had skyrocketed, so Slughorn claimed.
Yes, he’s still handsome. Painfully so. The curve of his jawline is enough to make any person’s mouth water. She sees the appeal. Understands.
But he’s not put together. His cheeks are constantly flushed, sweat beads at the nape of his neck every day that she sits behind him in Arithmancy.
His jaw clenches, fists bruised and battered as if he picks a fight with a new student every day. The evidence of his rage is written plainly on his face every time he looks in Hermione’s direction.
Keeping to herself— away from his attention— is the first decision she makes.
Too much of the future is wrapped up in him and his plans. The ways in which Hermione could derail them— even accidentally— are too numerous for her to consider any type of interaction.
But… she can’t help watching him, during class, at meals. Seeing the child version of a madman— she can’t resist the pull to investigate. Just a little bit. Enough to satiate her curiosity.
At first, she gets her fill. She observes and takes mental notes, then the nagging at her chest eases a bit.
He’s a monster. Of course, he is. But here, during his seventh year of Hogwarts, he’s also just a boy with limited opportunities to perform any great atrocities.
He’s not yet had his lost years, doesn’t know how to summon magic from the still waters of lakes, or call up to it from the leaves of the trees. From what she knows, what she was taught, he’s got a stronghold on the magic that flows through his veins, and nothing more.
That’s not to say he’s weak. Most witches and wizards will never tame their own magic. Not in an entire lifetime. It takes great control, and the effort is far too large for the average magic folk.
Tom’s figured all this out for himself. He’s dangerous, and if the rumors of his Occlumency and Legilimency at this point in time are true, he’s probably stronger than most of the professors.
But Hermione isn’t worried. She’s stronger. Can sense the magic around her, pull it in and push it out at her will. Sometimes she lets it tangle and curl tantalizingly around her fingers. Just to remind herself what she’s capable of.
She has the war to thank for that.
---
The minute Harry appears on the field with Cedric’s dead body, things change.
There is no more school. No contact with her parents. Just a quick trip home with Lupin to obliviate them, and then they are off to Grimmauld Place for training.
The war comes on faster than anyone anticipated. Voldemort takes over the Ministry just months after his return. Death Eaters flock to his side like flies to honey. The Order stands no chance. Not in the early days.
So, they go underground. Divide themselves up based on their talents and make quick work of mastering what little skills they have developed by the age of fifteen.
Harry and Ron make immediate use of their talents, Ron going to the strategy division and Harry heading off to train with the highest-ranked Aurors they could wrangle.
Hermione isn’t immediately sent anywhere. Her propensity for books and knowledge could be useful— if honed properly. They just need to find what she specializes in.
She struggles with dueling more than she ever wants to admit out loud. Defensive magic evades her brain anytime she finds herself in a battle simulation.
It would have been easy to write her off. To send her down to one of the lowest levels of Grimmauld Place, put her away so she won’t be a risk to herself or anyone else.
But Mad Eye seems willing to give an endless stream of second chances. It starts with a pair of rollerblades, and once she learns to carry herself in a graceful manner, everything else falls into place.
When she proves herself capable of holding her own in a battle simulation, more time is spent around the older Order members. Letting them train her, perfect her unsteady skills.
One day, about four months after going underground, Fleur approaches her after an exhausting duel training session. Hermione is immediately put on guard. Fleur and she hardly ever interacts as Fleur has already picked her specialty.
“Hermione…” she begins, and there’s a feeling of resoundedness like she’s sorry for something she hasn’t yet asked for. “I’m told you’re good at reading people.”
Hermione shifts on her feet. “Who would tell you such a thing?” She keeps her voice light.
“The other day, during dinner, you called Charlie out for telling a lie.”
“Yes,” Hermione says. “Which he was.”
Fleur tilts her head. “How did you know?”
Hermione drops her eyes. “Everyone has their tells.”
It’s silent for a moment, nothing but the sound of Fleur shifting uncomfortably and Hermione’s rapidly beating heart. Finally, Fleur sighs.
“I think you know why I’m here, Hermione.”
Fleur is the head of the information extraction division. A formal way of normalizing the way young girls are taught to seduce Death Eaters. She teaches and keeps up on new methods.
But most importantly, she recruits.
“I— I don’t—“
“My team is important, despite what others might say or think. I need people that are good at the job.” She catches Hermione’s eyes. “I need someone that can read a lie from across the table with her gaze pasted on her plate.”
There’s a war going on. They’ve lost twelve people just this past week.
Hermione feels like there’s no choice.
She trains beside Cho Chang and Lavender Brown. Has to listen to their incessant complaints and gossip with a straight face and pretend like she takes any of this seriously.
She hates them almost as much as she hates the seduction work itself. Isn’t sure what difference she’s truly making whoring herself for the cause.
This isn’t what she wants. She wants to fight. Lay her life on the line for the cause.
One night, after their initial training had finished and they’d gotten a few successful missions under their belts, Hermione pays for her arrogance.
It’s supposed to be a standard mission. Seduce the Death Eater. Get the information. Kill only if you have to.
