Dark Lord Who. Ch. 6: An Unexpected Loot

The first thought that struck her as she walked in was that the room was too perfect, too whole, too unblemished to be standing within the heart-breaking ruins of her Hogwarts. How dare the room remain unscathed when she felt the world was falling apart?

Tom walked in behind her and quickly waved his wand. The enchantment he muttered – French, she thought – was unknown to her, but its effects were clear; the portraits in the room all went still and then fell asleep, harmonizing an oddly refined concert of snores.

Hermione went behind Dumbledore's desk, remembering the words she knew by heart – from Hogwarts, a History – and headed for the Book and Quill's Tower; a small, round turret adjacent to the Headmaster's Office. She knew the door was supposed to be locked, but as had happened with the Gargoyle, the absence of a Headmaster – or of any teacher available to take the position – had left all defences wide open.

Within it stood a wooden, adorned lectern, a single open book on display. Hermione's lips spread into a wide smile, brought by the pleasure of being right; she recognized the last names written on the parchment. She went back a couple pages, counting names and trying to determine which was the first Dark Wizard that had re-appeared amongst the living.

Within the Office, behind her, she hard Riddle's voice, filled with unusual cheerfulness.

"Ah, Professor," he said, "how good of you to join us."

Hermione took the book first and shoved it down her beaded bag. Then, she went for her wand and, in a second, she was back at the turret's door. However, she needn't have worried; there was no one else in the room.

"Tom," answered Dumbledore, voice strained. She had never noticed portraits could blanch.

Riddle laughed as he lounged on the edge of what had once been Dumbledore's desk. This was his moment of victory, Hermione realized – everything Dumbledore had worked for, all his efforts during the last fifty years, for naught. Tom Riddle stood in front of him, unharmed, triumphant, and unbearably smug about it.

"My condolences on your passing," Riddle said, sounding pleased, "I've heard it was quite the painful experience?"

"You always had a gift for unpleasantness," Dumbledore answered, voice crisp. "A pity there was so much you never understood."

Riddle's back tensed, momentarily betraying his confident poise.

"None of which was necessary for victory, it seems," he still answered. Then, he added in a snobbish, mocking tone, "How was it, Professor, that you used to say? Love always conquers?"

Hermione could see Dumbledore's portrait frown in an irritated expression she had never seen him sport in life. Coming into view, she corrected, "It's love conquers all." She was certain Riddle had gotten it wrong on purpose, but she played along.

Dumbledore gasped when he saw her. His eyes went even wider as she retrieved the Book of Admittance from her bag and calmly walked to stand next to Tom Riddle. Hermione looked at him – or at the shadow of what he'd once been – and could see disappointment in his eyes. He'd always had a gift, Dumbledore, for transmitting emotion with a single glance.

Hermione didn't care much for his disappointment at the moment; she had bigger problems and she fully intended to survive them. Keeping a portrait happy was not high in her list of priorities.

"Ah, correct as always, Miss Granger," Riddle bowed slightly toward her. "I see you've found the Book." He was pleased. "Any names drawing your attention?"

Well, if she were being honest, plenty. It was filled to the brim with names that drew her attention – some she had heard in History class, and some had been in the Snatchers' list.

"Miss Granger." Dumbledore asked, voice shaking. "What happened?"

Hermione considered her answer. She disagreed with many of his choices, and particularly resented his obsession with secrets – but she did believe he'd had good intentions at heart. She could admit to herself she was angry, but she would blame many other people for it before blaming Albus Dumbledore.

If it had been the man himself in front of her, Hermione would have discarded young Tom Riddle in a heartbeat. But who could be so foolish as to choose to preserve a portrait's semblance of feelings over their own safety?

"Harry died," she answered, sharp, cutting. She poured all her anger, all her fear, all her loneliness and tiredness and mourning into those words, and then still had some left to ready the knife. "Well, not unexpected. You did raise him for it, didn't you?"

Riddle laughed a sudden, warm, genuine laugh. It wasn't a surprise – she had tailored the words for his amusement. Dumbledore's portrait looked like she had killed him all over again, and she felt a pang of remorse. She stilled herself, however; it was not a real person in front of her, she wasn't hurting anyone.

