Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cold clung to Hermione’s skin despite the warmth of the wizarding tent. Charmed to be larger inside than it appeared from the outside, it had all the trappings of comfort—beds, chairs, even a kitchen—but the place still felt hollow, as if the charm only expanded the emptiness. She lay on her back, staring at the dark fabric ceiling, thoughts spinning in endless, restless loops.

Ron was gone. Harry, across the room, was more distant than ever, his sleep broken and shallow. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his face pinched as though even dreams demanded too much of him. Days blurred into weeks of trudging through forests, scavenging for scraps, waiting for hope that never came.

A gust rattled the walls. Hermione shivered, though the warming charms should have kept the chill away. Outside, the world seemed frozen. Inside, it wasn’t much different.

Her hand drifted to the locket at her throat. Cold metal pressed heavy against her skin. They were supposed to take turns, but more and more she had simply kept it, convinced she could bear the weight better than Harry could. Better than Ron had. The locket soured tempers, twisted moods—but she was stronger. Or so she told herself.

Tonight it throbbed faintly under her fingertips, as if alive.

“You’re wasting away out here.”

The voice slipped into her thoughts like a shadow through a crack. Not loud—never loud. Just there.

Hermione’s breath caught. She’d heard it before, faint and easy to dismiss. Tonight it was different. Tonight it felt close.

“Cold. Hungry. Following a plan that was never yours.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and dragged the blanket higher, as though fabric could block out a voice in her head. Don’t listen. Don’t give it space. But the words curled tighter, insistent.

“You’ve always been smarter than him.”

Her fingers clenched around the locket. “Shut up,” she whispered, almost soundless. She wouldn’t call him by name. Not even in her thoughts.

And yet—he chuckled, as if he’d heard the omission.

“You know it’s true. You’ve kept them alive. Made the plans. And for what? To starve in the cold, waiting for a miracle that will never come.”

It wasn’t fair. She’d held them together. But no one ever said so—not Harry, not Ron. And Tom… he saw it.

Hermione turned onto her side, back to Harry’s restless form. Guilt twisted through her. She shouldn’t let the locket speak, shouldn’t even acknowledge him. And yet—he wasn’t wrong. They were lost. Dumbledore had left them with riddles, Ron had walked away, and Harry barely spoke anymore.

“You don’t believe in this plan, do you?” His tone sharpened like a knife being honed. “It’s built on a lie. Good, evil, light, dark—meaningless words.”

Her throat tightened. “Dark magic corrupts,” she murmured, voice shaking. “It… destroys people.”

“Does it?” he pressed, silk wrapped around steel. “Or is that what they told you to keep you obedient? You could kill a man with a Levitation charm, drop a stone on his head. Does that make Wingardium Leviosa dark?”

Hermione bit her lip hard. Logic—her logic—twisted against her.

“You can’t deny dark magic is dangerous,” she whispered, but the certainty she normally carried was already slipping. “The curses, the bloodshed—they’re designed for pain and power. That’s why the distinction exists.”

“Ah.” His voice softened, coaxing now. “You mistake consequence for design. Magic is neither light nor dark; only wizards are. By branding certain spells as ‘dark,’ the Ministry controls who may wield power. They fear potential they cannot master. Isn’t that the real corruption?”

A twig snapped outside the tent. Hermione stilled, breath held, listening for danger. The forest was silent again. Silent, except for the whisper curling at the base of her skull.

Her grip on the locket tightened until her knuckles ached. Harry turned in his sleep; she froze, guilt flaring again.

“It’s not fear—it’s responsibility,” she hissed. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should. The Unforgivable Curses—how do you justify a spell that only exists to torture?”

Laughter uncoiled through her mind, smooth as oil. “Responsibility—a word often used to excuse mediocrity. Every spell can wound if used carelessly. Stupefy can kill if the angle’s wrong. The Cruciatus? A tool. Pain is a teacher. In the right hands, it breaks barriers rather than bodies.”

Her breath hitched. She wanted to push back, to win, but doubt tugged at her edges.

A log shifted in the fire pit, sparks glowing through the grate. The sound jolted her, but not enough to dislodge him.

“You see destruction as final, don’t you?” Tom’s voice curled in, smoother now, almost tender. “But destruction is only half the story. The phoenix burns to ash before it rises. Forests burn so new life can grow. Even the Killing Curse—efficient, clean. No games, no cruelty. Pure will.”

