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Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor - 1998

Hermione Granger could safely say she had never felt such agony.

She couldn’t think straight as Bellatrix’s Cruciatus Curse tore through her once more. She wasn't capable of making a sound aside from the ear-piercing, animalistic screams currently tearing from her throat.

Is that really my voice? It can’t be.

Suddenly, the pain abated, leaving a dull, persistent throbbing in its wake. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as she struggled to control her body’s convulsions. But she knew the torture was far from over.

“You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth! Tell the truth!”

Hermione held her tongue.

And she was plunged into a world of pain yet again.

Bellatrix’s shrieking was a distant backdrop to the white-hot pain coursing through her. She could faintly hear the witch threatening to run her through with a knife, but what did that matter when she was already being stabbed by thousands? What did it matter when it felt as though her body was being burned alive? The threat almost sounded merciful in comparison.

Then, it stopped. The absence of pain slammed into her, and she was left gasping for air, floundering like a fish out of water.

Through her blurred vision, Hermione made out Bellatrix’s wild figure looming over her.

“What else did you take? WHAT ELSE?” Bellatrix screamed, her voice echoing through the high-ceilinged room. "ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!"

This cycle of pain and relief stretched on forever, or so it felt to Hermione. During brief moments of lucidity, she observed the room’s other occupants.

Greyback stood behind Bellatrix, his grotesque features twisted into a sadistic leer, his sharp teeth bared in a cruel grin.

The Malfoys stood off to her right—or was it her left? She couldn’t tell anymore. Despite her disorientation, she was struck by Lucius Malfoy’s disheveled appearance. His silver-blond hair was stringy, his skin pale and waxy, and his eyes darted about the room, unfocused and jittery. For a man who had always taken such pride in his appearance, his current state seemed almost offensive in its peculiarity. No doubt, his decline was the result of his time in Azkaban.

Not that he doesn't deserve to suffer after all he’s done, Hermione thought bitterly, recalling how Lucius had led the group of Death Eaters who attacked her and her friends in the Department of Mysteries.

Next to him stood Draco, his posture stiff as a board, his gaze fixed intently on his feet. His hands fidgeted at his sides, the only outward sign of the turmoil he was clearly trying to suppress. He looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but here.

A sentiment Hermione could sympathize with wholeheartedly.

“How did you get into my vault?” Bellatrix’s shrill scream snapped Hermione back to the present, making her painfully aware of the tears streaking her face. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?”

“We only met him tonight!” Hermione sobbed, grasping at straws for a plausible alibi. “We’ve never been inside your vault—” Think, Hermione! Use that mind of yours and think! “It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a copy!”

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed, and for a terrifying moment, Hermione thought the witch might curse her again. Instead, she whirled toward Lucius.

“Bring the goblin here!” Bellatrix screeched.

Lucius muttered something unintelligible to Pettigrew, who scurried off.

Bellatrix turned back to Hermione, wand raised, a wicked gleam in her eyes. Hermione braced herself, her heart hammering in her chest, but before the curse fell, Narcissa stepped forward.

“Bella,” she said softly, her voice smooth but firm. “Let me attend to the Mudblood while you deal with the prisoners. If they know what else has been taken from your vault, we cannot afford to waste time.”

Bellatrix frowned, her eyes flicking between Narcissa and Hermione. Then, with a sharp nod, she stormed out of the room.

As soon as Bellatrix disappeared, Narcissa knelt beside Hermione, her icy blue eyes meeting hers, her face so close that Hermione could see every detail—the faint lines around her mouth, the shadows beneath her eyes, and something strange, unnameable, in her expression.

“Stay quiet,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione’s instincts screamed at her to recoil, but her body was too weak to respond. “Why…?” she croaked, her voice trembling.

Narcissa didn’t answer. Instead, she slipped a hand into her robes and withdrew a necklace. It was delicate, the silver strands twisting into an intricate pattern, the pendant glowing faintly in the dim light.

“There’s no time to explain,” Narcissa whispered, her voice thick with something Hermione couldn’t place—regret, perhaps, or longing.

Hermione barely had time to process the words before Narcissa clasped the necklace around her neck.

The world spun violently. A rush of wind howled in her ears as light and shadow blurred together. Hermione gasped, her body feeling weightless and heavy all at once. Her surroundings faded into nothingness, and then—

Hermione landed with a thud on cold, damp grass. She groaned, her body aching from the impact. The air was fresher here, crisp and tinged with the faint scent of pine. She blinked up at the sky, a blanket of stars spread above her.

Where in Godrick’s name am I...?

“Oi! Who’s there?” A sharp voice rang out from the darkness.

Hermione froze, her heart pounding. From the shadows emerged a tall boy with pale blond hair, his prefect badge gleaming on his chest. His face was youthful, but there was no mistaking the sharp, aristocratic features.

Lucius Malfoy.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded, his wand drawn and pointed at her.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t possible. Lucius Malfoy had just been at Malfoy Manor, and was far removed from her generation. But here he was, young and imperious, staring at her as though she were some strange puzzle to be solved.

“I… I…” she stammered, her mind racing for an explanation when she didn’t have one herself-- unbidden, her right hand drifted up to clasp the pendant Narcissa Malfoy had placed around her neck.

Lucius stepped closer, his cold grey eyes narrowing as they took in her disheveled appearance.

“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”

Hermione swallowed hard. “...I don’t...know,” she whispered.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, to her surprise, Lucius lowered his wand slightly, his expression softening into something almost amused.

“Well,” he said, his voice laced with curiosity. “This should be interesting.”

Chapter Text

Hogwarts - 1970s

The heels of Lucius Malfoy’s polished shoes clicked softly against the stone floor as he led Hermione through the castle corridors. His wand was in his hand, though he held it loosely at his side, more like an accessory than a weapon. Every so often, he cast her a glance, his pale blond hair catching the flickering light of the torches.

“So,” he began, his tone conversational but laced with curiosity, “are you going to tell me why you were wandering the grounds alone at this hour? Or are you planning to keep that a mystery?”

Hermione’s stomach clenched, and she kept her gaze fixed ahead. She’d already mumbled something about being a transfer student when he’d found her—a weak excuse at best—but he hadn’t pressed her further. Now, the silence between them felt heavy, and she struggled to think of an appropriate response.

“I don’t think you’d believe me,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she intended.

Lucius chuckled softly. “Oh, you’d be surprised what I’d believe, Miss… well, whoever you are. You didn’t give me your name, did you?”

She glanced at him, catching the faint smirk tugging at his lips. His grey eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was an edge to them, sharp and probing.

“No,” Hermione said shortly.

He arched an elegant brow, but if he was offended by her curt reply, he didn’t show it. “Hmm. Mysterious and tight-lipped. Intriguing.” He paused, glancing at her again. “Though it does beg the question—why Hogwarts? Surely there are other schools that would… suit you.”

Hermione said nothing, keeping her expression carefully neutral.

Lucius sighed theatrically, shaking his head. “Very well. Be enigmatic if you must. But I wouldn’t expect Dumbledore to be quite so lenient.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the mention of the Headmaster. She hadn’t yet processed the impossibility of being here—a time so removed from ber own —but the thought of facing Albus Dumbledore sent a fresh wave of anxiety crashing through her. What would he say? What would he do? She couldn't help the pang of sorrow She felt thinking of what had happened to him in her time. He'd been dead for a while now, but still she mourned. The fact that she would be seeing him alive and well in a matter of moments didn't sit right with her.

Lucius must have noticed the flicker of unease in her expression, because his smirk widened. “Don’t worry. He has a certain affinity for strays.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, willing herself not to react. She remained silent as they climbed a spiral staircase, her mind racing with half-formed plans.

When they reached the heavy oak doors leading to Dumbledore’s office, Lucius stopped and turned to her.

“Last chance to explain yourself,” he said lightly, though his tone carried a note of challenge.

Hermione met his gaze, summoning as much composure as she could manage. “I’ll leave that for Professor Dumbledore,” she said firmly.

Lucius’s smile faltered for a moment, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with a shrug, he raised his hand and knocked.

“Enter,” came Dumbledore’s calm, measured voice.

Lucius pushed the door open, gesturing for Hermione to step inside.

“Good luck,” he said, his smirk returning. “Though I suspect you’ll need more than that.”

Hermione hesitated, then stepped through the threshold.

The office was as grand as she remembered—or would remember—its shelves lined with ancient tomes and strange devices whirring quietly in the background. The walls, hung with portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses, appeared to be sleeping, though a few cracked their eyes open to observe her with mild curiosity.

And there, behind the great oak desk, sat Albus Dumbledore. His robes shimmered faintly in the firelight, and his blue eyes peered at her over his half-moon spectacles with a mixture of warmth and intrigue.

Hermione felt a surge of grief overtake her again. It took every fibre of self control she had to keep herself from running over to him and embracing him.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said softly, leaning forward slightly. “And who might you be, my dear?”

Hermione’s throat felt dry. She scrambled for an answer, her mind racing through a hundred possibilities. She couldn’t tell him the truth—not all of it.

“I… I’m sorry,” she stammered, her fingers tightening around the edge of her sleeve. “I don’t know how I got here.”

Dumbledore tilted his head, his gaze piercing yet kind. “That much, I had already surmised. But you do have a name, do you not?”

Hermione hesitated. “Hermione," she began, the name slipping from her lips almost unbidden, then hesitated. The weight of her real name, tied to a future she was trying to make sense of, felt too dangerous to reveal.

“Hermione Dagworth-Granger, “ she finished, remembering the time in 6th year when Slughorn had mistaken her as a member of that family -- a pureblood family. Better to play it safe, being a muggleborn on top of everything else is likely to draw even more attention. 

Dumbledore nodded, as if this answer satisfied him for now. “Welcome, Miss Dagworth-Granger. I take it you are not quite… accustomed to our surroundings?”

She nodded slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I… don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

Dumbledore’s lips curved into a faint smile. “The world often has a peculiar way of placing us precisely where we are meant to be, even if it feels otherwise. Tell me—what is the last thing you remember before arriving here?”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She couldn’t tell him about Bellatrix, the torture, or the necklace. The less he knew about her origins, the better. “I was… somewhere dark,” she said carefully, her voice low. “Then everything just… shifted.”

Dumbledore’s expression grew more thoughtful, his gaze flicking to the pendant resting against her chest. For the briefest moment, his eyes widened, and a strange spark of recognition flickered across his face.

“Ah,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled.

“Do you know what this is?” Hermione asked, her fingers brushing the pendant.

Dumbledore’s smile returned, though it was faint, tinged with something Hermione couldn’t place.

“A fascinating artifact, to be sure. But its purpose, I suspect, is tied to you and your presence here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean to say, you are not from this time, aren’t you?”

Her head shot up, her heart pounding. “How… how could you possibly know that?”

Dumbledore chuckled softly, his expression calm yet inscrutable. “Magic, Miss Dagworth-Granger, is a force of patterns and connections. Certain signs are unmistakable to those who know how to look for them. But perhaps your strange manner of dress is one glaring indicator...”

Hermione's gaze dropped to her clothes-- sheepish-- taking in her now filthy jeans, pink sweater and gray coat.

He sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “However, as I feel you are already doing, I must insist that you refrain from sharing any details of the future with me. The fabric of time is delicate, and even the smallest piece of information could unravel it irreparably.”

Hermione swallowed a lump she hadn't realized was forming in her throat at that. He was right, little was truly known about time travel , and even less wa known about traveling this far back in the past.

“I sense,” Dumbledore continued, his tone growing more serious, “that you are here for a reason, Miss Dagworth-Granger,though it may not yet be clear to you. Whatever brought you to this time and place was no accident.”

Hermione's thoughts spun. She wanted to press him for answers, to demand he explain how he seemed to know so much, but the intensity in his gaze stopped her.

“I believe,” Dumbledore continued, his voice softening, “that your path may already be written. But you must tread carefully. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Hermione said quietly, though her mind was a maelstrom of uncertainty.

Dumbledore studied her for a moment longer, then rose from his chair. “You will need to blend in, Miss Dagworth-Granger. For now, you are a transfer student, a distant relative of mine—a late arrival, but one who will surely find her place. I will see to it that you are sorted and assigned to classes.”

Hermione’s heart sank at the thought of pretending to be someone she wasn’t, but she nodded nonetheless. “Thank you, Professor Dumbledore.”

He smiled warmly, though his eyes remained inscrutable. “Hogwarts has a way of taking care of its own, Miss Dagworth-Granger. You may find it more welcoming than you expect.”

As Hermione left the office, her thoughts churned with a thousand unanswered questions. Why had Narcissa sent her here? Did Dumbledore recognize the pendant? And most pressing of all—what was her purpose in this strange new past?

The answers, she suspected, would not come easily.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts- October 18, 1971

The Great Hall buzzed with the familiar hum of morning chatter as Hermione followed Dumbledore to the staff table. The enchanted ceiling above reflected a crisp, clear October morning, the sunlight streamed in through the high windows and casted soft patches of light on the long wooden tables.

Her heart pounded as she approached. She was acutely aware of hundreds of eyes turning toward her. Conversations sputtered to a halt, replaced by whispers and furtive glances. It was worse than she’d expected.

She felt painfully out of place in the borrowed robes Dumbledore had conjured for her. The hem was slightly too long, and the sleeves billowed awkwardly around her hands. For the very first time, she wished she had taken greater interest in household charms, she'd need to figure out how to resize them soon. Despite her efforts to appear composed, she felt the weight of every gaze boring into her.

Dumbledore gestured to the empty chair beside his own at the staff table, and Hermione reluctantly took her seat. As she did, the whispers grew louder, and she caught fragments of the students’ conversations.

“Who is she?”

“Is she new?”

“She’s too old to be a first year.”

“Transfer, maybe? From where?”

Hermione unclenched her hands in her lap to brush her fingers over the pendant still hanging around her neck. She had learned only moments ago that today’s date was October 18, 1971—well into the school year. Being sorted now felt absurd, she despised all the attention it was garnering her.

She tried to keep her expression neutral, though her fingers curled nervously in her lap. Among the many faces at the Slytherin table, one caught her eye—a girl with platinum hair, her youthful features eerily familiar. Narcissa Black.

She was smaller and younger than Hermione expected, with delicate features that betrayed her age. She looked no older than thirteen, her robes crisp and pristine, her posture perfect. There was an almost ethereal quality to her, though it was undercut by the sharpness in her pale blue eyes as she observed Hermione from her spot beside a few older girls.

Hermione swallowed hard, her thoughts racing. This was Narcissa—the Narcissa Malfoy. The woman who, in Hermione’s time, would one day save her life in a moment of quiet rebellion, defying Voldemort himself. But here, in this moment, she was just a third-year Slytherin.

The thought unsettled Hermione more than she cared to admit. Narcissa’s small frame, the way she leaned slightly toward one of the older girls as if seeking reassurance—it all seemed so innocent, so… normal. Hermione found herself doubting that this girl could hold any answers to the questions swirling in her mind. Whatever her future self would do, whatever connection she might have to Hermione’s presence here, it was impossible to see it in this young, fragile version of her.

She’s a child, Hermione thought, her gaze softening despite herself. She couldn’t possibly have anything to do with this. She won't have the answers I seek.

Narcissa, as if sensing Hermione’s attention, met her eyes with her penetrating gaze. Hermione felt a strange pang of recognition—not from this Narcissa, but from the composed, elegant woman she knew in her own time. The moment passed quickly, Narcissa’s brow furrowing slightly before she looked away, dismissing Hermione with a flick of her hair.

Hermione let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening in her lap. Hermione couldn’t completely shake the thought that tickled the back of her mind: If I stay here long enough, maybe I’ll see her grow into that woman. I’ll see her choices shape her— I'll learn why she chose to save me. 

Hermione tried to remain calm, but her attention kept drifting back to the Slytherin table, this time, her gaze falling on Lucius Malfoy. He sat near the end of the table closest to where she sat at the staff table, his posture straight and his pale blond hair immaculate. He was speaking casually to another boy, but Hermione noticed the way his gaze occasionally slid in her direction.

He’s pretending not to care, she thought with a twinge of amusement. Sure enough, every so often, his eyes flicked toward her, just for a moment, before returning to his breakfast. His feigned disinterest was obvious to her—he was far too proud to openly display curiosity, but his subtle sideways glances betrayed him.

Dumbledore leaned toward her slightly, drawing her attention away from Lucius. “The Sorting Hat is ready whenever you are, Miss Dagworth-Granger,” he said quietly, his tone kind.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She glanced toward the small stool placed in front of the staff table, where the Sorting Hat sat waiting. Its wide brim drooped slightly, as though it had seen better days.

Dumbledore made a brief announcement, introducing her as a 7th year transfer student from Beauxbatons and a distant relative of his. 

“Why is she being sorted now?”

“She looks nervous.”

“A relative of Dumbledore's? I didn't think he had any family?” 

Hermione’s cheeks burned, but she kept her head high, determined not to show how embarrassed she felt. 

“Miss Dagworth-Granger,” Dumbledore’s calm voice drew her attention back to the moment. He leaned toward her slightly, his expression kind but serious. “I believe it’s time for the Sorting Hat to do its work.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her stomach twisting into knots. She knew this was necessary, but it still felt ridiculous. Sorting wasn’t something she’d ever expected to experience again, let alone now after all she’s been through. 

Taking a deep breath, she rose from her seat and made her way toward the small stool placed before the staff table. The room fell silent, the clatter of utensils and low hum of voices replaced by whispers and soft murmurs.

Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the ground as she sat down. She placed the Sorting Hat on her head, its weight surprisingly familiar despite the years that separated her from her first encounter with it.

“Well, well,” the hat’s voice drawled in her mind, amused. “What a surprise to see you again, Miss Granger—or should I say Miss Dagworth-Granger?”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “You… you know me?”

“Of course I do,” the hat replied with a chuckle. “I never forget a mind like yours. And what a fascinating turn of events this is… not quite the young witch I once sorted, are you?”

“I—” Hermione began, but the hat cut her off.

“No need to explain,” it said smoothly. “Now, let’s see… still the same courage, intelligence, and heart. But you’ve grown, haven’t you? A sharpness now, an edge. Resourceful… calculating, even. Oh, yes, you’ve changed.”

Hermione’s stomach churned. “Just put me in Gryffindor and let’s get this over with,” she thought desperately.

“Ah,” the hat said with a note of amusement, “but Gryffindor isn’t the right place for you anymore, is it? No, you’ll do far better elsewhere… Better be… SLYTHERIN!”

The final word echoed through the hall, and for a moment, Hermione felt the world freeze around her.

Then the Slytherin table broke out into polite applause, with a few enthusiastic claps here and there. She felt her cheeks burn as she rose from the stool and made her way to the Slytherin table, her legs shaky beneath her.

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change as she sat down beside him, though his blue eyes gleamed with quiet curiosity. “The Sorting Hat never lies,” he said softly, as if sensing her turmoil.

Hermione nodded faintly, her mind racing. Slytherin? It felt impossible, wrong, and yet… a small, nagging voice inside her whispered that it made sense.

She forced herself to look back toward the Slytherin table. Lucius Malfoy wasn’t clapping—of course he wasn’t—but he was no longer pretending to ignore her. His grey eyes locked onto hers for a moment, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips, before he turned back to his breakfast.

She knew that look all too well. It wasn’t indifference—it was triumph. With her in Slytherin, she was certain he'd waste no time taking advantage of their proximity to investigate her origins. She groaned internally. A, young, inquisitive Lucius Malfoy was the last thing she needed right now. 

The rest of the hall slowly returned to their meals, the excitement fading into the background hum of breakfast chatter. Hermione clenched her hands in her lap, acutely aware of the pendant at her neck pressing coldly against her skin.

Slytherin. She was a Slytherin now.

And every student in the hall, every glance, every whisper, reminded her that she didn’t belong.

Hermione sat stiffly at the Slytherin table, her appetite nonexistent. A plate of eggs and toast appeared in front of her, but the thought of eating made her stomach churn. The Slytherin table buzzed with hushed conversations, the students throwing furtive glances her way as they speculated about the odd transfer sorted into their house.

“Miss Dagworth-Granger, isn’t it?”

Hermione started at the voice beside her and turned to see a tall, confident-looking boy with dark auburn hair and a Head Boy badge pinned neatly to his robes. He gave her a polite smile, his green eyes studying her with obvious curiosity.

“Yes,” she replied cautiously.

“Jeremy Travers,” he introduced himself, extending a hand. His grip was firm when she shook it. “Slughorn just asked me to fill you in on a few things, seeing as you’re new to Hogwarts—and Slytherin.”

Hermione nodded, unsure how else to respond.

“Professor Slughorn is your Head of House,” Jeremy continued. “You’ll find him a bit… eccentric, but he’s an excellent connection to have. Likes to keep an eye on promising students and make sure they’re properly ‘encouraged.’” He smirked at that, his tone lightly teasing. “If you’ve got a knack for potions, he’ll probably invite you to one of his little gatherings soon enough.”

Hermione bit back a sarcastic reply, grateful that her unease masked her amusement. “I see,” she said neutrally.

Jeremy seemed unfazed by her reserved response. “Don’t worry. Slytherin might have a reputation, but you’ll find most of us aren’t nearly as dreadful as people like to say.” His eyes glinted with amusement, but there was a probing quality to his gaze that put her on edge.

Hermione forced a tight smile, unsure if he was trying to put her at ease or gauge her potential. Before she could decide, Jeremy continued.

“They’re curious about you,” he said matter-of-factly. “You might not find them overly friendly at first, but give it time. They’ll be watching closely, though. It’s… how we are.”