"Rejoice, Professor Dumbledore," she went on, trying to emulate Riddle's cocky viciousness. "You might get to say hello to a dear, old friend soon enough." Dumbledore looked confused, and she took the chance to give Riddle a conspiratorial side-glance. "Did you know, Tom, that Professor Dumbledore was quite fond of a rather remarkable dark wizard?"

She only had to wait a couple seconds.

"Gellert."

Albus Dumbledore's portrait said the name – or whispered it, or perhaps actually breathed it in with a desperate intake of air – as if he physically felt the pain of the word. His eyes closed as his lips shook and she realized that no mere friendship could have left him so discomposed.

'It's just a portrait,' she fiercely reminded herself. She still couldn't erase the feeling she had tortured him more strongly than she had Scabior.

"Grindelwald," Riddle finished, voice rough.

Hermione turned toward him and the sight left her more shaken than the sudden realization about her Professor's past. She was not sure what it was exactly. The feverish glint in his eyes, that had gone darker than night? The slow, heavy, intense intake or air? The suddenly sharp, tense edge of his jawline? No, no – it was the smile. The raw, genuine, toothy smile that must have been the most real glance she'd ever had into who Tom Riddle truly was.

It was an ugly smile.

Before even thinking, she took a purely instinctive step back. Riddle followed through, smile broadening, looking at her like a mad man might a goddess. She hadn't believed he truly admired her when he'd showered her in easy flattery, but she had no qualms about doing it now.

"Hermione," he said, voice rough and heavy and heated. He laughed. "You're such a delight."

She stopped backing away despite her whole body aching to do so; she knew she was better off standing in the centre of the room, instead of trapped into a corner. Riddle reached her in one long stride and raised a hand to tug a curl behind her ear, following the movement to naturally caress her jaw-line. It didn't feel romantic, though – it felt predatory.

Riddle dug a hand into her sea of wild curls, right behind her nape; and in one swift, violent move yanked her hair upwards until he forced her mouth against his. He twisted her hair until she gasped and then took over her mouth, pressing her body against his in a display of more emotion that she'd thought he even possessed.

Hermione had kissed a grand total of two men in her life. Viktor had been a soft, caring, careful brush of the lips. Ron had been a desperate, wet, unskilful and yet wonderful need to be closer to each other. And despite her very limited experience, Hermione knew enough to tell that what Tom Riddle was doing to her was not a kiss.

He bit on her lower lip – strong enough to hurt – and through it all he kept staring straight into her eyes. The kiss was not about lips or tongues or teeth. No – like everything about him, it was about power; about his overbearing need to take and possess and control.

Tom Riddle wanted to own her.

Hermione shoved him hard. Riddle faltered, lost his footing for a split of a second, and she used the little space she had created between them to shove her wand under his chin.

If anything, he seemed to get more excited.

"Keep your hands to yourself," she whispered furiously. "Or I'll eviscerate you."

In hindsight, seeing how he apparently got off on her most condemnable behaviour, it might not have been the best choice of words. His breathing was ragged as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He raised a hand and placed it on top of hers, slowly lowering her wand.

"Of course," he said, eyes never leaving hers. "Pardon my lack of decorum, Miss Granger."

He couldn't have looked any less apologetic, but he did step away from her, hands raised in surrender. Hermione didn't lower her guard, and tried very, very hard not to think too deeply about the fact that her actions seemed to turn him on.

Riddle turned away. He took out his wand – slowly, as if to not startle her – and casted something else on Dumbledore's wide-eyed portrait, before sending him to sleep once more. Then, he tried two, three and even four spells on it before frowning.

"It's stuck on the wall," he said, displeased.

Hermione was certainly not ready to have a conversation with Tom Riddle that involved discussing either his sexual fetish on violence or the concept of consent, and so she followed his lead and pushed their last interaction out of her mind. They could both pretend it never happened if it saved her the trouble of bringing it up.

And she could definitely panic about it at a later time; preferably in private.

"You want to take it?" she asked. "Whatever for?"

"You know me, Hermione," he said, caressing her name. It sent a shiver down her spine. "I'm spiteful like that."

Ah, so for the same reason he'd woken up the portrait in the first place – to rub his victory in Dumbledore's face.

"Take the wall," she told him. If it was anything like Walburga Black's portrait, it would never come off.