They wouldn’t have to. They have never had to.
Hermione’s just pulling herself to her feet, reaching for her wand that she’d tossed haphazardly on the bedside table.
Clammy hands wrap around her throat and pull her in. The pointed end of a wand digs into her jugular.
Before she can react— fear for her life or try out any of the hand-to-hand moves Fleur taught— there’s an awful, nauseating slicing sound, and warm liquid sprays on the back of Hermione’s neck, soaks into the back of the thin shirt she’s wearing.
And before her, Lavender Brown stands, wand out, hand steady, and eyes glued on the man whose throat she’d just slit.
The hands grasping her drop away as the body sinks to the floor.
Dead.
For a moment, none of them speak. Then—
“You— you killed him.” Hermione licks her lips. Tastes the copper of blood. Blood that isn’t hers. “For me.”
Still, Lavender says nothing.
The three of them move mechanically, disposing of the body and apparating back to headquarters.
Cho gives the report, with tiny interjections from Lavender. Hermione says nothing.
Nobody bats an eye when they mention the man they killed. They’re dismissed as if they hadn’t ended a life that night.
Hermione storms to her room, ready to cry or throw something, but—
But Cho and Lavender follow.
Hermione knows the protocol. She knows she shouldn’t be alone after facing something traumatic, but she’s keeping herself together with bits of tape and glue and the last thing she wants to do is—
“I’m weak,” she gasps. “I shouldn’t be here. I could have gotten us all killed. It would have been my fault.”
The tears stream down her face unbidden. They’ve hardly reached her chin before she’s in Cho’s arms, sobbing full force and angry at herself.
They don’t speak. Hermione doesn’t think they’ve ever been so quiet.
But they seem to know exactly what she needs. So she leans on them, if only for a moment.
After that, Hermione takes her missions seriously.
And more importantly, she never underestimates the two girls that stick to her side through each assignment.
When her life’s in danger, they always save her. When they’re under siege, Hermione’s wand never wavers.
They become experts at their craft. Rumors about the dangerous trio of whores begin to spread, and soon Death Eaters are being sent to prostitutes just to see if they can unearth the identities of the mysterious assassins.
Misogynists they are, they can’t understand how a group of women is besting their men.
The three of them are forced to double up on dueling practice. Sent out on more than just information extraction missions as the dead bodies begin to pile up on the Order’s doorstep.
They make a name for themselves. Become recognized as one of the most dangerous sets of people the Order has.
The three of them carry on like this, waiting for their next command. Willing to lay it all on the line to be a step closer to ending the war.
A year after the Triwizard tournament ends, a rumor goes around claiming that the Order was sending their most capable away. An unknown place, according to Seamus, to learn how to pull magic from the earth.
Hermione has heard of old magic, of course, but it’s so obscure, so rare that she isn’t sure magic like that was still able to be harvested by humans.
When the knock comes to her door, and she’s told to pack her bags, she’s not surprised. Not even when she reaches the bottom of the stairs and sees Cho’s bright eyes and Lavender’s rosy cheeks.
They learn the ways of ancient magic. How to harness it effectively without a wand. How to reach into the dirt, reach lower, until the power tingles at their fingertips, and they grab. Travel down deeper and it wraps around their wrists and higher until it curls around their arms and shoulders. They’re nearly drowning in it and they relish it, throw their hands in the air and let the power come.
Magic flows off people in waves, differing in intensity and usability depending on emotions.
“ Know the emotion, and learn to harness their own magic against them.”
Hermione smirks. She always knows her opponent’s emotions.
After they return back to Grimmauld, they’re taught Occlumency and Legilimency, barred from leaving the confines of the house until Snape’s unable to break through their defenses.
They practice on each other, until blood drips from their noses, heads pounding hard enough to vibrate the entire room with the slew of magic in the area.
Their minds are shielded at all times.
Next, they spend six months doing nothing but studying body language outside of their missions. Hermione excels, already having shown a propensity at reading people.
Potions lessons become mandatory. They memorize how to brew a hundred different types of tasteless, odorless poisons. Fashion them into lipsticks or blush. Learn how to transfigure weapons into earrings.
All of this, before Hermione’s seventeenth birthday.
Looking back, she can hardly believe it. Being in a different time separates her and gives her a strange, undiluted perspective.
Hermione gives her childhood up to the war.
All because of the man who is now eating up all her attention.
Because the Tom Riddle in front of her, with his outer robes slung over his shoulder and his sleeves shoved haphazardly up to his elbows, can be described as nothing short of a mess.
Three weeks into the school year, she nearly walks into a wall after watching him ogle a sixth-year student.
Tom Riddle. Leering at girls.
And the next day, she catches him again. Staring across the room in History of Magic, at an unaware Hufflepuff studiously taking notes.
Her hair’s pulled off her neck in an elegant twist, leg crossed over the other and she taps the quill against her lips, deep in thought.
Tom follows the motions, as if entranced. Like he could devour her at any moment.
It’s unsettling to watch. Animalistic in nature. Predatory. Almost like he can’t help himself.