As if to emphasize his point, Hermione noticed several students at the Slytherin table whispering while casting glances her way. A red-headed girl near the middle table caught Hermione’s eye, then quickly looked away as if embarrassed to have been caught staring.

“They’re not subtle,” Hermione muttered.

Jeremy chuckled, shaking his head. “No, not always. But they’re smart. They’ll figure you out soon enough.”

Hermione felt a pang of discomfort at that. She wasn’t sure what “figuring her out” would even mean to them. She glanced back at the table again, her eyes once more landing on Lucius. He was sipping from his goblet, his expression carefully neutral, but Hermione knew better. She -- again -- caught the barest flicker of his gaze toward her before he turned back to the boy beside him, speaking low and measured.

His ego won’t let him appear too curious, she thought bitterly. 

Jeremy followed her gaze and smirked knowingly. “Lucius Malfoy,” he said in a low voice. “A most illustrious Slytherin from an equally illustrious family—and he knows it. You’ll probably see plenty of him, whether you want to or not.”

Hermione suppressed a sigh. “Great.”

Jeremy’s chuckle was softer this time. “You’ll survive. Slytherin’s not so bad once you get used to it.” He stood, brushing crumbs from his robes. “I should get started on my duties, but if you need anything, let me know. Slughorn will find you soon enough.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, surprised to find that she almost meant it.

Jeremy gave her a slight bow of his head, then strode off, leaving her alone with her untouched breakfast and the weight of a hundred curious stares pressing down on her.

She looked down at her plate, her appetite still nonexistent. At the other end of the table, Lucius laughed at something someone said, the sound low, deliberate, and several octaves higher than the other Slytherin’s voices --as if he wanted her to notice it.

She tried to focus on the hum of the room, on anything that wasn’t Lucius Malfoy’s subtle glances or the overwhelming sense of displacement that sat heavy in her chest.

Then, the doors of the Great Hall swung open with a loud creak, and the atmosphere seemed to shift. A figure strode in, her presence commanding even before her voice rang out.

“Honestly, what’s the point of breakfast starting so early?” the girl said dramatically, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder as she sauntered toward the Slytherin table. Her high cheekbones and sharp features were unmistakable, as was the almost feral gleam in her dark eyes.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Hermione’s breath hitched, and she quickly dropped her gaze to her plate, gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned white. She didn’t need to look up to know Bellatrix had noticed her—she could feel it, like the heat of a fire creeping closer.

“What’s this?” Bellatrix’s voice was unmistakable, rich and teasing, and far too close for comfort. “A new Slytherin? Don’t tell me I missed the grand announcement.”

Before Hermione could react, Bellatrix slid gracefully into the empty seat beside her, dropping her bag onto the table with a careless thud.

“Hello,” Bellatrix said brightly, flashing Hermione a wide, crooked grin.

Hermione forced herself to look up, her heart pounding in her chest. The Bellatrix sitting beside her wasn’t the twisted, maniacal woman she’d faced at Malfoy Manor. This Bellatrix seemed almost… carefree. She leaned back in her chair with an easy confidence, her movements fluid and unrestrained.

“Cat got your tongue?” Bellatrix teased, her grin widening.

“No,” Hermione said quickly, her voice strained. She cleared her throat, trying to steady herself. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all.”

Bellatrix laughed, a loud, unrestrained sound that drew a few glances from nearby students. “Surprised? At what? My charm? My punctuality?” She smirked, clearly amused by herself.

Hermione tried to muster a polite smile, though her mind was racing. Bellatrix was being… friendly? The thought was as disorienting as it was unnerving.

“You’re new,” Bellatrix said, her tone shifting slightly as she leaned closer, studying Hermione with an intensity that made her stomach churn. “A transfer, right? From where?”

Hermione hesitated, her carefully constructed lie suddenly feeling flimsy under Bellatrix’s scrutiny. “Yes. Beauxbatons, I'm a distant cousin of Dumbledore’s ” she said quickly, hoping the vagueness would suffice.

Bellatrix’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her smirk didn’t waver. “Beauxbatons. Huh. Well, I suppose that explains the accent.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t have an accent.”

“Not a French one,” Bellatrix said with a wave of her hand, as if dismissing the point entirely. “But there’s something. Anyway, no one’s perfect.”

Hermione frowned at her peculiarity and bit the inside of her cheek, unsure how to respond. Bellatrix leaned back again, stretching her arms above her head in a way that felt deliberately irreverent.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Bellatrix said, nodding toward the other Slytherins, who were still sneaking glances at Hermione from across the table. “They’re nosy, but harmless. Mostly.”

“Thanks,” Hermione muttered, unsure if Bellatrix was being sincere or mocking her.

“Of course,” Bellatrix said, flashing another grin. “We’re housemates now. Gotta stick together, right?”

Hermione forced a nod, her stomach twisting. The ease with which Bellatrix spoke, the rebellious edge to her demeanor—it was all so different from the cruel, sadistic woman Hermione knew from her own time...Or was it...? She had to admit, she couldn't claim to actually know Bellatrix's personality outside of when she was tormenting those she viewed as her inferiors. 

“Besides,” Bellatrix added, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, “they’ll be far more interested in what Lucius -- the esteemed Malfoy heir--thinks of you than anything else. He’s already trying to pretend he doesn’t care, which means he definitely does.”

Hermione looked toward Lucius instinctively, catching the way his eyes -- again--darted away as if he’d been caught staring.

“See?” Bellatrix said with a chuckle, plucking a piece of toast from the plate in front of her. “Typical.”

Hermione didn’t respond, her thoughts too tangled to form a coherent reply. Bellatrix seemed to take her silence as agreement and happily continued eating.

Despite the easygoing facade, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at her. This Bellatrix, with her charm and charisma, was likely just as dangerous as the one she knew. Perhaps even more so.

And now, she was sitting right beside her.

Hermione forced herself to nibble at a piece of toast, trying to ignore the erratic fluttering in her stomach. Bellatrix, on the other hand, seemed utterly at ease, slouching slightly in her chair as she tore into her own toast with a carefree bite.

“So,” Bellatrix said around a mouthful of bread, waving her hand as though inviting Hermione to spill her life story, “what’s Beauxbatons really like? Full of dainty little fairies and prancing unicorns, or is that just what they want us to think?”

Hermione hesitated, her mind scrambling for a believable answer. “It’s… different,” she said cautiously.

Bellatrix’s lips curved into a wicked grin. “Different how? Less rules? More drama? Come on, don’t be boring.”

Hermione tried to focus, but every part of her was hyper-aware of the dark-haired girl’s intensity. “It’s stricter,” she said finally, settling on a half-truth. “Very… polished. They value etiquette above everything else. Cousin Dumbledore convinced my parents that I should experience...more variety in my final year of schooling.” 

Bellatrix groaned dramatically, tossing her head back. “Sounds dreadful. I’d be thrown out in a week.” She leaned closer, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Or less.”

Hermione couldn’t help the faint twitch of her lips. It was unsettling, seeing Bellatrix in this light—so alive, so easygoing, almost charming in her rebelliousness. This wasn’t the Bellatrix Lestrange she feared and loathed.

Yet.

“Don’t tell me you were one of those perfect little dolls,” Bellatrix said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “All straight backs and polite smiles.”

Hermione stiffened, her mind flashing to how often she had been accused of being overly studious or self-righteous in her own time. “Not exactly,” she said, trying to keep her tone light.

Bellatrix studied her for a moment, then smirked knowingly. “There’s a spark in there, isn’t there?” She tapped the side of her temple as though reading Hermione’s thoughts. “I can see it. You’re not as boring as you want everyone to think.”

Hermione blinked, startled by the comment. “I’m not trying to—”

“Relax, Hermione,” Bellatrix interrupted, waving her off. “I mean it as a compliment. We need more interesting people around here.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She didn’t want to be interesting, especially not to Bellatrix. She wanted to be invisible, unnoticed.

Bellatrix tilted her head, her grin softening into something more curious. “What’s your deal anyway? You're Dumbledore’s lost cousin, or something, you show up in the middle of the term, get plopped into Slytherin, and sit there looking like you’re about to bolt for the nearest exit. It’s intriguing.”

“I don’t have a deal,” Hermione said quickly, her pulse quickening. “I’m just… here.”

“Hmm,” Bellatrix hummed, clearly unconvinced. She leaned back in her chair, balancing it precariously on two legs as she popped a piece of sausage into her mouth. “I like a good mystery. Don’t you?”

“No,” Hermione muttered before she could stop herself.

Bellatrix laughed, loud and unabashed, causing a few heads to turn. “Oh, I like you,” she said, pointing at Hermione with her fork. “You’ve got layers. This is going to be fun.”

“Fun,” Hermione echoed weakly.

“Mm-hmm.” Bellatrix’s grin turned sly as she dropped her chair back onto all four legs. “You’ll see. Slytherin’s not so bad. Sure, we’ve got our fair share of stiff-necked bores”—she gestured vaguely toward Lucius without even glancing his way—“but we know how to enjoy ourselves too.”

Hermione said nothing, unsure how to navigate Bellatrix’s unpredictable energy.

“Stick with me,” Bellatrix continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll show you the ropes. Who to avoid, who to use, who’s worth your time. And if anyone gives you a hard time…” Her grin widened, showing a flash of teeth. “Well, I’ll take care of that.”

The offer sent a chill down Hermione’s spine, though Bellatrix’s tone was light and teasing. She didn’t doubt for a second that the girl meant it.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hermione said carefully.

Bellatrix leaned back again, her dark hair falling in a cascade over her shoulder. “Do that. You’ll thank me later.”

For the rest of breakfast, Bellatrix kept up a stream of chatter, flitting between mocking observations of the other students and half-serious offers to cause some kind of mayhem “just for fun.” Hermione answered sparingly, too unnerved to fully engage, but Bellatrix didn’t seem to mind.

By the time the meal ended, Hermione felt drained, her nerves frayed from the sheer force of Bellatrix’s presence.

As the students began filing out of the hall, Bellatrix stood and stretched, throwing an arm around Hermione’s shoulders with a laugh. “Welcome to Slytherin, Hermione,” she said brightly, steering her toward the doors. “You’re going to love it here. Or hate it. Either way, it’ll be so much more entertaining now that you are here!.”

Hermione forced a strained smile, her thoughts churning. If Bellatrix Lestrange had decided to take an interest in her, she was in far more trouble than she’d anticipated

Chapter Text

Hogwarts - October 18th, 1971

The dungeons of Hogwarts felt colder than Hermione remembered—or perhaps it was the unfamiliar company that made her shiver. She followed the rest of the Slytherins into the Potions classroom, keeping her head down as they merged with the Gryffindors already seated at their long wooden tables.

Professor Slughorn was bustling about at the front of the room, his cheerful demeanor at odds with the gloomy surroundings. His potion-making apparatuses were already bubbling and steaming on the side counters, filling the air with an acrid, metallic tang.

Hermione hesitated at the back of the room, unsure where to sit, when Bellatrix’s voice rang out behind her.

“Over here, Hermione.”

Hermione turned to see Bellatrix waving her over with a lazy grin. She was seated at one of the middle tables, her posture relaxed but somehow commanding.

“Come on,” Bellatrix said, patting the stool beside her. “You don’t want to get stuck with one of the Gryffindors, trust me.”

Hermione reluctantly took the seat, acutely aware of the curious glances from both houses. Bellatrix seemed entirely unfazed by the attention, drumming her fingers on the table as she waited for class to begin.

“Today,” Slughorn began, his jovial voice filling the room, “we’ll be working on an intermediate potion known as the Auditoris Elixir. It’s a curious little concoction that, when brewed correctly, induces a ringing sensation in the drinker’s ears.”

He chuckled at the puzzled looks from the students. “A harmless effect, of course, but an excellent exercise in precision and timing. The ingredients and steps require careful handling, so pay close attention!”

Hermione frowned, her curiosity piqued despite herself. She glanced at the recipe written on the blackboard, her mind already racing through the steps.

“Looks fun, doesn’t it?” Bellatrix said beside her, her tone lightly teasing. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t blow anything up.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Bellatrix had already turned her attention to the ingredients list, her dark eyes scanning it with a sharp intensity.

“Let’s see,” Bellatrix murmured, tapping her quill against the parchment. “We’ll need powdered betony root, essence of murtlap, dried horned slugs, and…” She grinned suddenly, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Thestral hair. Now that’s a rare treat.”

Hermione blinked at her, startled by her enthusiasm. “You’ve used thestral hair before?”

“Of course,” Bellatrix said with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s brilliant for binding volatile elements. Pity it’s wasted on a potion like this, though.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. Despite her rebellious demeanor, Bellatrix spoke with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was talking about.

As the students began gathering their ingredients, Hermione noticed Lucius Malfoy at the table ahead of them. He answered one of Slughorn’s questions with practiced ease, his voice cool and measured.

“Astute as always, Mr. Malfoy,” Slughorn said approvingly. “Five points to Slytherin!”

Lucius tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the praise without a hint of modesty.

“Show-off,” Bellatrix muttered under her breath, smirking as she dumped a handful of powdered betony root into a mortar. “Always has to remind everyone he’s top of the class.”

Bellatrix’s gaze flicked to Hermione as they gathered ingredients from the supply cupboard. The other students gave them a wide berth, whether out of deference to Bellatrix or discomfort at the strange new addition to their house. Bellatrix didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she reveled in it.

“You’re not going to tell me where you came from, are you?” Bellatrix asked suddenly, grabbing a jar of powdered betony root and inspecting it with a practiced eye.

Hermione hesitated, focusing on her own pile of ingredients. “I already told you. Beauxbatons.”

Bellatrix snorted, closing the jar with a sharp twist. “Beauxbatons. Right. But that doesn’t explain you. You don’t act like the usual poncy types that come out of that place. And your name—Dagworth-Granger.” She said it slowly, as though tasting the words. “It’s familiar.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. It seemed her initial hope that a pureblood name would help her go under the radar backfired. She knew that the Dagworth-Grangers were an old pureblood family with a reputation for their potioneering skills. She hadn’t anticipated being questioned about it so soon. I wasn’t supposed to be sorted into Slytherin-- the one house where that kind of thing matters. 

“Yeah,they’re… my family,” she said dumbly, trying to sound casual.

Bellatrix turned to her sharply, her dark eyes narrowing before recognition finally arrested her features. 

“Dagworth-Granger...? As in the Dagworth-Grangers?”

Hermione nodded.

Bellatrix’s lips curved into a slow, cat-like grin. “Well, well. That explains a few things. You’re pureblood, then?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, keeping her tone even.

Bellatrix laughed, a short, sharp sound. “And here I was thinking you might be some poor half-blood stuck in the wrong house. But pureblood and a Dagworth-Granger? You’ll do fine here, Dagworth.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s Dagworth-Granger.”

Bellatrix waved a dismissive hand. “Too much of a mouthful. I’ll stick with Dagworth—or maybe Granger. Depends on my mood.”

Hermione didn’t respond, focusing instead on measuring out the powdered betony root for their potion.

“You must know your potions,” Bellatrix continued, her tone turning almost conversational. “The Dagworth-Grangers are famous for it, aren’t they? Founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers, didn’t they?”

Hermione nodded, impressed despite herself. Bellatrix’s rebellious demeanor had given her the impression she might not care much about academics, but it was clear she knew more than she let on.

“Yes, Hector Dagworth-Granger founded the society,” Hermione said, her voice soft but steady.

“And you?” Bellatrix asked, her dark eyes gleaming. “Do you live up to the family name, or are you just coasting on it?”

Hermione bristled, but she kept her tone calm. “I’ve done all right so far.”

Bellatrix chuckled, grabbing a jar of thestral hair from the shelf. “We’ll see about that. You’ll need more than ‘all right’ if you want to keep up with me.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’re that confident in your abilities?”

Bellatrix smirked, her dark hair falling over her shoulder as she turned to face her. “I don’t need to be confident, Granger. I’m just better. You’ll see.”

Hermione bit back a retort, unwilling to give Bellatrix the satisfaction of riling her up. Instead, she grabbed a vial of murtlap essence and turned back toward their table.

Back at their workstation, Hermione was surprised to find that Bellatrix, for all her arrogance, wasn’t bluffing. She worked with a practiced precision that bordered on artistry, her hands moving deftly as she measured, crushed, and stirred.

“You’re good at this,” Hermione admitted reluctantly as Bellatrix carefully added the thestral hair to their cauldron, the potion turning a deep, shimmering silver.

“Of course I am,” Bellatrix replied without missing a beat. “The Black family excels at anything worth excelling at.” She shot Hermione a sideways glance. “And you’re not bad yourself, Dagworth. Better than I expected, anyway.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the glowing praise.”

Bellatrix laughed again, a bright, unrestrained sound that made several students glance their way. “Don’t take it personally. Most people are rubbish at potions. You’re not.”

They worked in relative silence for a while, Bellatrix handling each step with ease. Hermione couldn’t help but be impressed as she watched her crush dried horned slugs into a fine powder, her movements quick and precise.

“Pour this in slowly,” Bellatrix instructed, handing Hermione the powdered slugs. “And stir counterclockwise while you’re at it. Not too fast.”

Upon completion, both girls took tentative samples of their concoction. It wasn't long before Hermione could hear a faint, high-pitched hum, she looked over at Bellatrix, leaned back in her chair, clearly satisfied.

 “Perfect,” Bellatrix said smugly, casting a glance toward Lucius.

He looked over his shoulder at their table, his gaze flicking to Bellatrix first, then to Hermione. His expression was neutral, but Hermione didn’t miss the faint crease in his brow before he turned back to his own work.

“See?” Bellatrix said, nudging Hermione with her elbow. “We’re already better than him. Not that it’s hard. He's going to have to step it up to maintain his spot as top of the class this year if he's going up against us isn't he? I think we make quite a team, don't we Granger?”

Hermione didn't think she'd ever get used to hearing Belaltrix say her name with a tone of camaraderie anytime soon, but still, she nodded in response with a tight smile. 

“Well done, ladies!” Slughorn exclaimed as he inspected their work, his face lighting up with approval. “Absolutely flawless! 50 points to Slytherin!”

Bellatrix leaned back in her chair, her grin triumphant as she glanced at Hermione. “Told you we’d be the best.”

Hermione managed a small smile, though her mind was already racing. Bellatrix might see her as a kindred spirit now, but Hermione knew better than to let herself grow comfortable. Bellatrix’s charm was a double-edged sword—and Hermione had no intention of being cut by it. 

Chapter Text

Hogwarts, October 1971

Hermione had planned to keep a low profile. She had promised herself she would be quiet, detached, and unremarkable—a shadow among the Slytherins. It was a good plan, and she was determined to stick to it.

For the first few days, it worked. She kept to herself, answering questions only when directly addressed, avoiding small talk, and pretending not to notice the curious glances from her housemates. But Hermione Granger—now Hermione Dagworth-Granger—had never been particularly good at fading into the background.

It started a few days later in Potions, where she couldn’t stop herself from correcting one of her classmates who was about to add powdered asphodel too early. Then in Defense Against the Dark Arts, she ended up rattling off the properties of various counter-jinxes during a discussion, her hand shooting up automatically when the professor posed a question.

By the end of the week, it was clear her attempt to stay inconspicuous was a failure.With her housemates and peers alike recognizing her as one of the brightest in their year. 

The Slytherin common room was quieter than Hermione expected in the evenings. The green light filtering through the underwater windows gave the space a muted, otherworldly glow, and the students spoke in low voices, their conversations tinged with careful deliberation.

Hermione usually sat at a corner table with a stack of books, pretending to read for class while covertly researching time travel. The restricted section of the library had yielded a few promising titles, though none had provided her with concrete answers.

She had just begun taking notes on Temporal Shifts and Magical Anchors when Bellatrix slid into the seat across from her.

“Working hard again, Dagworth?” Bellatrix asked, her tone teasing but curious.

Hermione quickly cast a silent charm to change the cover to a benign Arithmancy textbook and sighed inwardly. Bellatrix’s presence had become a regular occurrence—unexpected, yet oddly welcome.

“What do you want, Bellatrix?” Hermione asked without looking up.

“To see what you’re always so busy with,” Bellatrix replied, leaning forward to peer at Hermione’s notes. Her dark hair fell over her shoulder, brushing the parchment. “You’re such a swot, you know that? Always studying, always scribbling.”

Hermione closed the book with a snap before Bellatrix could read too much. “I like to be prepared.”

Bellatrix grinned, unbothered by Hermione’s brusqueness. “You’re worse than Lucius. At least he pretends to relax now and then.”

Hermione glanced across the room to where Lucius sat with a group of seventh-years, his pale blond hair catching the flickering firelight. He was listening intently to another boy’s story, though his gaze flicked briefly toward her before returning to the conversation.

Bellatrix followed her gaze and smirked. “He’s still curious about you, you know.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, as expected, Lucius had attempted to ingratiate himself with her -- each attempt less subtle than the last, and just as readily snubbed by Hermione. “We had one conversation about my family. That’s it.”

“Hmm,” Bellatrix hummed, her grin widening. “But you left an impression.”

The Slytherin dormitories were surprisingly spacious, with each room shared by four girls. Hermione’s roommates were a mix of personalities, none of whom she’d call friends—at least not yet.

Evelyn Greengrass was the most outgoing, her bright smile and sharp wit making her the de facto leader of their small group. She seemed genuinely friendly, though Hermione could sense a calculating edge beneath her charm.

Marianne Burke was quieter, more reserved, with a fascination for rare magical artifacts that rivaled Hermione’s own passion for magical theory. They had bonded, briefly, over a discussion about cursed objects.