"Ah, brutishly simple," he acknowledged. Hermione had the annoying feeling he was mocking her, but he did do as she suggested. And, afterwards, he took down Snape's portrait too. "He betrayed me," he answered her unasked question, "I'd like him to see he lived an empty life for nothing."

Hermione stifled the first few comebacks that came to mind, like 'if only all of us were so easy to please,' or 'whatever works for you.' The equilibrium she had managed to reach, knowing when to push Riddle and when to stop and keep a respectful distance, had been utterly shattered by the new variable in play. She no longer knew what was safe to say.

"What if they have a second portrait somewhere else, and tell others about us?" she asked instead.

"I've trapped them inside," Riddle told her. "They can't leave the frames."

Hermione nodded her approval and helped him shove the wall chunks into her beaded bag. If the portraits could be convinced to contribute – and they should, because Tom Riddle might not be the biggest evil out there – they could be invaluable. If not, then well, at least Riddle would keep himself amused and entertained at someone else's expense.

"I've counted one-hundred and forty-two names," Hermione told him, unable to bear the silence now that his proximity set her on edge.

"That many?" He frowned. "That could be a problem."

"Most people who died in that battle were children aged eleven to seventeen. My guess is that any dark witch or wizard reborn so young had little chances of surviving the mess. As Theodore said, they might be dead again."

"That, or they were wise enough to escape. Imagine, Hermione," he said and she pressed her lips more firmly at him using her given name so freely. "How many children out there look innocent right now, and will one day grow up to be another Raczidian?"

Hermione felt her blood run cold in her veins. It was a frightening notion. What if Grindelwald had been revived into a twelve-year old? How would they find him, then?

"If they're smart, they'll adopt any given name but theirs. They could claim their parents perished in the war. And we know that Vol – Old You's Ministry has messed with the records, particularly of muggleborns… We'd have no way of knowing if they're telling the truth."

"We would if we only had to check one child or two," he said, perhaps thinking of veritaserum or Legilimency. "But if we have to check every magical child left in Britain? We might miss a few, yes."

Tom led the way out of the Headmaster's Office, Hermione following a wary distance behind. He walked briskly, pleased with their findings, and in a hurry to reach the safety of Nott manor – he wished to get his hands on the famed Book.

He couldn't deny, however, there was something else he wanted to get his hands on.

Hermione Granger was a delectable little thing; how very fierce, how unexpectedly sharp. She had played with him before, barked and hissed and scratched – but Dumbledore? Dumbledore, she had torn into threads. He knew now, that what he'd seen of Hermione Granger until then were mere glimpses; light reflections on her hidden claws.

Tom had always coveted the useful, and enjoyed the vicious. He was a collector; of objects, of spells and of people alike. He'd barely even doubted, after she'd regained her bearings, he wanted to keep Hermione. But what he wanted now – what he wanted was something else.

He wanted to grab her hair and sink his teeth in her throat until he could feel her racing pulse with the tip of his tongue. He wanted to bring her to her knees and stare into her eyes and still find that exhilarating spark of defiance. He wanted to push her close against himself and enjoy the intoxicating feel of being dangerous enough to terrify even her.

He was pretty sure he was experiencing arousal.

Entertaining as the notion was, it'd be suitable to clear his thoughts of further Miss Granger imagery. She was following him out of lack of other options and a healthy dose of fear; but if he gave her too many reasons to rebel, she certainly would. That wasn't his preferred outcome.

"We need to find out more about the current situation," he said, in hopes a change of topic would help ease the tension. "How many of these revived Dark Wizards are confirmed dead?"

"We know only of one," she said, eagerly taking the chance to talk practical details. "Raczidian. How could we know any more? We saw signs of a fight as we fled Hogwarts – many might have died then."

"One option is interrogation of any survivors we find. Sadly, we missed that chance with Raczidian," he said, regretful. They'd been preoccupied with other issues, and not alert, not foresighted enough.

"And the other?"

"Well – You mentioned something about having broken into the Ministry of Magic once?" he said, throwing her his most engaging smile.

She still looked distrustful when glancing sideways, and avoided both approaching him and holding eye contact.

"You think the Ministry knows more than us – they might keep records," she correctly guessed.

"They probably do. Also, we could kindly ask Minister Umbridge to share her knowledge with us," he teased, half temptation, half peace offering.