Hermione shook her head against the pillow. “That’s convenient sophistry. Some spells are born to harm. They warp the caster, even when you pretend otherwise.”

“Warp?” His tone sharpened again, irritation threading through silk. “No, Hermione. Magic reveals. If a wizard feels warped, it’s because they were weak to begin with. You are not weak.”

Her chest tightened at that. She hated how the words landed, hated the warmth that flushed her throat.

Across the room, Harry groaned and turned over, lips moving in dream-snarled whispers. She looked at him, guilt pricking sharp as glass. What was she doing? Listening. Worse—answering.

“You speak of morality as if it saves you,” Tom murmured, softer again. “But morality is a leash, and they’ve kept it tight on you. You’ve always been the one holding them together—smarter, quicker, better prepared. And still, they never see you for what you are.”

Her breath trembled. It wasn’t fair. She had held them together. Harry, distracted; Ron, reckless; and she, the glue. No one ever said so. Not once.

“I’m a Muggle-born,” she whispered fiercely, as though reminding herself. “I belong to both worlds. Neither is beneath me.”

He laughed, low and indulgent, like a teacher correcting a stubborn pupil. “You misunderstand. My disdain is not hatred—it is pragmatism. The world is fragile. Muggle-borns are thrown in with no history, no culture, and they destabilize what they don’t understand. It isn’t their fault. It is the system’s failure. Integration without reform is chaos.”

Hermione sat upright before she realized she’d moved, blanket slipping from her shoulders. Anger burned hot in her chest. “That’s not a Muggle-born problem, Tom. That’s prejudice—your precious institutions shutting the door and blaming us for knocking. If anyone destabilizes your world, it’s the people too afraid to let it grow.”

Silence. Then his amusement returned, quieter, edged with frost. “Change is not inherently bad. But change without control? That is weakness disguised as progress. And weakness, Hermione, is what destroys worlds.”

A cold draft slipped under the tent flap. Hermione shivered, though her blood was hot. “No. What destroys worlds is people like you, obsessed with control. Afraid to admit power can be shared.”

His tone hardened, like ice beneath velvet. “Idealism. You speak of inclusivity as though it were strength. Do you imagine a society where all are equal? Where centuries of bloodline and tradition mean nothing? Naïve. The magical world is not a democracy, Hermione. It never will be.”

Her hands fisted in the blanket, nails biting into her palms. “I’ve fought for this world as much as anyone. More. I’ve bled for it, nearly died for it. And you dare say I don’t belong?”

For the first time, he was silent. She felt the pause like a breath at her ear.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer, coaxing: “I don’t deny your strength. On the contrary—I see it more clearly than anyone. That is why I speak to you. Because you are more than they allow you to be. Stronger than Harry. Stronger than Ron. Stronger than all of them. You could rise above.”

Her pulse skipped. She hated how the words curled into the hollows of her heart, hated how part of her wanted them. Wanted recognition. Wanted release.

“Victory,” she breathed before she could stop herself.

“Yes.” His voice was smooth, intoxicating, wrapping around her like smoke. “Victory—not for Voldemort, not for Dumbledore. For you. Imagine a world where you no longer beg to be seen. Where you command, shape, decide. All you need to do is stop fighting the truth.”

The locket pulsed against her skin, a steady throb in time with her heartbeat. Hermione pressed her hand over it, trembling. She had always fought for justice, for fairness. But what if fairness was a lie? What if the only way forward was to burn the system down and rebuild it in her image?

Her breath caught. Could she? Should she?

Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the canvas seams. Inside, she sat frozen, a girl at war with a whisper—and herself.

Chapter Text

The tent was too warm. Still, she shivered. Her hand tightened on the locket, its throb in time with the thought she didn’t want: choose.

For weeks now, everything had been slipping. First Ron, now Harry—both lost to the weight of the locket in different ways. Harry’s sleep fractured, his days brittle. Ron’s anger had cracked and stormed away. And here she was, still holding the pieces together, or at least trying to.

Was it really her job to fix everything?

The dark magic hummed beneath her fingers. Tom’s voice seeped through like frost under silk.

You’re the only one keeping them alive. And what has that earned you? Half-truths. Dead ends.