Then there was Sylvia Selwyn, who seemed perpetually unimpressed with everything and everyone. She rarely spoke to Hermione directly, though her pointed looks and disdainful sighs made her feelings clear.

Bellatrix, of course, had her own room. As the eldest daughter of the Black family, she enjoyed certain privileges, though that didn’t stop her from invading Hermione’s space at will.

Hermione awoke one morning to find Bellatrix perched on the edge of her bed, idly inspecting a book on magical artifacts from her bedside table.

“Do you ever sleep?” Hermione muttered, pulling the covers over her head.

“You're one to talk.” Bellatrix shot back, holding up the book. “What’s this? More boring theory?”

Hermione sat up with a groan, snatching the book from her hands. “It’s for class.”

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You’re an awful liar, Dagworth. What are you really up to?”

Hermione hesitated, clutching the book tightly. “Nothing that concerns you.”

Bellatrix’s smirk softened into something almost genuine. “You’re strange, you know that? But I like you. You keep things interesting.”

Hermione didn’t respond, watching as Bellatrix sauntered out of the room, her dark hair trailing behind her like a shadow.

She couldn’t stay here. This wasn’t her world, her time.

And yet… a part of her was beginning to settle into the rhythm of this place. The girls in her dorm, Bellatrix’s sharp humor, even Lucius’s aloof glances—it was all starting to feel dangerously normal.

It started with a dare.

Hermione had spent the better part of the evening trying to focus on her research, her quill scratching quietly against the parchment in the Slytherin common room. The other students had mostly dispersed to their dorms, leaving the room in relative peace.

Bellatrix, however, was still there. She sprawled across one of the armchairs near the fire, twirling her wand between her fingers with practiced ease.

“You’re going to drive yourself mad with all that studying, Granger.” Bellatrix called out, her tone teasing.

“I’ll survive,” Hermione replied without looking up.

Bellatrix snorted, leaning forward with a grin that was both mischievous and predatory. “I doubt it. You look like you haven’t had fun in years.”

Hermione finally glanced up, narrowing her eyes. “And what exactly do you define as fun?”

Bellatrix’s grin widened. “I’m glad you asked, I dare you to follow me and find out.”

Minutes later, Hermione found herself creeping through the dark corridors of Hogwarts, Bellatrix leading the way with a barely-contained laugh in her throat. The other girl moved with the stealth of someone who had done this many times before, her steps light and confident.

“This is a terrible idea,” Hermione whispered, clutching her wand tightly.

“Terrible ideas are the best kind,” Bellatrix replied over her shoulder, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

Hermione sighed but kept following. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t just gone to bed, but there was something infectious about Bellatrix’s energy. It was reckless, chaotic, and entirely unlike anything she would normally allow herself to indulge in, but also reminiscent of what she used to get up to with Harry and Ron. A voice in the back of her head egged her on: What could it hurt to further ingratiate yourself with such a prominent housemate? 

They stopped at the base of one of Hogwarts’ many shifting staircases. Bellatrix pulled a small vial from her pocket and held it up, the liquid inside shimmering like molten gold.

“Ever heard of Lodestone Draught?” she whispered.

Hermione frowned. “That’s a magnetic potion. What are you planning—?”

Before Hermione could finish, Bellatrix uncorked the vial and let a single drop fall onto the staircase. The effect was instantaneous. A soft ripple passed through the stone, and then—clink -- the sound of metal clattering against the stone. 

Bellatrix stifled a laugh. “By morning, anyone wearing buttons, buckles, or anything metal will be stuck to the staircase.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “That’s horrible.”

“It’s hilarious,” Bellatrix corrected. “Imagine Dumbledore trying to pry first-years free.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but then—clunk. A suit of armor down the hall shuddered violently, its gauntlets yanked toward the staircase as if caught in an invisible current. A second later, the whole suit tipped forward and hit the floor with a deafening crash.

Bellatrix doubled over, cackling heartily, while Hermione grabbed her wrist and dragged her into the shadows.

“Shh!” Hermione hissed.

Bellatrix wiped a tear from her eye, still grinning. “Alright, alright, let’s go before we get caught.”

They hurried down the corridor, Bellatrix practically skipping with delight. Behind them, another distant clank echoed through the hall as yet another unfortunate suit of armor succumbed to the enchantment.

The next morning, Hogwarts woke to chaos.

It started with a shriek from the first student to step onto the ensnared staircase—Marlene McKinnon, a Gryffindor fifth-year who had just been trying to get to breakfast. The moment her polished school shoes approached the stone steps, she lurched forward as though yanked by an invisible force. Her bag flew from her shoulder, the metal clasps snapping straight to the stairs like a magnet, and she barely had time to register what was happening before her robe’s decorative red and gold buttons locked her in place.

“What the—?!” Marlene struggled, her arms pinned awkwardly to the fabric of her robes.

She wasn’t alone for long. Moments later, two Ravenclaw third-years attempted to help, only to find themselves caught as well. Their belt buckles and robe clasps latched onto the stone with a force that sent them sprawling forward, yelping as they tried—and failed—to pry themselves loose.

Then came the Hufflepuffs.

Eleanor Branstone and Conner Stevens both tripped mid-step, falling head-first -- the tiny barrettes in Eleanor's hair locking onto the staircase, wit Steven's tie pin doing the same. Behind them, a terrified first-year clutched the banister, trying to avoid being pulled forward by the weight of his pocket watch, which inevitably welded itself to the step below.

The real disaster began when Professor Slughorn attempted to take the stairs, completely unaware of the trap.

With a grand huff, he stepped forward, only to stop short as his pocket watch, belt buckle, and the dozens of ornate gold buttons on his vest clamped him firmly to the enchanted stone. His face turned a deep shade of purple as he flailed uselessly, his heavy frame making it impossible for him to wrench himself free.

“Gracious me!” he bellowed. “What is—? Someone fetch the Headmaster at once!”

By now, the commotion had attracted nearly half the school, students gathering in the corridors to gawk at the growing collection of trapped victims.

“I can’t move!” Marlene wailed.

“I lost my shoe!”

“WHY IS THE ARMOR CRAWLING?” someone screamed as a suit of armor from the upper level rattled violently, its gauntlets yanked against the pull of the magic.

Marilyn Burke -- the Divination Professor, a willowy woman perpetually followed by an aromatic cloud of incense -- arrived moments later, her neurotic gaze sweeping over the scene.

“Who,” she asked in the dangerous silence that followed, “is responsible for this?”

Hermione and Bellatrix, watching from a safe distance behind a cluster of Hufflepuffs, exchanged a glance. Bellatrix’s lips curled into a barely suppressed smirk, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Hermione, fighting the urge to laugh, elbowed her sharply in the ribs.

“This is terrible,” Hermione muttered, though her amusement betrayed her.

Bellatrix’s grin widened. “Oh, come on, Dagworth. This is legendary.”

Dumbledore appeared at the landing above them, stroking his beard as he surveyed the chaos. With a single flick of his wand, the magnetic enchantment dissolved, and everyone previously stuck lurched backward, freed so suddenly that Slughorn landed unceremoniously on his backside.

The students scattered instantly, pretending they hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes gawking at their stuck classmates.

Dumbledore glanced at Burke, his eyes twinkling with faint amusement.

“Creative, wouldn’t you say?” he mused.

Burke guffawed. “That depends on your definition of detention-worthy.”

Somewhere in the crowd, Bellatrix nudged Hermione playfully. “Totally worth it.”

Hermione sighed. “You’re insufferable.”

Bellatrix only smirked, tossing an arm around Hermione’s shoulders as they slipped away from the crime scene. “And yet, you keep coming along for the ride.”

Hermione couldn’t argue with that.

As Hermione followed Bellatrix through the corridors, her mind churned with conflicting thoughts. This was reckless. Dangerous. Stupid. She had always prided herself on her self-control, her ability to think ahead and make rational decisions. Yet here she was, willingly following Bellatrix Black—Bellatrix Lestrange before she became the monster Hermione remembered.

She told herself she was doing it out of necessity. She was a Slytherin now, and if she wanted to survive in this unfamiliar past, she needed to belong. She had no allies here, no safety net. Standing apart would only invite suspicion, and suspicion could unravel everything. Bellatrix, for all her unpredictable nature, had taken an interest in her, and that was an opportunity Hermione couldn’t afford to waste.

But another part of her—a part she refused to examine too closely—knew there was more to it than that.

She had spent years fearing Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman who had carved pain into her skin, who had laughed as she screamed. That Bellatrix had been cruel and unhinged, reveling in suffering. But this girl—this younger version—was different. The madness wasn’t there yet. The cruelty, perhaps, but not in the way Hermione knew it would one day manifest.

Bellatrix Black was wild and unpredictable, but she wasn’t a murderer. Not yet.

And somehow, that made it even more unnerving.

Hermione hated that she was drawn to her. She hated that she felt something—not trust, not comfort, but a kind of gravitational pull. Bellatrix had an energy that was hard to resist, a recklessness that was so foreign to Hermione’s nature that it almost felt freeing. And maybe, just maybe, a small part of her was sickly fascinated by the idea of understanding who Bellatrix had been before.

Before Azkaban. Before the Dark Mark. Before the torture. 

Maybe it was foolish, but as Bellatrix turned back to her with that sharp, knowing grin, Hermione didn't stop following.

The week leading up to Halloween was a flurry of activity at Hogwarts. The Great Hall was already being transformed, enchanted pumpkins floating high above the tables, their carved faces flickering with warm, magical light. Swarms of enchanted bats flitted across the ceiling, their wings making soft, leathery sounds as they circled the room.

Hermione found herself roped into helping with the preparations, thanks to Professor Slughorn’s well-meaning suggestion that “a Dagworth-Granger couldn’t possibly pass up the chance to contribute.” Despite her initial reluctance, Hermione discovered she didn’t mind the distraction. It was nice to focus on something tangible for once, something that didn’t involve time travel, deception, pranks, or the constant anxiety of her situation.

But Bellatrix? Bellatrix was less than thrilled.

“You’re actually enjoying this,” Bellatrix said incredulously, leaning against the wall of the Great Hall with her arms crossed.

Hermione was perched on a ladder, carefully adjusting a particularly stubborn string of floating candles that refused to stay aligned. She glanced down at Bellatrix, her brows furrowing. “What’s wrong with helping out?”

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “It’s a waste of time. All this fuss for what? A bunch of overeager children stuffing themselves with sweets and dancing like idiots? No, thanks.”

“You don’t have to help,” Hermione pointed out, returning to her task. “No one’s forcing you to be here.”

Bellatrix snorted. “I’m here because I’m curious to see how much of a goody-two-shoes you really are.”

Hermione sighed, descending the ladder and giving Bellatrix a pointed look. “It’s not about being a goody-two-shoes. It’s about contributing to the school community.”

Bellatrix’s expression twisted into one of mock horror. “Ugh, you sound like Dumbledore. Next, you’ll be telling me it’s all about the power of friendship.”

Hermione suppressed a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

Bellatrix smirked, clearly pleased with herself. 

Despite Bellatrix’s disdain for school functions, she continued to linger nearby as Hermione worked. Whether out of boredom or genuine interest, Bellatrix spent the afternoon trailing after her, making sarcastic comments about everything from the enchanted decorations to the students enthusiastically hanging up banners.

At one point, Evelyn Greengrass wandered over, her arms full of silk ribbons enchanted to wave like tendrils of smoke. “Hermione, could you help me charm these to hang properly?”

“Sure,” Hermione said, taking her wand from her pocket.

Evelyn glanced at Bellatrix, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Bella. Thought this sort of thing wasn’t your style.”

“It’s not,” Bellatrix replied flatly. “But watching Granger over here trying to make everything perfect is mildly entertaining.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “You could help, you know.”

“I could,” Bellatrix said, smirking. “But I won’t.”

Hermione sighed, muttering the charm under her breath as the ribbons floated up to the rafters and began draping themselves artfully across the beams.

Evelyn gave her an approving nod. “That’s perfect. Thanks, Hermione.” She shot Bellatrix a glare before walking off.

By the time the preparations were done, the Great Hall looked like something out of a magical dream. Hermione stood back, admiring their work, while Bellatrix surveyed the scene with thinly veiled disdain.

“It’s ridiculous,” Bellatrix said, crossing her arms. “All this effort for one night. What’s the point?”

“It makes people happy,” Hermione said simply.

Bellatrix scoffed. “Parties are overrated.”

Hermione turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “Are they?”

Bellatrix didn’t answer immediately. Her expression softened, just for a moment, before she rolled her eyes and turned away. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here before someone tries to make me hang a banner.”

Hermione smiled faintly, following her out of the hall. Despite her complaints, Bellatrix had stayed with her the entire time.

Maybe she wasn’t as indifferent as she pretended to be.

Yet again, Hermione found herself up late at night with stacks of books surrounding her, some borrowed from the library under the guise of advanced study, others smuggled from the restricted section during careful, late-night excursions. Her quill moved swiftly over the parchment, taking notes in her neat, deliberate script.

The book in front of her now, Temporal Shifts and Magical Anchors: The Theory of Chronomancy, was proving both enlightening and infuriating.

“Temporal magic relies on precise intent, as the connection to the caster’s timeline must remain unbroken, lest unintended consequences arise…”

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. The theory made sense, but there were too many variables. How was she supposed to reconnect with her original time when the mechanics of time travel itself seemed so tenuous?

She reached for another book, flipping through its brittle pages. A Practical Guide to Magical Portals contained a brief chapter on temporal portals, but it was frustratingly vague.

“Temporal portals are exceedingly rare, requiring not only a powerful magical anchor but also a confluence of temporal and spatial conditions that cannot easily be replicated…”

Hermione’s frustration bubbled to the surface. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the book as she read the same sentence for the fifth time, hoping to extract some hidden meaning.

The pendant at her neck was the only clue she had, its intricate silver design humming faintly with residual magic. She had spent hours trying to identify its origins, cross-referencing magical artifacts and family heirlooms, but nothing had yielded concrete answers.

Her thoughts wandered to Narcissa Malfoy back in her own time. Why had she given her this pendant? What had she known? The questions were maddening, their answers frustratingly out of reach.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling as the ripple of green light danced across the stone. She was no closer to a solution than she had been the night she arrived in 1971.

But giving up wasn’t an option.

With renewed determination, she opened another book, her eyes scanning the pages for anything that might lead her home.

But none of it had brought her closer to understanding the pendant hanging from her neck.

The silver necklace gleamed faintly in the low light, its intricate design catching Hermione’s eye as she absentmindedly twirled the pendant between her fingers. The design was beautiful but puzzling—delicate silver strands twisted into a looping pattern, forming what looked like an unbroken circle, with faint etchings of runes barely visible along the edges.

Hermione set her quill down and flipped open a new book she had borrowed earlier that day: Ancient Magical Artifacts and Their Enchantments. The chapter on time-related objects had seemed promising, but now it felt as vague as everything else she had read.

“Temporal artifacts are among the rarest and most dangerous magical items. Their enchantments often involve runes tied to the cycles of time, focusing on concepts such as continuity, reversal, or anchoring…”

Hermione leaned closer, her brow furrowing as she traced the runes on the pendant. She had sketched them multiple times in her notes, but none of the texts had offered a definitive translation.

“Continuity… reversal… anchoring…” she murmured, repeating the words as if they might unlock some hidden meaning.

The pendant itself hummed faintly, the residual magic within it just strong enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She had tried every detection charm she knew, but none had revealed the enchantments at work. Whatever magic Narcissa had used, it was beyond anything Hermione had studied.

Flipping to the next page of the book, Hermione’s eyes widened as she came across an illustration of a pendant not unlike her own. The description beneath it read:

“The Eternal Loop: A theorized artifact said to allow the user to move through time by anchoring their magical core to a specific point. Its mechanics remain speculative, as no confirmed examples of such an artifact have been recovered. Common traits include intricate looping designs and the use of temporal runes to bind the enchantment…”

Hermione’s breath quickened as she compared the illustration to her pendant. The resemblance was uncanny, though there were slight differences in the pattern of the loops.

“Eternal Loop,” she whispered, her mind racing. Could this be it? Had Narcissa given her a relic of such immense power? And if so, why?

The questions multiplied, each more urgent than the last. She reached for another book—this one titled Runes and Their Applications in Advanced Magic. The pendant’s runes might hold the key to understanding its enchantment, but without a proper translation, she was working blind.

She flipped to the section on time-related runes, scanning the diagrams and descriptions. Some of the symbols matched those on the pendant, their meanings tied to concepts like “binding,” “stability,” and “flow.” Others were unfamiliar, their interpretations lost to history.

Hermione scribbled furiously in her notes, trying to piece together the fragments of knowledge. If the pendant was indeed a time-related artifact, it had to be connected to how she had ended up in 1971. But how could she use it to return?

The pendant seemed almost mocking in its silence, its magic just out of reach, its purpose maddeningly obscure.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling as the ripple of green light danced across the stone. She was no closer to a solution than she had been the night she arrived in 1971.

But giving up wasn’t an option.

She took a deep breath, her fingers brushing the cool surface of the pendant. If this artifact had brought her here, then it was the key to getting back. She just needed to figure out how.

With renewed determination, she opened another book, her eyes scanning the pages for anything that might lead her home.

The clock on the mantle struck three, but Hermione barely noticed. Time felt irrelevant now— it was now merely a concept she was determined to master, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts - October 1971

The Hogwarts library was silent, cloaked in shadows as Hermione wandered deeper into the Restricted Section to continue her research. Her wand illuminated the spines of ancient tomes, their titles etched in faded gold and silver. Each step felt heavier than the last, her heart pounding in her chest. 

Continuity… reversal… anchoring… The three words bounced around in her head endlessly. 

She had to uncover the secrets of the pendant. 

The silver artifact hung around her neck, its faint hum of magic a constant reminder of the mystery she had yet to solve. Her fingers brushed it absentmindedly as she scanned the shelves.

As she reached for a promising volume -- Binding Runes and their Applications -- she felt it —that prickling sensation at the back of her neck, like someone was watching her.

Hermione froze, her wandlight dimming slightly. She turned slowly, her heart in her throat.

There, half-hidden in the shadows, stood Lucius Malfoy.

“What are you doing here?” Hermione demanded, clutching the book tightly.

Lucius stepped forward, his pale blond hair catching the faint light. He was perfectly composed, his grey eyes cool and calculating. “I could ask you the same thing, Dagworth-Granger,” he said, his voice smooth. “Though I think I already know.”

Hermione stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Lucius replied, his smirk growing. “You’ve been sneaking around since you’ve arrived, always with your nose in a book. What is it you’re so desperate to find?”

“That’s none of your business,” Hermione snapped, stepping back instinctively.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, his wand slipping into his hand with casual elegance. “You’re very defensive for someone with nothing to hide. I had hoped you would be more forthcoming and I wouldn’t have to resort to measures such as these...”

Hermione scoffed internally, did he really think he could charm his way into my good graces so easily through a few casual conversations and offers to “get me up to speed” with whatever I’d missed??

Hermione’s own wand was in her hand before she even realized it, her grip tight. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Malfoy.”

Lucius’s smirk faltered, his expression sharpening. “I don’t need to finish anything. You’re going to tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Not a chance,” Hermione shot back.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them crackled with tension, the flickering light of their wands casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Then Lucius struck.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouted, his wand flashing.

Hermione reacted instinctively, dodging the spell and firing back. “Stupefy!”

The red jet of light missed Lucius by inches, striking a shelf behind him and sending a cascade of books tumbling to the floor.

“Careful, Dagworth-Granger,” Lucius taunted, circling her. “You wouldn’t want to damage the precious library.”

“You’ll be damaged long before any of these books ever will,” Hermione snapped, her wand raised.The combat instincts she’d begun to hone during her Horcrux hunt with Harry and Ron spurring her on.

Lucius lunged again, his spell grazing her shoulder as she deflected it with a shield charm. The force of the spell sent both of them stumbling back away from each other, and Hermione’s foot caught on something solid against the wall.

There was a loud click, followed by a low rumble.

The floor beneath them shifted, the stones sliding apart to reveal a hidden staircase spiraling downward into darkness.

“What did you do?” Lucius demanded, his voice sharp while he advanced rapidly towards her.

“I didn’t do anything!” Hermione shot back, trying to steady herself.

Before either of them could react further, Hermione lost her balance entirely , and tumbled into the passage below.

Hermione landed in a dimly lit chamber, the air thick with dust, the room appeared to be used for storage and was populated with a variety of odds and ends, particularly dusty, old portraits and empty picture frames. She groaned, pushing herself up and brushing off her robes.

Lucius stood a few feet away, looking as disheveled from their brief spar as she felt. “What is this place?” he muttered, glancing around.

Hermione didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the tall, gilded mirror standing at the center of the room. Its frame was ornate, carved with twisting patterns and ancient runes. The surface of the mirror shimmered faintly, reflecting more than just the dim chamber around them.The hum of magic in the air was thick, almost oppressive.

“The Mirror of Erised,” Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible.

Lucius turned to her, frowning. “What did you say?”

Ignoring Lucius, Hermione stepped closer. Her reflection came into view, and her breath caught as her eyes locked onto the reflection.

There they stood: herself and Lucius, side by side --slightly older--their postures relaxed, their expressions soft. They were smiling, their hands intertwined with a child’s smaller ones. The child’s features were entirely indecipherable-- the gender, too couldn’t be determined-- but it was undeniably theirs. The warmth of the image radiated from the mirror, filling the room with a surreal, dreamlike quality.