It worked beautifully. Hermione straightened, eyes snapping to his own, a greedy fire in them. Umbridge was her pressure point, a fail-safe way to draw her attention. If the Minister was Tom's objective, Hermione would gladly stand by his side. Tom allowed himself a small, smug smile.

He'd take her to slay all her enemies and, every little step she took alongside him, he'd wrap her further in his web. He'd offer all she wanted, until all there was left for her to want was Tom himself.

"How did you do it? Burglarizing the Ministry," he asked.

He needed to press further, to bring her back to the moments she'd been at her most recalcitrant, to the almost banter of their discussions. He knew she enjoyed using her knowledge of past events to humble him… He would allow it, given how he wished to improve her mood.

"You want to know now?" She frowned.

"Haven't much to do, except walk back down."

Might as well keep himself entertained.

"Well – it wasn't that hard," Hermione mused, and he almost snorted at the unwarranted modesty. "We waited outside, hidden underneath the Cloak. We incapacitated three Ministry employees as they passed by, and polyjuiced into them," she shrugged.

"Polyjuice. Remarkable brewing skills," he praised her.

Hermione sniffed disdainfully, not buying his attempt at peace-making. He found himself smiling, remembering her dislike of easy flattery.

"I brewed my first batch in an out-of-order toilet when I was a second year," she said. "This time was hardly remarkable."

"Second year?" Well, that was impressive. Ah, the ever-enthralling Miss Granger. "Whatever for?"

"We suspected Draco Malfoy to be the Heir of Slytherin, back when the Chamber was opened. In our defence," she added at seeing his raised eyebrow, "he did act the part. Harry and Ron took the shapes of his friends, Crabbe and Goyle, and asked him straight out."

Tom didn't miss her omission. It was unlike Miss Granger, he thought, to stand back and miss the action.

"And you?"

Hermione glanced ahead a touch too quickly. Her hand went to tuck a loose curl behind her ear and, even if he hadn't guessed that was a nervous tell-tale, she revealed herself in blushing a very satisfying shade of crimson.

"In the Hospital Wing," she said curtly.

Oh?

"How come?" She might have been injured, he guessed. There had been a muggleborn-thirsty Basilisk roaming around.

"I – It really isn't relevant to the story," she said, harsh and to the point. "What matters now is how we infiltrated the Ministry."

Tom was rather interested in her very adamant change of topic; whatever embarrassed her so, he definitely craved knowing. However, he decided to pursue it at a later date.

"Certainly," he said. "Please, do go on," he allowed.

"Since we looked like employees, we just walked in." She shrugged.

Almost beautiful in its simplicity. He, however, could guess the flaw in their plan.

"Did you know them? Their names, their jobs, their daily activities?"

Hermione grimaced. "I'd have liked to be more prepared," she admitted. "But we'd been idle for too long, and the bo – Harry rushed it. He was probably right in that no amount of skulking around the entrance would have dramatically improved our chances… We learnt their names from their cards, and went in almost blind."

"Risky," Tom agreed. "Particularly for you and Potter."

"Our intention was to go in and out pretty quick," she tried to justify. "Avoid people who could recognize us." She scrunched her nose, as if remembering an especially unpleasant smell. "It didn't quite go as planned."

"So the going in is easy," Tom summarized. "Problems come afterwards."

"Ron got into a bit of a mess. His wife – that is, Mr Cattermole's wife – was on trial that day, for being muggleborn. Magic thievery," she explained before Tom could even ask, "as if a muggle could steal magic!"

"So Ron," Tom tried letting the name roll on his tongue, and observed Miss Granger grow tense. There was something there, he knew, that would require looking into – he had a feeling she avoided mentioning him. "Got sidetracked."

"And Harry too, eventually. I ran into Umbridge in the elevator, and she took me with her, as administrative assistant for the trial. Harry sneaked into Umbridge's office to search for the locket."

"You thought she'd keep it in her office?" Tom asked, disdain slipping into his words.

Hermione reddened. "Seemed foolish not to check," she answered, snippy. She certainly disliked it when her intelligence was questioned. "Anyway, Umbridge had the locket on her. Harry joined me, under the invisibility Cloak, as we overlooked that sham of a trial."