Her breath caught. She tried to force him out, but poison doesn’t work unless something inside you agrees. And part of her agreed. Weeks since Dumbledore’s death, and still nothing but forests and fragments.

She looked across the tent. Harry twisted in his sleep, brow furrowed, lips moving against ghosts. Once he had been their front line. Now he seemed almost… small.

You’ve carried him as long as you could. And he never noticed.

Her throat tightened. She had saved them. Again and again. But no one ever said so—not Harry, not Ron. Tom saw it. That was the danger.

They prefer stability to truth.

“Stability always favors those already seated,” she whispered before she could stop herself. The words sounded like hers.

Not hope, Hermione. Design.

The locket burned colder. She thought of the Ministry—its cowardice, its commissions, its endless betrayals. Tom’s voice was merciless, yet patient, peeling open every doubt she’d buried beneath rules.

Recognition withheld becomes a leash. Institutions slam the door and blame you for knocking.

She almost laughed, but it cracked into something like a sob. Was she really arguing with him—or with herself?

By morning, the air was wool-damp, heavy with ash from last night’s fire. Harry bent over the map, shoulders hunched, lips pressed thin. His eyes were bloodshot from nights of fractured sleep.

“We need to move,” he said without looking up. “I think I’ve got the next Horcrux.”

“Think,” Hermione said. “We haven’t slept. We don’t have a lead—just hope arranged on parchment.”

He met her eyes, already defensive. “I cross-referenced Dumbledore’s notes—”

“The notes that read like riddles because they are.” Her chair scraped back. “Harry, we are circling.”

He flinched—small, real—before masking it with conviction laid over hunger. “He trusted us.”

“He trusted you,” she said, before she could sheath it. “And we’re lost.”

The fire spat once, sharp. Neither moved.

“If you think you can do it better,” he said, voice rough, “lead.”

The word landed like a key and a sentence. Tom’s presence sharpened, attentive.

“I don’t want a crown,” Hermione said, quieter. “I want a plan that isn’t guesswork.”

Harry’s hand went to his scar—a habit like touching wood for luck—and fell away. For a second his face was only raw fear. Then the door of it shut.

“Then make one,” he said, and stepped out into the cold.

The air felt colder after he left. Hermione stood in the hush he vacated, the canvas walls suddenly too close. She lowered herself to the chair and pressed her palm to the locket’s heat, telling herself she kept it because she was strong enough. Outside, the wind worried the guy-lines. Inside, a whisper waited for her to agree.

You don’t want credit. Tom’s voice, almost fond. You want jurisdiction.

“That’s not—” A laugh caught in her throat and broke into something like a sob. “I want us to live.”

Then stop asking permission. If there was triumph in it, there was also—just for a breath—something like relief.

She could give the locket to Harry. It was his night. She could wake him, press metal into his palm, watch it drag him under while she took the map and made a plan with a clear head.

She did not move.

Instead, she pulled the blanket tight, listened to the wind braid itself around the tent, and lay back down with the locket burning against her skin.

Design, he had said.

For a long time she stared at the ceiling and made herself list steps, not hopes. When sleep finally found her, it came without dreams—only the steady, treacherous comfort of being, at last, decisive.

Chapter Text

Hermione lay awake, the locket cold against her chest, Tom’s voice threading back into her thoughts. It was subtle at first, a murmur at the edge of consciousness, but the longer she let herself think, the clearer it became.

You’re stronger than this, Hermione. You see what he doesn’t. Why waste time when you know there’s another way?

Across the tent, Harry bent over a map, his shoulders hunched, his face drawn with sleeplessness. He looked smaller now, diminished. Not the boy who had faced down Voldemort again and again. Just a boy lost in a labyrinth of riddles.

Frustration tightened in her chest. They were drifting, circling, wasting time. Her fingers found the locket’s edge, tracing its cruel geometry.

“You’re not getting anywhere with this plan,” Tom coaxed. “How many more lives will be lost while you wander? There’s a faster way.”

The voice was almost kind now, not a command, just an offer.

“Harry,” she said, careful, “maybe we need to rethink our approach.”

His head snapped up, eyes clouded with irritation. “We’re hunting Horcruxes. That’s the only way.”

“I know.” She softened her tone. “But people are dying every day. What if we… tried another angle? Weaken Voldemort first. Then we’d have time to finish destroying the rest.”