Hermione’s stomach churned.

This wasn’t possible.

She tore her gaze away, but the image lingered in her mind, sharp and unrelenting.

“What… is this?” Lucius’s voice broke the silence, his tone low and uncertain.

Hermione glanced at him, startled by the lack of his usual condescension. Lucius wasn’t angry—he was staring at the mirror, his brow furrowed. His grey eyes flicked over the reflection, his expression, if Hermione wasn’t mistaken, was tinged with fear. What does he see? Why does he appear as disturbed as I do?

“This… can’t be right,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Hermione’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She struggled to find her voice, her mind racing. “It’s… the Mirror of Erised,” she repeated finally, her words faltering.

Lucius turned to her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The Mirror of Erised?”

Hermione nodded, swallowing hard. “It… shows your heart’s deepest desire.”

Lucius’s gaze returned to the mirror, his expression tightening. “My deepest desire?” he echoed, his tone tinged with disbelief. “This isn’t…” He trailed off, his voice catching.

Hermione forced herself to keep her composure, though her pulse thundered in her ears. The image before her was so vivid, so achingly perfect.

“What do you see...?” She said quietly, her voice trembling, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.

“Us.Together with a child and...Happy.” His tone was even, but the way that it trailed off before he uttered the word “happy” betrayed his true feelings of uncertainty.

Lucius shot her a quick glance. “You said it shows what we want,” he said, his tone measured in an attempt to regain control. “Not what is.”

Hermione nodded, her throat tight. 

Lucius took a small step closer to the mirror, his reflection in her vision growing sharper. He studied it intently, his eyes flicking between the figures.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Why would I…” He trailed off again, shaking his head.

Hermione’s fingers curled around the pendant at her neck, its cool surface grounding her. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. The mirror had laid her soul bare, revealing something she didn’t even know she wanted—something she shouldn’t want.

“What about you?” Lucius asked suddenly, his gaze shifting to her.

“What about me?” she replied, her voice sharper than she intended.

Lucius gestured toward the mirror. “You appear as disconcerted as I do. Is this mirror known to show people unsettling visions?” The words sounded foreign on his tongue, almost hesitant. “What do you see?”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “I’d rather not say,” she said quickly. “I-.”

“-I didn’t want to say either,” Lucius said quietly, his tone irritated, yet, filled with a strange mix of confusion and intrigue. “ Yet I did. Now it’s your turn.” 

The weight of his words settled over her, and for the first time, Hermione dared to look at his reflection—not just at the image, but at him. There was no trace of his usual arrogance, no sneer or superiority. He looked almost… lost.

Before she could stop herself, the words sprang forward; “ I see the same thing.” 

Lucius’s eyes grew to be nearly as big as saucers, an expression which, in other circumstances would be highly comical. 

“This doesn’t make sense,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. He stepped back from the mirror, running a hand through his hair. “Why would it show us...this? The same thing? Why would I want—” He stopped himself, his gaze darting back to the child in the reflection.

Hermione’s heart sank. She couldn’t pity him and no part of her could want this. Not when she knew what he would become.

The reflection mocked her with its impossible warmth, a perfect union that should never exist. She turned away abruptly, unable to bear the sight any longer.

“This isn’t real,” she said again, her voice firmer this time. “It’s just a mirror. It shows desires, not reality. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Lucius was silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on the mirror. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” he said finally, his voice steady but laced with curiosity.

Hermione bristled, turning to face him. “What about you?” she shot back. “You’ve been staring at it just as long as I have.”

Lucius didn’t deny it. He glanced at her, his grey eyes searching hers. “I’m trying to understand it,” he said simply.

The honesty in his tone startled her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “We need to leave. This place—this mirror—it’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Lucius repeated, arching an eyebrow. “It’s just a mirror.”

“It’s more than that,” Hermione insisted, stepping away. “It shows what we want, but it doesn’t give us anything. People have wasted their lives staring into it, trying to decipher it like we are now.”

Lucius studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, almost reluctantly. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Hermione turned toward the staircase, her heart still racing. Lucius hesitated, casting one last glance at the mirror before following her.

The silence between them as they ascended the hidden staircase was thick with unspoken tension. Hermione kept her gaze forward, her thoughts a chaotic storm.

The mirror’s image lingered in her mind, sharp and vivid. It wasn’t just the impossibility of what it had shown—it was the knowledge of who Lucius Malfoy would become. The future she had lived through, the atrocities she had seen him commit.

And yet…

Hermione shook her head, as though trying to dislodge the thought.

When they emerged into the library, Lucius finally broke the silence. “You’re hiding something,” he said, his voice calm but probing.

Hermione turned to him, her expression guarded. “ Are you going to try hexing me again over it?”

Lucius smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps. But whatever you’re searching for… it seems we’re both more alike than we thought.”

Hermione stiffened, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “We’re nothing alike,” she said sharply. " We're done talking about this." 

Lucius tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “If you say so.This isn’t over, but don't worry. I won't speak of this to anyone." 

Without another word, he turned and strode away, his robes billowing behind him.

Hermione watched him go, her chest tight with emotions she couldn’t untangle. The image in the mirror haunted her, a quiet whisper of something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts- October 1971

Hermione had tried to put the Mirror of Erised out of her mind, but it refused to leave her alone. And now, neither would Lucius Malfoy.

Since their encounter in the hidden chamber, his demeanor had shifted from aloof but prying to something far more unsettling: direct, persistent, and impossible to ignore.

It started the morning after their discovery. Hermione had been sitting quietly at breakfast, hoping for a moment of peace, when Lucius slid into the seat across from her.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said without preamble, his tone sharp and accusatory.

Hermione looked up from her plate, startled. “What?”

“You heard me.” He leaned forward, his grey eyes narrowing. “Ever since two nights ago in the library, you’ve been going out of your way to avoid me. Why?”

Hermione bristled, keeping her voice low to avoid drawing attention. “I’m not avoiding you.”

“You’re lying,” Lucius said flatly. His tone wasn’t angry, but it carried an edge that made Hermione’s pulse quicken.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended.

Lucius smirked, but there was no humor in it. “You owe me far more than you realize, Dagworth-Granger.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, almost threatening whisper, “that you and I share something now. Something neither of us can ignore.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her fork. “We share nothing.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Is that so? Because the mirror we found would suggest otherwise.”

Her breath caught, her heart pounding. “You said you wouldn’t talk about that,” she hissed, her voice barely audible.

“I said I wouldn’t tell anyone else,” Lucius corrected, his tone maddeningly calm. “But you and I both know it can’t be ignored. Don’t you want to know what it means?”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, her cheeks flushing. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a mirror. It shows desires, not reality.”

“And yet,” Lucius said, leaning back slightly, “it showed us the same thing. I’m as capable of research as you are and have surmised how unprecedented that is.”

Hermione couldn’t respond. The words were lodged in her throat, tangled with the panic rising in her chest.

Lucius studied her for a moment, his gaze piercing. “You can try to ignore it, Dagworth-Granger. But I won’t.”

With that, he stood and walked away, leaving Hermione feeling exposed and unsettled.

Over the next few days, Lucius’s presence became inescapable.

He sat near her in the common room, his piercing gaze following her every move. In class, he asked pointed questions, often involving her name, as if to draw her into a conversation she didn’t want to have.

“You know,” he said one afternoon in Potions, his voice loud enough for the students nearby to hear, “the Dagworth-Grangers were famous for their mastery of potioneering. Isn’t that right, Hermione?”

Hermione’s hand tightened around her quill at the sound of her given name, her face burning as several students turned to look at her. “That’s not relevant to today’s lesson,” she said tersely, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Oh, but it is,” Lucius said smoothly, his smirk firmly in place. “After all, who better to shed light on the subject than someone with such a distinguished pedigree?”

Bellatrix, who was seated a few tables away, slammed her stirring rod down with a loud clink. “Honestly, Lucius, do you ever shut up?” she drawled, her dark eyes flashing.

“What is it to you, Bella?” Lucius replied lazily, not bothering to look at her.

Bellatrix scoffed, her lips curling into a sneer. “What is it to me? Oh, I don’t know, maybe I’m tired of watching you badger Dagworth like a lovesick kneazle? Please.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned hotter, and she focused intently on her cauldron, wishing she could disappear.

Even outside of class, Lucius found ways to corner her. As Hermione was leaving the library that afternoon, she felt the now, all too familiar prickle of being watched. She quickened her pace, but before she could make it to the main staircase, Lucius stepped out from the shadows, blocking her path.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice calm but laced with menace.

Hermione stopped short, her heart racing. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

Lucius took a step closer, his gaze unrelenting. “I want to know what you’re hiding, and I want to explore why the mirror showed us that.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Hermione said firmly, though her voice wavered slightly.

“Don’t lie to me, and don’t you dare evade me any longer,” Lucius said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. 

Hermione’s fingers curled into fists at her sides and drew her wand. “If you’re so observant, try figuring it out for yourself, and maybe you should focus on your own business and leave me alone.”

Lucius smirked, taking another step closer. “You can't intimidate me, Dagworth-Granger. Whatever you’re up to, I’ll figure it out.”

Hermione held her ground, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as she could muster. “And what will you do if you do?”

Lucius’s smirk faltered slightly, replaced by a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. “That depends,” he said after a moment. “On whether or not you’re honest with me first.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Hermione trembling with frustration and unease.

By the time she returned to the common room, her head was spinning. She slumped into an armchair by the fire, barely noticing Bellatrix sitting across from her.

“Rough day?” Bellatrix asked dryly, twirling her wand between her fingers.

“You have no idea,” Hermione muttered, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

Bellatrix smirked, leaning forward. “Let me guess. Lucius?”

Hermione sighed, resting her head in her hands. “He won’t leave me alone.”

Bellatrix let out a sharp laugh. “He’s obsessed with you, you know. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“That’s not comforting,” Hermione groaned, the weight of Lucius’s attention and the secrets she carried pressing down on her like a vice.

It came to a head the next day in Charms class.

The classroom was buzzing with activity as students settled into their seats, their chatter mixing with the soft swish of parchment and the clink of ink bottles. Professor Flitwick stood at the front of the room, his tiny frame nearly swallowed by the large stack of spellbooks on his desk.

Hermione had just finished arranging her materials when Flitwick clapped his hands, calling for attention.

“Good morning, everyone!” he exclaimed. “Today, we’ll be starting a special project—one that combines creativity with practical spellwork. As you all know, the Hallows’ Eve party is this weekend, and I’ve been asked to enlist your help in creating some truly marvelous decorations for the Great Hall! When we are all done, I will choose the most impressive of the bunch to be incorporated into the official decorations!”

Excited murmurs rippled through the room.

Flitwick smiled, his eyes twinkling. “You’ll be working in pairs to design and cast original charms for the occasion. These charms will be evaluated for creativity, complexity, and effectiveness. I expect great things from all of you!”

Hermione glanced around, mentally cataloging the students she wouldn’t mind working with. She had just decided that Marianne Burke seemed like a solid choice when Flitwick’s next words stopped her cold.

“I’ve already taken the liberty of assigning partners,” he announced cheerfully. “And to encourage a spirit of collaboration, I’ve mixed things up a bit.”

Hermione’s stomach sank.

“Miss Dagworth-Granger,” Flitwick continued, glancing at his parchment, “you’ll be working with Mr. Malfoy.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes meeting Lucius’s across the room. He smirked, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

“Perfect,” Lucius drawled, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone who had orchestrated the entire thing.

Hermione forced a tight smile, her mind racing. This can’t be a coincidence.

As the students rearranged themselves into their assigned pairs, Lucius strolled over to Hermione’s desk with a confident swagger.

“Lucky you,” he said smoothly, taking the seat beside her. “You get to work with me.”

Hermione bit back a retort, forcing herself to remain calm. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her annoyance. “You wound me, Dagworth-Granger. I thought you’d be thrilled to collaborate with someone of my… capabilities.”

Hermione ignored him, turning to her parchment and jotting down ideas for the project. “If we’re going to do this, we need to focus. The charms need to be both functional and aesthetically impressive.”

Lucius smirked, leaning closer to peer at her notes. “Already taking charge, are we? How very predictable.”

“I don’t have time for your games, Malfoy,” Hermione said sharply. “Let's just focus on the task at hand.”

Lucius tapped his chin thoughtfully, as though considering her words. “How about something hauntingly refined? Enchanted fog rolling across the floor, maybe a few wailing specters. Something to make the Hufflepuffs jump out of their skins.”

Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s a Halloween party, not a haunted house.”

“Exactly,” Lucius said, his smirk widening. “It should be memorable.”

Hermione couldn’t help the faint twitch of her lips at his uncharacteristic playfulness, though she quickly masked it. “Fine. But we need balance. Something subtle to complement the dramatic elements.”

“Subtle?” Lucius echoed, arching an eyebrow. “You’re full of surprises, Dagworth-Granger.”

“I aim to please,” Hermione replied dryly.

Despite her initial misgivings, Hermione found herself surprised by Lucius’s contributions. While his arrogance was insufferable, his ideas were creative, and he had an impressive grasp of spellwork. Together, they began sketching out a plan: a combination of enchanted fog, shimmering lights, and spectral figures that would drift through the Great Hall in an elegant, eerie dance.

As they worked, Hermione couldn’t help noticing how focused Lucius became. The smug smirk faded, replaced by a look of genuine concentration as he sketched out a series of runes to anchor the charms and tested the spells repeatedly -- modifying the minutest of wand movements to alter the spells just so.

“Your wandwork is very precise,” Hermione admitted reluctantly.

Lucius glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t sound so surprised. I am a Malfoy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. For the first time, she saw a glimpse of the person he might have been without the weight of years under Voldemort’s influence —a sharp mind unhindered by violence, still prejudiced but still full of youthful optimism and hope. 

By the end of the class, they had a solid plan, and Flitwick seemed genuinely impressed when he stopped by their desk.

“Excellent work, you two!” he chirped. “I’m looking forward to seeing the final result.”

As the class ended, Lucius packed up his things with his usual nonchalance.

“See? We make a good team,” he said as they walked toward the door.

Hermione glanced at him, her expression skeptical. “Don’t let it go to your head, Malfoy.”

Lucius smirked. “Too late.”

The corridor outside the Charms classroom was bustling as students filed out, their conversations blending into a low hum of chatter. Hermione kept her head down, clutching her notes tightly as she weaved through the crowd. She was eager to put as much distance as possible between herself and Lucius Malfoy, who had spent the entire class smirking at her like they shared some great secret -- the smirk only widening when Flitwick announced that their charms would be incorporated into the Hallows Eve decorations. 

She was almost at the staircase leading back to the Slytherin common room when a firm hand grabbed her arm.

“What—” Hermione began, but her words were cut off as Lucius pulled her into an empty classroom, closing the door behind them with a sharp click.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, wrenching her arm free and glaring at him.

Lucius didn’t answer immediately. He leaned against the door, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. The usual smirk was gone, replaced by something far more unsettling: intensity.

“We do make a great pair, don’t we?” he said finally, his voice low and smooth.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “If this is another one of your attempts to provoke me, Malfoy, I’m not interested.”

“It’s not,” Lucius said, stepping closer. His gaze bore into hers, sharp and probing. “Fine. Don’t tell me about your secret research escapades. But we need to talk about the mirror .”

Hermione stiffened, her fingers tightening around her notes. “What about it?”

“What it showed us. What it meant.”

Hermione swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay composed. “As Ive been trying time and time again to tell you, it doesn’t matter. It was just… an illusion.”

“An illusion?” Lucius repeated, his voice rising slightly. He took another step closer, his presence looming. “You’re the one who said it doesn’t lie. That it shows the truth.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. She could feel the weight of his words pressing down on her, dragging her back to that dim chamber and the haunting image in the mirror.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said firmly, though her voice wavered. “It’s just a reflection of desire. It doesn’t change who we are or what we conciously want.”

Lucius’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “And you’re content to leave it at that? To ignore it?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her voice sharpening. “Because there’s nothing to explore. Whatever that mirror showed us, it’s irrelevant.”

“It’s not irrelevant,” Lucius snapped, his calm veneer cracking. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. You—us—like we were… something.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” she said again, though the words felt hollow.

“Of course it matters,” Lucius said, his voice quieter now but no less insistent. “Don’t you want to know why? Why it showed us that? Why it showed us the same thing?”

Hermione hesitated, her mind racing. She didn’t want to admit it, but a part of her did want to know. The image in the mirror had unsettled her in ways she couldn’t explain, and the questions it raised gnawed at her relentlessly.

But admitting that to Lucius felt like surrender.

“You’re the know-it-all,” Lucius said, his tone softening slightly. “Doesn’t it bother you not to have the answers?”

Hermione finally looked at him, her eyes blazing with frustration. “Of course it bothers me!” she snapped. “But there are some things that don’t have answers, Malfoy. Not everything can be explained.”

Lucius’s gaze softened, his expression almost… understanding. “But you’ll try,” he said quietly. “Because that’s who you are.”

Hermione’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. She pressed her lips together, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her notes.

“I don’t know what it means,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t think I want to.”

Lucius studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he took a step back, his hand resting on the door handle.

“You’re wrong about one thing, Dagworth-Granger,” he said, his tone softer than she’d ever heard it.

“What’s that?” she asked warily.

“This does matter,” he said, his grey eyes meeting hers. “And sooner or later, you’ll have to face it. Just like I will.”

Without another word, he opened the door and slipped out, leaving Hermione alone in the dim classroom.

She sank into a nearby chair, her thoughts a tangled mess. Lucius’s words echoed in her mind, intertwining with the image from the mirror.

What did it mean?

And why couldn’t she shake the feeling that he was right?

Chapter Text

Hogwarts - October 31st 1971 - Hallows Eve

The preparation for the evening had been, in Bellatrix’s words, “an exercise in dragging a reluctant perfectionist into the spotlight.”

“Stand still, Dagworth,” Bellatrix had barked earlier that evening, circling Hermione like a hawk with her wand in hand. “Honestly, you fidget like a first-year at their first Sorting. You’re going to ruin everything before the party even begins.”

Hermione sighed, staring at her reflection in the mirror as Bellatrix fussed over her. The dress Bellatrix had thrust into her hands earlier—a deep emerald green gown that shimmered faintly in the light—fit perfectly, though Hermione suspected it had been charmed to do so. Its simple elegance was entirely unlike the ruffled, blue dress she’d worn for the Yule Ball, but she felt no less special wearing it. Bellatrix, who had already dressed before accosting her with the gown, wore a sleeveless, black, silk that was floor-length with matching elbow-length gloves that clashed with the dramatic way Bellatrix carried herself, but Hermione couldn’t deny that it suited her.

“Is this all really necessary?” Hermione asked, her voice tinged with discomfort as Bellatrik fussed with her hair. 

Bellatrix paused, her dark eyes glittering with mischief.”Yes, my dear Dagworth, if you’re going to show up with your precious charms on display, you can’t look like you just crawled out of a dusty library. People will talk.”

“You don’t care what people think,Black, why should I? Hermione pointed out.

“True,” Bellatrix said with a sly grin. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy giving them something to talk about.”

Hermione shook her head, muttering under her breath, but she let Bellatrix continue.

“Honestly,” Bellatrix went on, pinning Hermione’s curls into an elegant twist, “you’re lucky I took pity on you. That green monstrosity you call a robe would have been a disaster.”

“It’s functional,” Hermione muttered, crossing her arms.

Bellatrix let out a dramatic sigh, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You are so dull sometimes, Granger. Function has its place, but tonight isn’t about function. It’s about making an impression.” She gestured to the dress and Hermione’s carefully styled hair. “And this? This will leave an impression.”

Hermione’s lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “You sound like you’ve been planning this for days.”

“I have,” Bellatrix admitted with a smirk. “You’re my little project, Granger. You should feel honored.”

As they made their way to the Great Hall, Bellatrix’s dramatic flair only heightened.

“This whole affair is going to be insufferable,” she declared, her heels clicking against the stone floor. “Children pretending to be sophisticated, stuffing themselves with sweets, and dancing like fools. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even bothering to show up.”

“Then don’t, Black” Hermione said, though she knew better than to think Bellatrix would actually skip the event.

Bellatrix waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’ll make an appearance. I’m nothing if not gracious.” She shot Hermione a sidelong glance, her dark eyes glinting with something unspoken. “But don’t expect me to stick around. I’ve got better things to do.”

Hermione’s brows knitted together. “Like what?”

Bellatrix smirked, tilting her head in mock innocence. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The cryptic response only deepened Hermione’s unease. Bellatrix had been disappearing more frequently at night, slipping out of the dormitory without explanation. Hermione’s mind wandered to the stories she knew about Bellatrix’s past—about her recruitment into Voldemort’s inner circle during her time at Hogwarts.

She hesitated, then asked, “You’re not… getting involved in anything dangerous, are you?”

For a fleeting moment, Bellatrix’s expression changed. Something flickered in her eyes—something Hermione couldn’t quite place—but it was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual smirk.

“Dangerous?” Bellatrix repeated, her tone dripping with mock offense. “Dagworth, I’m insulted. Do I look like someone who courts danger?”

“Yes,” Hermione said bluntly.

Bellatrix let out a sharp laugh. “Fair enough. But don’t worry about me, darling. Worry about yourself. After all, you’re the one about to debut her brilliant charms alongside Lucius Malfoy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her heart fluttered uncomfortably at the mention of Lucius. The complicated mess of emotions she felt toward him—the lingering tension from the Mirror of Erised, the grudging respect for his talent, the constant push and pull of their interactions—was starting to weigh on her.