Tom could almost feel her anger. Her eyes glinted, her hair crackled, her fists clenched. The wrath simmered under her skin, and Tom thought it beautiful. That was the precise moment in which he swore to himself he would drag Umbridge to Hermione's feet, and watch as she bled her to death.

What a sight it would be.

"Harry stupefied her – he couldn't take it anymore. Then all Hell broke loose," she shrugged, as if that had been a fairly common occurrence in her life. "We made a run for it. Luckily, Harry had morphed into Runcorn, who held an important enough position – he ordered the employees to let us out, and they did."

"Polyjuice and luck," Tom summarized, disappointed. He'd expected more of her. "I don't like to rely on the latter."

"Then don't," she snapped. "I'm sure you'll come up with something better," she added, dry.

"We certainly will," corrected Tom, not losing a single chance to butter her up.

Hermione looked rather sceptical at her inclusion in the plans, but forwent making any commentary.

A sudden, sharp noise ahead – like the cracking of wood – had them both tensed and armed in an instant. They shared a quick glance, nodded to each other, and moved swiftly out of the way. Tom hid behind the shadows casted by a suit of armour, and Miss Granger opted to skulk away in the opposite direction, careful to stay out of sight.

He heard the careless steps before he saw the man walk by his hiding spot. From the back, he looked young, and he walked lightly – but since Tom knew not whether Hereward was young or old, he could only guess it was him.

In any case, cast first and ask questions later.

Tom used a simple stupefy.

It didn't work.

Hermione crouched and watched Riddle's spell rebound off a perfect shield. The man, whomever he was, had quick reflexes – he turned, shifted his weight, and fired back fiercely.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Did my father send you?"

Riddle took his barrage of spells with grace, and didn't answer.

Hermione hadn't seen him duel yet, as he'd let Yaga do all the dirty work. She had to admit he was better than she'd expected. He was just her age – younger, in fact, if he'd been brought back to life at Harry's exact age – and yet there was an undeniable difference in skill between them.

He knew spells she'd never even read about. Not like Yaga, though – not those subtle shifts of reality that morphed wood into wind and shadows into murder. Riddle used concrete spells; wand-waving and flashes of light, but they still felt foreign to her.

And he was fast.

Riddle went through the spell motions so smoothly one spell seemed to merge into the next. At one point, Hermione suspected he'd used the last swipe of a diffindo as the first swipe of a reducto – using the move for both, thus saving time. Was that even possible?

His opponent's spells, however, managed to push him back. She could have sworn his casting looked rougher, but the spells turned out strong and wild. It was impressive, given how good Riddle was, that the man might be even better.

And then, his wand caught the light as he swung his arm wide, and Hermione had to stifle a curse word. She recognized that wood – Dumbledore had wielded it for many years. She'd last seen it in Harry's hands.

The Elder Wand.

It had stayed at Hogwarts, apparently. Bellatrix must not have recognized it – Voldemort most likely never told anyone about it. She had to wonder, though; if both Harry and Voldemort had died, who was the owner of the Elder Wand?

No one, since the last contenders had killed each other? Tom Riddle, since he'd been revived while Harry remained dead? Or was it waiting to call Master the first person who picked it up – hence, the man standing in front of Riddle?

Hermione couldn't possibly be certain, but she knew it was worth a shot.

She crawled out of her hiding spot and, while the man was distracted by Riddle's spells, casted an expelliarmus from behind his back.

Expelliarmus had given Draco Malfoy ownership of the Elder Wand before, and since Hermione couldn't check if a stupefy would work the same way, she went by the book. The wand slipped from their enemy's fingers and flew into her hand.

It only took that brief second of confusion for Riddle to take the chance and knock him unconscious.

The wand felt warm in her hand. It was long, much longer than she felt comfortable with, and strangely knotty. She wasn't certain whether the warmth meant acceptance or if it was just heated by use – it certainly didn't feel like her own wand. She had no time to analyse the sensation, however; she shoved it into her beaded bag. She needed to hide it from Riddle so he couldn't claim it like he had the Cloak.

"Thank you for the assistance, Miss Granger," he said, walking to her side.

Hermione had feared the help might offend him, but she should have guessed better. Tom Riddle was careful beyond measure, and he certainly wasn't above using every trick up his sleeve to achieve his means – the ambush they'd laid for the Snatchers was proof enough.