Harry stared, disbelief scrawled across his face. “That’s against everything Dumbledore told us. You know we can’t kill him until they’re gone.”

Does she? Tom’s whisper slid in, sharper now. Or is that just the story you were handed? Dumbledore trusted him with riddles, you with silence. Ask yourself why.

The thought landed like a stone in her stomach. Dumbledore’s riddles for Harry, silence for her. She had followed, filled the gaps, but never been trusted with the whole.

“I’m not saying we ignore them,” Hermione said, her voice more certain than she felt. “But maybe there’s a way to cripple him, to buy time. Isn’t it riskier to wait while more people die?”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “So what then? Abandon Dumbledore’s plan?”

There it was again. The plan. Always his plan.

“I just think maybe he didn’t give us all the pieces,” she said. “Maybe he didn’t trust us enough.”

Harry’s eyes flared, hurt and anger mixing. “You think I don’t know that? I’m trying, Hermione. I’m trying to finish this, but we have to follow what he left.”

He trusted him, Tom murmured. Not you. Why?

She dropped her gaze. “I do trust you, Harry. But we can’t just keep waiting for miracles.”

“And what’s your plan, then?” His voice was tight. “If you think you can lead, go ahead.”

Hermione flinched. She hadn’t meant it as a challenge, but the words lodged like glass. Harry didn’t see her, not really. He never had.

You’ve been holding them together, Tom soothed. Don’t let him drag you down. You know better.

“I don’t want to lead,” she said quickly. “But I can’t watch us stumble into more dead ends. We need to be smarter.”

Harry turned away, shoulders sagging under the weight he refused to share. At the tent’s flap he paused long enough to mutter, “Figure out the plan, then.” And then he was gone, leaving the silence colder than the night outside.

Hermione stood frozen. Guilt twisted in her chest, but beneath it pulsed something else—darker, steadier. Her hand brushed the locket, its thrum firm against her skin.

You know what you have to do, Tom whispered. Lead. You’ve always been meant to lead.

Later, she unfolded the Marauder’s Map, tracing its shifting lines. Names wandered across corridors, innocent of war. Once, Hogwarts had been a sanctuary. Now it looked like a cage drawn in ink.

Discipline? Tom’s voice coiled soft and amused. Or compliance? You taught yourself what they never gave you. You outgrew them years ago.

Her chest tightened. She remembered nights buried in the library, the Time-Turner, the endless proof demanded of her. Praise when she obeyed, dismissal when she broke rules to survive.

“They taught me responsibility,” she murmured.

Or taught you to bow. Not a home, Hermione. A cage. And you? You were never meant to live in cages.

Her breath hitched. Hogwarts had been a refuge, yes—but also a battleground. Always the Muggle-born. Always proving. Always more.

“I’m not like them,” she whispered.

No, Tom agreed, velvet and certain. You’re not.

The tension broke days later at Godric’s Hollow. The trap sprung; Harry’s wand shattered; they barely escaped. The near-disaster left Harry staring at the fragments in silence, grief written in the slump of his shoulders.

Hermione’s frustration boiled over. “I told you it was a trap. You went anyway. You gambled on graves.”

Harry didn’t look up. “I just thought… there might be something. Anything. I had to see.”

“That’s the problem. You keep chasing maybes. Sentiment won’t win this war.”

His head jerked up, eyes flashing. “Are you saying I can’t make decisions? That I’m too emotional?”

“I’m saying we can’t afford sentiment. Dumbledore gave us riddles, and now we’re paying the price.”

Harry’s voice rose. “He trusted us to figure it out!”

“He trusted you,” she snapped before she could stop herself. The truth rang out, brittle and sharp.

The silence that followed was worse than shouting. Harry’s eyes darkened, then he turned away. “I’m not giving up on him,” he said, quiet but resolute. “I’ll see this through.”

Hermione crossed her arms, her voice shaking. “Then stop pretending belief is enough.”

The words hung heavy between them. Harry left without another look. The silence he left pressed down like frost.

When he was gone, Hermione sank to her bedroll. Her hand found the locket. The metal was cool, steady, merciless.

“He changed,” she whispered. “He had to. Didn’t he?” Even to her own ears it sounded like a catechism she no longer believed.

Her jaw tightened. Dumbledore had left Harry with riddles and her with silence. Maybe that had been the plan all along.

Tom didn’t need to speak. She was already there.