“Speaking of Malfoy,” Bellatrix said, a wicked grin spreading across her face, “he hasn’t taken his eyes off you all week.”

“That’s not true,” Hermione said quickly, though her cheeks flushed.

“Oh, it is,” Bellatrix countered, clearly delighted by Hermione’s reaction. “Honestly, Dagworth, it’s like watching a wolf circling its prey. He’s curious about you. And when pureblood boys like him get curious about a pureblood girl, well, nobody else better get in his way.”

Hermione sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re not helping.”

“Actually, I am. You’ll see,” Bellatrix said smugly.

When they finally reached the entrance to the Great Hall, Hermione hesitated. She smoothed down the fabric of her dress, her nerves bubbling to the surface.

“Relax,” Bellatrix said, her voice unexpectedly gentle. “You’ll be fine. Go in there and show them why the Dagworth-Granger name actually means something.”

Hermione glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. “Thanks… I think.”

Bellatrix shrugged, her smirk returning. “Don’t get used to it.”

With a final, dramatic flourish of her robes, Bellatrix disappeared into the hall, leaving Hermione to gather her courage.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione stepped forward, the light and sound of the Hallows’ Eve celebration washing over her.

The Great Hall was already breathtaking. Enchanted fog rolled along the floor in ethereal tendrils, and ghostly lights floated in synchronized patterns above the students' heads. Shadowy figures danced across the walls, casting eerie, elongated reflections that moved independently of the students below. The charms Hermione and Lucius had spent time perfecting were the crown jewel of the Hall’s decorations.

Even Hermione, who was rarely one to focus on aesthetics, felt a flicker of pride. The Great Hall was a masterpiece. And now, as she stood outside the entrance, fidgeting with the hem of her dress, she felt a strange mix of pride and apprehension.Despite everything—the confusion surrounding the Mirror of Erised, her unexpected alliance with Lucius Malfoy, and her efforts to stay under the radar—this moment felt like a small victory.

“Enjoying yourself, Dagworth-Granger?”

Hermione turned to see Lucius approaching, his ever-present smirk firmly in place. His sharp features were softened slightly by the glow of the floating lights, but his confident demeanor remained intact.

“For once, yes,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “It seems our charms have been a success.”

Lucius glanced at the decorations, his expression faintly smug. “A predictable outcome, given the effort I put into them.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You mean we put into them.”

“Of course,” Lucius said smoothly, though the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. “Don’t worry, I won’t pester you about... you know right now. Let's just enjoy the moment and our success, hmm?” He added pleasantly. 

Hermione turned her attention back to the hall, watching the other students laughing and dancing. She allowed herself a brief moment of pride, feeling that their hard work had truly paid off. That pride was short-lived, however, when the first signs of trouble began to brew.

It started with the fog.

At first, Hermione thought it was a simple charm misfire. The delicate mist began to thicken, creeping upward until it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Students stumbled into one another, their laughter turning to confused murmurs.

“Did you do something?” Lucius asked sharply, his wand already in hand.

“No,” Hermione said, frowning. “You know this isn’t part of the design.”

Before either of them could investigate further, a sharp, mocking voice echoed through the hall. Hermione looked up and froze.

The spectral figures, once elegant and dignified, had transformed. Their faces were now exaggerated and cartoonish, their movements jerky and clumsy. Instead of drifting silently, they began shouting playful insults.

“Nice dance moves, Avery!” one specter called, earning a wave of laughter from the students below.

“Watch your step, Slewyn, or you’ll fall into a puddle of your own awkwardness!” another jeered.

Hermione’s stomach twisted with embarrassment.

“Who would dare?” Lucius muttered, his tone low and dangerous.

Hermione didn’t have time to answer before the final blow landed: the ghostly lights above the hall began bursting like fireworks, sending harmless but startling sparks raining down over the students.

Instead of panicking, most of the students erupted into laughter, clapping and cheering as the harmless sparks cascaded down around them. It was chaos—but the kind that was undeniably entertaining to everyone except Hermione and Lucius.

It didn’t take Hermione long to spot the culprits. Near the punch bowl stood a group of seventh-year Gryffindors, their faces alight with barely contained glee. Among them, she recognized Edgar Bones, his wand tucked casually into his sleeve; Janice McKinnon, who was leaning against the table and giggling; and Frank Longbottom, whose laughter was loud enough to carry across the hall.

Hermione’s heart sank. She knew they hadn’t meant any real harm—this was a prank, not an act of malice—but the fact that they had targeted her and Lucius’s work stung.

Lucius, however, was far less understanding.

“Bones!” he barked, storming toward the Gryffindors with a fury that made Hermione’s stomach churn.

Edgar turned, his expression one of mock surprise. “Malfoy! What a pleasure. Enjoying the show?”

Lucius’s grey eyes narrowed dangerously. “You tampered with our charms. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Made things a bit more exciting,” Edgar said, grinning. “You should be thanking us, really. Your decorations were impressive, sure, but they lacked… personality.”

Janice snorted, and Frank clapped Edgar on the back.

“Personality?” Lucius repeated, his voice low and venomous. “You call this sabotage ‘personality’?”

“Oh, calm down, Malfoy,” Janice said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s Hallows’ Eve. Everyone’s having a good time, aren’t they?”

Lucius raised his wand, his expression dark. “This isn’t over.”

Hermione stepped forward, grabbing his arm before he could cast a spell. “Don’t,” she said firmly. “They’re just trying to get a reaction out of you.”

“They’ve ruined everything!” Lucius snapped, his voice sharp with frustration.

“No, they haven’t,” Hermione said, her tone steady. “The decorations are still stunning, and no one will remember a little prank by tomorrow. Let it go.”

Lucius glared at her, his jaw tight, but he lowered his wand.

Edgar smirked, leaning casually against the table. “Look at that, Dagworth-Granger keeping Malfoy in check. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Hermione turned to him, her own wand at her side. “Undo it. Now.”

“Or what?” Edgar asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Or I’ll undo it for you and make sure Professor Flitwick knows exactly who’s responsible,” Hermione said, her voice icy.

Edgar hesitated, glancing at Marlene and Frank. Finally, he sighed and raised his wand, muttering a counter-charm.

Slowly, the fog began to thin, the specters returned to their original forms, and the lights stopped exploding. 

“Happy now?” Edgar said, his tone begrudging.

“I will be when you refrain from tampering with my work,” Hermione said sharply.

Marlene gave her an appraising look, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “You’re fiercer than I thought, Dagworth-Granger. Maybe you should’ve been sorted into Gryffindor.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. She forced herself to meet Marlene’s gaze, unsure how to respond.

“Come on,” Edgar said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s leave the lovebirds to their masterpiece.”

Hermione flushed as the Gryffindors sauntered off, their laughter echoing behind them.

Lucius turned to Hermione, his expression still stormy. “You shouldn’t have stopped me.”

“You would’ve made it worse,” Hermione said, crossing her arms.

“They disrespected our work,” Lucius said through gritted teeth.

“They’re Gryffindors,” Hermione said softly. “Pranks are what they do. You can’t take it personally.”

Lucius scoffed, but he didn’t argue further.

As they stood in the aftermath of the chaos, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a pang of conflict. She understood why the Gryffindors had done it—it was the kind of thing she might have found funny, once. But she also felt strangely protective of the decorations, of the work she and Lucius had poured into them.

She glanced at him, catching the faintest flicker of something vulnerable in his expression. For all his bravado, she realized, he cared about this far more than he let on.

“Come on,” she said finally, her voice softening. “Let’s just enjoy the rest of the party.”

Lucius hesitated, then nodded. Together, they turned back toward the hall, the tension between them lingering like a shadow.

The music had resumed, and the Great Hall was once again alive with chatter and laughter. Hermione stood to the side, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, trying to sort through the mess of emotions swirling in her chest. The Gryffindors’ prank had unsettled her—not because of the chaos they’d caused, but because it had reminded her, starkly, of who she was supposed to be.

A Gryffindor.

The house that had shaped her, the house she had loved, and yet… she wasn’t one of them here. Not anymore. And as much as she wanted to believe she was still the same person, her reaction tonight told a different story.

She had stood up for Lucius Malfoy.

The thought made her stomach churn. She wasn’t supposed to care about him or his ego, let alone feel protective of him. But as much as she tried to rationalize it—telling herself it was about the decorations, about fairness—she knew it went deeper than that.

Lucius was standing a few feet away, his posture rigid as he scanned the room -- stiffly holding a goblet of punch in his left hand. His anger had cooled, but the tension in his shoulders remained. Hermione hesitated, then took a deep breath and spoke.

“Malfoy,” she said softly.

He turned to her, his grey eyes sharp and assessing. “What?”

“Are you all right?” she asked, the words feeling strange as they left her mouth.

Lucius blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Am I all right?” he repeated, his tone skeptical. “Why do you care?”

Hermione sighed, crossing her arms. “Because, like it or not, we worked on this together. And you look like you’re about to hex someone into oblivion.”

Lucius studied her for a moment, his gaze searching. Finally, he let out a sharp breath, his posture relaxing slightly.

“I don’t like being made a fool of,” he admitted, his voice quieter than she expected.

“No one does,” Hermione said, her tone softening.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the noise of the party fading into the background. Hermione shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“They don’t respect us,” Lucius said suddenly, his tone bitter. “Not the Gryffindors, not anyone outside Slytherin. It doesn’t matter what we do—people like Bones and Longbottom will always look down on us.”

Hermione frowned, the weight of his words pressing against her. She wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t true, tell him about how kind and sensitive Frank’s son would turn out, but deep down, she knew there was some truth to what he was saying.

“That doesn’t mean we stop trying,” she said finally. “You care about this, Malfoy. I know you do. And if you keep working at it, people will notice.”

Lucius laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “You’re awfully optimistic for someone in Slytherin.”

Hermione hesitated, her chest tightening. “Maybe,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t always a Slytherin.”

Lucius frowned, his gaze narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, when I was at Beauxbatons,” Hermione said quickly, brushing past the slip. “Look, the point is, you’re better than this. Don’t let them get to you.”

Lucius’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing further.

“Fine,” he said, his tone reluctant. “But if Bones pulls something like this again, I won’t hold back.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “Of course you won’t.”

As the evening wore on, Hermione found herself increasingly aware of Lucius’s presence. He didn’t hover, but he was never far, his gaze flickering toward her more often than she cared to admit.

She tried to focus on the party, chatting briefly with Bellatrix when the other girl made a dramatic appearance, eyes ablaze and with a renewed fervor from whatever activities she had disappeared to after walking Hermione to the party, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him.

The Mirror of Erised, the decorations, the way he had looked at her after the Gryffindors’ prank—it all swirled together in her mind, leaving her more confused than ever.

Later, as the party began to wind down, Hermione found herself standing near the entrance to the Great Hall, her arms wrapped around herself. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and all she wanted was to slip back to the dormitory and lose herself in her research.

“Leaving already?”

She turned to see Lucius leaning against the doorframe, his expression unusually neutral.

“I was thinking about it,” Hermione admitted. “It’s been a long night.”

Lucius nodded, his gaze drifting toward the remnants of their decorations. “It’s strange,” he said after a moment. “For a moment, when everything was working perfectly, it felt… right.”

Hermione’s breath caught. She knew exactly what he meant and what he wanted to say.

“It was,” she said softly. Because she felt it too. 

Lucius glanced at her, his grey eyes searching. “Come on, Dagworth-Granger, you think we make a good team, don’t you?”

Hermione hesitated, her mind racing. She thought about the Mirror of Erised, the image that had haunted her every night since they had found it. She thought about the strange bond that had begun to form between them, despite her every effort to keep him at arm’s length.

“Yes,” she admitted finally. “I think we do.”

Lucius’s lips twitched into a faint smile, but he said nothing. Instead, he straightened and nodded toward the corridor.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Hermione hesitated for only a moment before falling into step beside him. As they walked back to the Slytherin dormitories, the silence between them felt less heavy, more… companionable.

And for the first time, Hermione wondered if perhaps the Mirror had shown her something worth exploring after all -- no matter how crazy that thought was... it felt... right. 

The corridors of the castle were quiet, the sounds of the Hallows’ Eve party fading behind them. Hermione kept her gaze firmly ahead, counting her steps and trying to ignore the tension that seemed to hum between her and Lucius Malfoy. The pendant at her neck felt heavier than usual, as though it were dragging her down with every step.

Lucius, of course, didn’t seem remotely bothered. He walked with his usual confidence, his hands tucked neatly behind his back, his footsteps unhurried. She could feel his gaze on her every so often, as if he were waiting for her to say something—or perhaps enjoying the fact that she wasn’t.

She could almost hear his smirk in the silence, which only made her more determined to keep quiet.

But Lucius, it seemed, had no intention of leaving things be.

“You're awfully quiet , Dagworth-Granger,” he said finally, his tone light and teasing.

“I don’t have anything to say,” Hermione replied, keeping her eyes forward.

Lucius hummed, a sound that made her skin prickle. “Unusual for you. I thought you always had something to say.”

Hermione tightened her grip on her wand, her frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Not everything needs to be said out loud.”

Lucius chuckled softly, the sound low and irritatingly amused. “Careful, or people might start thinking you’re brooding. That’s supposed to be my job.”

Hermione shot him a glare, which only made his smirk widen.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” she muttered, quickening her pace.

Lucius matched her step effortlessly. “And yet, you’re still walking with me.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Hermione said sharply.

“Oh, you always have a choice,” Lucius countered, his voice smooth and maddeningly calm.

Hermione didn’t dignify that with a response, though her cheeks burned as his words hung in the air. She focused on the pendant at her neck, her fingers brushing against it absently.

Lucius noticed.

“You’ve been fiddling with that thing all night,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “Sentimental, is it?”

Hermione’s hand dropped immediately, her pulse quickening. “It’s none of your business.”

“Everything is my business,” Lucius said lightly. “Especially when it involves you.”

Hermione froze, her breath catching. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Lucius stopped as well, turning to face her. His smirk was still there, but his gaze was sharper now, more calculating.

“It means,” he said slowly, “both you and I know there's an undeniable connection between us, but only one of us has stopped trying to fight it.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. “There isn’t one, and there's nothing to fight.” She responded abruptly.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. He stepped closer, his voice soft but pointed. “ I’m wearing you down, Dagworth-Granger. I can see it plainly. And it’s only a matter of time before you accept me .”

Hermione’s breath hitched, and she took a step back, her heart racing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” Lucius asked, his tone deceptively casual.

There was something in the way he looked at her, something that made her stomach twist. He wasn’t saying it—wasn’t even coming close to saying it—but the unspoken weight of the mirror hung between them, undeniable and impossible to ignore.

Hermione clenched her jaw, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “You’re imagining things, Malfoy.”

Lucius tilted his head, studying her with a faint, infuriating smirk. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Hermione snapped, her voice trembling slightly.

Lucius chuckled again, stepping back and gesturing for her to continue walking. “If you say so.”

The silence that followed was somehow worse than their earlier banter. Hermione’s thoughts raced, her mind returning to the image in the mirror no matter how hard she tried to push it away.

She didn’t dare glance at Lucius again, but she could feel his presence beside her, too close and yet not close enough to read his expression.

They turned another corner, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the stone walls. The air between them felt heavy, charged with something Hermione couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name.

They reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, and Hermione muttered the password, the wall sliding open to reveal the warm glow of the room beyond. She stepped inside quickly, eager to escape whatever this was—this strange tension that seemed to cling to her like the lingering fog in the Great Hall.

But Lucius followed her in, and before she could dart off to the safety of the dormitories, he leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

“Goodnight, Dagworth-Granger,” he said softly, his tone tinged with something she couldn’t quite place.

Hermione swallowed hard, her cheeks burning as she forced herself to nod. “Goodnight Malfoy.”

As she hurried up the stairs to her dormitory, her thoughts were a jumbled mess. The pendant felt heavier than ever, and the memory of Lucius’s voice lingered in her mind, unsettling and undeniable.

Whatever had passed between them tonight, it wasn’t something she could ignore.

And no matter how much she told herself otherwise, no matter how much she tried to remind herself of Lucius’s future self, part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Chapter Text

The morning after the Hallows’ Eve party, Hermione's mind and emotions were in turmoil. Initially, Hermione resolved to avoid Lucius Malfoy at all costs. Yet, as she sat at the Slytherin table during breakfast, poking at her porridge, she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering back to their walk the night before. His words had been maddening—cryptic and teasing—and the way he’d looked at her made her chest tighten in ways she didn’t want to admit.

She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the day ahead. Whatever his games were, she didn’t have the time—or the patience—for them. She was here for a purpose that she had yet to identify, and she couldn’t let herself be distracted.

There was also the glaring fact that, no matter what happened between herself and Lucius, he was supposed to be with Narcissa. It was a fixed point in time, a cornerstone of history that wasn’t meant to be tampered with.

Time travel was a dangerous, fickle thing—entire books had been written on the perils of interfering with the past, and few of them failed to include dire warnings for those foolish enough to try. At best, she might create an alternate timeline, splitting reality into something unrecognizable. At worst, the consequences could unravel everything, leading to paradoxes, erasures, or fates too terrible to name. The weight of possibility settled heavily on her shoulders, a constant reminder that some things were never meant to change.

And yet, despite everything she knew—despite every rational argument she could make—she couldn't ignore the way her thoughts drifted to him. The way his sharp gaze lingered just a little too long, the way his words, precise and deliberate, seemed to carry meaning beyond what was spoken. The way, against all reason, she had begun to wonder what might happen if she gave in.

Avoiding Lucius Malfoy, she quickly discovered, was easier said than done.

In Slughorn’s dungeon, Hermione found herself partnered with Matthew Belby, a Gryffindor seventh-year with a reputation for being charming, undeniably handsome and annoyingly good-natured. She barely had time to process the pairing before Matthew grinned at her.

“Looks like it’s you and me, Dagworth-Granger,” he said cheerfully with a wink. “Guess Slughorn wanted to shake things up.”

Hermione managed a tight smile. She didn’t mind Matthew, but working with a Gryffindor—especially one as talkative as him—felt like a recipe for disaster in the Slytherin-dominated classroom.

Their task was to brew a complicated Draught of Revelation, a potion designed to uncover forgotten facts. As they began gathering ingredients, Matthew’s chatter filled the air. He was friendly and pleasant, asking about her supposed background and sharing anecdotes about his own family.

Hermione, distracted by her thoughts and her growing discomfort at the curious looks from her Slytherin classmates, responded politely-- part of her relieved by the straightforward, friendly interaction , so unlike the ones had in Slytherin, where double entendres and hidden subtext reigned king. However she restrained her friendliness, she didn’t want to draw attention, especially not from the person she knew was watching her most closely.

Sure enough, when she glanced up, she caught Lucius Malfoy’s cold grey eyes fixed on her from across the room. He wasn’t even pretending to focus on his own work, his posture tense as his gaze lingered on her and Matthew.

Hermione looked away quickly, her heart sinking. She knew that look by now—calculated, possessive, and quietly dangerous.

After class, Hermione hurriedly packed up her things, hoping to escape before Lucius could corner her. But as soon as she stepped into the corridor, she heard his voice behind her.

“Dagworth-Granger.”

She froze, clutching her bag tightly. For a brief moment, she considered pretending not to hear him, but then she sighed and turned around.

Lucius stood a few steps away, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. “Walking away so quickly? That’s not like you.”

“I’m busy,” Hermione said shortly. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “You seemed… distracted in class today.”

“I was focused on my work,” Hermione replied, keeping her tone even.

“Were you?” Lucius asked, his gaze flicking to the corridor where Matthew had just disappeared. “Or were you distracted by Belby? He’s quite the charmer, isn't he?”

Hermione’s stomach tightened. “I didn’t choose to work with him,” she said defensively. “Slughorn paired us.”

“Of course he did,” Lucius said smoothly, though there was an edge to his voice. “Still, you didn’t seem to mind his company.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Hermione snapped. “And even if I did, it’s none of your business who I work with.”

Lucius’s expression darkened, but his tone remained light, almost mocking. “None of my business? That’s an interesting perspective. I thought we already went over last night how it is very much my business.”

Hermione glared at him, her frustration bubbling over. “It most certainly is not.”

Lucius tilted his head, studying her with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re awfully defensive, Dagworth-Granger...”

Hermione instinctively clutched her bag tighter. “I don’t have time for this,” she said, brushing past him.

But Lucius reached out, his hand closing gently around her wrist. The touch was light, almost hesitant, but it stopped her in her tracks.

“Dagworth-Granger,” he said softly, his voice dropping. “You should be more careful about who you treat amiably.”

Hermione stiffened, her heart pounding. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lucius released her wrist, his smirk returning. “It means I’m always watching. And so is everyone else.”

Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the corridor, her thoughts a chaotic mess.

Later that evening, Hermione returned to the Slytherin common room, her bag heavy with books from the library. Her mind buzzed with fragments of half-formed thoughts and theories, many of them circling back to the mirror. She hadn’t dared to dwell on it since that night, yet its image was burned into her memory: her and Lucius, together with a child, as though they belonged to one another, like a perfect, untouchable family. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense.

And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop the image from clawing its way back to the forefront of her mind. It made her feel trapped, like some unseen force was pushing her toward him—and she hated it.

She had just settled at her desk, ready to dive back into her research, when she noticed it: a small, ornately wrapped box sitting atop her stack of parchment. Hermione froze, her breath catching. Her name was written neatly on the tag, in handwriting she immediately recognized.

Lucius Malfoy.