His eyes are focused, yet glazed over. There’s a heat to them that makes her feel like she’s intruding. His breathing becomes uneven for a minute before he shakes himself out of his reverie and pretends to focus back on the lesson.
In her classes with the Order, they’d studied Tom Riddle’s history extensively. There were a few years that were unaccounted for, rightfully dubbed the lost years, but besides those, all the pieces fit together nicely. It all makes sense. His motives and reasonings, while absurd, have their roots and logic, if not morality.
Hermione is a dedicated study. She knows. She knows there’s no linkage of Tom Riddle to any romantic interest until well into the sixties, and even those were heavily plagued with political motivations. Rumors of him seducing wives to gain power over influential men. Even then, solid evidence of this was sparse. No proof of a casual interest in women had ever been noted.
Before the sixties, there was definitely no mention of it. She’s positive about this. Things aren't adding up.
So she studies her new subject. Tom Riddle.
After watching him closely, Hermione realizes he’s angry. All the time.
Little things give him away. Like the way his jaw clenches and unclenches irregularly, as if he’s constantly reminding himself to relax. How his fists are always balled tight enough to turn his knuckles white. The annoyed curl of his upper lip, consistently displaying his displeasure. Not at all wearing the mask of indifference she’d expected to see.
More than once she’d heard veiled threats and nasty comments made to his knights, snarling and growling at them when he is annoyed with their behavior.
They way they lower their heads in submission and their apparent shame is surprising, even if Hermione knows how history unfolds.
Abraxas Malfoy has a friendly demeanor to everyone. He laughs and flirts shamelessly. He seems to be well liked.
Lestrange acts as if his family isn’t known for great atrocities across the board. He seems harmless enough, mostly keeping to himself. There’s an air of arrogance surrounding him that makes Hermione’s nose scrunch.
But to Riddle, there’s clearly a disconnect. They aren’t friends. Tom’s on a different level. She can tell even from a distance.
Hermione doesn’t need to exercise any expertise to understand Tom’s extensive anger. After three weeks at Hogwarts, she has witnessed him punching a total of four flagstone walls. Four.
And yes, she’s taken to following him. Not closely. Just when it’s convenient. That’s what she tells herself.
In the library, she’ll take up a table near his. Try and observe whatever books he has open and studying.
She might go for a walk around the same time as him. Following a similar path. Noticing the way the tension in his shoulders never completely leaves, and how the permanent frustration is written in the furrow of his brow and the constant shaking out of his muscles. Like he can’t get rid of it.
The anger is constant, never really ebbing or flowing. There had been outbursts, as the walls can attest to, but she guesses these aren’t because of a loss in temper, but rather an attempt to release frustration at his high level.
It doesn’t seem to work. Almost as if he’s unable to pack it away.
Nearly a month into the school year, he comes into transfiguration. Limping.
Hermione immediately straightens, quill falling from her fingers and eyes following him from the doorway all the way to his seat.
It’s not overt, but she’d spent enough time watching him to realize he walks with a freakishly even gait. Today he favors his left leg. Spends just a split second too long on his left foot. It’s there.
But why?
What business would Tom Riddle get in that might have him leaving injured? Who would hurt him?
For a split second, she entertains the idea of him fighting like a muggle. Perhaps one of his knights angered him, and given his propensity for striking walls as of late, maybe he decided to forgo the wand and use those knuckles, already splattered with the purple of fresh bruises.
The idea’s tossed aside almost as quickly as it forms. Riddle has enough pent-up anger to rationalize a fight, but he’d be too proud to throw fists with any of his followers. It would be viewed as a weakness, a lapse in control. Wielding magic, turning it into pain, and aiming at them— it was manipulation. It was power. It was an orphan from the muggle world snatching the one thing that made them feel superior and using it for torture.
And Riddle— he’d never give up an advantage like that.
She rattles her brain for more solutions. An underground fighting ring? Dark magic that involves bruises?
But what’s the motive?
The question haunts her. Scraps all of her ideas before they can truly form.
If he’s limping, she wonders what other injuries he’s hiding under his robes. If there are more bruises, any scratches, perhaps a strained muscle or cracked rib? It would explain—
She tries to catch herself when she gets that far. She does. But Sunday paper crosswords had been her favorite and she would never turn down the opportunity to solve a riddle.
The pieces are there. They're all right in front of her, staring her in the face. She just needs to turn them, twist until they click, and then she’ll know, and once she knows, she’ll stop. She can leave him alone.
The sun is scraping the horizon as it sets outside the window. Her feet drag against the stone and she pretends to be flipping aimlessly through a book, looking for a specific piece of text for their arithmancy homework, if anyone asks. She walks at a leisurely pace and seems to be headed to nowhere in particular.
It’s the perfect disguise. Hermione’s new to the castle, of course, she’d want to explore, check out all the nooks and crannies and scope out the best places for evening reading. The Gryffindor common room is always so loud, she’d say if anyone asked.
Still, even with all the plans and rehearsals, all of this slips right from her mind when she turns a corner and runs headfirst into Tom Riddle.
He looks down at her as if he was expecting her.
As if he knows.