"Is it Hereward, you think?" she asked him. "He did ask after his father."

"It's likely," Riddle agreed. "He walked around as if he owned the place," he said, and Hermione could tell he found that to be akin to sacrilege. Riddle had always cared for Hogwarts, after all – and particularly in his youth.

Hermione observed Riddle wasn't injured. If she hadn't known any better, she'd have said he'd just come out of the hair dresser, the way not one single perfect curl was out of place. Her hands went to her own, bushy mess and – vain as it was – she felt the world was rather unfair.

"Oh dear," they heard Yaga's airy purr before even seeing her. "Please tell me this is Hereward."

Hermione turned to see her walking down the stairs with the slow elegance of a queen. A charred queen, though. Her face was covered in ash, her camisole ripped and grey and burnt through. She heard Riddle clack his tongue, and could guess he didn't appreciate how little the fabric now covered.

Hermione was much more worried about the way Yaga's left arm hung lifelessly against her side. And then she saw Theo levitate Blaise's body behind her, and her worry increased tenfold.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Godelot," Yaga spat the name as if it were foul food.

"More of a reason to believe this is Hereward, then," Tom said. "Let's take him with us."

Hermione left them to take care of the unconscious man and rushed to meet Theo. Unlike his two companions he looked perfectly fine, with the exception of the dirt on his knees and the paleness of his face.

"Is Blaise all right?" she asked him.

"Well, he's been better," Theo answered, but the sarcasm told her he wasn't worried about Blaise dying, at least. "That was a fucking mess up there – Ever felt as useless as tits on a boar hog?"

Hermione's mind went back to those months surviving on water and thin, duplicated cookies while hiding in the forest of Dean. With a book on Children's stories as their only clue and two frustrated boys, she hadn't felt at her most useful. However, dumping this on Theo was unlikely to improve anyone's mood.

"Well, I did go to one Divination class," she said instead, and was pleased when that earned her a chuckle.

"Third year," Theo said, "back when my biggest fear was having to listen to Draco complain about that sodding Hippogriff for the umpteenth time." He looked ahead, where Yaga was dragging the presumed Hereward while Tom quizzed her about Godelot's prowess. "How easy life was."

The thought of that year – of Harry and Ron by her side, of saving Sirius, of Remus smiling as he taught – almost brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, and took over for Theodore at levitating Blaise. She had no time for sentimentalism.

"Rest," she told him. "You're shaking."

Theo nodded, grim. "Yeah – I'm not made for this shit."

And who is? Hermione thought, walking ahead.

Theo had been spared having to drag Hereward to his dungeons. Lady Yaga had ordered him to make sure Blaise was improving, and to get some rest while she dealt with their guest. However, given his rather unimpressive skill in healing spells, Granger was the one checking Blaise's condition. And so Theo did what he did best; he went down to the cellar and picked a good Bordeaux.

"Chateau Ausone," he told Granger as he poured her a generous glass.

"Is now really the time?" she grumbled, waving her wand to knot her hair out of the way as she read Blaise's diagnostics.

"Might be dead tomorrow," Theo shrugged. "And it'd be such a waste if the wine got forgotten down there."

Hermione rolled her eyes and, instead of taking his advice and enjoying the little pleasures of life, took a book out of her ratty bag and threw it on his lap.

"Do something useful," she asked him. "Familiarize yourself with the list."

Theo took a sip as he read through the last page of the Book of Admittance.

"Did you mark the ones you couldn't recognise?" he asked her when he noticed the little green circles.

Granger nodded and kept on casting healing spells.

"Catherine Deshayes," Theo read. "You do know this one, Granger – La Voisin?"

That grabbed her attention.

"The French poisoner?" she asked. "I didn't know her real name."

Theo nodded. "And a well-known demonologist, if I'm not wrong. I think I have a book on her in the Library… She led an organization of professional assassins, credited with thousands of murders."

"How nice," Granger said drily, and finally picked her glass to take a large swig. "Oh – this is good."

"I do have some talents," he said with a proud smirk. "Merlin's pants!" he exclaimed, reading a bit further down. "Grindelwald!"

Granger dropped the heavy wine glass in her hands and caught it before it reached the floor. She cursed at the spilled, expensive wine as she vanished it. Theo almost apologized for his outburst, when he noticed she looked more disturbed than startled.