Her stomach twisted as she reached for the box, her fingers trembling slightly. With a growing sense of unease, she tugged at the ribbon and opened it. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, the chain fine and intricate, with a serpent charm and another charm- bearing the Mlafoy family signet- hanging from it. The serpent’s emerald eyes glinted in the flickering firelight, and something about the sight of it made her chest tighten uncomfortably.

Beneath the bracelet was a folded note, written in Lucius’s elegant script:

For someone who deserves more than they realize. LM.

Hermione stared at the note, her mind racing. The words felt pointed, deliberate. And the bracelet itself—it was beautiful, yes, but it also weighed heavily with meaning.

Her fingers brushed against the pendant at her neck, the cool metal grounding her for a brief moment. She thought of the mirror again, its cruel reflection still vivid in her mind. She could see it clearly: Lucius beside her, his hand resting on hers, the two of them gazing back as though they were… meant to be.

“No,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. She refused to believe it. The mirror showed desire, not truth. And whatever it had shown Lucius, whatever ridiculous fantasy he might have conjured up about her, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Besides, she knew how the future unfolded. Lucius married Narcissa-- not her -- Narcissa. 

“What does he want from me?” Hermione whispered, her voice tight with frustration. Did he think this would impress her? Did he think she would be flattered or grateful? She wasn’t. If anything, she was insulted—and deeply unsettled.

She snapped the box shut and tossed it onto the desk, pacing the small space between her bed and the fireplace. Her thoughts churned with anger and confusion. Lucius Malfoy was a manipulator, a master of charm and control, and she wasn’t about to let herself fall victim to whatever game he was playing.

And yet… she couldn’t deny the spark of heat that flared in her chest whenever he looked at her. She couldn’t deny the way her heart raced whenever he stood too close, his presence as magnetic as it was infuriating.

Hermione clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “No,” she said firmly, as if saying it aloud would make it true. “This is just another one of his games. That’s all it is.”

But a small, unwelcome voice in the back of her mind whispered otherwise.

Hermione sat back down at her desk, shoving the box into the bottom of her bag where she wouldn’t have to look at it. She opened one of her books, but the words blurred together as her thoughts spiraled. Her fingers brushed the pendant again, and her frustration flared.

What if the mirror’s vision had something to do with her being here? What if it was trying to tell her something important? She hated the idea—hated the thought that she might be tied to Lucius Malfoy in some way, that their fates might be tangled together. But she couldn’t deny that it felt deliberate. The mirror, the pendant, her sudden arrival in this time—it couldn’t all be coincidence.

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. She wanted answers, but the only person who might have them was the last person she wanted to speak to.

“Why me?” she whispered, her voice muffled. “Why him?”

The next day, Hermione stormed through the corridors of Hogwarts with a purpose. The small, ornately wrapped box felt heavy in her hand, its contents rattling faintly with every step. Her anger burned hot and steady, spurring her forward. She wasn’t going to let Lucius Malfoy think he could toy with her like this—not with his infuriating games, and certainly not with his presumptuous “gift.”

It didn’t take long to find him. He was in the library, lounging at one of the tables as though he owned the place. A few other Slytherins surrounded him, but Lucius’s attention wasn’t on them. He was staring down at a parchment in front of him, his long fingers idly tapping the edge of his quill.

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She strode straight to the table, her steps quick and deliberate, and slammed the box down in front of him. The sound echoed loudly in the otherwise hushed room, drawing startled looks from the other students.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, his grey eyes flicking up to meet hers. His expression was calm, but there was a flicker of amusement in his gaze, as though he’d been expecting this.

“You forgot this,” Hermione said sharply, crossing her arms.

Lucius’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Forgot? Hardly. I left it for you.”

“I don’t want it,” Hermione snapped. Her voice was low, but her anger was unmistakable. “Whatever game you’re playing, Malfoy, I’m not interested.”

Lucius leaned back in his chair, his smirk deepening. “Game? Is that what you think this is?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly with the force of her frustration. “You don’t give someone a gift like this without an ulterior motive.”

Lucius tilted his head, studying her with an infuriating calmness. “Maybe I simply thought it would suit you.”

“Or maybe you thought it would give you some sort of hold over me,” Hermione retorted. She could feel the eyes of the other Slytherins on her, but she didn’t care. Let them watch. Let them see that she wasn’t going to play along with whatever twisted game Lucius had in mind.

Lucius’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, before returning with a sharper edge. He reached for the box, his fingers brushing against hers as he pulled it toward him. The contact sent an unwelcome jolt up her arm, but she refused to flinch.

“Dagworth-Granger,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “You make it sound as though I’ve done something sinister.”

“You have,” Hermione hissed. “You’ve made it your mission to follow me around, insert yourself into my business, and now this? I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but it stops now.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed slightly, the playful glint in his gaze replaced by something darker, something that made Hermione’s pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.

“Do you always jump to the worst conclusions?” he asked, his tone deceptively mild. “Perhaps you should consider that not everything revolves around your suspicions, Dagworth-Granger.”

Hermione scoffed, shaking her head. “I’m not naïve, Malfoy. You don’t do anything without a reason. So tell me—what’s your reason for this?” She gestured to the box between them.

Lucius’s smirk faded completely, and for a moment, he was silent, his gaze steady and unreadable. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower.

“To prove a point. You intrigue me.” 

Hermione blinked, taken aback. She’d expected deflection, mockery, maybe even anger—but not this. Not honesty.

“You’re intelligent, unpredictable, and—despite your best efforts—entirely captivating,” Lucius continued, his grey eyes locking onto hers. “I don’t give gifts lightly, Dagworth-Granger. Take that as you will.”

Hermione’s breath caught, her anger momentarily replaced by confusion and something she couldn’t name. She hated the way his words made her heart stutter, hated the warmth creeping up her neck. But she didn’t let it show—not completely.

“Well, I don’t want your gifts,” she said firmly, though her voice had softened slightly. “And I don’t want your attention.”

Lucius tilted his head, his smirk returning faintly. “Don’t you?”

Hermione’s stomach twisted, and she turned away before he could say anything else. “Stay away from me, Malfoy,” she said over her shoulder, her voice wavering slightly. “I mean it.”

She didn’t wait for his response. She walked out of the library as quickly as she could, her heart pounding in her chest.

Back in her dormitory, Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to process what had just happened. Lucius’s words echoed in her mind, refusing to be silenced.

You intrigue me.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to get under her skin. She was supposed to be stronger than this, smarter than this. And yet, the memory of his intense gaze, the low timbre of his voice, lingered in a way that made her feel more unsteady than she wanted to admit.

She reached for the pendant at her neck, clutching it tightly. The mirror’s image flashed in her mind again, vivid and unrelenting. She couldn’t make sense of it—of him, of any of it.

Hermione slammed the door to her dormitory behind her, letting out a sharp breath as she threw her bag onto her bed. The small, infuriating box sat on her desk, as if mocking her. The bracelet inside had rattled her more than she wanted to admit, and Lucius’s smug, unreadable expression when she’d confronted him earlier still echoed in her mind.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice behind her. “You look like you’re ready to hex someone into oblivion.”

Hermione turned sharply to find Bellatrix leaning casually in the doorway, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. She stepped inside without invitation, crossing the room with her usual languid grace.

“Malfoy, I assume?” Bellatrix said knowingly, her lips quirking into a faint smirk.

Hermione didn’t respond, but her eyes darted toward the box. Bellatrix noticed immediately. Her gaze sharpened, and without waiting for permission, she reached for the package and opened it.

The moment she saw the bracelet, her hand stilled, and her expression shifted. The playful edge in her demeanor faded, replaced by something more serious. She turned the bracelet over in her hands, the serpent charm catching the dim light of the room.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, her voice low.

“Lucius gave it to me,” Hermione said tightly, crossing her arms. “And I don’t want it.”

Bellatrix’s gaze flicked up to meet Hermione’s, her expression unreadable. “Do you know what this is?” she asked softly, almost cautiously.

Hermione shook her head, her irritation bubbling back to the surface. “I assume it’s some ridiculous pureblood gesture, but he didn’t bother explaining. I confronted him, but he just—” She broke off, clenching her fists. “He’s impossible.”

Bellatrix’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Impossible, yes,” she said dryly, before holding up the bracelet. “But you’re right. This isn’t just a gift. It’s an ancient custom among sacred 28 families, one rarely used nowadays. A gesture like this? It’s a claim.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “A claim?” Then it was exactly as she had feared. 

Bellatrix nodded, her expression darkening slightly. “When a pureblood man from one of the sacred 28 gives something like this—especially something bearing his family’s symbol—it’s a declaration. He’s signaling to everyone that you’re under his consideration, that you’re… set apart.” She tilted her head, studying Hermione. “He’s essentially saying, ‘This one’s mine.’”

Hermione’s chest tightened, anger flaring hot in her veins. “He can’t just—he doesn’t have the right to—”

“Oh, but he can,” Bellatrix interrupted, tossing the bracelet back into the box with a flick of her wrist. “In this world, his name gives him every right.” She sighed, her tone laced with disdain. “It’s all part of the pureblood game, Dagworth-Granger. You’re a piece on the board, and he’s just made his move.”

Hermione’s hands curled into fists. “It’s insulting,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m not some prize to be claimed.”

Bellatrix chuckled, though there was little humor in it. “No, you’re not. And that’s what makes you different.”

Hermione frowned, her frustration shifting to confusion. “What do you mean?”

Bellatrix leaned against the desk, her posture deceptively casual as she regarded Hermione with a sharp, almost appraising look. “When I first met you, I was interested in you. Not just because you were new—though that certainly helped—but because I could tell you weren’t like all the other pureblood girls.” She smirked, her gaze softening slightly. “Most of them spend their days dreaming of marrying into the best family, securing their place in society. You? You didn’t care about any of that.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, her breath catching. “And how could you tell that?” she asked quietly.

Bellatrix’s smirk widened. “Because you didn’t try to impress anyone. You weren’t desperate to prove yourself. You carried yourself differently—confident, self-assured, like you didn’t need their approval. And now, seeing how much this little bracelet bothers you…” She shrugged, her dark eyes glinting. “It confirms what I thought about you.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She felt exposed, as though Bellatrix had seen straight through her carefully constructed façade. It was unsettling—but also strangely comforting.

Bellatrix straightened, crossing her arms as her smirk faded into something more contemplative. “You know, they tried to make me one of those perfect pureblood wives,” she said, her tone turning colder. “Raised me to be obedient, poised, and utterly devoted to my future husband. And for a while, I played along. I did what was expected.”

Hermione tilted her head, curiosity piqued. “What changed?”

Bellatrix’s gaze hardened, her jaw tightening. “I realized I wanted more. And to get more, I had to fight for it. It wasn’t easy, but I found my way.” She glanced at Hermione, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I made my own path—one where no one tells me who to be or what to do.”

Hermione hesitated, unsure how to respond. Bellatrix’s words carried a weight she hadn’t expected, and for the first time, she saw the older girl in a different light—not just as the sharp, rebellious presence she’d come to know, but as someone who had fought against the very system that had tried to mold her.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Bellatrix added, her tone sharpening slightly. “It’s still an honor to be a pureblood, to carry the traditions and the power that come with it. But the cost …” She trailed off, shaking her head. “The cost is too high for some of us.”

Hermione nodded slowly, her anger toward Lucius still simmering but now mingled with something more complicated. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up under the weight of such expectations, but Bellatrix’s words made her wonder if she was beginning to understand.

Bellatrix pushed off the desk, brushing her hands against her robes. “You’re not like the others, Dagworth-Granger. You’re not trying to fit into their perfect little mold. And that’s why you’re worth noticing.”

Hermione frowned, unsure whether to take the comment as a compliment or a warning.

Bellatrix smirked again, her mischief returning. “You know,” she said lightly, tilting her head. “There’s someone I think you should meet.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “Who?”

Bellatrix’s grin widened, but she didn’t answer. “You’ll see,” she said cryptically, before turning and sauntering out of the room, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts—and the weight of the bracelet that still sat on her desk.

Chapter Text

Hermione buried the box with the bracelet deep into the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet, shoving it under a stack of parchment and an old textbook. She slammed the drawer shut with a sharp click and let out a huff of frustration. Out of sight, out of mind—or so she hoped.

By lunchtime, her nerves were still frayed, and she pushed her food around her plate without much enthusiasm. The Slytherin table was as lively as ever, conversations buzzing with post-Hallows Eve gossip and plans for the weekend. Hermione sat on the edge of it all, trying to tune everything out, but her thoughts kept returning to Bellatrix’s strange absence.

It wasn’t unusual for Bellatrix to disappear, sometimes for hours or even the better part of a day, but this was different. She hadn’t been at breakfast or any classes. And Bellatrix wasn’t the type to simply miss a meal unless something important demanded her attention.

As Hermione mulled over the unsettling possibilities, her attention was drawn to a light voice nearby.

“Could you pass the salt, please?”

Hermione looked up, surprised to see Narcissa Black sitting a few seats away. She was leaning slightly forward, her delicate hand extended as she waited patiently for Hermione to respond.

“Oh—uh, sure.” Hermione fumbled for the salt and handed it over, her gaze lingering on Narcissa for a moment longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” Narcissa said, her tone polite but perfunctory. She returned to her plate without another word, as though the interaction had been nothing more than a formality.

Hermione watched her for a moment. Narcissa’s posture was perfect, her every movement careful and deliberate. Even at thirteen, she carried herself with an air of quiet dignity, a polished veneer that reminded Hermione all too much of the older Narcissa she had known.

But this Narcissa was different. She was still so young, her sharp edges not yet fully formed. Hermione found herself wondering what kind of pressures the girl must be under to maintain such poise at all times.

As Hermione turned back to her plate, she overheard a snippet of Narcissa’s conversation with the girls around her—something about the proper way to brew a cosmetic potion for softening hair. It was so mundane, so utterly normal, that it caught Hermione off guard.

She’s just a child, Hermione thought, shaking her head. She couldn’t possibly have anything to do with… all of this.

Hermione tried to refocus on her own meal, but the uneasy feeling in her stomach refused to dissipate. Narcissa’s poised detachment, Bellatrix’s sudden absence—it all felt like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together.

By the time Hermione left the Great Hall, her mind was spinning. Bellatrix’s absence gnawed at her, and the cryptic remark she’d left lingering the last time they spoke haunted her. There’s someone I think you should meet.

The possibility that Bellatrix’s disappearance had something to do with Voldemort was highly likely and impossible to ignore. The thought made Hermione’s chest tighten, but it also sparked a strange, reckless curiosity.

What if Bellatrix really did want to introduce her to him? What if Hermione went along with it—not to join him, but to gather information? To figure out where he was vulnerable, how she could undermine him?

The idea of becoming a spy in Voldemort’s early circle was dangerous—borderline suicidal—but the thought wouldn’t leave her. She had knowledge he didn’t, knowledge of his rise and fall, and perhaps… perhaps she could use that to change things.

What if this is why I’m here? Hermione thought, her pace slowing as she walked toward Defense Against the Dark Arts.

But even as the idea began to take shape in her mind, a voice whispered its warning: Voldemort was dangerous, persuasive, and brilliant. She couldn’t underestimate him, and she couldn’t let herself get too close.

Lost in thought, she barely noticed the sound of approaching footsteps until a familiar voice broke through her reverie.

“You’re looking particularly pensive today, Dagworth-Granger.”

Hermione stiffened, recognizing the smooth, drawling tone immediately. She turned to find Lucius Malfoy falling into step beside her, his expression unreadable but his grey eyes sharp with interest.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” she said curtly, picking up her pace.

Lucius smirked, easily keeping stride. “Can’t a gentleman check on the welfare of his housemate?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Since when are you a gentleman?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and infuriatingly amused. “You wound me, Dagworth-Granger. I’ve only ever had your best interests at heart.”

“Right,” Hermione said flatly, crossing her arms as she walked. “I’m sure that’s exactly why you’ve spent the last several days making my life more difficult.”

But Lucius wasn’t so easily dismissed. He fell into step beside her, his smirk widening. “Come now, is that any way to speak to someone who’s given you such a thoughtful gift?”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “I told you, I don’t want it.”

“And I told you,” Lucius said smoothly, “that I don’t care if you wear it. It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” Hermione demanded, stopping abruptly to face him. Her voice was low but seething, her anger barely contained.

Lucius tilted his head, studying her with a maddening calmness. “It’s about you knowing that it exists,” he said, his tone soft but insistent. “That you have it. That no matter what you tell yourself, no matter how much you want to deny it, that bracelet is a symbol of something… inevitable.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest. “What are you talking about?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

Lucius stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You feel it, don’t you? That pull. That connection. You can hate it, fight it, pretend it isn’t there—but it won’t change the truth.”

Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears, her anger warring with a flicker of something she refused to name. She took a step back, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re delusional.”

Lucius smiled faintly, as though her words amused him. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Hermione hissed. “I want nothing to do with you or your ridiculous customs. So stop trying to force this—whatever this is—on me.”

Lucius’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. “You can throw the bracelet into the fire if it makes you feel better,” he said lightly. “But it won’t change anything.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Hermione standing in the corridor, her hands trembling at her sides.

She hated him. She hated his arrogance, his smugness, his cryptic remarks that always seemed to cut too close to the truth. But most of all, she hated the tiny, nagging part of her that wondered if he was right.

The next day came and went, and Bellatrix Black was still nowhere to be found. Hermione couldn’t help but notice her absence at every turn—in the corridors, at meals, and especially during classes where her dramatic presence was usually impossible to ignore.

What unsettled Hermione even more was the fact that no one else seemed to notice or care. The Slytherins didn’t murmur about where Bellatrix might be or why she hadn’t shown up for two days. Even Professor Slughorn, who always took an interest in his star students, barely blinked when Bellatrix failed to appear in Advanced Potions.

It was as though Bellatrix’s absence had been anticipated—or at least tolerated—in a way Hermione couldn’t quite understand.

By the time the afternoon lessons began, Hermione’s unease had only deepened. She spent most of her time replaying her last conversation with Bellatrix, particularly the cryptic remark: There’s someone I think you should meet.

Late that afternoon, during Potions, the door creaked open just as the class began. Bellatrix strolled in, her every movement radiating her usual self-assured energy. Her dark hair was perfectly styled, her robes immaculate, and her expression calm, as if she hadn’t just skipped two full days of lessons.

Hermione stiffened in her seat, her quill pausing mid-sentence. She watched as Bellatrix sauntered to her usual spot, offering Professor Slughorn a dazzling smile.

“Ah, Miss Black!” Slughorn said warmly, clearly pleased to see her. “We missed you these past few days. I trust all is well?”

Bellatrix placed her bag on the desk and smoothed her robes with practiced grace. “Oh, Professor,” she began, her voice laced with just the right amount of apology, “I’m so sorry for my absence. My father’s been terribly unwell—dragon pox, you see—and my mother needed my help managing things at home.”

Slughorn’s expression softened immediately. “Terrible business, dragon pox. Poor Cygnus. Please give him my regards, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Bellatrix replied sweetly, her smile unwavering. “He’s in good hands now, so I’m glad to be back.”

Slughorn nodded, clearly satisfied, and turned back to the lesson. The rest of the class seemed to take Bellatrix’s explanation at face value, but Hermione couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in her gut.

Bellatrix was lying, and nobody seemed to care. 

Hermione waited until the lesson ended before making her move. As the students began to file out, she hung back near the doorway, watching Bellatrix gather her things. The older girl was in no hurry, chatting lightly with a couple of Slytherin boys before gracefully excusing herself.

Hermione followed her into the corridor, her heart pounding with a mix of frustration and determination. Hermione grabbed Bellatrix’s arm and pulled her into the quiet alcove after class. “I don’t believe you,” she said sharply, glaring at the older girl.

Bellatrix, always the picture of composure, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “What don’t you believe, Dagworth-Granger?”

“Your story about your father,” Hermione replied. “Dragon pox? Really? It’s a little convenient, don’t you think?”

Bellatrix chuckled, the sound low and melodic. “Oh, darling, you’re quick, I’ll give you that.” She leaned casually against the wall, her dark eyes glittering. “You’ve been paying far too much attention to me. I should be flattered.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, why even bother pretending?”

Bellatrix tilted her head, studying Hermione with a strange intensity. “You know,” she said softly, “as I’ve gotten to know you, I’ve come to realize something. You’re a kindred spirit.”

Hermione frowned. “I doubt that.”

“Oh, but you are,” Bellatrix insisted, stepping closer. “Pureblood. Smart. Quick-witted and quicker to flout the rules when it suits you—or when it’s for a good time.” Her lips curled into a sly smile. “You and I, Dagworth-Granger, are cut from the same cloth—pureblood women disinterested in becoming perfect little wives, destined for something more.”

Hermione stiffened, the words landing like a challenge. She wasn’t sure whether Bellatrix was trying to flatter her or manipulate her, but either way, the older girl’s confidence was unsettling.

Bellatrix’s smile widened as she caught the flicker of hesitation in Hermione’s expression. “So, if you’re so curious about where I’ve been,” she said lightly, “why don’t you come with me next time? Let’s see if that sharp little mind of yours can handle it.”

Hermione blinked, stunned. “What?”

Bellatrix’s smirk turned almost predatory. “You heard me. If you want to know what I’ve been up to, come and see for yourself. We’ll make a day of it— the next Hogsmeade weekend, perhaps?”

Hermione’s mind raced. Bellatrix’s offer was both tempting and terrifying. The idea of following her into whatever she was involved in felt reckless, but it also felt like an opportunity—a chance to gather information, to figure out what was happening beneath the surface of this school and its most infamous students.