Her hand stayed on the locket. Not loosening. Not resisting. Just resting, as if it belonged.

Chapter Text

The cold air bit through Hermione’s warming charms as she sat outside the tent, her mind a restless churn. She didn’t hear the footsteps until they stopped at the clearing’s edge.

She looked up—and froze.

Ron.

He stood there with that familiar slump of guilt, jaw set, eyes darting between her and the tent. Not an apology. Not remorse. Just the assumption that he could return and be accepted.

Hermione rose, breath catching.

“All right?” he muttered, offering a crooked smile.

All right?

Before she could speak, Harry burst from the tent. His face lit up like the sun after a storm. “Ron!” He pulled him into a hug, relief breaking loose in his voice. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

The sight twisted something deep inside her.

Ron mumbled, “Yeah. I’m back.”

That was it. No apology. Just back.

Harry’s grin didn’t falter. “Good to have you, mate. We’ve got so much to catch up on.”

And just like that, the world reset. As if he hadn’t abandoned them. As if she hadn’t carried the wreckage alone.

Do you see it? Tom’s voice slid in, velvet and merciless. He left you. And Harry has already forgotten you kept him breathing while Ron walked away.

Her fists clenched until her nails bit skin.

Harry turned at last, guilt flickering across his face. “Hermione—Ron’s back. Isn’t it great?”

“Great,” she echoed. Hollow.

But it wasn’t.

By the fire that night, the air was heavy with unspoken tension. Hermione watched them laugh, falling back into old rhythms, and felt herself drift outside the circle again. Always the shadow, always the scaffolding, never the center.

They never saw you, Tom whispered. All the nights you saved them, all the weight you carried—gone, the instant he returned.

Her throat burned. She had thought Ron’s leaving had hurt the most. But this—this blithe forgiveness—was worse.

You deserve more than this, Tom murmured, almost tender. To be seen. To be valued. Not to vanish the moment he smiles again.

Later, the fire burned low. Hermione sat with a book open in her lap, the words forgotten. Tom’s voice rose again, patient, coaxing.

What are you saving, Hermione? A world that leaves you invisible? A plan that has given you nothing but graves?

Her fingers tightened on the spine. Dumbledore’s plan. Always riddles, never trust. Harry was given faith; she was given silence.

You think I’m offering darkness, Tom said, gentle now. But I’m offering control. Pragmatism. A way to end this war without waiting for miracles.

Hermione’s stomach turned. She wanted to argue. To hold the line. But the justifications sounded thinner each time she spoke them.

“He changed,” she whispered, the words trembling. “He had to. Didn’t he?”

No answer came. Only the cold truth she already knew: he had trusted Harry, not her.

That night, standing at the tent’s entrance, Hermione finally asked the question that had haunted her.

“What do you want from me, Tom?”

For once, silence. Then—softer than she expected:
It’s not about me. It’s about you. What do you want? What do you fear? I’m not your puppet master.

The admission unsettled her. She wanted him to be lying. Wanted a villain to resist. Instead, he handed the choice back to her.

You’ll fall, Tom warned when she whispered her doubts. But falling only shows you your limits. And you are stronger than him—stronger than Voldemort ever was. He shattered himself. You will not.

Hermione’s heart lurched. Could she believe that? Could she trust him?

“Then trust me,” Tom said softly. I’ll be your strength until you believe in your own.

The promise settled over her like a shroud—warm, dangerous, inescapable.

At dawn, Hermione stood in the clearing, the forest hushed around her. Her mind, for the first time in months, was quiet.

The choice had been hers. Hadn’t it?

“You’ve freed yourself,” Tom whispered, approval curling through her. Chains broken. Shadows shed. Now you are what you were meant to be.

Her breath clouded in the cold. She wanted to believe him. Needed to.

But somewhere inside, a small voice whispered that maybe she had been led here, step by step, until resistance no longer mattered.

She flexed her fingers, power humming under her skin. It felt intoxicating. Beautiful, even—like belladonna: elegant, lethal, and finally hers.

“I’ll fix it,” she whispered into the dawn. “I’ll rebuild the world. And it will be better.”

Of course it will, Tom said, satisfaction dark in his tone. You’re in control. You always have been.

Hermione smiled—slow, dangerous—and stepped forward into the trees.

The forest held its breath. She didn’t know if it waited for salvation—or reckoning.