"What?" he asked. "You'd seen his name already, right?"

"I – No, yes. I had. It's just – Nothing," she shook her head and her hair fell tumbling down again over her eyes.

"Your lies suck," Theo told her, honest. "Can't believe you'd lie to me, though – Here I thought I was your new best friend…" he clacked his tongue. "I'm hurt, Hermione."

She shivered. With a furtive glance toward him and a nervous shake of her hands, she gulped the rest of the wine down as if it were cheap firewhiskey.

"Don't say my name like that," she asked him. "You sound like Riddle – Gives me the creeps."

Theo raised one polished brow.

"Since when does Riddle call you Hermione?" he asked, pouring her more wine. She certainly looked like she needed it.

"Since he discovered I'm a delight," she said, looking grim.

"Wait, he said that?" he asked, and she nodded. "That sounds an awful lot like flirting," he teased. She grew even tenser, and that's when he knew he was onto something. "Did anything else happen?"

Granger went red – angry red – and then pale, which was a rather peculiar combination.

"Something happened," he decided. Granger groaned. "Oh, Circe – Is this how teenage girls feel?" he wondered, "I'm starting to see the appeal of this gossip thing."

"Shut up," Granger asked, gulping down more wine. "I'm not discussing this with you."

"With whom, then?" he asked.

Granger glared at him, and he smiled his most innocent smile. Admittedly, it'd never made anyone think him innocent before… but at least he tried.

"Granger," he tried again, gesturing between them and Blaise "if we don't trust each other, who can we trust?"

The obvious answer was 'no one', but he rather hoped she didn't pick up on that. Gryffindors were easy to manipulate, right?

Her eyes got a dangerous glint – a spark that screamed recklessness, and not acquiescence – and she nodded slowly.

"Right," she said, "we should trust each other."

Theo got the feeling he'd somehow gotten himself in a mess of his own making.

Granger picked up her ugly bag and took a long, familiar wand out of it. She held it in her hand, and then held her own vine-wood wand; as if she were comparing the feeling. In the end, she opted for the long, knotty one and left hers on Blaise's bed, right next to her.

"Disarm me," she told him.

"How bossy," he complained. But then again, he was a follower, wasn't he? "Expelliarmus." The wand flew to his hand, and felt strangely warm for one that hadn't chosen him. "Now what?" he asked her.

"Give it back," she said, and he rolled his eyes before obeying once again. "Oh – it feels different!"

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about? Or is this trust thing one-directional?" he complained again. "What's this wand?"

"The Elder Wand," she said, and tossed it back at him.

He almost let it drop – and not only because she was a terrible thrower.

"What?" And, because only one time wasn't enough to express his utter confusion, he repeated, "what?"

"The Elder Wand," she said again, too serious to be joking. "I think you own it now."

Theo looked at the pale, carved stick sitting on his lap and felt his blood drain. How many people had been murdered for this thing? And great wizards, all of them. But he wasn't a great wizard; some days he felt he wasn't even an average wizard.

He just wanted to be left alone and enjoy his fucking wine.

"Disarm me," he begged her. "Own it back."

"No, I think it's safer this way," she said. "I'm way too close to Riddle most of the time. Yaga, on the other hand, seems uninterested in these things."

No, that didn't sound safe at all. Particularly not for him.

"What if he reads your mind?" he said, desperate. "What if he comes for me?"

"Yaga will keep you safe," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "Riddle won't dare go against her."

"You don't know that," he reasoned, but Granger was already standing up and going for the door.

"Keep an eye on Blaise's condition," she said, leaving. "I'm going to get all this dirt off of me – We'll talk later."

"Granger, come back here," he pleaded, going after her. "Come back here right now, and disarm me!"

But when he opened the door to the corridor, on the other side was Lady Yaga, instead of Hermione Granger.

"What is wrong?" she asked, eyeing him. "How is Blaise?"

"Fine," he rushed to answer. "Blaise's fine – All's fine."

She nodded, pleased. "Come in, then. We have much to discuss."

Theo watched the door close after her and wondered how he'd get himself out of that mess.

A/N: Thank you all for reading, and for your patience. I appreciate all the comments showing your support. I expect to also update Coven soon.