“What exactly are you inviting me to?” Hermione asked cautiously.

Bellatrix’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened slightly. “Let’s just say it’ll be worth your while. Enlightening, even.”

Hermione hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to say no. But her curiosity—and her suspicion that Bellatrix’s activities were tied to Voldemort—kept her from walking away.

“Fine,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the knot in her stomach. “I’ll come.”

Bellatrix’s smile widened, and for the first time, Hermione thought she saw a flicker of genuine approval in her expression.

“Good,” Bellatrix said softly, stepping back. “You might just surprise me yet, Dagworth-Granger.”

As Hermione made her way back to the Slytherin common room that evening, her thoughts were a tangled mess. Bellatrix’s proposition weighed heavily on her mind, each possibility more dangerous than the last.

If Bellatrix truly was leading her toward Voldemort, Hermione would need to be prepared. She would need to stay one step ahead, to gather as much information as she could without losing herself in the process.

Her gaze drifted to the drawer where the bracelet was hidden, and she felt a chill run down her spine. Whatever was coming next, she had a sinking feeling it would demand more from her than she was ready to give.

The sun had barely risen when Hermione found herself slipping into the library, her footsteps soft against the ancient stone floor. The smell of parchment and ink greeted her like an old friend, and the rows upon rows of books stood like sentinels, promising answers if she only looked hard enough.

It was where she always went when she was stressed—when her mind refused to quiet and her questions grew too loud to ignore. And after her confrontation with Bellatrix, after agreeing to what might be the most reckless decision of her life, the library was the only place she could think of to prepare.

Hermione made her way to the back corner, where the darker and more obscure texts were tucked away. She set her bag down on the desk and immediately began pulling volumes from the shelves, her movements quick and methodical.

Defensive Hexes and Countercurses, Shield Charms for Advanced Duelists, Protections of the Mind and Spirit—she piled the books in front of her, her determination growing with every title. If she was truly walking into a meeting with Voldemort, she wasn’t going to go in blind.

Time slipped away as Hermione poured over the texts, her quill flying across her notebook as she scribbled down spells, incantations, and wand movements. She practiced quietly under her breath, her wand flicking in the air as she mimicked the motions described in the books.

“Protego Totalum.”

“Salvio Hexia.”

“Fianto Duri.”

Each word left her lips with increasing confidence, but the unease in her chest never fully abated. The defensive spells were powerful, yes, but Voldemort was no ordinary wizard. His magic was ancient, dark, and insidious. Hermione couldn’t afford to underestimate him—or overestimate herself.

She turned to a chapter on Occlumency, her brow furrowing as she read. The concept wasn’t new to her; she’d read about it before in her own time, but the practice was far more daunting. The art of shielding one’s mind from intrusion. The very idea of Voldemort’s presence pressing into her thoughts made her stomach churn, but if she wanted to protect herself, she needed to be ready for that possibility.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, her fingers rubbing her temples as she tried to absorb everything she’d read. The sheer weight of it all felt crushing. She’d been in dangerous situations before—facing Death Eaters, battling dark creatures, even standing up to Voldemort himself—but this felt different.

This time, she was alone.

Her gaze drifted to the pendant around her neck, the one Narcissa Malfoy—her future self—had placed there. The one that had thrown her into this twisted reality. It felt heavier than usual, as though it could sense the burden of her thoughts.

She wondered, not for the first time, if the mirror of Erised had been right. If what it had shown her—her and Lucius, together, a family—was some twisted inevitability.

No, she told herself firmly, shaking her head. The mirror didn’t show the future; it showed desires. And whatever pull she felt toward Lucius, whatever strange connection had formed between them, wasn’t something she wanted.

But even as she thought it, a flicker of doubt crept in as it always did. The mirror had shown them both the same vision. Did that mean something more?

Hermione pushed the thought away and sat up straighter, her jaw tightening. She didn’t have time to get lost in hypotheticals. The only thing that mattered now was preparation. Whatever Bellatrix had planned for this Hogsmeade outing—whether it was meeting Voldemort or something else entirely—Hermione had to be ready.

She flipped open another book, her quill poised to take more notes. The words blurred slightly from exhaustion, but she forced herself to focus.

“Confringo,” she murmured, practicing the wand movement for the Blasting Curse. The spell’s destructive power would be useful if things turned violent.

For the next hour, she immersed herself in practice, her determination fueled by equal parts fear and defiance. She wouldn’t go down without a fight—not this time, not ever.

As Hermione packed up her things and prepared to leave the library, she had the distinct sense that she was being watched. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the dimly lit room, but it was empty save for a few scattered students buried in their own studies.

She shook her head, dismissing the feeling as paranoia. But as she stepped into the corridor, she couldn’t help but glance behind her once more, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling with unease.

“Dagworth-Granger.”

The soft, measured voice startled her, and she turned sharply to find Narcissa Black standing a few feet away, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“Black,” Hermione said, her heart racing as she tried to mask her surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Narcissa stepped closer, her movements deliberate and poised. “I might ask you the same thing,” she said lightly, her eyes flicking to the pile of books on Hermione’s desk. “Though it seems you’ve been… busy.”

Hermione bristled, her instinctive defensiveness kicking in. “Is there something you want?”

For a moment, Narcissa simply studied her, her pale blue eyes sharp and calculating. Then, in a voice so low Hermione almost didn’t hear it, she said, “You shouldn’t trust Bellatrix.”

Hermione blinked, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” Narcissa said, her tone crisp but tinged with something Hermione couldn’t quite place—concern, perhaps, or even fear. “My sister doesn’t see people as they are. She sees them as tools to be used or obstacles to be removed. If she’s paying attention to you, it’s not out of kindness.”

Hermione’s mind raced. Of all the things Narcissa could have said, this was the last thing she expected. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked cautiously.

Narcissa’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Because you don’t belong in her world, Dagworth-Granger. And if you let her pull you in, you’ll lose yourself.”

Hermione stiffened at the words, the truth of them cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. “And what about you?” she asked, her voice sharper than intended. “Aren’t you part of that world too?”

Narcissa’s gaze didn’t waver. “I am,” she said simply. “But I’ve learned how to survive in it. You, on the other hand… I don’t think you’re ready for what it demands.”

Hermione’s hands clenched into fists under the table. “You don’t know me,” she said tightly.

Narcissa tilted her head, her expression softening ever so slightly. “Maybe not. But I know my sister. And if she’s taken an interest in you, it’s only because she sees a way to use you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Hermione felt a rush of conflicting emotions—defensiveness, confusion, even a flicker of gratitude. But before she could respond, Narcissa straightened, her composed demeanor returning in full.

“Just… be careful,” Narcissa said, her voice cool once more. “Bellatrix’s loyalty lies with one person and one person only. And it isn’t you.”

Without waiting for a response, Narcissa turned and walked away, her figure disappearing into the shadows of the library.

Hermione sat frozen for a moment, her mind reeling. She had spent so much time trying to understand Bellatrix—her motives, her allegiances, her endgame—that she hadn’t stopped to consider what it might mean for herself.

Don’t trust Bellatrix.

Narcissa’s words echoed in her mind as she glanced down at the notes she had been furiously compiling. For the first time since agreeing to the Hogsmeade outing, doubt crept into her resolve.

But if Bellatrix was leading her toward Voldemort, Hermione knew she couldn’t afford to back out now. Whatever Narcissa’s warning meant, it would have to wait.

Chapter Text

The wind outside howled, rattling the windows of the Slytherin common room. Hermione sat curled in a chair by the fireplace, the flames flickering and casting shadows across the stone walls. The usual low hum of conversation from the other students had faded as the night wore on, leaving the room nearly silent. Yet the silence did nothing to soothe her nerves. Her stomach churned, her hands trembling slightly as she stared into the fire. Tomorrow, Hogsmeade—and Voldemort.

She felt like she was walking into a trap she couldn’t escape, even though she’d agreed to it willingly. Every ounce of preparation she had done—the spells, the research, the endless hours poring over texts—felt meaningless in the face of what lay ahead. The weight of it all pressed down on her, suffocating.

“You look dreadful,” came a familiar, smooth voice, breaking her spiraling thoughts.

Hermione looked up sharply to see Lucius Malfoy standing over her, his pale features illuminated by the warm glow of the fire. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t wearing his usual mask of amused superiority. Instead, his expression was uncharacteristically serious, his grey eyes scanning her face with a sharp intensity.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice sharper than intended. She straightened in her chair, trying to compose herself.

Lucius raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by her attempt to brush him off. “You’re shaking,” he said bluntly, pulling a nearby chair closer and sitting down across from her. “You’re pale, and you look like you’re about to be sick. That’s not ‘fine,’ Dagworth-Granger.”

Hermione scowled, turning her gaze back to the fire. “It’s none of your concern,” she muttered.

Lucius didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stood and disappeared toward the other side of the room. Hermione assumed he’d given up and left her alone, but within minutes, he returned. He set down a steaming mug of tea on the small table beside her, along with a folded blanket.

“What’s this?” she asked, frowning at him as he draped the blanket over her shoulders without waiting for her consent.

“Peppermint tea,” he said matter-of-factly, ignoring her tone. “It’s good for settling the stomach.”

Hermione blinked at him, caught completely off guard by the gesture. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a pointed look.

“Drink it,” he said, his tone softer than usual but leaving no room for argument. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She hesitated, then picked up the mug, the warmth seeping into her cold fingers. She took a small sip, the sharp, soothing taste of peppermint filling her mouth. It wasn’t what she expected—not from him, at least.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked cautiously, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. “Malfoys take care of their own,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Hermione stiffened. “I’m not—”

“Don’t bother contradicting me,” he interrupted, his voice low and steady. 

Hermione’s breath caught, her mind flashing to the mirror of Erised and the vision they had shared. She hadn’t spoken about it since that night, and neither had he, but it hung between them like an unspoken truth. The weight of his words settled heavily in her chest, and she looked away, her grip tightening on the mug.

“You’re coming with me to Hogsmeade tomorrow,” Lucius said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Hermione shook her head, her voice sharp. “I already told you, I’m not going.”

“Why not?” he asked, leaning forward slightly, his tone not demanding but curious.

“I just… have other plans,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, his sharp mind clearly picking apart her vague excuse. “Other plans,” he repeated slowly. “And you can’t tell me what they are?”

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped, her temper flaring. The last thing she needed was for him to pry into her arrangement with Bellatrix.

Lucius studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he sighed and sat back in his chair, his demeanor softening once more.

“You’re not well,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual arrogance. “And if you’re determined to avoid Hogsmeade, then at least promise me one thing.”

Hermione frowned. “What?”

“Come with me to the mirror,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “One more time.”

Hermione froze, her heart skipping a beat. “Why?”

“You felt it too,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers. “That vision—it wasn’t normal. The mirror doesn’t show shared desires. And yet, it showed us the same thing. Isn’t that… highly irregular? Don’t you want to understand why?”

Hermione hesitated, her stomach twisting uncomfortably. He was asking the same questions that had been haunting her for weeks. She hated that he was making sense, hated the curiosity burning in her chest despite herself.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “What’s the point? The mirror doesn’t show the future.”

“Maybe not,” Lucius said, his voice soft but insistent. “But there’s something about it. Something we don’t understand. And don’t pretend you’re not curious.”

Hermione stared into the fire, her thoughts swirling. She hated that he was right. She was curious. And despite every instinct telling her to say no, she found herself nodding.

“Fine,” she said reluctantly. “Sunday. After dinner.”

Lucius’s lips curved into a small, almost triumphant smile. “Sunday,” he echoed. “I’ll meet you here.”

He stood and left the common room without another word, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts and the peppermint tea cooling in her hands. She didn’t know what was worse—the fact that she had agreed to go with him, or the fact that a small part of her wanted to.

As the fire crackled softly, Hermione wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She had a sinking feeling that whatever she found in the mirror, it wouldn’t bring her any peace.

Hermione lay awake that night, staring up at the canopy of her bed. The silence of the dormitory felt oppressive, and the cold air seeped through the curtains despite her attempts to bundle herself in blankets. Her thoughts kept circling back to the same point: the meeting with Voldemort.

What would he ask of her? What would he see in her? Hermione had faced him before, in her time, but this Voldemort was younger, more dangerous in a way. He wasn’t the hollowed-out creature she remembered—he was still mostly whole, still building his empire.

And what if Bellatrix suspected her? Hermione had no illusions about her loyalty. Bellatrix might call her a kindred spirit, but Hermione knew that trust was not part of the equation. If Bellatrix thought for even a second that Hermione wasn’t fully committed to Voldemort’s cause, there would be consequences.

As the hours dragged on, Hermione’s nerves frayed further. She tried to convince herself that she had a plan—that she would go to this meeting, play her part, and find a way to survive. But deep down, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into something she couldn’t escape.

The rickety carriage jolted and creaked as it wound its way down the frosty path toward Hogsmeade. Hermione sat stiffly, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her gaze fixed out the window. The icy November air fogged the glass, and she absently traced patterns in the condensation with her finger, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach.

This wasn’t a simple trip to Hogsmeade. It wasn’t about chocolate frogs or butterbeer. This was the first step toward meeting Voldemort himself.

Her thoughts raced as the scenery passed by in a blur. She had tried to mentally prepare for this moment, pouring over spells and defensive techniques until the early hours of the morning. But all the preparation in the world couldn’t silence the nagging thought that she might not make it out unscathed.

Hermione wasn’t naïve—she knew what Voldemort was capable of. This wasn’t the broken, snake-like creature she had faced in the future. This was a young, magnetic, dangerously intelligent Tom Riddle, still whole, still building his empire. He would see through her in an instant if she made one wrong move.

And Bellatrix…

Hermione glanced sideways at the girl sitting next to her. Bellatrix was humming cheerfully to herself, her dark curls bouncing with every bump in the road. She had that wild, unpredictable glint in her eyes—the one that made Hermione’s nerves fray even more. How could someone so eager for chaos sit so comfortably on the edge of disaster?

Hermione clenched her fists, forcing herself to breathe evenly. She had to focus. She had to play her part perfectly. She couldn’t afford to let her nerves betray her now.

“Oh, I love Hogsmeade in the winter!” Bellatrix exclaimed suddenly, her voice bright and sing-songy. She leaned forward, craning her neck to peer out the frosted window. “Don’t you just adore the way the rooftops sparkle with frost? It’s like a scene out of one of those silly children’s books.”

Hermione couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic sentiment. “I didn’t take you for someone who enjoyed children’s books,” she said dryly, trying to distract herself from her nerves.

Bellatrix grinned, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Oh, I don’t,” she said with a laugh. “But I do enjoy tearing apart their ridiculous little fantasies. Nothing like a dose of reality to shatter the illusions of innocence.”

Hermione’s stomach churned, and she turned back to the window, regretting having said anything. Bellatrix’s mood seemed to grow brighter with every passing moment, her excitement bubbling over like a potion about to explode.

“I hope you’re ready,” Bellatrix said, her tone turning conspiratorial. “Today’s going to be unforgettable.”

Hermione didn’t respond, her thoughts turning inward once more. She hated the anticipation, the way her nerves coiled tighter with every second that brought her closer to Voldemort.

The carriage lurched to a stop outside the edge of Hogsmeade, and Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as she spotted a familiar figure stepping out of a carriage ahead of them. Lucius.

Her breath caught in her throat as his sharp grey eyes scanned the crowd, his pale hair gleaming in the weak sunlight. Hermione ducked her head instinctively, her fingers gripping the edge of her seat.

“Is he looking for you?” Bellatrix asked, her tone lilting with amusement as she followed Hermione’s gaze.

“I—” Hermione hesitated, her mind racing for an excuse. “I don’t know.”

Bellatrix smirked, grabbing Hermione’s arm and tugging her out of the carriage. “Well, let’s not find out, shall we?”

Before Hermione could protest, Bellatrix was steering her quickly toward the shops, her grip firm and purposeful.

“Wait—Bellatrix—” Hermione stumbled as Bellatrix practically dragged her down the cobblestone street, her pace brisk.

“Relax, darling,” Bellatrix said breezily, glancing over her shoulder to ensure Lucius wasn’t following. “We’ll lose him in here.”

She yanked Hermione into Honeydukes, the sudden warmth and sugary aroma of the shop enveloping them. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully, and Hermione’s pulse began to slow as she realized they’d managed to avoid Lucius—at least for now.

Bellatrix released her arm, brushing a stray curl out of her face as she surveyed the shop. “See? Safe and sound,” she said with a smirk.

Hermione exhaled, though her tension didn’t entirely dissipate. “Why are you helping me avoid him?” she asked cautiously, her tone edged with suspicion.

Bellatrix grinned, plucking a chocolate frog from a nearby display and inspecting it. “Oh, I have my reasons,” she said cryptically, tossing the frog into Hermione’s hands. “But mostly, I’d rather not have him tagging along. He’s terribly dull company when he’s brooding—and he always broods around you.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to feel relieved or irritated by the comment, so she simply muttered, “Thanks,” and followed Bellatrix deeper into the shop.

Bellatrix spun on her heel, her grin widening. “Now, come along. We’ve got much more interesting places to be than this.”

Hermione felt her stomach tighten once again as Bellatrix led her toward the back door of the shop. Whatever “warm-up” Bellatrix had planned, Hermione knew it wouldn’t be as harmless as wandering through Hogsmeade’s quaint streets.

The narrow alley behind the Hog’s Head was dark and unwelcoming, the faint light from the main street barely reaching its damp cobblestones. The cold November air nipped at Hermione’s cheeks as she followed Bellatrix, who was practically skipping ahead, humming some erratic tune. Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around herself, shivering as much from nerves as the chill.

“Why are we here, Bellatrix?” Hermione asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Bellatrix stopped abruptly and spun around, her wide grin barely visible in the dim light. “Didn’t I tell you? We’re picking something up. Something… special.”

Hermione frowned, her unease deepening. “Special? For who?”

Bellatrix waved a hand dismissively, already turning back toward the shadowy doorway ahead. “Details, details. All you need to know is that it’s important. Very important. Now, come on, darling. Don’t dawdle.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment, glancing back toward the more familiar bustle of the main street. She could still hear the faint sound of laughter and chatter from the students wandering between shops. This was far removed from the warm glow of the Three Broomsticks or the sugary chaos of Honeydukes. This place felt… wrong.

Bellatrix rapped sharply on a rusted iron door tucked between two crumbling walls, the sound echoing eerily in the silence. Hermione’s stomach churned as the door creaked open, revealing a hunched figure shrouded in a heavy cloak. The person’s face was obscured by the hood, but the gravelly voice that spoke was unmistakably male.

“Black,” the man said curtly. “You’re early.”

“Of course I am,” Bellatrix replied with a laugh, her tone sweet but laced with mockery. “I wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.”

Hermione lingered behind Bellatrix, her hand twitching toward her wand. The man stepped aside, and Bellatrix gestured for Hermione to follow. “Come on, Hermione. You’ll like this.”

Reluctantly, Hermione stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind her, and she immediately regretted her decision. The room was dimly lit by a single flickering lantern, its weak light barely illuminating the strange assortment of items scattered around. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars of dark, viscous liquids, tightly sealed crates, and objects that seemed to hum faintly with magic.

“What is this place?” Hermione whispered, her voice low as her eyes darted around the room.

Bellatrix didn’t answer. She was already moving toward a small wooden table in the center of the room, where a nondescript box sat waiting. The man followed her, his movements stiff and deliberate.

“It’s all there,” the man said gruffly, gesturing to the box. “Untouched, just like you asked.”

Bellatrix smiled, running her fingers over the box’s surface as though it were a treasure chest. “Perfect,” she purred. “You always deliver, don’t you?”

The man grunted, crossing his arms. “Just take it and go. And don’t open it here. You know the deal.”

Hermione edged closer, her curiosity outweighing her discomfort. “What’s in it?” she asked, her eyes flicking to Bellatrix.

Bellatrix glanced at her, her grin widening. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased, tapping the top of the box. “Let’s just say it’s… valuable.”

Hermione frowned, her unease growing. “Valuable for what?”

“Don’t be so nosy,” Bellatrix said lightly, though there was a sharpness in her tone that warned Hermione not to push further. “It’s none of your concern. At least, not yet.”

The man cleared his throat, clearly eager to end the exchange. Bellatrix tossed a small pouch of coins onto the table, the clinking sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Pleasure doing business,” she said with a mock bow, lifting the box and cradling it carefully. She turned to Hermione, her grin never faltering. “Come along, darling. We’ve got places to be.”

Back in the alley, the contrast between the cold air and the oppressive atmosphere of the room they’d just left made Hermione feel lightheaded. Bellatrix held the box tightly against her chest, humming again as they walked.

“What’s so important about that box?” Hermione asked, keeping her voice calm despite the storm of questions swirling in her mind.

Bellatrix tilted her head, her grin never wavering. “All you need to know is that it’s going to be very useful,” she said, her tone cryptic. “I’ve been trusted with it, which makes it even more special.”

“Trusted by who?” Hermione pressed, though she already suspected the answer.

Bellatrix stopped abruptly, turning to face Hermione with an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, you are persistent,” she said, her voice dripping with mock exasperation. “But you’ll find out soon enough. For now, just enjoy the ride.”

Hermione’s stomach churned at the implication. Whatever Bellatrix had planned, it was far bigger than she was letting on. And whoever she was working for, it was someone with enough power to make even Bellatrix tread carefully.

As they stepped back into the busier streets of Hogsmeade, Bellatrix grabbed Hermione’s arm and steered her toward the crowd, her grip firm but not painful. “Relax, Dagworth-Granger,” she said with a laugh. “You’ll ruin the fun if you worry too much.”

Hermione didn’t respond, her thoughts racing. She had no idea what she had just been a part of, but she knew one thing for certain: whatever was in that box, it was dangerous. And Bellatrix wasn’t going to stop dragging her deeper into this world, whether she wanted to be there or not.

The crooked, foreboding silhouette of the Shrieking Shack loomed ahead, its broken windows and slanted roof casting eerie shadows in the pale moonlight. Hermione hesitated at the base of the hill, her heart pounding as Bellatrix bounded ahead, the mysterious box still tucked under her arm.

“Come on, Dagworth-Granger!” Bellatrix called back in a sing-song voice, her wild curls whipping in the wind. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few creaky floorboards.”

Hermione forced her feet to move, though every instinct screamed at her to turn around. 

Bellatrix pushed open the rotting door, the wood groaning in protest. She stepped inside without hesitation, her voice echoing as she called out, “I’m here! And I’ve brought something fun.”

Hermione followed cautiously, her wand clutched tightly in her pocket. The air inside was damp and musty, the wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. The faint murmur of voices reached her ears, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw them.

A group of students stood scattered across the room, their faces illuminated by a few floating orbs of greenish light. All of them were Slytherins, some she recognized as upperclassmen, others her yearmates. Their presence immediately set her on edge. She knew their names, their reputations—Evan Rosier, a boy with sharp features and an even sharper temper, and Regulus Black, younger than the others but standing with a maturity that seemed out of place for his age.

They all turned to look at her as she entered, their expressions ranging from curiosity to something far colder. Hermione’s stomach dropped as the realization hit her: these weren’t just her classmates. These were newly initiated Death Eaters.

“Well, well, look who decided to join us,” drawled Rosier, his dark eyes flicking over Hermione with a smirk. “Bellatrix’s new pet.”

“Hardly a pet,” Bellatrix said with a laugh, setting the box down on a rickety table in the center of the room. “She’s got more bite than you’d expect.”

Hermione felt her cheeks flush, but she said nothing, keeping her expression neutral. Her mind raced as she took in the room. This wasn’t just some casual gathering—it felt planned, deliberate. And whatever was in the box, it was clearly important.

Rosier leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed. “What’s in the box, Bella?” he asked, his tone laced with curiosity.

Bellatrix grinned, running her fingers along the edges of the box as though savoring the moment. “Something special,” she said cryptically. “Something our dear Lord will appreciate.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. She had suspected Bellatrix’s allegiance for weeks now, but hearing Voldemort referred to so reverently confirmed it. And now, standing in this room surrounded by his newest followers, she realized just how deep Bellatrix’s loyalty ran.

“Why is she here?” Regulus Black’s voice broke the silence, his sharp gaze fixed on Hermione. Unlike the others, there was no smirk, no playfulness in his tone—just cold, calculating curiosity. “She’s not one of us.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, her mind scrambling for an explanation. She didn’t need to respond, though, because Bellatrix stepped in immediately.

“She’s with me,” Bellatrix said smoothly, her grin widening as she perched on the edge of the table. “And that should be good enough for all of you.”

There was a murmur of discontent, but no one openly challenged her. Bellatrix’s presence in the room was magnetic, commanding. Even among these newly initiated Death Eaters, she was clearly the one in charge.

Hermione forced herself to stay still, to keep her face calm and her hands steady. She could feel the weight of their gazes, the unspoken judgment, the suspicion. She knew she didn’t belong here, but she couldn’t let them see that. If they doubted her, if they found her lacking…

“Dagworth-Granger,” Rosier said suddenly, his smirk returning as he leaned closer. “You’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think about all this?”

Hermione’s throat felt dry, but she managed to muster a small, tight smile. “I think Bellatrix wouldn’t have brought me here if she didn’t think I was capable,” she said carefully, her voice steady despite the tension coiled in her chest.

Rosier raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Fair enough,” he said, leaning back. “But let’s see if you can prove it.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened as Rosier reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of silvery liquid. He set it on the table next to the box, his smirk widening. “Care to take a guess at what this is?”

Hermione stared at the vial, her mind racing. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew it wasn’t harmless. “Why don’t you tell me?” she said, keeping her voice level.

“Think of it as a little test,” Rosier said, his tone mocking. “We all had to prove ourselves, you know. It’s only fair.”

“Enough,” Bellatrix said sharply, her playful demeanor vanishing in an instant. She grabbed the vial and shoved it back into Rosier’s hands, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “She’s with me. That means no tests, no games. Understood?”

Rosier hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Understood.”

Bellatrix turned back to Hermione, her grin returning. “See? Nothing to worry about,” she said brightly. “Now, let’s get moving. We’ve got more important things to do than entertain boys with too much time on their hands.”

Hermione nodded, though her nerves were far from settled. As Bellatrix led her toward the far side of the room, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just narrowly avoided something far worse.

Bellatrix stood at the head of the room, her commanding presence instantly silencing the low murmur of conversation among the group. The eerie green orbs of light floating above them cast sharp shadows across her face, making her look even more unhinged than usual. She placed the mysterious box on the table in front of her with a flourish, her manic grin widening as she tapped her fingers lightly against its surface.

“Now that we’re all here,” Bellatrix began, her voice sing-song yet dripping with authority, “let’s get down to business, shall we? Our Lord has been very specific in his instructions, and it’s up to us to ensure his will is carried out.”

Hermione’s stomach churned at the mention of Voldemort. Bellatrix had yet to confirm explicitly what—or who—this meeting was for, but Hermione knew in her gut that this gathering wasn’t about some harmless errand. This was about Voldemort. It had to be.

Bellatrix’s dark eyes scanned the room, her gaze lingering on each of them in turn. “You’ve all proven yourselves worthy,” she continued, her tone almost reverent. “Worthy of his attention. His trust. And tonight, you’ll take your first step toward earning even more.”

Evan Rosier smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “And what exactly is that step, Bella?” he asked lazily, though his eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Bellatrix’s grin widened. “Patience, Evan,” she cooed, tilting her head like a predator circling its prey. “All will be revealed soon enough. For now…” She flicked open the lid of the box, revealing its contents with a dramatic flourish.

Hermione craned her neck, trying to see inside without drawing attention to herself. The box was lined with dark velvet, and nestled within were several small, polished objects. They gleamed faintly in the dim light—ornate silver amulets etched with runes Hermione didn’t recognize. Their edges shimmered faintly, as though imbued with a subtle, dark magic.

“What are those?” Black asked, his voice quiet but sharp, cutting through the tension in the room.

Bellatrix’s smile turned conspiratorial. “These, dear cousin," she said, lifting one of the amulets carefully between her fingers, “are tools. Gifts from our Lord himself. Each of you will carry one, but not just for show.” Her grin sharpened, her eyes glinting dangerously. “They’ll ensure your loyalty. They’ll mark you as his.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, and she quickly averted her gaze, hoping no one would notice her reaction. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be here—not truly. The idea of taking one of those amulets, of being branded as one of Voldemort’s own, made her stomach churn.

“What do they do?” Hermione asked, her tone wary despite her attempt to appear nonchalant.

Bellatrix’s grin widened, and she let the amulet dangle from her fingers, its chain swinging gently. “Ah, but that’s the fun part,” she said, her voice almost giddy. “You’ll find out soon enough. Let’s just say they’re… binding. Very binding.”

Evan Rosier chuckled, clearly unbothered by the ominous implication. “Binding? Sounds intriguing.”

“Binding in ways you can’t imagine,” Bellatrix said, her tone dipping into something darker. She turned her gaze to Hermione, and for a moment, their eyes locked. “That goes for all of you.”

Bellatrix stepped forward, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of fervor and excitement. Her grip on the edge of the table tightened as she leaned forward, letting the room grow silent under her gaze.

“It’s time,” she said softly, though her words carried an unmistakable weight, “for me to tell you about the man behind all of this. The man you will be meeting.”

Hermione’s stomach churned, but she kept her face neutral, her fingers brushing against the pendant in her pocket. She didn’t dare look away as Bellatrix began to speak, her voice dropping into something almost reverent.

“He calls himself Lord Voldemort,” Bellatrix continued, her lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. “But he was once known by another name—a name that no longer matters. What matters is what he has become. What he represents.”

She began pacing slowly, her hands gesturing as she spoke. The light from the enchanted orbs cast sharp shadows across her face, amplifying her already intense presence.

“Lord Voldemort is not like the others who claim power,” Bellatrix said, her voice gaining momentum. “He is not some politician spouting empty promises. He is not a hypocrite playing both sides. He is a visionary—a leader who sees the world as it truly is.”

Her grin widened, and she paused to look at the group, her gaze sweeping over each of them before settling on Hermione once more. “He is building a new order,” she said, her tone filled with conviction. “A world where strength and purity are rewarded, where mediocrity is cast aside, and where those of us who deserve greatness will no longer be chained by the weak.”

Hermione felt her stomach twist at the words, but she stayed silent, her mind racing. She had known Bellatrix was deeply devoted to Voldemort, but hearing it spoken with such passion—such unwavering belief—was unnerving in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“For me,” Bellatrix continued, her voice softening slightly, “this is more than loyalty. It is freedom. Do you know what it’s like to grow up as a pureblood woman, bound by the expectations of society? To be told that your only purpose is to marry well, to produce heirs, to live a quiet, obedient life?”

She stopped pacing, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “It’s suffocating,” she hissed, her voice dripping with disdain. “But the Dark Lord showed me another way. He gave me purpose. Power. Freedom to be who I was meant to be.”

Bellatrix’s eyes burned with intensity as she looked at Hermione. “And that’s what he offers all of us,” she said. “A chance to rise above the ordinary. To become extraordinary.”

The room was silent, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air. Hermione’s pulse pounded in her ears as Bellatrix took a step closer, her expression turning serious.

“But make no mistake,” Bellatrix said, her voice lowering. “This is not an invitation. It is a decision. And it is not one to be taken lightly.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out one of the pendants, holding it up so that the runes gleamed faintly in the dim light. “If you accept this pendant,” she said, her tone sharp, “you accept everything it represents. Loyalty. Devotion. Action. You become one of us. And there is no turning back.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her fingers tightening at her sides. She could feel the weight of the other students’ eyes on her, but she refused to look away from Bellatrix.

“And if I don’t?” she asked, her voice quiet but steady.

Bellatrix tilted her head, a cold smile playing on her lips. “If you don’t,” she said softly, “you will be Obliviated. You will leave this room with no memory of who we are, what you’ve seen, or what you could have been.”

The words sent a chill down Hermione’s spine. Bellatrix’s tone was calm, almost sweet, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable.

“I don’t want that for you, Granger,” Bellatrix said, her voice softening slightly. “I brought you here because I see something in you. You’re not like the others—bright-eyed girls with no ambition beyond marrying into a good family. You’re clever, bold. You’re one of us.”

She stepped closer, holding out the pendant as though offering a gift. “This is your chance,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “To be part of something greater. To find freedom, power, purpose. Don’t let fear hold you back.”

Hermione’s heart raced as she stared at the pendant, its intricate runes glinting in the light. Her mind whirled with conflicting thoughts—about what she was risking, what she could gain, and what she might lose if she refused.

Bellatrix leaned in slightly, her dark eyes locking onto Hermione’s. “The choice is yours,” she said softly. “But choose wisely. The Dark Lord doesn’t offer second chances.”

Hermione forced herself to nod, her throat tight. She had to stay composed. She couldn’t let them see her fear.

Bellatrix began handing out the amulets one by one, her manic energy never waning. As each student accepted theirs, there was a mix of awe, trepidation, and, in some cases, eager delight. When she reached Hermione, Bellatrix hesitated for a fraction of a second, her grin turning sharper.

“Dagworth,” Bellatrix said softly, holding out an amulet. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you? Always watching, always thinking. I wonder… what will this reveal about you?”

Hermione swallowed hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she took the amulet. It was cold and heavy in her hand, the intricate runes seeming to pulse faintly under her touch. She didn’t know what kind of magic was bound to it, but she could feel its power.

Once everyone had their amulets, Bellatrix turned back to the table, her grin softening into something more serious. “Now,” she said, her tone taking on an edge of authority. “Our Lord has tasked us with a mission. A test, if you will. He wants to see just how far you’re willing to go for him.”

The room grew quiet, the weight of her words settling over them like a thick fog.

“There’s an artifact in the Forbidden Forest,” Bellatrix continued, her voice lowering. “Something ancient, something powerful. It’s hidden deep within, and our job is to retrieve it. But it won’t be easy. The forest doesn’t give up its treasures without a fight.”

Hermione’s heart sank. The Forbidden Forest. Of course. She should have known that Voldemort’s influence would extend even to the most dangerous corners of Hogwarts’ grounds.

“And what kind of artifact are we looking for?” Regulus asked, his tone calm but curious.

Bellatrix’s smile returned, sharp and dangerous. “You’ll know it when you see it,” she said cryptically. “Trust me.”

Hermione’s mind raced as Bellatrix began outlining the plan, assigning roles and splitting the group into pairs. The task was dangerous, but it was clear that failure wasn’t an option. Not with Voldemort’s name attached to it.

And as Hermione clutched the cold amulet in her hand, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was the moment she’d been dreading—the moment she would have to make a choice. To stay silent, to comply, to survive… or to fight back, even if it meant risking everything.

The air in the Shrieking Shack turned cold, still, as if the entire room were holding its breath. Hermione felt it immediately—a presence, dark and suffocating, creeping into the room like a shadow. Every head turned toward the far end of the room as the creak of the old floorboards announced someone’s arrival.

Out of the darkness stepped a man, his figure cutting sharp and clean against the dim, flickering light. Hermione’s breath hitched. She had prepared herself for this moment—or so she thought—but the reality of seeing him was far more disarming than she had anticipated.

He was handsome, unnervingly so, but not in the way a boy-next-door might be. His sharp, angular features gave him a face that seemed carved from marble, his high cheekbones and strong jawline creating a picture of perfection that was at once alluring and terrifying. His skin was pale—deathly pale, almost translucent—and his dark hair, once thick and full in the memories she had seen of Tom Riddle, was thinning slightly at the edges. But what struck her most were his eyes: red, glowing faintly like embers, but not as snake-like or monstrous as they would become in the future she had come from. They were still human enough to seem disarming, yet unnatural enough to send chills down her spine.

He smiled as he entered, and the room seemed to bow to him without a single word. His presence was magnetic, his every movement deliberate and graceful, like a predator approaching prey.

“Good evening,” Voldemort said, his voice calm, even friendly. There was no menace in his tone, only a quiet confidence that was somehow more unnerving than any shout or snarl could have been.

Bellatrix was the first to move. She nearly leaped from her spot, her wide, dark eyes glowing with something close to reverence. She ran to him, stopping just short of throwing herself at his feet. Instead, she stood close—too close—her head tilted up as though basking in the glow of his presence.

“My Lord,” she breathed, her voice trembling slightly with a mixture of awe and excitement. “You’ve come.”

Voldemort’s smile widened, and he tilted his head to look at her, the gesture almost fond. “Of course, Bellatrix,” he said smoothly. “I wouldn’t leave my most loyal followers waiting.”

Bellatrix’s face lit up like a child receiving praise, and she launched into an excited string of words. “My Lord, you must meet her!” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward Hermione. “This is Hermione Dagworth-Granger. She’s new, but I thought you’d find her… intriguing.”

Hermione froze as Voldemort’s crimson eyes shifted to her. His gaze was calm, assessing, but it felt like he could see through her completely, peeling back every layer of her mind with a single glance.

“Is that so?” Voldemort said, his tone curious but unhurried. He took a step toward Hermione, his movements smooth and deliberate. “Miss Dagworth-Granger, is it?”

Hermione forced herself to nod, her throat too tight to speak.

“She’s brilliant,” Bellatrix continued, stepping aside as though to present Hermione. “Sharp, clever—she’s not like the others. I’ve been watching her.”

“Watching her, have you?” Voldemort asked, his smile faint but ever-present. “You have a good eye, Bellatrix. Let us see if your judgment is correct.”

He stepped closer, his attention fully on Hermione now. She straightened her spine, trying desperately to keep her composure. “And what brings you here, Miss Dagworth-Granger?” he asked, his voice soft and unassuming, almost kind. “What is it you seek?”

Hermione swallowed hard, her mind racing. She couldn’t afford to falter now. “I seek purpose, my Lord,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside her. “A place where I can belong.”

Voldemort studied her for a long moment, his head tilting slightly as though weighing her words. “Purpose,” he repeated, as though savoring the word. “A noble pursuit. But tell me, Miss Dagworth-Granger, what are you willing to do to find it?”

Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest. She knew what he was asking—what he was really asking. She forced herself to meet his gaze, her own expression carefully neutral. “Whatever is required, my Lord,” she said softly.

His smile widened, and he gave a small nod of approval. “Good,” he said simply, turning back to Bellatrix. “You’ve chosen well, Bellatrix. I shall watch her progress with great interest.”

Bellatrix positively beamed at the praise, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride and adoration. “Thank you, my Lord,” she said, her voice practically a whisper.

Voldemort turned back to Hermione one last time, his crimson eyes locking onto hers. “Do not disappoint me,” he said, his tone light but carrying an unmistakable weight.

Hermione bowed her head, her stomach twisting as she whispered, “I won’t, my Lord.”

As Hermione kept her head bowed, Voldemort turned his attention to the room at large, his crimson-tinged eyes sweeping over the gathered students. His gaze lingered on each of them for a moment, sharp and appraising, as though weighing their worth. Slowly, he gestured toward the box on the table, where the faintly glowing pendants rested against the dark velvet lining.

“These pendants,” he began, his voice calm, deliberate, and commanding, “are not mere decorations. They are symbols of distinction, a mark of potential. You are all too young to bear my true mark—the Dark Mark is a burden not given lightly.” His eyes gleamed with quiet menace as he spoke, and the room seemed to hold its collective breath. “But these amulets will signify your dedication to our cause. They are not just trinkets—they are an extension of me, imbued with a fraction of my magic.”

He stepped closer to the group, the flickering green orbs of light reflecting off his pale skin, casting his face in shadow. The faint smile playing on his lips gave him an unsettling charm, one that both drew Hermione in and made her stomach twist with unease. Bellatrix stood to the side, her dark eyes fixed on him, shining with an almost worshipful light.

“When you wear these,” Voldemort continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried across the room, “you carry my trust and my expectation. They will bind you to me in ways you cannot yet comprehend. They will distinguish you from the weak and the unworthy. They will remind you of the privilege you now hold.”

Hermione felt the weight of the amulet in her pocket grow heavier with every word. She swallowed hard, her hand tightening at her side to keep from fidgeting. Around her, the other students were riveted, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

“But make no mistake,” Voldemort said, his tone sharpening, “these pendants are not simply given—they are earned. To wear one is to accept responsibility. It is a vow, a promise that you will serve the cause with unwavering loyalty.”

He glanced briefly at Bellatrix, who nodded eagerly, her grin widening as though she had been waiting for this moment. “Bellatrix,” he said smoothly, “you have ensured they understand the gravity of this?”

Bellatrix inclined her head, her voice trembling slightly with excitement as she replied, “Yes, my Lord. They all know what this means. What you expect.”

“Good.” Voldemort’s crimson gaze swept back to the students. “You are young,” he said, almost softly, “but you have been chosen because you possess potential. The amulet is not a mark of completion, but of promise. And promise must be fulfilled.”

He stepped closer to the table, his fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the box. “Your first task will be to prove yourselves. Bellatrix has explained your mission, yes?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Bellatrix said, practically glowing under his attention.

“Then you understand,” Voldemort continued, his voice growing colder, “that failure is not an option. The Forbidden Forest holds an artifact of great significance to me. It has been hidden for centuries, its power untapped, waiting for someone with the skill and resolve to claim it. That someone will be you.”

The tension in the room thickened, the students exchanging uneasy glances. Hermione’s stomach churned as she imagined venturing into the Forbidden Forest, facing its dangers, and returning with whatever ancient relic Voldemort sought. The stakes were impossibly high, and the consequences of failure loomed in the back of her mind like a dark shadow.

“This artifact,” Voldemort continued, “is a test—not just of your abilities, but of your loyalty. The forest will not yield it easily. You must work together, rely on one another, and above all, prove that you are worthy of my trust.”

He paused, his crimson eyes lingering on Hermione once more. “Some of you may stand out more than others,” he said, his tone almost casual, but the weight of his gaze was anything but. “But all of you are expected to rise to the challenge. Do not disappoint me.”

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat, but she forced herself to bow her head lower, avoiding his piercing gaze. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a vice.

Finally, Voldemort straightened, his presence somehow even more suffocating as he stepped back toward the shadows. “These pendants will guide you,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “Do not take this lightly. You may be too young to bear the Dark Mark, but you are not too young to serve.”

With that, he turned, his robes billowing behind him as he swept out of the room. The door shut behind him with an ominous finality, leaving the room in a heavy silence.

Bellatrix clapped her hands together, breaking the stillness. “Well,” she said, her voice bright with excitement, “you heard him. The amulets mark you as special—don’t forget that.” She turned to the group, her grin sharp and eager. “And the forest waits for no one. Rest up tonight, my darlings. Tomorrow, we make history.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak as she watched Bellatrix rally the others, her mind racing. The pendant in her pocket felt like a stone, a brand she hadn’t asked for. And as the other students began to disperse, the tension lingering in their hesitant chatter, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something far darker than even she had feared.